The Other Conan Doyle

By Annette Siketa

Part anthology and part autobiography, this book examines Doyle's interest in spiritualism and how it influenced his writing, particularly his lesser known works. Most stories have footnotes and/or discussion points.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Apr 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463048726

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

THE OTHER CONAN DOYLE

Compiled and edited by Annette Siketa

Copyright 2020 by Annette Siketa.

No part of this book may be reproduced or manipulated in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the author.

Whilst the originals of these stories are in the Public Domain, the versions in this book are not. Please respect the authors’ rights. Only through honesty can the insidious practice of illegal copying be curbed.

Distributed by Smashwords.

Contents

Introduction.

A Point of View. Humour.

The Great Brown-Pericord Motor. Crime.

The Debut of Bimbashi Joyce. Adventure.

The Fall of Lord Barrymore. Humour.

The Prisoner’s Defence. Crime.

The Story of the Sealed Room. Mystery.

The Secret of Goresthorpe Grange. Mystery.

A Physiologist’s Wife. Romance.

The Man from Archangel. Romance.

The Surgeon of Gaster Fell. Mystery.

I. How the Woman Came To Kirkby Malhouse.

II. How I Went Forth to the Cottage.

III. Of the Grey Cottage in the Glen.

IV. The Man Who Came in the Night.

The Mystery of Cloomber.

Foreword.

Chapter I. The Hegira of the West Family from Edinburgh.

Chapter II. Of the Strange Manner in which A Tenant Came to Cloomber.

Chapter III. Of Our Further Acquaintance with General J. B. Heatherstone.

Chapter IV. Of A Young Man with A Grey Head.

Chapter V. How Four of Us Came to be Under the Shadow of Cloomber.

Chapter VI. How I Came to be Enlisted as One of the Garrison of Cloomber.

Chapter VII. Of Corporl Rufus Smith and His Coming to Cloomber.

Chapter VIII. Statement of Israel Stakes.

Chapter IX. Narrative of John Easterling, F.R.C.P, Edin.

Chapter X. Of the Letter which Came from the Hall.

Chapter XI. Of the Casting Away of the Barque, ‘Belinda’.

Chapter XII. Of the Three Foreign Men upon the Coast.

Chapter XIII. In which I See that which Has Been Seen by Few.

Chapter XIV. Of the Visitor who Ran Down the Road in the Night.

Chapter XV. The Daybook of John Berthier Heatherstone.

Chapter XVI. At the Hole of Cree.

Brief Biography and Interesting Facts.

Doyle and Spiritualism.

Other Books & Freebies.

About Me.

Introduction.

In compiling this book, the object was not to re-write the stories, but rather, to make the originals more readable. Though Doyle was a prolific writer, much of his work has faded from popularity, primarily because of plot inconsistencies, sudden scene changes, inclusion of unsupported or irrelevant personal opinion, diversion or digression without explanation, and, implausible dialogue and confusing narrative.

In the original ‘The Mystery of Cloomber’, Doyle named four male characters ‘John’, and in scenes where two ‘Johns’ are talking, Doyle reverted to the then common habit of substituting ‘Jack’ for ‘John’ in order to distinguish between the two. Unless a modern-day reader was aware of this practice, it would be natural to assume that a new character had been introduced. The version in this book has been amended accordingly.

The 19th century witnessed an explosion of literature, and unfortunately, most of it was amateur. Whilst the plot was good, the writing itself was atrocious. Purists would say that the convoluted writing style was indicative of the period, and whilst this is a valid assertion, it cannot be denied that the English language had progressed to the point where there was no excuse for sloppy grammar.

Authors such as Dickens, Wilde, and Poe, became popular because their stories were captivating. But even these luminaries are guilty of basic writing mistakes. Ironically, sometimes the details of their private lives were more interesting than their stories.

For example, Oscar Wilde was undeniably homosexual, even though he was married and fathered a child. Edgar Allan Poe’s private life was a little more circumspect, and yet a study of his work reveals more than he probably intended. He rarely used women in his stories, and when he did, they were generally vexatious, or of dubious character, or inordinately wicked.

At the time of Poe’s marriage, the age discrepancy barely raised an eyebrow. Today however, it would be front-page news. He was 26, whereas his bride had just turned 13.

The stories in this anthology were buried under a mountain of mistakes and irrelevancies, and it was no easy task to sort ‘the wheat from the chaff’. However, now that the long-winded descriptions, the bigotry, the personal opinions, and the zealous religiosity have been either toned down or removed, the true story can finally shine.

A Point of View.

(From, ‘Danger! And Other Stories’, July 1914.)

The American journalist did not scruple in his opinion of English society. Sometimes he praised and sometimes he belittled the ‘country of kings and queens ‘, which through its myriad of publications, was more than capable of self-examination. Criticism levelled by ‘a damned foreigner’, whether justified or not, was likely to curdle stiff upper lips’.

Such was the case when the journalist was invited to spend the weekend at the country home of Sir Henry Trustall. At the conclusion of the visit, and just before departing for Europe, the journalist filed a moderately toned report with the Clarion. However, there had been one paragraph that criticised the obsequiousness of the valet.

‘The valet seemed to take smug satisfaction in his own degradation. Surely the last drop of self-respect must have gone from the man who has lost his individuality. He revelled in humility, and was an instrument of service and nothing more’.

Eventually, a copy of the newspaper crossed the Atlantic and reached the squire’s home, and several months later when the journalist was homeward bound, he once again found himself the guest of Sir Henry Trustall. The American was shown to his room by a footman, and a short while later there was a tap on the door.

Come in!

May I have a word with you, sir?

The journalist, who was writing at a desk, recognised the velvety voice at once. What is it? he snapped, displeased at having to face the man he had recently degraded.

The valet produced the copy of the Clarion, which was still as crisp as the day it had rolled off the press. The person you wrote about in this article, would I be correct in presuming that it is me?

Yes. What of it?

The valet carefully re-folded the newspaper. His tone was suave and imperturbable. If you’ll pardon my presumption, sir, you are utterly mistaken, and on behalf of all respectable male servants, I would be willing to furnish a true account.

The journalist smiled bemusedly, convinced that the valet would not be able to state his case. It would make an excellent follow-up story. He pointed to a chair. Sit down, he invited.

The valet bowed but did not move. Thank you, but no.

Suit yourself. Go on.

The position of a butler or valet is a tradition generally handed down from father to son, and the standard required is exceedingly high. I was little more than a boy when I first came here, and through careful observation and hard work, enjoy the position I now hold. You speak of self-respect in your article, but I would have no self-respect if I did not give good service.

And debase yourself in the process. Whatever happened to pride?

The valet looked slightly confused. Pride? he queried. Pride has nothing to do with it. It would not be creditable for any servant to receive a wage without giving the best of service.

Well, that’s not how we see it in America.

So I understand. I was fortunate to accompany Sir Henry when he travelled to New York last year, and quite frankly, I was appalled at the manner in which American servants treat their masters. His tone was a little pompous as he added, No self-respecting English servant would take such liberties.

There’s that word again - self-respect. You are kicked around and worked like slaves and all the while being underpaid, and yet you claim to enjoy it. Either you’re a race of masochists or simpletons. To borrow from you, no self-respecting American servant would stand for such liberties.

The valet slowly shook his head. I see more than an ocean separates our opinions. Perhaps you would allow me to convince you of mine before you leave.

This time, the American’s smile was genuine. By all means, but it would take something in the line of a Barnham & Bailey circus act to do it.

Three days later, the journalist prepared to depart. His only regret as he shook hands with Sir Henry and thanked him for his hospitality, was that the valet was out on an errand.

Standing on the platform at the railway station, the journalist was reading a newspaper when a man tapped him on the shoulder. He was dressed in tweeds and homburg, and had a low, gravelly voice. Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me the time?

The journalist checked his watch. It’s a little after ten. Are you… He broke off and gasped. Good God!

Though the valet smiled, it did not reach his eyes. Moreover, rather than lofty, his voice had a discernable cockney twang. We have a matter to settle before you leave. To say that I have no life because I choose to serve another is not only unfair but completely ignorant. I now present my true self.

The journalist laughed. What? Some fancy togs and a silly accent? Sorry, but I’m still not convinced.

You won’t print an amended story?

Absolutely not!

Twenty minutes later, the valet’s fists were submerged in a bucket of ice. He had never dared to wear his master’s clothes, but then, there had never been any cause to do so.

At Southampton, the trans-Atlantic steamer was ready to sail. Many of the passengers saw a man embark with a thick scarf wrapped around his face. It was their only glimpse of the journalist, who went to his cabin, locked the door, and did not emerge until the ship docked in New York. A follow-up story was published in the Clarion, and while it stopped short of an apology, when a copy finally reached the valet, he was more than satisfied with the result.

The Great Brown-Pericord Motor.

(The Pictorial Magazine, January 1905.)

It was a cold and foggy evening in May. Along the Strand, patches of blurred light marked the position of the lampposts, whilst in shop windows, shafts of brightness flickered vaguely in the heavy atmosphere. Most of the tall, terraced houses that led down to the Embankment, were either shrouded in darkness or only illuminated by feeble light.

But one house was different, for three windows on the second floor gave out a rich flood of light. It marked the chambers of Francis Pericord, the inventor and electrical engineer, whose tireless energy and industry was rapidly elevating him to the highest rank of his profession.

Two men were present. The first was Pericord himself - hawk-faced and angular, with the black hair and brisk bearing that spoke of his Celtic origin. The second - thick, sturdy, and blue-eyed, was Jeremy Brown, the well-known mechanician. They had been partners in many inventions, in which the creative genius of the one had been aided by the practical ability of the other. It was a question among their friends as to which was the better man.

It was no chance visit that had brought Brown into Pericord's workshop at so late an hour. Business was to be done that would not only decide the failure or success of months of work, but possibly affect their entire careers. Between them stood a long brown table that was stained and corroded by strong acids. It was littered with giant carboys, Faure's accumulators, voltaic piles, coils of wire, and great blocks of non-conducting porcelain. In the midst of these instruments stood a singular whizzing, whirring machine, upon which the eyes of both men were riveted.

A small square metal box was connected by wires to a broad steel girdle, furnished on either side with two powerful projecting joints. The girdle was motionless, but the joints with the short arms turned around every few seconds, with a slight pause between each complete turn. The power source came from the square metal box, and a subtle odour of ozone permeated the air.

And the wings? asked Pericord.

They were too big to bring. They are seven foot long. But, there is power enough in the box to work them.

Aluminium with an alloy of copper?

Yes.

Pericord stretched out a thin hand and pressed a button on the machine. The joints turned more slowly and presently came to a dead stop. He touched another button and the joints sprang to life again. He caressed the top of the box, his eyes shining with pride.

So little and yet so powerful, he commented.

Thanks to my motor, said Brown pointedly.

Our motor, the inventor corrected.

Brown’s tone was impatient. The motor you designed but which I built.

You might have worked out the details but the concept was mine.

A thought won't create a physical engine, said Brown doggedly.

Which was why I took you into partnership, the other retorted. I invent, you build. It is a fair division of labour.

Brown pursed his lips, clearly unsatisfied on the point. However, seeing that further argument was useless, he turned his attention to the machine, which was now rocking slightly with every twist of the arms.

Is it not splendid? asked Pericord.

It’s satisfactory, I suppose.

There's immortality in it.

There's money in it.

Our names will go down with that of Montgolfier.

I’d prefer it was Rothschild.

No. You take too material a view. The inventor removed his eyes from the machine and looked at his companion. Our fortune is a mere detail. Money is a thing which every heavy-witted plutocrat in the country shares with us. My hopes rise to something higher than that. Our true reward will come in the gratitude and goodwill of the human race.

Brown shrugged his shoulders. You can have my share of that. But, before you start building castles and accepting honours, we must fully test our invention.

True. But, where? We can hardly test it in Hyde Park.

My brother, William, has a place in Sussex on the high land near Beachy Head, and there’s a lofty barn near the house. William is in Scotland at the moment, but the house is at my disposal and the vicar has a key. Why don’t we go there tomorrow and test the machine in the barn? I believe there’s a train to Eastbourne from Victoria at one o’clock.

Pericord clapped his hands. Splendid! It did not occur to him to wonder why his partner had such details to hand.

Brown smiled, his indignation seemingly forgotten. You bring the motor and all the other gear and I’ll bring the wings, and with luck, tomorrow will prove if we’ve been chasing a shadow or whether fortune is at our feet.

They shook hands and Brown exited the house. He was quickly absorbed into the flood of humanity that ebbed and flowed along the Strand.

The following morning was bright and sunny. Brown entered the Patent Office at eleven o’clock, a thick roll of papers under his arm. He emerged about an hour later, an official document tucked safely in his pocketbook.

His cab rolled into Victoria Station at ten minutes to one. Pericord was pacing the platform, arms swinging and a tinge of pink in his sallow cheeks.

Ah, good, you’re here. Everything alright?

For answer, Brown pointed to a porter, who was loading two long canvas bags and a valise into the luggage van.

At Eastbourne, the motor was transferred to a four-wheeler, with the long wings securely fastened on the top. After collecting the key, they set off across the barren Downs.

The destination was a rather forbidding spot. The whitewashed house, straggling stables and other out-houses, stood in a grassy hollow that sloped down from the chalk cliffs. William Brown had planted a grove of young larch and fir trees around the property, but the spray and wind from the sea had blighted their growth.

But the inventors were not interested in domestic trifles. The lonelier the place, the more it fit their purpose. With the help of the cabman, they carried their luggage into the darkened dining room, and a minute or so later, the sound of retreating wheels announced that they were alone.

Pericord threw open the shutters and mellow evening light streamed through the windows. Brown drew a knife from his pocket and cut the rope around the canvas bags, thereby disclosing a thick, leather like girdle, a jumble of wires, and two yellow metal, fan-like wings. The motor was also unpacked and the two men set to work.

Darkness had fallen by the time assembly was complete. Brown stepped back to scrutinise the machine. Seemingly satisfied, he unfastened the valise. Before we do anything, we must have something to eat, and laid out some provisions.

Later, responded Pericord, who was eager to begin testing.

No, now. I’m starving.

He made a hearty meal while his companion impatiently paced the room. Eventually, Brown brushed the crumbs from his lap and said, Who is going to wear it?

I will, replied Pericord. My friend, tonight we stand on the verge of history.

And the danger? posed Brown. We still don’t know if it will even leave the ground.

And yet one of us must wear it.

Not necessarily. The machine should work when fastened to any object. Let’s move everything into the barn. I’m sure we’ll find something suitable.

Except for the occasional cloud, the moon shone bright and clear. All was silent save for the murmur of the sea and the distant barking of a dog. Pericord lit a lamp and stood it on an old packing case. The barn was provided with everything they needed.

Brown filled a sack with stones and laid it across two trestles. He fastened the girdle around the sack. The wings, the wires, and the motor were then attached to the girdle. Lastly, a flat steel rudder shaped like a fish tail was attached to the underside of the sack.

We must make it fly in a circle, said Pericord, glancing at the high barn walls. He opened a second, much smaller metal box. His long slender fingers trembled slightly as he reached inside and pressed a button.

There was a sharp ‘whir’ from the machine as the huge yellow wings emitted a shudder. And then another. Then a third, only much stronger. And then the barn was filled with a breeze as the huge wings began to flap. The sack rose into the air, the stones ‘chinking’ as they slipped towards the bottom.

Like a great clumsy bird, the contraption flew in a circle, disappearing in the shadows and then re-appearing in the feeble light.

The two men watched in silence, and then Pericord threw his long arms into the air. It works! The Brown-Pericord Motor actually works!

Brown's eyes twinkled as he began to whistle. Pericord danced and clapped like a madman. See how smoothly it flies! We must register it tomorrow.

It’s already registered, announced Brown.

Registered? repeated Pericord confusedly, and then his voice changed to a sort of scream. You dared to register my invention?

Yes.

And under whose name? demanded Pericord, his face crimson with rage.

Mine. I have the better claim to it.

And did you include my name?

No, but…

You villain! screamed Pericord. You think you can steal my work and take the credit? I will have that patent even if I have to tear your throat out to get it!

Fire burned in his eyes as he began to advance. Brown shrank back. Keep your hands to yourself! he cried, drawing the knife from his pocket. I will defend myself if you attack me.

Thief! Bully! Cheat! Give me that patent at once!

No! I did all the important work. You only helped.

Pericord sprang forward, his hands reaching for his companion’s throat. Brown fell backwards over the packing case, extinguishing the lamp in the process.

There was a profound silence. Moonlight shone through a narrow chink in a wall. The light fell upon the still flying machine, so that it now resembled a hideous bird. Pericord ignored it as he said, Will you give up that patent? There was no answer. Will you give it up? he repeated, but still no response.

A pang of fear ran through him. He bent down and felt on the floor until his fingers touched a hand. It was unresponsive. With his anger now turned to horror, he struck a match and found the lamp.

Brown lay huddled in a heap. The reason for his silence was explained at once. He had fallen with his right arm under his chest, his weight driving the knife into his heart.

Pericord sat on the edge of the packing case, and though shivering like someone with ague, a thousand thoughts flashed through his mind. He glanced at his bloodstained clothing and knew that all the evidence was against him. Flight seemed the only option. Nobody of any consequence knew that he and Brown were at the house, so if the body could be safely disposed of, it might be weeks before anyone started asking questions.

Suddenly, there was a ‘crash’ as a wing struck a rafter and the machine fell to the ground. Pericord unfastened the sack and inspected the motor. It was still intact. And then an idea came into his mind.

It took some time and much exertion before Pericord was ready. Standing near the edge of the cliff, he looked at his former friend – the friend who had betrayed him for greed. Well, Brown would get all the fame he wanted, though it would only be for a minute or two.

Pericord opened the small metal box and made certain adjustments. Then, with a surprisingly steady hand, he pressed a button. As before, it took a minute or two for the huge yellow wings to flap. The body and the machine soared into the air, gradually moving out over the ocean, and in the breaking dawn, they resembled a strange black bird with golden wings.

In the Greenacres lunatic asylum, there is a wild-eyed man whose name and origin are unknown. The doctors say that his mind is unhinged because of a sudden and tremendous shock.

It is the most fantastic workmanship, they remark, and stare at the engines and aeronautic machines that the patient is fond of constructing.

Notes on changes: (1) In the original story when speaking of the metal box attached to the girdle, Pericord says, The experimenter need not exert his muscular powers…he has only to be passive and use his intelligence. Was Doyle inferring that, once airborne, the flyer operated the machine by thought alone? To avoid confusion and for the sake of plausibility, the quoted text was replaced with, So little and yet so powerful.

(2) Brown originally states the size of the wings as 7ft long and 3ft wide. He also states that there is a rod protruding from each side of the box, the wings presumably being attached to the rods.

Unfortunately, he does not give the dimensions of the box. However, given the embryonic state of electrical engineering at the time, it is not unreasonable to suggest that it was at least two feet long and eighteen inches high. This would make a total span of approximately sixteen feet. Therefore, unless the barn was at least half the size of a football field, the circumference of the test flight must have been