by David Marcum
David Marcum
March 4, 2017
The 136th Anniversary of the day
that Holmes explained
to Watson that he was
a “Consulting Detective”
in A Study in Scarlet
Questions or comments may be addressed to David Marcum at
[email protected]
Foreword
by Steven Rothman
Sherlock Holmes comes to us fully grown, like Athena leaping from the brow of Zeus. He has created his profession of consulting detective before Watson meets him in A Study in Scarlet. He has already mastered many fields of knowledge, as Watson’s famous list tells us. He even has already located the rooms in Baker Street. So though Holmes comes into greater focus as the Canon progresses, Holmes the man remains unchanged in the most important ways.
So much of the Sherlock Holmes we come to know in A Study in Scarlet and most of the following fifty-nine stories is what we see through Watson’s eyes. We could hardly ask for a better narrator than John Watson – reliable, honest, and wonderfully human. We know he is not coloring his narrative for the sake of the story. If he says it happened, it happened. We can probably ascribe the alterations in Holmes’s personality to the effect of his friendship with Watson.
So we know what affected Holmes’s development as an adult, but what do we know of the factors that forged him in youth? Almost nothing. He tells Watson in “The Greek Interpreter” that his ancestors were country squires, and his grandmother a sister of Vernet, the French artist. But, other than brother Mycroft, the Holmes family is a tantalizing cipher.
From several sources, we know that Holmes was at university, though it is unclear whether he graduated. In “The Gloria Scott” Holmes tells Watson about Victor Trevor, “the only friend I made during the two years that I was at college.” Perhaps Holmes was so eager to be out in the world beginning his brilliant career that he persuaded his college to allow him to graduate in two years. Perhaps he left his formal schooling in search of the peculiar skills he already was certain he needed to acquire. Perhaps he was sent down. Holmes’s education is yet another lapse in our knowledge.
We know of only two cases pre-Watson: “The Gloria Scott” and “The Musgrave Ritual”, both included here. Watson’s description of the clients visiting Holmes in the earliest Baker Street days may afford us a glimpse of some of the cases begun when Holmes still lived in Montague Street. However, since only Lestrade is identified, we shall never know any details about those clients and their troubles.
Childhood and early struggles are at the heart of every biography. This is why people exchange stories about their youth and about how they made their career choices. Without this information, Holmes remains untouchable and largely unknowable.
So it makes perfect sense that David Marcum, inexhaustibly hungry for more tales of Sherlock Holmes, would commission these eleven tales of Holmes before Baker Street. Who knows? Some might say that the authors of these stories have uncovered truths of Holmes’s early life by some psychical wavelength. Stop dallying here at the door – dive in. You’ll be glad you did.
Steven Rothman
Philadelphia
1 May 2017
The Adventure of the Bloody Roses
by Jayantika Ganguly
My dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is not a man predisposed to talk about himself. In fact, it was several years into our acquaintance that I even learnt of the existence of his older brother Mycroft, who lived in the same city as he. Several more years passed before I felt confident enough to enquire into his childhood, a matter about which I had often been curious. The aftermath of a spectacularly successful case solved by Holmes for the British government at the behest of his brother gave me the perfect opportunity to place a discreet question.
“I wonder if the children would be fine,” I said to Holmes, as we boarded our train to London.
“Mycroft will arrange for a suitable guardian,” Holmes said absently.
“It was truly extraordinary, the manner in which you were able to communicate with the younger child.” In fact, I had been quite shocked and impressed at his patient, gentle demeanour when faced with an unnaturally ill-tempered child. “I did not expect you to be so good at dealing with children.”
Holmes shrugged nonchalantly and leaned back in his seat.
“It is unusual to be able to relate to such a child,” I pressed.
Holmes’s eyes twinkled and his lips curved into a slight smile. “Are you attempting to enquire into my own childhood, my dear Doctor?”
I was too embarrassed to respond.
Holmes laughed. “What would you like to know? It appears we have a long journey ahead of us, so I may as well regale you with a tale from my past.”
He was in a rare good mood! I decided that I must take advantage of it. “What were you like as a child, Holmes?” I asked curiously. It was sometimes difficult for me to think of the Holmes brothers as young children. I found it easier to imagine them emerging fully formed from their mother’s womb as Athena did from Zeus’ head.
Holmes chuckled. “A rapscallion, if you were to ask Mycroft.”
I tried to imagine a bright-eyed, unusually perspicacious child running amok in the meadows. I shook my head. “How did you grow up to be a serious scholar, then?” I challenged.
“Even you would admit to my Bohemian tendencies, my good doctor,” he replied, eyes aglow with mirth. “And my penchant for attracting trouble.”
I found myself laughing with my friend. “When was the first time you solved a mystery?” I asked.
“I believe you already know of the Trevor case.”
“Ah yes, Victor Trevor, your friend from college,” I recalled. “Well, then, tell me about the first time you were taught to apply your deductive skills on an actual crime. How did you learn? Did your brother teach you?”
A dark shadow crossed Holmes’s visage.
I realised that the memory I had asked for was not a pleasant one. “I apologise,” I said quietly. “Perhaps we could – ”
Holmes held up a hand to stall me. He looked out of the train window at the passing countryside for a few moments. When he turned his eyes back to me, he had a slight smile on his lips.
“My folks are country squires, as you already know. As a young child, I spent most of my time with Mycroft and our tutor. I was a rather wilful child, so the rest of my family mostly left me alone. Mycroft was the only one that I looked up to, but when he was sent away to school, I had to rely on our young tutor. The man – Patrick Fitzgerald – was not a particularly bright fellow, but he cared for Mycroft and me to the best of his ability, and both of us regarded him affectionately.”
I must have looked as bewildered as I felt, for Holmes chuckled. “You need not be so shocked, my dear fellow. My brother and I are as capable of human emotion as anyone else,” he said.
“Well, you certainly spend a significant amount of your time pretending otherwise,” I grumbled in response.
Holmes laughed heartily.
“So, your tutor – do you visit him? How old is he now?” I asked. I would have certainly liked to meet this man.
Holmes looked away abruptly. “In my eighth year, the day after Mycroft returned home for the summer, I found him lying exsanguinated in his quarters.”
I could not help my exclamation of horror. Holmes’s eyes were distant, lost in the past. I know his memory recall is perfect, so he would be visualising the events almost as if they were happening in this instant. He continued his narrative, and I realised it would best for me not to interrupt until he finished the tale. I could only listen intently as he spoke.
Our tutor was a punctual person. That morning, when he did not appear at the breakfast table, Mycroft and I were quite surprised. The rest of the family had left for Edinburgh the previous evening, so his absence was even more conspicuous. It was most unlike him to leave two children unsupervised.
“Would you fetch M
r. Fitzgerald, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked me. Even at the age of fifteen, he was not particularly active.
I jumped up from my seat and dashed off. I met the footman in the hallway, accompanied by a young boy of my age. He was from Dublin, a distant relative of one of the neighbours with whom my mother was friendly, and had been sent to spend a few weeks in England by his parents. We were similar in age, and he was quite clever, so we got along well.
“Ah, Master Sherlock,” the footman – Smith – said. “Your friend Master Oscar is here.”
Oscar stamped his foot. “I am Melmoth!” he shouted. He had decided that he would not use his given name when he was out of Ireland and had chosen the name of one of his favourite fictional characters instead. He refused to answer to anything else.
I giggled. “Come along, Melmoth. I am going to find Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Melmoth frowned. “I am looking for him, too. He promised to look over my story.”
I was immediately interested. Melmoth had a fertile imagination, if slightly dark. “May I see it?” I asked eagerly.
Melmoth nodded shyly. “I left my notebook with Mr. Fitzgerald last evening. I shall read my story to you when I have it back.”
“Let us get it!” I grabbed his hand and we ran off. Smith followed us promptly. I suspect Mycroft had instructed the household staff not to leave me alone.
Mr. Fitzgerald had been given the corner room on the second floor. It was one of the nicest rooms in the house, and it had a beautiful view of the garden. It was also the sole room in use in the left wing of the second floor. The only other occupied room on the second floor was Mycroft’s room at the other end – the corner room in the right wing. Mother used to say that young men need their private space.
I was hit by the foul stench of blood as soon as I stepped foot in the left wing. I glanced at our tutor’s door at the end, and it appeared slightly ajar. Next to me, Melmoth gagged – he was of a delicate constitution. Smith looked green.
“Get Mycroft,” I ordered the footman. “Take Melmoth with you.”
Smith shook his head stubbornly. “I cannot leave you alone here, Master Sherlock.”
“Please bring my brother here, Mr. Smith,” I said politely. Perhaps it was his shock at my unusually courteous manner that urged him to move. He left with Melmoth in tow. I considered waiting for Mycroft before proceeding to what I knew to be the scene of the crime, for I was not unafraid. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, or perhaps it was some form of sentiment . . . I soon found myself pushing open the door to Mr. Fitzgerald’s room.
I froze at the doorway. My tutor lay cold and colourless on the floor, on a bed of my mother’s prized white roses that she had painstakingly bred, the delicate petals stained crimson with blood. I stepped back in horror, too terrified to look further for injuries or weapons. My stomach lurched and my vision dimmed. A familiar pair of arms caught me before I fell, though.
Mycroft picked me up and rushed me to the nearest chamber pot. I vaguely heard him shouting instructions at a servant. He held me as I retched. He did not look too good himself, but my brother has always had an exaggerated sense of responsibility when he is put in charge, so he would not allow himself to show any weakness. When I was done, he wiped me clean with a damp cloth.
“He is dead,” I said stupidly.
“Yes,” Mycroft said softly. “Are you well enough to walk, Sherlock, or should I carry you to your room?”
I ignored his question. “Where are you going?”
“The police will arrive soon. I will assist them as much as I can,” he replied.
“I will come with you,” I said stubbornly. “I know him better than you do.” Tears pricked at my eyes as I realised the error of my words. “Knew,” I added softly.
Mycroft sighed and patted my head. “No, Sherlock,” he said firmly. “I cannot allow you to witness such a ghastly sight again.”
I closed my eyes involuntarily and immediately the scene reared up in my mind. I realised the disadvantages of my exact memory for the first time in my short life. The thought of being alone in my room with nothing but such images for company frightened me.
Mycroft must have understood my thoughts, for he kept me by his side for the rest of the day except for the ten minutes or so he needed to take the policemen to the scene of the crime. Melmoth glued himself to our side as well. He was too terrified to return, so Mycroft had sent word to his relatives that he would be staying with us for a couple of days.
The day passed in a flurry of activity with Mycroft at the epicentre, issuing instructions with a precision even our father could not. The servants and even the local constabulary rallied to his side and obeyed him without hesitation. By the time everything was over, it was already time for supper. Mrs. Johnson, grief evident in her red, puffy eyes, served us a simple fare of soup and bread while complaining about the cook, who was nowhere to be seen. We ate quickly in silence.
When we were done, Mycroft pulled Mrs. Johnson – our housekeeper – aside and spoke to her in a soft, gentle voice. I could not hear what he said, but I noted that he was taking the time to speak to each servant individually to reassure them. He had handled the hysterical footman Smith particularly well.
Mrs. Johnson was an elderly widow and had been with our family for many years. She had been rather fond of our tutor. Her own son had been killed in an accident at a young age, and since Mr. Fitzgerald was of similar age, she lavished her motherly affection on him.
“It is a crying shame, Master Mycroft,” she sobbed openly. “Patrick was such a dear boy. He would not hurt a fly. Why would someone murder him in such a fiendish manner? It must be the work of a devil, Master Mycroft! No, it must be that black-haired witch! Poor Patrick! Oh, why could he not fancy little Alice instead – and that silly girl, she has probably locked herself away somewhere to cry her eyes out!” Alice was the cook and she was quite taken with our tutor.
Mycroft’s lips thinned with displeasure, but he simply handed her his pristine white handkerchief and murmured soothingly. My brother could be very charming when he wanted to be.
“Black-haired witch,” Melmoth muttered. “White roses dyed red with blood.” He turned to me, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I think it may be my fault, Sherlock. This is just like one of the stories I had written in my notebook.”
I was quite shocked. “Was that the story you asked Mr. Fitzgerald to look at?” I asked.
Melmoth shook his head.
“In that case, it cannot possibly be your fault,” I told him.
He shook his head vehemently. “It was in the same notebook. I have never shown those stories to anyone before. Mr. Fitzgerald was really interested and he told me I had a vivid imagination and that I could be a writer if I wanted to and I . . . .” He broke off and burst into tears.
I was not surprised. Melmoth, unlike Mycroft or I, was an expressive person. He was only a few months younger than me, but as is common with small children, even a minor difference is important. I had always been the youngest in the family, so to have a younger playmate made me feel rather superior. I comforted him as Mycroft used to comfort me.
“Tell me about the story you wrote,” I told him when he had finally calmed down.
“I would like to hear the tale as well,” came Mycroft’s soft voice. I had not noticed him end his conversation with the housekeeper and approach us. “Perhaps you two could wait in Sherlock’s room for a few minutes? I shall join you shortly.”
Melmoth nodded tearfully. The two of us made our way to my room. By the time we were done with our bath and ready for bed, we were both tired and sleepy.
“You are fortunate,” Melmoth muttered enviously, kicking off his slippers and climbing up on my bed.
I stared at him blankly.
Melmoth giggled nervously. “Your brother . . . he is magnificent. You said he was lazy, but he has taken care of everything today.”
“It is unusual for Mycroft to be so energetic,” I retorted. “However, there is
no one more reliable or responsible than him.”
Mycroft chose that moment to enter, already dressed for bed. From his smug expression, it was clear that he had heard my compliment. He ruffled my hair affectionately.
Melmoth gazed at us with a longing look. Mycroft reached out and ruffled his hair as well. I was mildly annoyed, but I did not protest. Melmoth was younger and terrified. I could afford to share my brother for a short while.
Melmoth, however, had other plans. He clung to Mycroft’s arm like a limpet, pale and scared. Mycroft detests physical proximity as much as I, if not more, but surprisingly, he did not say a word. He merely sighed and took a seat on the bed, resting his back against the headboard. Melmoth burrowed into his left shoulder without letting go of his arm.
My annoyance must have shown on my face for my brother smiled slightly and beckoned me to his right side. As soon as I climbed in and rested my head against his shoulder, I realised why Melmoth drew such comfort from Mycroft. Even if he was only fifteen, Mycroft had always been tall and well-built, and he was warm and reassuring.
“If you are not too sleepy, Melmoth, could you tell us your story?” my brother asked gently.
Melmoth nodded eagerly, adoration shining in his eyes. Clearly my brother was his new hero.
“It is not entirely mine,” Melmoth confessed shyly. “One of my father’s acquaintances recently returned from the Far East . . . some place called ‘Korea’, and he narrated a folktale about how a little girl gave up all the blood in her body to make a red rose for her mother so that she would not be reborn as a thorn bush. I liked the idea, so I wrote of a young scholar who was tempted by a beautiful black haired woman, but the woman was avaricious and wanted to marry a knight instead of the poor scholar, so she asked him for a red rose in the middle of winter when she knew none bloomed. The scholar searched and searched, but there were only white roses in bloom. A bird, touched by the love and efforts of the young man, decided to help him. The bird pierced its heart with a rose thorn and sang all night, and the white rose turned red with its blood. The scholar found the red rose in the morning and went to give it to the woman, but she deserted him for a rich knight, so he threw away the flower and returned to his books.”