Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches II: 1905-1909

By Bill Peschel

Welcome to 223B Baker Street

The debut of Sherlock Holmes in the pages of The Strand magazine introduced one of fiction’s most memorable heroes. Arthur Conan Doyle’s spellbinding tales of mystery and detection and Holmes’ deep friendship with Dr. Watson touched the hearts of fans worldwide, inspiring imitations, parodies, songs, art, even erotica, that continue to be produced and avidly enjoyed today.

Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches II: 1905-1909 collects 40 pieces published during the middle phase of Conan Doyle’s life. Some were written by schoolboys, reporters,doctors, and other amateurs, but many professional writers turned out stories, such as “Banjo” Paterson, Max Beerbohm, Lincoln Steffens, Jacques Futrelle, Maurice Leblanc, and “Charlie Chan” creator Earl Derr Biggers.

We‘ve also included the stories’ original art and over 270 footnotes identifying obscure words, historical figures, and events that readers were familiar with then but are forgotten today.

Peschel Press’ 223B Casebook Series — named because they’re “next door” to the original stories — is dedicated to publishing the fanfiction created by amateur and professional writers during Conan Doyle’s lifetime.

A lifelong fan of mysteries, and Sherlock Holmes in particular, Bill Peschel is a former award-winning journalist living in Hershey, Pa. He is the annotator of novels by Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, publisher of the three-volume Rugeley Poisoner Series, and author of “Writers Gone Wild” (Penguin).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peschel Press
• Release date: Feb 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311771100

Bill Peschel

Bill Peschel is a recovering journalist who shares a Pulitzer Prize with the staff of The Patriot-News in Harrisburg, Pa. He also is mystery fan who has run the Wimsey Annotations at www.planetpeschel.com for nearly two decades. He is the author of the 223B series of Sherlock Holmes parodies and pastiches, "The Complete, Annotated Mysterious Affair at Styles," "The Complete, Annotated Secret Adversary" and "The Complete, Annotated Whose Body?" as well as "Writers Gone Wild" (Penguin Books). He lives in Hershey, where the air really does smell like chocolate.

Book preview

Introduction

Welcome back to the latest volume of the 223B Casebook series. This time, our time machine lands us in the second half of the Edwardian era, that in-between period when the shadows from the Victorian era were fading, replaced with the modernity that will bloom after World War I.

Conan Doyle was transitioning as well. He had finished his latest collection of Holmes stories that would be published as The Return of Sherlock Holmes. Over the next 25 years, he’ll write the last 20 stories and The Valley of Fear. During the period covered by this volume, he’ll mourn the passing of his wife and celebrate his new marriage and family, engage in public causes as varied as championing the innocence of convicted men and testifying for daylight saving time, and even get in a little writing.

While his creator stayed home, Holmes continued to roam the world. In this volume, we’ll see him in Boston solving a gruesome murder case while it was still being investigated (The Great Suit Case Mystery), on a baseball field in Seattle (Sherlock Holmes Umpires Baseball), in Russia searching for a stolen score pad (Sherlock Holmes in Russia), and in Paris discerning the meaning of a blonde hair on a friend’s coat (By a Hair) and meeting one of his greatest adversaries (Holmlock Shears Opens Hostilities). He’ll be portrayed by writers as varied as humorist John Kendrick Bangs, muckraker Lincoln Steffens, drama critic Max Beerbohm, and Australian journalist Banjo Paterson.

But no matter where he is and in whose hands, he remained indisputably Holmes.

Bill Peschel

Hershey, Pa.

Jan. 4, 2016

How the Book Was Organized

The 223B Casebook Series had two goals: To reprint the majority of the parodies and pastiches published in Conan Doyle’s lifetime, especially rare and newly discovered stories, and collections on a subject such as The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes.

The stories appear in the order in which readers of the time would have seen them. This way, readers can see how writers changed their perception of Sherlock as the canonical stories were published. Stories for which dates could not be found, such as those published in books, were moved to the end of the year.

Each chapter begins with a description of Conan Doyle’s activities that year. I tried to keep the essays self-contained, but some events, such as Conan Doyle’s longtime relationship with Jean Leckie, span years and will be covered as complete as possible without falling into the boredom of repetition.

The stories were reprinted as accurately as possible. No attempt was made to standardize British and American spelling. Some words have undergone changes over the years—Shakespere instead of Shakespeare and to-morrow for tomorrow—they were left alone. Obvious mistakes of spelling and grammar were silently corrected and paragraphs were broken up to aid readability.

Acknowledgements

Every effort was made to determine the copyright status of these pieces and obtain permission to publish from the rightful copyright holders. If I have made a mistake, please contact me so that I may rectify the error.

Many people helped make this series more and better than I could have done alone. Research assistant Scott Harkless provided several rare and critical stories. Denise Phillips at the Hershey Public Library worked hard to acquire the books and articles I asked for. Peter Blau generously shared the fruits of his researches. Charles Press provided me with a shopping list from his Parodies and Pastiches Buzzing ‘Round Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and generously filled in the gaps with extremely rare items from his researches.

Then there are the writers whose books pointed the way: Bill Blackbeard for Sherlock Holmes in America; Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee (Ellery Queen) for their ill-fated The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes; Philip K. Jones for his massive (10,000 entries!) database of Sherlockian pastiches, parodies and related fiction; John Gibson and Richard Lancelyn Green for My Evening With Sherlock Holmes and The Uncollected Sherlock Holmes; Paul D. Herbert for The Sincerest Form of Flattery; Peter Ridgway Watt and Joseph Green for The Alternative Sherlock Holmes: Pastiches, Parodies and Copies; The Sciolist Press, Donald K. Pollock, and the other editors behind The Baker Street Miscellanea.

By digitizing their nation’s newspapers and making them searchable, The National Library of Australia enabled me to find previously unknown parodies and research their local references so we can appreciate what was going on in New South Wales, Mudgee, and Perth.

The Baker Street Irregulars receives my particular thanks for their permission to publish Kai-Ho Mah’s translation of By A Hair.

In addition, two readers stepped forward to contribute stories that they discovered: Ian Schoenherr for Sherlock Holmes, Witness; and Jeff Katz for providing Mr. Dooley Discusses College Athletics, Mickey Sweeney, Detective of Detectives, and The Coming Back of Shedlock Combs. My gratitude to them is boundless and joyous.

Finally, my gratitude and love to my wife, Teresa, who unsheathed her red pen and decorated the manuscript with corrections, advice, and suggestions.

Got parody? If you have an uncollected Sherlock Holmes story that was published between 1888 and 1930, please let me know the title and author. If I don’t have it and can use it, you’ll earn a free trade paperback of the book it’ll appear in plus an acknowledgement inside! Email me at [e-mail] or write to Peschel Press, P.O. Box 132, Hershey, PA 17033-0132.

Get the newsletter: If you want to learn more about my books, my researches and the media I eat, sign up for the Peschel Press newsletter. Every month, you’ll get a chatty letter about what we’re publishing plus a glimpse behind the scenes at a growing publishing house. Visit either www.planetpeschel.com or www.peschelpress.com and look for the sign-up box.

1905

Image No. 4

Illustration for magazine article on Conan Doyle’s career, 1905.

I am tired of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle told an interviewer, and he had good reason. He had killed his creation in 1893, but in the last few years recast his stories for the stage when he needed money, wrote a backdated novella, and just finished 13 stories that resurrected him from a watery grave. The money was fabulous; the criticism that the stories were not up to snuff, from the public and his editor at The Strand, was not.

In the meantime, Conan Doyle’s life revolved around sports, socializing, family (daughter Mary was 17 and son Kingsley 13) and concern for his wife’s slowly declining health. It had been 12 years since Louise had been diagnosed with tuberculosis. To restore her health, he had taken her for long stays to Switzerland and Egypt and built for her a home in Hindhead. Her early death was inevitable, and he resolved not to cause her any discomfort. This included keeping from her the knowledge of his platonic relationship with Jean Leckie, now entering its eighth year. But the strain of keeping up appearances would throw him into deep depressions.

The cure for that, he knew, was activity. He had agreed to run for Parliament again, this time for a seat representing Scotland’s Border Burghs. This meant frequent visits during the year to the three towns of Galashiels, Selkirk, and Hawick. He made five trips in all, campaigning against free trade outside the Empire before raucous crowds that delighted in baiting him. He grew skilled in countering, he wrote in his memoirs, senseless trick questions from mischievous and irresponsible persons. When one heckler asked how he could believe in punishing nations with high tariffs and the Sermon on the Mount, Conan Doyle shot back, "Have you sold all and given to the poor?" The resulting laughter at the man, notorious for his miserly ways, drove him from the hall. In the meantime, the incumbent refused to campaign, leaving it to his surrogates, further frustrating Conan Doyle.

One example of Conan Doyle’s energy and range of interests can be found in his schedule for April. He started the month campaigning in the Border Burghs and paused in Edinburgh to accept an honorary Doctor of Laws degree from his alma mater. Returning to Hindhead, he won a road trial in his Wolseley. Four days later, he joined his fellow members of the Crimes Club to tour Jack the Ripper sites in London’s Whitechapel area.

During the summer, Conan Doyle returned to 14th century England to work on Sir Nigel, the prequel to The White Company. He wrote quickly, finishing in November, a month before the opening chapters appeared in The Strand. His work was interrupted briefly in August when he appeared in a Kent courtroom. He had been caught speeding in Folkestone—26 mph, which one newspaper termed motor scorching—and was fined £10 plus 9 shillings court costs. What most annoyed Conan Doyle was not the fine, but the judge’s scolding that unless I were mulct [fined] I would no doubt kill several people—I, who have never hurt nor frightened a soul in three years’ constant driving. He must have temporarily forgot Innes, who was thrown from the car when he crashed into the Undershaw gatepost, and the Ma’am, who was with him when he struck a cartload of turnips.

The year ended with shadows gathering around the family. In October, he visited Westminster Abbey for the funeral for Sir Henry Irving. The actor-manager had created Conan Doyle’s first stage success with his one-act play Waterloo. Then on Christmas Day, Louise’s mother died at 79. She bore her loss calmly, a family member wrote, because she accepted God’s will so completely that it gave her a certain soft radiance, and an ability to smile where others might have cried. By this time, she was weak, able to go out but could only speak in a whisper. The end was near.

Publications: The Return of Sherlock Holmes (Feb.); Other: The Fiscal Question (April).

The Unmasking of Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Chapman

So please grip this fact with your cerebral tentacle, / The doll and its maker are never identical. So wrote Arthur Conan Doyle in 1912 in a poetic rebuttal to a critic’s accusations that he borrowed heavily from Poe only to have Holmes dismiss his detective-hero Dupin as very inferior.

We know that Doyle admired Poe, because he admitted it regularly and in public. To an American reporter’s question about whether he had been influenced by Poe he replied, immensely! He wrote later: If every man who receives a cheque for a story which owes its springs to Poe were to pay a tithe to a monument for the master; he would have a pyramid as big as that of Cheops.

Nevertheless, those who could not distinguish between the theft of words—the definition of plagiarism—and using other’s works as a springboard for new works were fond of bashing Holmes, such as this example from the February issue of The Critic. Arthur Chapman (1873-1935) was a newspaper columnist and cowboy poet whose most notable work is Out Where the West Begins.

In all my career as Boswell to the Johnson of Sherlock Holmes, I have seen the great detective agitated only once. We had been quietly smoking and talking over the theory of thumbprints, when the landlady brought in a little square of pasteboard at which Holmes glanced casually and then let drop on the floor. I picked up the card, and as I did so I saw that Holmes was trembling, evidently too agitated either to tell the landlady to show the visitor in or to send him away. On the card I read the name:

Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin,

Paris.

While I was wondering what there could be in that name to strike terror to the heart of Sherlock Holmes, M. Dupin himself entered the room. He was a young man, slight of build and unmistakably French of feature. He bowed as he stood in the doorway, but I observed that Sherlock Holmes was too amazed or too frightened to return the bow. My idol stood in the middle of the room, looking at the little Frenchman on the threshold as if M. Dupin had been a ghost. Finally, pulling himself together with an effort, Sherlock Holmes motioned the visitor to a seat, and, as M. Dupin sunk into the chair, my friend tumbled into another and wiped his brow feverishly.

Pardon my unceremonious entrance, Mr. Holmes, said the visitor, drawing out a meerschaum pipe, filling it, and then smoking in long, deliberate puffs. I was afraid, however, that you would not care to see me, so I came in before you had an opportunity of telling your landlady to send me away.

To my surprise Sherlock Holmes did not annihilate the man with one of those keen, searching glances for which he has become famous in literature and the drama. Instead he continued to mop his brow and finally mumbled, weakly:

But—but—I thought y-y-you were dead, M. Dupin.

And people thought you were dead, too, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said the visitor, in his high, deliberate voice. But if you can be brought to life after being hurled from a cliff in the Alps, why can’t I come out of a respectable grave just to have a chat with you? You know my originator, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, was very fond of bringing people out of their graves.

Yes, yes, I’ll admit that I have read that fellow, Poe, said Sherlock Holmes testily. Clever writer in some things. Some of his detective stories about you are not half bad, either.

No, not half bad, said M. Dupin, rather sarcastically, I thought. "Do you remember that little story of ‘The Purloined Letter,’ for instance? What a little gem of a story that is! When I get to reading it over I forget all about you and your feeble imitations. There is nothing forced there. Everything is as sure as fate itself—not a false note—not a thing dragged in by the heels. And the solution of it all is so simple that it makes most of your artifices seem clumsy in comparison."

But if Poe had such a good thing in you, M. Dupin, why didn’t he make more of you? snapped Sherlock Holmes.

Ah, that’s where Mr. Poe proved himself a real literary artist, said M. Dupin, puffing away at his eternal meerschaum. "When he had a good thing he knew enough not to ruin his reputation by running it into the ground. Suppose, after writing ‘The Murders of the Rue Morgue’ around me as the central character, he had written two or three books of short stories in which I figured. Then suppose he had let them dramatize me and further parade me before the public. Likewise suppose, after he had decently killed me off and had announced that he would write no more detective stories, he had yielded to the blandishments of his publishers and had brought out another interminable lot of tales about me? Why, naturally, most of the stuff would have been worse than mediocre, and people would have forgotten all about that masterpiece, ‘The Murders of the Rue Morgue,’ and also about ‘The Purloined Letter,’ so covered would those gems be in a mass of trash."

Oh, I’ll admit that my string has been overplayed, sighed Sherlock Holmes moodily, reaching for the hypodermic syringe, which I slid out of his reach. But maybe Poe would have overplayed you if he could have drawn down a dollar a word for all he could write about you.

Poor Edgar—poor misunderstood Edgar!—maybe he would, said Dupin, thoughtfully. Few enough dollars he had in his stormy life. But at the same time, no matter what his rewards, I think he was a versatile genius, enough to have found something new at the right time. At any rate he would not have filched the product of another’s brain and palmed it off as his own.

But great Scott, man! cried Sherlock Holmes, you don’t mean to say that no one else but Poe has a right to utilize the theory of analysis in a detective story, do you?

No, but see how closely you follow me in all other particulars. I am out of sorts with fortune and so are you. I am always smoking when thinking out my plans of attack, and so are you. I have an admiring friend to set down everything I say and do, and so have you. I am always dazzling the chief of police with much better theories than he can ever work out, and so are you.

I know, I know, said Sherlock Holmes, beginning to mop his forehead again. "It looks like a bad case against me. I’ve drawn pretty freely upon you, M. Dupin, and the quotation marks haven’t always been used as they should have been where credit was due. But after all I am not the most slavish imitation my author has produced. Have you ever read his book, The White Company and compared it with The Cloister and the Hearth? No? Well do so, if you want to get what might be termed ‘transplanted atmosphere.’"

Well, it seems to be a great age for the piratical appropriating of other men’s ideas, said M. Dupin, resignedly. "As for myself, I don’t care a rap about your stealing of my thunder, Sherlock Holmes. In fact, you’re a pretty decent sort of a chap, even though you are trying my patience with your continual refusal to retire; and besides you only make me shine the brighter in comparison. I don’t even hold that ‘Dancing Men’ story against you, in which you made use of a cryptogram that instantly brought up thoughts of ‘The Gold-Bug.’"

But you did not figure in ‘The Gold-Bug,’ said Sherlock Holmes with the air of one who had won a point.

"No, and that merely emphasizes what I have been telling you—that people admire Poe as a literary artist owing to the fact that he did not overwork any of his creations. Bear that in mind, my boy, and remember, when you make your next farewell, to see that it is not one of the Patti kind, with a string to it. The patience of even the American reading public is not exhaustless, and you cannot always be among the ‘six best-selling books’ of the day."

And with these words, M. Dupin, pipe, and all, vanished in the tobacco-laden atmosphere of the room, leaving the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, looking at me as shamefacedly as a schoolboy who had been caught with stolen apples in his possession.

The Last of Sherlock Holmes:

The Mystery of the Governor’s Message and the Missing — — — —.

A.B. Banjo Paterson

Illustrated by Lionel Lindsay

Late on the night of Jan. 20, police in Perth, Australia, received an urgent telegram from Sir Harry Rawson (1843-1910), the governor of New South Wales. Two reliable officers were ordered to meet the train from Moss Vale, where the governor was summering, and meet someone who would order them to keep an eye on two unnamed individuals. Word of the mysterious telegram spread quickly, and news reports fueled speculation. Several days later, the government explained that Rawson had given a messenger negotiable debentures to raise a £2 million loan and was concerned for their safety. Eventually, the truth surfaced: Two Russian agents had been negotiating with a shipping company to buy one of their vessels and the government became alarmed after learning of their presence in the country.

Little more than a week after the story broke, this parody appeared in at least two Australian newspapers—The Evening News of Jan. 28 and The Daily News (Perth) of Feb. 16. No byline was printed, but a compiler for Project Gutenberg Australia identified its author as Andrew Banjo Paterson (1864-1941), the reporter whose poems of Outback life such as Waltzing Matilda, Clancy of the Overflow, and The Man from Snowy River would shape Australia’s self-image. His portrait appears on the Australian ten-dollar bill. Lionel Lindsay (1874-1961) was beginning his career that would see him as one of the country’s most popular artists.

Those who have followed the career of the marvelous detective Sherlock Holmes, and his assistant, Dr. Watson, will remember that the final exploit of the great Sherlock, as recorded by Conan Doyle, was the recovery of a missing despatch box by the Prime Minister of England. This adventure is supposed to have closed the history of the great detective so far as English readers are concerned; but such a mastermind could not remain unoccupied; such a genius must find an outlet for its energies; and there are indications that various mysteries now puzzling Australians—such as why Pye was left out of the Australian Eleven, and The Missing Diamonds, or the Mystery of the Mont-de-Piete, will before long engage the attention of his giant intellect; in other words, Sherlock Holmes is in Australia.

If any confirmation were wanted of this statement, it would be found in the solution recently worked out of a labyrinthic mystery which Sherlock Holmes and Company alone could have successfully solved.

Suppressing, for obvious reasons, the real names of the parties, let us proceed to narrate how Sherlock Holmes unraveled the mysterious telegram sent by one whom, for the purposes of the story, we shall call Sir Tarry Hawser, the Governor of New South Carolina.

Image No. 5

*  *  *  *  *

It was midnight of a sweltering Sydney summer night. The streets were quiet, except for the usual crowds around the betting shops, and Sherlock Holmes, disguised as an Officer of Detective Police, paced restlessly up and down his official sitting-room, holding in his hand a telegram. From time to time he glanced restlessly at the door. A step was heard without, and three knocks were given. The door slid noiselessly into the groove in the wall, admitting Sherlock’s old and true friend, Dr. Watson, now disguised as a policeman. Without looking round, Sherlock motioned him to a chair, saying, Sit down, Watson. I have a small matter in hand.

How did you know it was me? said Watson, gazing admiringly at the back view of the greatest detective the world has ever known. I never spoke nor gave my name to a soul.

Image No. 6

My dear fellow, said Sherlock, with calm superiority. I knew it was you the moment that you started to come up the stairs. I knew it was you by the heavy way you put your feet down. When I heard the sound on the stairs, I said, ‘This is either Watson, or a draught horse,’ and as no draught horse could get round the angle in the first landing, I knew it was you the moment you had passed that point. But there is a small matter, a mere official trifle, which is likely to afford us a little work. It is a matter which, as a rule, I would hand over to the traffic constables, with instructions to inquire whether any strangers had been seen in town lately. But as our old friend, Sir Tarry Hawser, is concerned in it we must attend to the matter ourselves.

So saying, he tossed to Watson a telegram timed 11 p.m. and bearing the Hoss Valley telegraph stamp.

Watson held it up to the light, and read it aloud: ‘Hawser, Hoss Valley, to Sherlock, Sydney. Have just come home from amateur races. Very hot. Have lost—’ what’s this he has lost?—‘exiguous co-ordinate?’

That’s where the difficulty is, said Sherlock. That part is in cipher, and we have lost the key. It is evident he has lost something. I deduce that from the fact that he goes on: ‘send two detectives at once.’

And what do you think he has lost? said Watson.

Sherlock smiled his inscrutable smile and threw himself into an easy chair.

I think I recognize the hand of Moriarty in this, he said.

"Do you mean Moriarty, the Crown Prosecu—"

No, I mean Moriarty, the great chief of crime, the Napoleon of iniquity. See here, Watson, he went on, stepping over to the window and drawing aside the curtain: Look out and tell me what you see.

I see Phillip street, and a cab at the corner, and a man over the way going into a pub after hours.

What does he look like?

He looks like a beer fighter.

Sherlock smiled his slow smile of satisfaction.

Watch that man, he said, and tell me if he looks round as he goes into the bar.

Yes, he does.

Does he beckon with his hand, and is he joined by another man?

Yes, he is.

I thought so. Moriarty, at every turn! That is no ordinary emergency. I would go myself, but— and here he paused, lost in thought.

Why not telegraph Sir Tarry, and see—

What, and have the telegram intercepted by Moriarty? Watson, you surprise me. Oblige me by pressing the bell.

A velvet-footed official came to the door.

Are all arrangements made? said Sherlock sharply.

They are, sir.

Have you rung up the press and told them at what time the detectives leave, and where they are going, and by whom they are wanted?

We have, sir.

Have they been photographed and their descriptions circulated among the criminal classes?

They have, sir.

Have they got a banner and masks for their faces and a bloodhound to follow the tracks?

They have, sir.

Excellent, excellent, said Sherlock Holmes. "It is a great aid to detective work, Watson, to notify beforehand what you are going to do. It lowers the number of convictions and enables Neitenstein to effect a saving of gaol expenditure. And now let us snatch a few hours’ sleep. We can do nothing till the morning. Good night, Watson. Mind the step."

Next morning there was a great to-do. People were asking, "What had the Governor of South Carolina lost? Had the miscreants been arrested? Had Rozhestvensky’s fleet appeared on the Upper Marrumbidgee, and begun to shell the Barren Jack Reservoir? Was a Russian emissary disguised as a commercial traveler trying to sell fire extinguishers to the burnt-out settlers? The public mind was all unrest, and all looked to the great detective to know what had been done.

Image No. 7

Meanwhile, the detectives had started for the railway station with the utmost secrecy, accompanied by a German band, a banner, and a bloodhound. The time and place of their departure and the object of their visit were all chronicled in the society columns among the fashionable intelligence, and were read with interest by the criminal classes.

Image No. 8

They followed up the blood-stained trail. A Russian spy has passed along here, they said. But the desperado was found to be only an ordinary swagman, and the sleuth hounds of the law were puzzled.

Strange! they said, that the criminals are not here to meet us after our departure was so extensively advertised. They returned as unobtrusively and secretly as they set out, and were met by four hundred people at the railway station, who cheered them heartily.

Public excitement ran higher than ever. The mysterious message—what was it about? Had the detectives arrested anyone?

It was then that the genius of our friend Holmes shone out more brightly; with more luster and luminosity than on any occasion in his history. He rigidly refused to give any information. We have told the criminals what we are going to do, he said, but it would never do to tell the public what the affair was all about. Enough for them to know that the criminals, whoever they were, were taken no unfair advantage of. Let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes descended to the low expedient of surprising a burglar. Any officer giving any information whatever will be sacked.

Later on in the day the Prime Minister, by one of those singular lapses of which even the greatest minds are capable, actually made public the details of the affair. There was nothing to make a fuss about, he said. There had been no crime committed, and he didn’t see why the public should be kept in a state of unrest. He said that Sir Tarry Hawser had merely wanted two detectives to look after some unsalable bonds that the Carruthers Government were trying to palm off on the British moneylender; but the public would not believe this story at all.

Why, they said, should he wait until the middle of the night to remember about the bonds? No, there was a mystery in it, and Sherlock Holmes is the only man who can tell us.

When this was reported to Sherlock, he again smiled his deep, enigmatical smile.

To the ordinary superficial observer, Watson, he said, there was nothing in it. But the trained, deductive intellect discards all the theories of guarding bonds. The great mastermind of crime was at work in this.

And what was it then that Sir Tarry Hawser wished the detectives to do? What did he wish them to guard?

Sherlock Holmes looked round furtively, and drew his questioner close to him.

The family washing, he hissed. He didn’t like sending it down, considering the people that were about. Look out, Watson, and tell me what you see in the street.

I see the same pub, and I think the same man going in to have a drink.

Sherlock Holmes gave his usual chuckle of triumph. There you are, Watson, he said, that proves that my suspicions were correct. Moriarty is yet at large.

Sherlock Holmes’ Daughter

H.H. Ballard

Without giving too much away, this story from the April issue of The Brown Book of Boston contains a twist at the end that would probably delight readers of JohnLock fanfiction today.

Harlan Hoge Ballard (1853-1934) was an educator in Lenox, Mass. He founded the Agassiz Association, named for naturalist Louis Agassiz, to encourage young people to study natural history. A learned man, he wrote several books on behalf of the association, as well as a translation of Virgil’s Aeneid, and two writing guides.

Ballard will appear in a later volume with a piece from his Adventures of a Librarian (1929). While his appreciation of Sherlock was plain, in another essay he concluded that learning was more rewarding than reading fiction: Amateurs delight in effort regardless of the value of the thing achieved. Selfish pleasure in achieving kills interest, once the goal is reached. . . . Detective stories, once read, are forgotten. Sherlock Holmes cared nothing for his criminals after he caught them. But if efforts result in adding however slightly to the world’s knowledge, or happiness, the pleasure of achievement becomes legitimate, and interest is lasting. I wonder many equally learned Sherlockians would agree?

It was our tenth anniversary. Some of us had not met since we stood in a row before good old Dr. Bancroft to receive our diplomas.

We had finished our coffee, pushed back our chairs, and lighted our cigars. We were still laughing at the story of Dr. Brown—Billy he used to be, and Billy he was again that night.

Billy, then turned to a quiet banker who was sitting next to him, and who was known on Wall Street as Thomas Vanderpool, Esq., and cried, Come on Van! It’s your turn next! Gentlemen, we will now listen to the adventures of the banker.

Vanderpool had been the baby and the Beau Brummell of the class, used to have a new pair of dark green kid gloves on every Sunday morning, and all that sort of thing, parted his hair in the middle, fond of the girls, but a good, clean fellow, though very quiet and a bit dull, and the last man in the world to have an adventure or tell it if he had.

So we all clattered our knives against our glasses, and shouted, Van! Van! It’s up to you, Vandy, until Tom was actually a bit fussed.

However, he got his cigar around to the other corner of his mouth, took off his gold glasses, and to the astonishment of every man present told the liveliest story of the evening.

Fellows, said he, "as a rule in a banker’s life there is not much doing. But as some of you may remember, I started in to be a surgeon, and possibly you may be interested to hear the remarkable experience which switched me off. It was in eighteen hundred ninety-four, no, ninety-three.

"I was on my way home from Greece. I had been working with the American Archaeological Society, and had just helped uncover the old Corinthian wall. We had embarked at Naples on one of the Lloyd steamers, The Normannia. We took on a few passengers at Gibraltar, among whom I had noticed two ladies heavily veiled in black.

"About eight o’clock that evening I was lounging on the forward deck watching the moonlight and the water, when I heard a sort of feminine rustle, and was startled to hear my name pronounced with that hesitating accent which is a form of question. It was the younger of the two veiled women. I gathered in my pipe, and raised my hat and my eyebrows. ‘Mr. Vanderpool of New York?’ I bowed gravely and remarked quietly, ‘but, if I may be pardoned the colloquialism, you have the advantage of me.’ Ignoring my words, she went on more quickly: ‘Your archeological work is interesting, of course, but after all, Doctor, one regards that kind of thing rather as an avocation than as a permanent profession?’

"I was now nettled as well as perplexed. ‘Madam,’ I said, coolly, ‘you appear to know enough of my personal affairs to be an acquaintance, but I fail to recognize your voice, and I must ask you to advise me whom I have the honor of addressing.’

"‘Quite right,’ she murmured, and threw back her heavy veil; then handed me a card on which were delicately written these words: Miss Elsie V. Holmes.

"Her face, even by moonlight, was not beautiful. Women would say there were beautiful things in it. Her forehead had fine curves amid a wealth of waving hair; her nose was aquiline, and her eyes—well, her eyes made you forget everything else, even the firm mouth and the too-dominant chin. They were dark and very large, but the thing I have never seen in any other human eye was a tiny sparkle of liquid fire in the center of the pupil.

"This was not often seen, usually she held her eyes half closed and dreamed out under the fringing veil of her long lashes; but when she opened them wide upon you in joy, or indignation, or love, the fire came.

"Before I recovered my self-possession the veil was again dropped.

"‘Now, Dr. Vanderpool,’ the words were low, almost pleading, ‘I am going to ask of you a very great favor.’

"‘First tell me,’ I cried, ‘how in Heaven’s name you know me, and that I am a doctor?’

"‘Not a physician, certainly,’ she replied, ‘a surgeon. I noticed you at your dinner; and from the way in which you held your knife it was evident that—but, after all, the important thing is that you are a surgeon, and that it is a surgeon I need, and quickly, come!’ I and she moved toward the stairs leading down to the main cabin.

"I followed without hesitation. She passed swiftly down, and through the long dining-saloon, and entered the corridor into which the staterooms open.

"At the door of No. 17 she paused, drew a key from her bosom, and waited. ‘Promise,’ she then said in an earnest whisper, ‘that you will guard with professional silence what you are about to see.’ I bowed assent. The key clicked and I entered. I was struck by the size of the room. Instead of the ordinary cabinet, I found myself in an apartment as large as the drawing-room above, and evidently made so by removing partitions and throwing half a dozen staterooms into one.

"The luxury equalled the size of the room. Easy chairs of rich upholstery, a reading table strewn with books and papers, a curiously constructed wardrobe, a carved writing-desk, and strangest of all, a comfortable bed, set in an alcove at the farther end of the room and partly hidden by heavy curtains. Beyond this, a door slightly ajar gave a glimpse into a second room, smaller, but of extraordinary size and of equal richness of furnishing.

"Both rooms were brilliant with electric light. On the floor were signs of haste and confusion. A steamer trunk was open, and around it was a bewildering overflow of muslin, silk and lace, together with gleams of silver and cut-glass traveling gear. On a chair near the bed lay a black mourning dress, over which depended a heavy veil of crepe.

‘Your mother is ill?’ I asked as I recovered from my first surprise. Miss Holmes darted a keen glance at me, then sweeping by, threw wide the curtains, and answered, ‘It is my father.’

"Certainly it was a man who lay there motionless: whether dead or alive I could not tell. My first impulse was to get away from this chamber of mystery and