by Bill Peschel
WATSON’S STATEMENT
Unfortunately for himself (though possibly under the compulsion of the police of Switzerland), Watson felt called upon to make a statement. It amounted in brief to this: that the real cause of the Swiss tour was a criminal of the name of Moriarty, from whom Holmes was flying. The deceased gentleman, according to Watson, had ruined the criminal business of Moriarty, who had sworn revenge. This shattered the nerves of Holmes, who fled to the Continent, taking Watson with him. All went well until the two travellers reached the Falls of Reichenhach. Hither they were followed by a Swiss boy with a letter to Watson. It purported to come from the innkeeper of Meiringen, a neighbouring village, and implored the Doctor to hasten to the inn and give his professional attendance to a lady who had fallen ill there. Leaving Holmes at the Falls, Watson hurried to the inn, only to discover that the landlord had sent no such letter. Remembering Moriarty, Watson ran back to the Falls, but arrived too late. All he found there was signs of a desperate struggle and a slip of writing from Holmes explaining that he and Moriarty had murdered each other and then flung themselves over the Falls.
POPULAR TALK.
The arrest of Watson this morning will surprise no one. It was the general opinion that some such step must follow in the interests of public justice. Special indignation was expressed at Watson’s statement that Holmes was running away from Moriarty. It is notorious that Holmes was a man of immense courage, who revelled in facing danger. To represent him as anything else is acknowledged on all hands to be equivalent to saying that the People’s Detective (as he was called) had
IMPOSED UPON THE PUBLIC.
We understand that printed matter by Watson himself will be produced at the trial in proof of the public contention. It may also be observed that Watson’s story carried doubt on the face of it. The deadly struggle took place on a narrow path along which it is absolutely certain that the deceased must have seen Moriarty coming. Yet the two men only wrestled on the cliff. What the Crown will ask is,
WHERE WERE HOLMES’S PISTOLS?
Watson, again, is the authority for stating that the deceased never crossed his threshold without several loaded pistols in his pockets. If this were so in London, is it not quite incredible that Holmes should have been unarmed in the comparatively wild Swiss mountains, where, moreover, he is represented as living in deadly fear of Moriarty’s arrival? And from Watson’s sketch of the ground, nothing can be clearer than that Holmes had ample time to shoot Moriarty after the latter hove in sight. But even allowing that Holmes was unarmed, why did not Moriarty shoot him? Had he no pistols either? This is the acme of absurdity.
WHAT WATSON SAW.
Watson says that as he was leaving the neighbourhood of the Falls he saw in the distance the figure of a tall man. He suggests that this was Moriarty, who (he holds) also sent the bogus letter. In support of this theory it must be allowed that Peter Steiler, the innkeeper, admits that some such stranger did stop at the inn for a few minutes and write a letter. This clue is being actively followed up, and doubtless with the identification of this mysterious person, which is understood to be a matter of a few hours’ time, we shall be nearer the unravelling of the knot. It may be added, from the information supplied us from a safe source, that the police do not expect to find that this stranger was Moriarty, but rather
AN ACCOMPLICE OF WATSON’S,
who has for long collaborated with him in his writings, and has been a good deal mentioned in connection with the deceased. In short, the most sensational arrest of the century is on the tapis.
The murdered man’s
ROOMS IN BAKER-STREET
are in possession of the police. Our representative called there in the course of the morning and spent some time in examining the room with which the public has become so familiar through Watson’s descriptions. The room is precisely as when deceased inhabited it. Here, for instance, is his favourite chair in which he used to twist himself into knots when thinking out a difficult problem. A tin canister of tobacco stands on the mantelpiece (shag), and above it hangs the long-lost Gainsborough ‘Duchess,’ which Holmes discovered some time ago, without, it seems, being able to find the legal owner. It will be remembered that Watson, when Holmes said surprising things, was in the habit of ‘leaping to the ceiling’ in astonishment. Our representative examined the ceiling and found it
MUCH DENTED.
The public cannot too, have forgotten that Holmes used to amuse himself in this room with pistol practice. He was such a scientific shot that one evening while Watson was writing he fired all round the latter’s head, shaving him by an infinitesimal part of an inch. The result is a portrait on the wall in pistol-shots, of Watson, which is considered an exact likeness. is understood that, following the example set in the Ardlamont case, this picture will be produced in court. It is also in the Falls of Reichenbach for the same purpose.
THE MOTIVE.
The evidence in the case being circumstantial, it is obvious that motive must have a prominent part in the case for the Crown. Wild rumours are abroad on this subject, and at this stage of the case they must be received with caution. According to one, Watson and Holmes had had a difference about money matters, the latter holding that the former was making a gold-mine out of him and sharing nothing. Others allege that the difference between the two men was owing to Watson’s change of manner; Holmes, it is stated, having complained bitterly that Watson did not jump to the ceiling in amazement so frequently as in the early days of their intimacy. The blame in this case, however, seems to attach less to Watson than to the lodgers on the second floor, who complained to the landlady. We understand that the legal fraternity look to
THE DARK HORSE
in the case for the motive which led to the murder of Mr. Holmes. This dark horse, of course, is the mysterious figure already referred to having been seen in the vicinity of the Falls of Reichenbach on the fatal day. He, they say, had strong reasons for doing away with Mr. Holmes. For a long time they were on excellent terms. Holmes would admit frankly in the early part of his career that he owed everything to this gentlemen; who, again, allowed that Holmes was a large source of income to him. Latterly, however, they have not been on friendly terms, Holmes having complained frequently that whatever he did the other took the credit for. On the other hand, the suspected accomplice has been heard to say ‘that Holmes has been getting too uppish for anything,’ that he ‘could do very well without Holmes now,’ that he ‘has had quite enough of Holmes,’ that he ‘is sick of the braggart’s name,’ and even that ‘if the public kept shouting for more Holmes he would kill him in self-defence’ Witnesses will be brought to prove these statements, and it is believed that the mysterious man of the Falls and this gentleman will be found to be one and the same person. Watson himself allows that he owes his very existence to this dark horse, which supplies the important evidence that the stranger of the Falls is also a doctor. The theory of the Crown, of course, is that these two medical men were accomplices. It is known that he whom we have called the dark horse is still in the neighbourhood of the Falls.
DR. CONAN DOYLE
Dr. Conan Doyle is at present in Switzerland.
AN EXTRAORDINARY RUMOUR
reaches us as we go to press, to the effect that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at the entreaty of the whole British public, has returned to Baker-street and is at present (in the form of the figure 8) solving the problem of The Adventure of the Novelist and His Old Man of the Sea.
1894
The year began on a hopeful note when Louise’s health showed a marked improvement. A hotel at Davos became the couple’s base, and Louise spent her time resting under plenty of blankets outdoors in the Swiss mountain air. After several months, she returned to South Norwood for two months to visit her children, and then returned to Davos.
As her health improved, Conan Doyle turned his attention to skiing, a sport little known outside of Scandinavia. Jerome K. Jerome had introduced him to it in Sweden, and Conan Doyle threw himse
lf with his typical enthusiasm into learning more about it. He found a Swiss man who sold sporting goods and who was said to know as much about skiing as anyone in the country, and convinced him to give him lessons. Despite many falls, he learned enough by March to join the man and his brother in climbing the Jacobshorn, the first time an Alpine mountain had been climbed on skis. That was followed by a trek across the Furka Pass that ended in several long descents on skis (one of which ended for Conan Doyle, after he had lost his pair, sliding down the slope on the seat of his pants and ruining them). His enthusiastic account of his adventures, published in American and British newspapers, did much to popularize the sport.
Conan Doyle also spent his time exploring hypnotism in his fiction. In his novelette The Parasite, a professor investigating a female mesmerist from Trinidad falls under her power and is rescued from nearly robbing the Bank of England by the power of love. As he was writing, he was surprised to come across George Du Maurer’s recently published Trilby which also dealt with the same subject. The story of Svengali and his influence on a young singer sparked a mania that reminded Conan Doyle of the reaction to Holmes. Perhaps he hoped for a similar response, if only to keep Holmes at the bottom of Reichenbach. But The Parasite failed to mesmerize the public. A story about a woman’s power over a man didn’t seem quite as intriguing as the other way around.
During the summer the one-act A Story of Waterloo, paired with another play, opened in Bristol. In it, the dying Corporal Brewster, the last of his regiment, tells a visiting soldier of his role in the battle, driving a cart full of gunpowder over a flaming hedge toward his unit. Lost in his memories, he cries out “The Guards need powder! The Guards need powder, and, by God, they shall have it!” then dies in his chair. The play drew raves from all quarters, except for George Bernard Shaw, who hated what he saw as an outdated sentimental play and Irving’s outdated acting style.
Meanwhile, America drew Conan Doyle’s attention. Assured that his wife could be left behind with family, he embarked on a lecture tour that would shunt him mercilessly through 30 cities. When he had enough time, he visited Bret Harte, although he missed seeing Mark Twain. In Vermont, he argued politics with Rudyard Kipling, taught him golf, and later would send him skis from Norway. He returned to England on Dec. 15, and then pressed on to Davos, in time to spend Christmas with his family.
The year also saw the publication of the first Brigadier Gerard story. Conan Doyle had read a new translation of The Memoirs of Baron de Marbot, written by one of Napoleon’s officers. While many of his exploits were too outlandish to be believable, he thought they would make source material for a series of stories. In December, “How the Brigadier Won His Medal” appeared in The Strand. Seven more stories would follow in 1895, and the collection would be popularly received.
Publications: Round the Red Lamp (Oct.); The Parasite (Dec.).
Illustration for “The Parasite” by Howard Pyle
The Last Letter from Sherlock Holmes
Anonymous
The Beecham copywriters who wrote the “Missing Box” story above were again inspired after Holmes disappeared. This appeared in Tit-Bits on Jan. 27 and on the inside front cover of The Strand in September 1901.
Dear Friend,
Mystery follows mystery, but the most mysterious thing of all is what has become of the part of my system which has almost taken the form of my second nature. I was especially cautious to provide myself with the indispensable before leaving home, but it has disappeared and I have lost all trace. I have unraveled many of other people’s losses, but here is one of my own which has thrown me on my beam ends. I would not have troubled you, but in this benighted spot, although you will scarcely credit it, I cannot procure what I much need, so send by FIRST post, as my movements are uncertain, one large box of Beecham’s Pills. Note my assumed name and enclosed address, which I beg you to destroy as I do not wish my whereabouts to be known.
Yours,
S.H.
The Adventure of the Table Foot
“Zero” (Allan Ramsay)
Little is known of Allan Ramsay, who published this story in The Bohemian magazine (January 1894) under the pen name “Zero.” His Scottish father moved his family to Constantinople, where he was employed by the sultan in the naval arsenal. Ramsay was born there and lived there many years, eventually becoming director of the state tobacco company. His work apparently pleased the sultan, for in 1904 Ramsay sought permission from King Edward VII to accept several decorations from him. He put his knowledge of Turkish to good use by collaborating with Cyrus Adler to write Told in the Coffee House, Turkish Tales (1898). One story was adapted by Katherine Anne Porter as “The Adventures of Hadji: A Tale of a Turkish Coffee House.”
I called one morning—a crisp cold wintry December day—on my friend Thinlock Bones, for the purpose of keeping him company at breakfast, and, as usual about this time of the morning, I found him running over the agony columns of the different newspapers, quietly smiling at the egotistical private-detective advertisements. He looked up and greeted me as I entered.
“Ah, Whatsoname, how d’you do? You have not had breakfast yet. And you must be hungry. I suppose that is why you drove, and in a hansom too. Yet you had time to stay and look at your barometer. You look surprised. I can easily see—any fool would see it—that you’ve not breakfasted, as your teeth and mouth are absolutely clean, not a crumb about. I noticed it as you smiled on your entry. You drove—it’s a muddy morning and your boots are quite clean. In a hansom—don’t I know what time you rise? How then could you get here so quickly without doing it in a hansom? A bus or four-wheeler couldn’t do it in the time. Oh! The barometer business. Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff. It’s a glorious morning, yet you’ve brought an umbrella thinking that it would rain. And why should you think it would rain unless the barometer told you so? I see, too, some laborer pushed up against you as you came along. The mud on your shoulder, you know.”
“It was a lamppost that did it,” I answered.
“It was a laborer,” quietly said Bones.
At that moment a young man was shown in. He was as pale as death and trembling in every limb. Thinlock Bones settled himself for business, and, as was the usual habit with him when he was about to think, he put his two long tapered hands to his nose.
“What can I do for you, sir?” asked Bones. “Surely a young swell like you, with plenty of money, a brougham, living in the fashionable part of the West End, and the son of a Peer, can’t be in trouble.”
“Good God, you’re right, how do you know it all?” cried the youth.
“I deduct it,” said Thinlock, “you tell me it all yourself. But proceed.”
“My name is St. Timon—”
“Robert St. Timon,” put in Bones.
“Yes, that is so, but—”
“I saw it in your hat,” said Bones.
“I am Robert St. Timon, son of Lord St. Timon, of Grosvenor Square, and am—”
“Private Secretary to him,” continued Thinlock. “I see a letter marked Private and Confidential addressed to your father sticking out of your pocket.”
“Quite correct,” went on St. Timon, “thus it was that in my confidential capacity I heard one day from my father of an attachment, an infatuation that someone had for him, an elderly—”
“Lady,” said Thinlock Bones, from the depths of his chair, showing how keenly he was following the depths of the plot as it was unfolded to him by his peculiar habit of holding his bloodless hands to his nose.
“Right again,” said the young man. “Mr. Bones, you are simply marvelous. How do you manage it?”
“It is very simple,” Bones replied, “but I will not stop to explain. Whatsoname here understands my little methods quite well now. He will tell you by-and-by.”
“It was an elderly and immensely wealthy lady, then,” Robert St. Timon continued, “named the Honorable Mrs. Coran—”
“A widow,” Bones interrupted.
“Wonderful,�
�� said St. Timon, “the Honorable Mrs. Coran, a widow. It was she who was simply head over ears in love with my father, Lord St. Timon. He, although a widower, cared little for her but—!”
“A lot for her money,” said the quick-witted detective.
“How do you divine these things? You guess my innermost thoughts, the words before they are out of my mouth. How did you know it?” St. Timon asked.
