“But he has sacrificed all he has for her, and she knows it. It is, in its way, as pure a meeting of souls as can be imagined.”
Holmes was sombre for a moment, then surprised me by chuckling. “You, Watson, are a hopeless romantic,” he said. “And I wouldn’t want you any other way. Now, I don’t know about you, but I am famished and parched. The Tiger Inn, hard by my house in East Dean, serves an excellent partridge pie and a range of thirst-quenching Sussex ales. We can be there in under an hour if we walk briskly.” He made an ushering gesture, squinting against the low sun. “Shall we?”
And side by side, companionably, we did.
THE STRANGE CASE OF DR SACKER AND MR HOPE
First published in Gaslight Gothic: Strange Tales of Sherlock Holmes, ed. J. R.
Campbell and Charles Prepolec, 2018, EDGE-Lit
This tale was written for an anthology of stories merging the world of Holmes with the world of Gothic fiction. I don’t want to say too much else about it, so as not to spoil any surprises (although the title hints strongly at which famous 1886 Gothic novel the story intertwines with).
Relevant trivia: While writing A Tangled Skein, the novel that was to become A Study in Scarlet, Conan Doyle dubbed his central pair of characters Sherrinford Hope and Ormond Sacker. Eventually he settled on the names Sherlock Holmes and John Watson instead.
The Strange Case of Dr Sacker and Mr Hope
For some while, Sherlock Holmes had not been himself. Although one was accustomed to a certain irritability from him on occasion, the odd flash of sharp-tongued cantankerousness, such moods were wont to pass swiftly, like drizzling overcast yielding once more to genial sunshine. The particular disagreeable frame of mind about which I am writing, though, seemed to have set in permanently. I had never known my friend to be more sullen nor more quick-tempered than during the early spring of 1889.
I was at that time comfortably ensconced in my Paddington residence and enjoying newfound domestic bliss with my wife Mary. My practice, too, was thriving, so much so that on most days I required the continuous hire of a hansom in order to be able to honour all my patient appointments. Usually, when I was able to make time to call on Holmes at our old rooms at 221B Baker Street, I would be met with open arms, a cry of delight, a hearty handshake, and every other indication that my arrival was a welcome development. More often than not, I might immediately find myself embroiled in some extraordinary escapade.
On three successive visits over the course of a fortnight, however, Holmes had received me with an indifference bordering on contempt. Scarcely could I educe anything from him by way of conversation save a grunt or a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders. He radiated hostility and seemed barely able to tolerate my being there, to such an extent that I seldom stayed longer than half an hour and could practically hear the sigh of relief emanating from upstairs as I closed the front door behind me, even as I heaved my own sigh of relief to have escaped that brooding presence.
I put it down to pressure of work. Holmes was then engaged upon several investigations at once. My notes from that period list among others:
• The bizarre affair of the raven’s feather and the missing logarithmic slide-rule
• The strange circumstances surrounding Madame Navarre’s locket and the burglar’s severed hand
• The ravisher of Cheyne Walk
• The Penny Red problem
• The incident of the shoeshine boy and the one-legged man
• The mystery of the poisoned antimacassar murders.
These were merely the most prominent of the cases demanding his attention – there were countless others – and given Holmes’s propensity for dogged, all-consuming obsessiveness, I could not help but think that he was overstretching himself, taxing his powers and energies to their limit, with a concomitant diminution of courtesy and good nature. I assumed that, after the glut of business had passed, he would return to his habitual ways and all would be as it was before.
My hopes were dashed when, upon a fourth visit to Baker Street on a certain Saturday morning in March, a distraught Mrs Hudson waylaid me in the hall. The good lady all but threw herself upon me as I entered. “Gracious, Dr Watson!” she exclaimed, red-eyed and seemingly close to tears. “I am at my wits’ end. Thank the Lord you have come.”
“My dear woman, whatever is the matter?”
“It’s Mr Holmes.”
My first thought was that some tragic mishap had befallen my friend. An enemy, a convicted felon bent on revenge, had got the better of him. “What of him? What has happened? Is he well?”
“Well? If you mean is he hurt or injured in any way, then yes, he is well. Physically there is nothing amiss.”
“But mentally…”
She shook her head and wrung her hands. “He is not in his right mind, Doctor. Far from it.”
“Where is he?” I asked. “Is he upstairs?”
“Not right now. He is out. I do not know where he has gone. But the things he has done! The havoc he has wrought!”
I found some brandy in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen and plied her with it. Her trembling subsided somewhat, and having gulped down a second glass she was notably calmer.
“Tell me everything,” I urged. “What is this havoc you speak of?”
“Mr Holmes’s habits have always been… eccentric,” said my erstwhile landlady. “You know it as well as I do, from your time living here.”
“‘Eccentric’ is putting it mildly. Holmes takes Bohemianism to its extreme.”
“The peculiar hours he keeps, the parade of importuners tramping up and down my stairs day and night, those street-ragamuffins he employs as scouts and spies, the abominable quantities of tobacco he consumes – these I can put up with. Mr Holmes is, after all, a force for good in this world, and that goes some way to compensate for the antisocial behaviours in which he indulges. That and the very handsome rent he pays. I can turn a blind eye and when necessary a deaf ear to the less savoury aspects of having him as a lodger. I have even forgiven him for putting bullet-holes in my wall when that fit of monarchist fervour overtook him. What I will not abide is wanton vandalism and arrant rudeness, both of which he has lately exhibited.”
“It sounds entirely out of character for Sherlock Holmes to be rude to you,” I said. “He is gallantry personified in his dealings with the opposite sex.”
“Quite so, Doctor. But the things he said, the words he used – I was shocked to the core, hearing it, and no less so by the events leading up to the outburst.”
“When was this?”
“Just yesterday evening. I have hardly slept a wink all night, worrying.”
“Relate the incident in full, if you will.”
“I was down here minding my own business, doing my needlepoint by the fire, when all at once a dreadful racket arose from Mr Holmes’s rooms. Objects crashing around, furniture being overturned, that sort of thing. I could only assume there was some kind of altercation going on. Mr Holmes’s guests have been known to get violent on occasion, have they not? That awful Dr Grimesby Roylott, for instance. I remember him with little fondness. The noise went on and on, though, and I began to fear for Mr Holmes’s life, so I ventured upstairs.”
“That was brave.”
“I had to see if he was all right. I was fully set to dash out into the street and call for help if he was not. The door to his sitting-room stood ajar and I peered in, and there he was, quite alone. Mr Holmes was causing that ruckus all by himself. He was hurling books about. Chairs lay on their backs. A table was on its side. He was growling and muttering, and his face was clouded with a tempestuous fury.”
“My God,” I said. I was appalled but somehow not surprised. What Mrs Hudson was describing seemed wholly consonant with the Sherlock Holmes I had encountered on my three previous visits. It seemed, indeed, the inevitable culmination of the resentment and aloofness he had exuded, as though he had been suppressing deeper, fierier emotions, which now, at last, had erupted from within him like pe
nt-up volcanic lava.
“So contorted were his features,” Mrs Hudson continued, “he was barely recognisable. Every ounce of suave charm was gone, every last shred of sophistication, and all that remained was a wild-eyed, animalistic anger. He caught sight of me, and I swear to you, sir, for one terrible moment I thought he might turn on me and use me horribly. As it was, he subjected me to a torrent of invective. It was as if I had done wrong by intruding upon him while he was wrecking the place. He told me to go away, leave him alone, never darken his door again, although those were not his exact phrases. Rather, he peppered the tirade with the very worst oaths, language such as might have made a sailor blush. I retreated, naturally, and took myself back down to my parlour. There I remained, with the door locked…”
“A sensible precaution, under the circumstances.”
“Until, not long afterward, I heard him depart. The front door slammed hard enough to make every window in the house rattle, and I have been anxiously anticipating his return ever since. When you let yourself in – you have kept your key, of course – I thought you were he. Hence my delight when I heard your voice calling out a ‘halloo’, and my somewhat effusive greeting.”
I climbed the seventeen stairs to the first floor in order to inspect Holmes’s rooms for myself. Everything was chaos, as though a wild animal had been let loose upon the premises. Any pictures that had not been dashed to the floor hung askew. The curtains had been ripped down from one window, the pole canted at a steep angle. Holmes’s library, including his scrapbooks and index files, lay strewn; there was not a shelf that was not devoid of its volumes. I found the Persian slipper in which he kept his tobacco wedged beneath his acid-scarred chemistry bench, which lay inverted, legs in the air. All the test tubes, phials and beakers that had sat upon the bench were in smithereens, the liquid contents of some having seeped into the bearskin hearthrug. His microscope had survived the holocaust unscathed, as had his violin, but otherwise there was little that had not been smashed or sundered or trampled underfoot.
I was agog. “This is incredible,” I breathed.
I had spoken to myself, but Mrs Hudson, who unbeknownst to me had followed me upstairs, replied, “Is it not? It will cost him a small fortune to set things right, and that is assuming I even allow him to continue as my lodger. I have a fair mind to evict the fellow, after this.”
“No one would blame you for it.”
“Do you have any idea what has got into him, Dr Watson?”
“Not a clue. I have observed that he has seemed under strain lately.”
“I have observed that too.”
“But never could I have imagined it might lead to this.” I waved a hand at the devastation before me. “Nor to him treating you so objectionably, Mrs Hudson. You have been nothing but supportive of him, even when he has driven you to distraction. Your forbearance as a landlady has been second to none. My advice to you is as follows. Absent yourself from the house for the next few days, at least until this spasm, this mania, whatever it is, blows over. Is there somewhere you might go?”
“My sister in Worthing. I have not seen her in a while. She would be happy to have me over.”
“Then wire her, pack a bag, and leave by the first train. For your own good, and for my peace of mind.”
“Very well,” said Mrs Hudson. “What about you, Doctor? What will you do?”
Logic dictated that someone should brace Holmes and get to the bottom of the affair and that I must be that someone. There was no other suitable candidate.
“I shall stay here,” I said, “and wait for him to come home.”
* * *
I remained at Baker Street all that day, plagued by questions and misgivings. By chance I had brought my service revolver with me. I do not know why I slipped it into my pocket upon leaving the house that morning; perhaps I had anticipated trouble, without being aware of doing so, and had acted upon this unconscious premonition. Several times I checked the cylinder and the action, all the while wondering that I was even contemplating the use of the gun during any confrontation with Holmes. Surely I had nothing to fear from the man who had been my bosom companion for nigh on a decade. More than once I had entrusted my life into his hands. Why did I now feel that that same life might be threatened by him?
A madness had descended upon him, that much seemed plain. He had been struck down by a brain-fever, one brought on by overwork. If he was prepared to listen to reason, I would counsel him to rest and let me treat him. I would suggest a holiday, a walking tour on the Continent perhaps, or a sojourn up by the Lakes, or exposure to the invigorating sea air of the south coast. He had fallen into an abyss, and I would do my utmost to retrieve him.
Around six that evening, the front door resounded to a knocking. With trepidation I opened it, to see our old friend and sparring partner Inspector G. Lestrade upon the step, hat in hand. The sallow-faced police official enquired whether Holmes was in and, when I said that he was not, apologised for troubling me and asked if I might convey a message.
“Tell Mr Holmes to drop by at the Yard, if he would, soon as is convenient.”
“And what reason should I give for the invitation?”
“It is of no great matter. A confusion I should like to clear up, that is all.”
“A confusion?”
“A case of mistaken identity, I am certain.”
“I believe you should elucidate.”
“I believe, Doctor,” said Lestrade with some asperity, “that I am not obliged to discuss police business with you.”
“I am asking not as a disinterested bystander, but as Sherlock Holmes’s closest, and perhaps only, friend. Moreover, I am at present concerned about Holmes’s welfare, for he has been acting in an atypical manner.”
Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so, eh? Atypical how?”
“Let me show you.”
I ushered him up to Holmes’s rooms and explained how they had come to be in such a dismal state.
Lestrade let out a low whistle. “And you have no cause to doubt Mrs Hudson’s claim that Mr Holmes is the author of this ruin?”
“None whatsoever. What would the lady gain by lying? Besides, you did not see her. I did. Distress like hers cannot be feigned.”
“This does, I am afraid, lend some credence to the report I received today from one of my constables.”
“Report?”
Lestrade deliberated, then said, “I don’t suppose it can do any harm to tell you, given that you are, in your capacity as Mr Holmes’s aide and confidant, more or less an honorary policeman.”
“Consider me flattered.”
“It may, besides, be nothing. You have heard of the Singleton twins, I take it.” My expression of disdain was the answer he needed, for he went on, “Yes, those villains. Derek and Desmond Singleton. Brothers and East End gang bosses. It is estimated that their turf is a sector of London covering three square miles, from Whitechapel to Stratford, and not a crime occurs within it in which they are not implicated in some way. They rule with a rod of iron. Every cracksman, pickpocket, area-sneak and second-storey artist within their domain gives a cut of his ill-gotten gains to the Singletons, and woe betide the crook who fails to surrender his tithe. We Scotland Yarders have never been able to touch them, alas. Every time we think we have them bang to rights, some underling confesses to the offence in question and serves out the gaol sentence on their behalf. But that, now, is a thing of the past.”
“How so?”
“Because last night somebody took a poker to the Singletons and bashed both their brains out.”
“I find it hard to feel that the world is diminished by the loss,” said I.
“Me either,” said Lestrade, adding, “although that is my opinion as a civilian, not as a representative of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. In my role as the latter I am duty-bound to investigate the murders with all diligence and apprehend the culprit if I can. The Singletons shared a terraced house off Cable Street, and as my men were making
their enquiries in the neighbourhood, one of them interviewed a fellow who had been wending his way homeward shortly after midnight and had spotted a shadowy figure leaving the building by the front door in a hasty and furtive manner. It is reckoned that the killings took place roughly around that hour.”
“This ‘figure,’, then, may well have been the guilty party.”
“Indeed.”
“Was the eyewitness able to furnish a description?”
“He was,” said Lestrade. “He caught a glimpse of the other’s face by the light of a streetlamp as he flitted past. Now, the gentleman concerned may not be regarded as the most reliable of sources. My constable noted signs of alcoholism about him – a strawberry nose, thread-veins in the cheeks, above all a strong whiff of gin on his breath. It seems highly likely that he was in a state of inebriation the night before, and thus the validity of his testimony may be open to question. Nonetheless, he spoke with some certitude of a tall, thin man in his early thirties with a pair of keen grey eyes, an aquiline nose and a distinct widow’s peak visible beneath the brim of his opera hat.”
“Superficially that sounds like…”
“Like Mr Holmes.” Lestrade gave a sombre nod.
“But, by the same token, the description could apply to any number of Londoners. And, as you have been at pains to point out, the eyewitness is a drunkard.”
“I am not for one moment suggesting that it is Mr Holmes who slew the Singletons. However, I know for a fact that he has recently been pursuing them over their possible involvement in the mutilation of a fellow by the name of Inigo Davis.”
“Yes. The burglar Davis. His hand was hacked off with an axe, if I remember rightly, and was found in an alleyway behind a butchers, clutching a silver locket.”
“Punishment for neglecting to cut the Singletons in on his latest haul,” said Lestrade. “In lieu of a piece of silverware, they took a piece of him. Davis was fortunate to survive the maiming.”
“But still he would not turn evidence against the Singletons,” I said. “Holmes was looking into the affair.”
The Manifestations of Sherlock Holmes Page 7