by Bill Peschel
“I know the human race,” Thinlock Bones answered.
“Well, if he could manage he wanted to inherit her money without marrying her. Would she leave him her riches if he did not propose, was the question? How to find out? He was a comparatively young man and did not unnecessarily wish to tie himself to an octogenarian, although a millionairess. But he mustn’t lose her wealth. If when she died he was not her husband, would he get the money? If the worst came to the worst he must marry her sooner than let the gold slip out of his grasp. But he must not espouse the old lady needlessly. How was he to find out? A project struck him, and the means offered itself. We were both asked to a dinner party at the Countess Plein de Beer’s where we knew the Honorable Mrs. Coran would be present, and—”
“You both accepted,” interrupted Bones. “Oh,” he went on before the other could ask the reasons of his swift and accurate deductions, “oh, it’s very simple. I saw it in The Daily Telegraph’s ‘London Day by Day.’”
“Yes, we accepted,” continued St. Timon, “and this was our plan of campaign: I was to take the old doting lady down to dinner and to insinuate myself into her confidence—aided by good wine, of which she was a devoted admirer—in a subtle fashion and thus to extract the secret out of her. I was to find out—by the time she had arrived at the Countess’s old port—whether my father was her heir or not. Whether she had left him her money without being his wife. Time was short, and if she had not my father was to propose that very night after dinner. The signal agreed on between my father and me was that if he was her heir without being her husband I was to kick him under the table and he would not propose—otherwise he would. Oh! Mr. Bones,” he sobbed, turning his piteous white face to Thinlock, “this is where I want your great intellect to help me, to aid me and explain this mystery.
“The plan worked admirably,” he went on, “I gleaned every fact about the disposition of her money after her death from her when she was in her cups—or rather her wineglasses. My father was her absolute and sole heir, and I thanked the heavens with all my heart that I was spared such a stepmother. I kicked, as arranged, my father under the table, but oh! Mr. Bones, immediately after dinner my father went to her and asked her to be his wife and she has accepted him! What does it all mean, what does it all mean!!”
“That you kicked the foot of the table instead!” quietly replied the greatest detective of modern times as he unraveled the intricate plot and added another success to his brilliant career.
The Ghost of Sherlock Holmes
Richard Morton and H.C. Barry
One response to the reported death of Holmes was this popular music hall song written by Richard Morton and composed and sung by H.C. Barry.
Don’t start and pray don’t leave your seats,
There’s no cause for alarm;
Tho’ I’ve arrived from warmer sphere,
I mean you all no harm.
I am a ghost, a real ghost too,
That nightly earthward roams;
In fact, I am the spectre of detective Sherlock Holmes.
Detective Sherlock Holmes!
Chorus: ‘Sherlock, Sherlock,’
You can hear the people cry,
‘That’s the ghost of Sherlock Holmes.’
As I go creeping by.
Sinners shake and tremble
Wherever this bogie roams,
And people shout, ‘He’s found us out,
It’s the ghost of Sherlock Holmes’
The man who plots a murder, when
He sees me flit ahead,
Forgets to murder anyone,
And ‘suicides’ instead.
An anarchist with lighted bomb
To cause explosive scenes,
Sees me and drops the bomb, and blows
Himself to smithereens!
Chorus
The burglar who’s a-burgling, when
He finds that I’m at large,
Gets scared and says, ‘Policeman, will
You please take me in charge?’
The lady who’s shop-lifting tries
To put her thievings back,
And says, ‘Oh, Mr. Sherlock, I’m
A kleptomaniac!’
Chorus
My life was more than misery:
Compelled to strut the earth,
And be a spy at beck and call
Of those who gave me birth.
But, now that I’m a spectre, all
Their misdeeds shall recoil—
I’m going to haunt Strand Magazine,
Tit-Bits, and Conan Doyle!
Chorus
The Adventure of the Tomato on the Wall
“Ka”
The next two stories are unusual by adding a feminine angle to the Holmsian parody. They feature the widow of Herlock Shomes, taking up her husband’s profession after his death. There were few women writing in the detective field at the time, and even fewer women portrayed as detectives. While we don’t know if the author of these stories, known only as “Ka,” was a woman, the presence of Mrs. Shomes adds weight to the argument.
“The Adventure of the Tomato on the Wall” and “The Identity of Miss Angelica Vespers” appeared in The Student, a journal for university extension students published at Durham University in Newcastle-on-Tyne. University extension programs were designed to make a school’s resources, expertise and courses available to non-students in their area. The Student published papers connected with courses taught at the University, but, fortunately for us, also found room for Mrs. Shomes.
I had always had the greatest possible admiration for the late Mr. Herlock Shomes, and when his widow told me that she thought of taking up the line of Private Enquiry left vacant by her husband, I said very gladly that I would do what I could to help her in the matter. No one but myself had been previously aware of the existence of Mrs. Herlock Shomes. It was not to be expected that a man like Shomes was going to settle down with a mere wife, like anybody else: and he told Mrs. Shomes very plainly a week after the wedding, that he would expect her to be interesting, and to provide some little variety in the menage. It thus came about that Mrs. Herlock Shomes used to alter her character two or three times a week. She thought of doing this herself, and Shomes was quite delighted. Sometimes she would be the laundress, and would come attired in a bonnet and shawl and shake her fist in Shomes’s face and insist on being paid for a month’s ironing in advance; at another time she would be the new cook, and nothing would do but he must give her a quarter’s wages. Her favourite dress, however, was a doublet and hose and in this costume she had been seen by most of her husband’s clients, who had not the slightest suspicion that the quiet somewhat retiring pageboy who answered the door was other than he seemed.
“You see, dear, I have all the costumes, both his and my own,” said Mrs. Shomes to me just a week after her husband was buried; “and poor dear Herlock has quite got me into his way of looking at things. I never could settle down in a commonplace way, you know, just like other people. I cannot say I am nearly as clever at putting two and two together as he was, but all my life I’ve noticed the clothes that people had on, and the like, and I hope with practice I may be able to succeed.”
“I am sure you will, dear,” said I, cheerfully, “I quite agree with you that life is apt to become monotonous, and there is nothing so fascinating in this world as having a hand in other people’s affairs. Mr. Wiggins is out all day as you know; it is horribly dull, and I shall be most delighted to help you at any time.”
So we agreed to go into partnership in this way, and not to charge anything for what we did until we had made our reputations.
“How shall we do though?” asked Mrs. Shomes, when she had put up her altered name-plate upon the door; “should I wear a skirt, do you think, or what?”
“Well, it does not much matter,” said I, “what you wear, because of course you will be frequently in disguise. I should advise however, a neat black frock, very tight and plain, with three rows of butt
ons down the front.”
“And with plenty of pockets,” said Mrs. Herlock Shomes, “I might have cigar-ash and bits of stick, and things of that sort to collect.”
“So you might,” said I; and I at once made up my mind to put one or two pockets into my gown also, as one never knew what might happen.
“What would you say if I were to wear a mask?” said Mrs. Herlock Shomes, who was rather a pretty woman. We discussed this matter for some time, and then agreed that we would each purchase a mask, and put it on whenever we thought fit.
Our first client was a lean, haggard old man, who came hobbling into the house with a very suspicious look at me as he entered.
“So poor Shomes is dead?” said he, in a quavering voice, “I’m sorry for that; I thought a deal of Shomes. But when the cat’s away the mice will play! I ’erd that his missus is carrying on the business, and I’ve made up my mind to give her a chance.”
“You have done well,” said I, leading him upstairs. I coughed at the door several times and took him in; to find Mrs. Shomes standing very erect in the centre of the floor, with her lips compressed and the tips of her fingers just touching one another. I at once recognised this as a favourite attitude of her late husband’s.
“I am sorry to find,” she said very severely as the old man entered, “that you are in the habit of cheating at cards, and that you invariably deny that this is the case.”
It was pitiable to see the creature writhe at her words. “I, ma’am,” he cried, falling back a few steps, “you are out of it there! I’ve never done such a thing in my life, so help me—”
Mrs. Shomes interrupted him with an imperious wave of her hand. “That will do,” she said, “we don’t allow strong language here, now poor dear Shomes is gone.”
“But ma’am,” said the old man, trying to speak.
“Take a seat please,” said Mrs. Shomes firmly, “your own words have convicted you already. Hush, hush!” she went on as the old man seemed to become excited, “we never argue here; our time is too valuable. What do you want with me?”
“I was just a-trying to say, ma’am, that if it’s the waxed finger ends you’ve been looking at, I’m a cobbler to trade. Shomes has seen ’em many a time, and ‘how many boots ’ave you mended today my man?’ says Shomes.”
“You must not tell me what Mr. Herlock Shomes said or did,” said my friend, looking very much annoyed, “keep to your story, please.”
“Well, you see, it’s like this ’ere,” said the old man, leaning forward very confidentially, “my missus and I have been in the habit of lettin’ lodgings for a number of years. Sometimes our takin’s have been few and sometimes they’ve been many, but the lodgers we’ve had have always been a decent respectable lot, with nothin’ uncommon about ’em. At last, just a month ago, in comes a gentleman in a great hurry and looks at the rooms; and says he, without a question as to the cookin’, nor extras, nor nothin’, ‘I’ll take ’em’ says he. Well, of course we were mighty pleased, because we saw that he was one of the right sort. All went well until he was just goin’ to send for his luggage, and then he turns round and gave us one direction that struck us as very odd. And this was the direction he gave: ‘If there’s anybody comes to this house with tomatoes,’ says he, ‘or sends ’em in a letter, or goes down on bended knee to make you buy ’em, don’t you do it,’ says he, most particular-like.
“Well, for a full month, he lived in that room by himself as happy as you please. He seemed to do a deal of smokin’ up there, and never gave no directions about his victuals, but just stopped in his room a-whistlin’ and eatin’ anything you like to give him.”
“Did he seem to do no kind of work?” asked Mrs. Herlock Shomes, who was looking very serious.
“Well, yes; I think he were in the medical line, for he’d read a bit now and then, or do a little piece of dissectin’ or the like just to amuse himself. Well, during the whole of that month all had gone well, and not a vestige of a tomato had been near the place; when one mornin’ he rings his bell furiously, and when my wife and I ran upstairs, there he was standin’ in the middle of the room pale with passion.
“‘Do you see that?’ he screams, pointing to a squashed tomato that had apparently been flung upon the wall through the open window, ‘That! That! That!’ he cries, again pointing to it, with his eyes a-startin’ out of his head and his whole form a-tremblin’.
“‘Wot does it mean?’ says I, lookin’ at the tomato, and wonderin’ who had sent it through the window.
“‘Annihilation!’ he shouts, with a fearful shriek, and he outs of the room like a shot, kickin’ a black bag afore him, but without a hat on his head or a glove on him. My wife she took to shaking all over, and she rushes to the open window and calls on him to stop; but ’twere all of no use. He were down the street and round the corner like a flash of light; and from that day to this we’ve never seen him more.”
“Yours is certainly a most perplexing and singular case,” said Mrs. Herlock Shomes, “but I think I shall be able to help you. Have you the tomato here?”
“Well, no ma’am, to tell you the truth I was afraid to touch it; and I’ve left it to dry upon the wall. The room has been kept locked ever since.”
“Was it a ripe tomato?”
“Very.”
“An English tomato?”
“Foreign.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Shomes, frowning, “that is most important; was it a small tomato?”
“Large.”
“Most significant,” said she again, firmly compressing her lips, “just write your name and address here, my good friend, and the name of the gentleman also.”
Having written the names the man went away, and Mrs. Shomes sat down in her husband’s chair, lit a cigarette, and remained buried in thought. I knew I must not say a word to her at such a moment, so I got out my knitting, and began carefully counting my dropped stitches till she should have found it out.
“Upon my word!” she cried, suddenly starting up, “the iniquity of this world is something terrible. Get on your hat, Lucilla, and come with me.”
Before going out, she rushed to a large file of newspapers which was the property of her late husband, and showed me the following paragraph: “Two Medical Students, one of whom is English and the other German, each claim to be the discoverer of the most deadly form of bacillus. The bacilli discovered differ slightly, but have both the property of floating in the air. Much uneasiness has been felt in some quarters owing to each student having publicly threatened to try the effect of his bacillus upon his rival, and thereby prove its malign power.”
We called on our way for the family doctor, who hearing our story gladly accompanied us to the house of the old man. At the doctor’s suggestion, we provided ourselves with respirators, and with these on, and trembling at the risk we ran we entered the fatal room and stood before the tomato.
“Wait a moment,” said Mrs. Herlock Shomes, getting out her lens, “I wish to make an examination!” She knelt down and carefully inspected the matting round the room. “He has stood just here!” she said, indicating a spot about a yard in front of the Tomato, “in a pair of red and blue carpet slippers. His toes were slightly turned in; his stockings were of cinnamon-coloured Alloa yarn, and his right slipper had a hole in it at the side. His left slipper was good, except that it was rather down at heel.”
“Good gracious, Julia!” I cried, “you take my breath away; how can you make out all these details?”
“It is simplicity itself!” she answered, rising, “this red and blue fluff which has adhered to the matting shows me the nature of his slippers; this strand of yarn is of the Alloa make and could only get upon the floor through a hole.”
“But how about the right foot?” said I.
“You will see by its proximity to the chair that there is no room for the left foot at the other side,” said she. “Again, the double impression of the left heel shows that the back part of the slipper reached the floor alone at first
, the second and heavier impression being made when the wearer planted his whole foot upon the ground in order to prevent its coming out of the slipper.”
“Excellent!” cried the doctor, who had been following her words most attentively, “Excellent indeed; I had no idea we left so many traces behind us as you say. And now for the tomato!”
The vegetable, which was stuck against the wall just opposite the window, looked shrivelled and discoloured. Before touching it the doctor poured some Condy’s Fluid into a basin, and dipped his fingers into it.
“What a horrid-looking tomato it is, doctor!” cried Mrs. Herlock Shomes, who had been studying it through her lens; “test it, test it upon the spot.” Then the doctor—bidding us both keep perfectly calm—probed the tomato, chemically tested a small portion of the pulp, probed it again, and started.
“Bacilli!” cried Mrs. Shomes, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “Bacilli, and of the very deadliest kind, now are they not?”
“Well, no,” said the doctor, shaking his head in a puzzled way, “strange to say the tomato appears to have been quite wholesome. But it is peculiar, nevertheless. There is something inside it.”
“Ha!” cried Mrs. Herlock Shomes, “a foreign substance did you say? What can it be?”
Having made an incision with his knife, the doctor produced his forceps and extracted a piece of doubled-up paper from the tomato. The document was folded very small but he soon smoothed it out, and taking it to the window, examined it with care.
“There is something on the back of it,” cried I, bending my head sideways to try and decipher it. “Ah! I see it now, clearly; it is the word, ‘Goodbye,’ written in pencil!”
“What is the document itself, may I ask?” said Julia.
“This,” returned the doctor, holding it up with great gravity, “as far as I can make it out, is the young man’s bill for his month’s board and lodgings, unreceipted.”
“Unreceipted,” echoed I, in blank amazement.
