Sherlock Holmes Victorian Parodies and Pastiches

by Bill Peschel

  “Tell me something about these men,” said Hemlock Jones.

  “They have all been in my employ for several years,” replied Mr. Kimberley, “and I am sorry to be obliged to suspect any of them. Blair is a rather lively young fellow. I discovered that he is very fond of the theater, and is often seen at the stage door. That is against him, but it is no proof of his guilt. Sutton is about to get married, and it struck me that the need of money might have tempted him to steal. Still, he is a fine young fellow, and I hate to suspect him. As for Higgins, he is above suspicion. He is a young married man, who spends all his evenings at home. He is studying law in his spare hours, and I found out that he often sits up all night pouring over his books. It seems—”

  “That will do,” interrupted Hemlock Jones, looking disgusted. “No mystery after all. I know who the thief is, and I will come to your store at 10 A.M. tomorrow and make him confess.”

  The astonished jeweler started to ask several questions, but Hemlock Jones’ only reply was: “Ten A.M. tomorrow,” and Mr. Kimberley had to go away unsatisfied.

  At the time appointed Hemlock Jones entered the jewelry store and, calling the proprietor aside, said: “Take me to your private office and I will get the confession at once. Send me—”

  “Blair and Sutton?” cried the jeweler.

  “No, I want Higgins,” was the calm reply.

  Ten minutes later Hemlock Jones came out and handed Mr. Kimberley the written confession of Higgins, at the same time calling on the other clerks to guard the thief.

  The jeweler was dumfounded. For several minutes he stared at the writing without saying a word. Finally he explained: “I can hardly believe it yet. Why did you suspect Higgins, and how did you secure the confession?”

  “It was the easiest kind of a job,” answered Hemlock Jones, looking bored. “When you told me that Higgins sat up all night reading I was satisfied that he was the thief. I knew that a man who burned gas all night in New York City and had a salary of only $40 a week must steal in order to pay his gas bills. Starting out with this deduction, I went to the gas office, where I am pretty well known, and obtained duplicates of Higgins’ bills for the last year. The figures on them convinced me that my deduction was right. When I accused Higgins of the thefts he at first made a stout denial. But when I flashed the gas bills on him and asked him where he got the money to pay for them he broke down and confessed.”

  One Against Our Old Friend Sherlock

  Anonymous

  Another parody drawn from the files of Tit-Bits magazine, this time from the June 26th issue.

  The other morning Herlock Sholmes, the great detective, sat in his office putting the finishing touches on a new sign to hang over his desk, which read, “I never sleep,” when the office boy came in to say that a tramp was at the door and refused to leave until he had got something to eat. Sholmes was about to go out and drive the fellow away, but on second thought he ordered the boy to send him in, and decided to scare him half to death with his wonderful powers of discernment.

  “You’re a tramp, dead broke and hungry,” said Sholmes, without looking up from his work, as the door of his office softly opened.

  “I am, eh?” growled the man who stood in the doorway. “How do—”

  “Oh, I know everything,” continued the great detective, working away on the sign. “You haven’t taken a bath or combed your hair for six months. Don’t deny it, sir, for remember who I am.”

  “What’s that?” exclaimed the visitor. “Why, I’ll—”

  “That’ll do, sir. It would be ridiculous to deny anything that Detective Sholmes says. You see, without so much as a glance at you, I have read you like a book. I can also positively state that you’re too lazy to work, and would steal if you got half a show.”

  “Well, I’m—”

  “Of course, you’re dumfounded; everybody is at my wonderful acumen,” interrupted Sholmes, as he worked away and smiled to himself at the fun he was having with the tramp. “Please remember that I haven’t seen you yet, but I know you have been arrested numerous times for vagrancy and worse offences against the law.”

  “How dare you tell—”

  “No use getting mad about it, sir, for I can’t help being the wonderful Sholmes and knowing all. You’re also shunned by all respectable people—dare not show your bloated face in certain towns for fear of the police, and—”

  At this juncture, hearing short gasps of breath coming from his visitor, and believing his wonderful detective powers had frightened the tramp into a fit, Sholmes looked up to behold—a well-dressed old gentleman standing in the doorway fairly boiling with wrath. The man was Sholmes’s landlord, who had got in ahead of the tramp, and when he could get his breath he marched out of the office, vowing all kinds of revenge.

  Sholmes, true to his sign, “never sleeps.” In fact, he can’t sleep, but lays awake nights devising schemes to pay the 5s. a week increase in his rent that has suddenly been demanded.

  Met His Match

  Herlock Sholmes Had a Trying Interview With a Reporter

  Anonymous

  This attempt at witty wordplay and tomfoolerly appeared in the July 11 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

  Herlock Sholmes was a man of veracity. Whenever he gave his word the people were obliged to take it, because it was the best they could get from him. Moreover, when he gave his word he always kept it, strange as it may seem for a man to give a thing and still retain it. But nothing was impossible to Sholmes. He was a great detective. Every time he gave his word it went. Where, it matters not. He was contented to know that it went. So accustomed had Sholmes become to having everything he said go, that once when someone doubted the truth of his deductions he was so put out about it that he forgot to kick at the weather.

  One afternoon, when the wind was 13 below, and the mercury was crowding things in the bulb, the door burst open and in walked a man whose appearance was of the shabby genteel order.

  “You have seen better days,” was Sholmes’ comment the instant their eyes met.

  “How do you know?” cried the man.

  “Because,” said Sholmes sternly, “all days are not as bad as this. Some days there is no wind at all.”

  “Wrong!” cried the man, with a cunning leer, just to show Sholmes he was leary of him. “You forgot we are in Chicago, and on State street, at that.”

  It was Sholmes’ turn to be baffled. He knew the man had spoken the truth and he didn’t like it because he was a detective.

  “True,” he murmured, “like the stock yards, there is always a sough or two hanging around.” Then aloud he said:

  “Who are you?”

  “Neither one,” said the man promptly, “although I have often been taken for the Prince of Wales and Tom Sharkey.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “Not a file of soldiers nor a Pullman palace car. I wasn’t brought. I just naturally came. What brought you here?”

  This was ridiculous. Sholmes was taken back. He didn’t leave the room or make a move. Still, he was taken back. Sholmes mused a minute and three-quarters. He liked to muse. It seemed to amuse him. And yet, he never had a muse.

  “There is a recognized law among detectives,” he said finally to himself, “that where they find a man who is as smart as they are, the man must be crazy.” Then suddenly he exclaimed:

  “Were you ever in an asylum?”

  “Never,” said the man, indifferently, “until now.”

  Again Sholmes gazed. Why shouldn’t he? In the language of the Irishman he was the head gayser of the outfit.

  A bright idea seemed to strike the detective.

  “When do you go to press?” he yelled quickly.

  “First edition, 3 A. M.,” was the quick and startling reply.

  “As I thought,” shrieked Sholmes, “a newspaper reporter. Nobody else ever got ahead of a detective.”

  Then he smiled. The man smiled. Sholmes walked to the sideboard and then they both smiled.

/>   Holmes As Newspaper Filler

  In the days before computers, newspaper pages were literally built out of metal type, letter by letter, a printing technology used for hundreds of years. The linotype system introduced in the 1890s improved the process by creating a slug of type line by line, but putting together pages still left irregular gaps at the bottom of each column. To fill the spaces, a variety of “filler” were used: ads that promoted the newspaper, humorous observations, comments on the passing scene, or jokes. These examples of filler show how Holmes and his deductive method flowed through the culture.

  Mistake Was Impossible

  Sherlock Holmes—Those two men are brothers. They are in mourning for their uncle. I can tell that though I never saw them before.

  Friend—Wonderful! But can you tell which one was cut off in the will?

  Sherlock Holmes—Yes, the one with the narrow mourning band around his hat.

  The New York Times, Nov. 1, 1896

  Value of Intuition

  Sherlock Holmes (at burlesque show)—That little man over there in the box is a professor of mathematics.

  Dr. Cubebs—He is an acquaintance of yours?

  Sherlock Holmes—No; I never saw him before in my life.

  Dr. Cubebs—Then how do you know he is a professional mathematician?

  Sherlock Holmes—By the interest he takes in the figures on the stage.

  The Los Angeles Herald, Oct. 1, 1897

  Another Deduction

  Sherlock Holmes—That man by the door is evidently a bartender.

  Dr. Cubebs—How can you tell?

  Sherlock Holmes—By his gin phiz.

  Sacramento Daily Union, Dec. 19, 1897

  Clever Deduction

  The train stopped for a few moments and the passengers looked out.

  “Everybody in this town seems to look perky and contented,” remarked Dr. Watson.

  “The town evidently has a winning baseball team,” deducted Sherlock Holmes.

  Sausalito News, Oct. 4, 1913

  Betrayed by His Feet

  Sherlock Holmes—I have not looked around, but a very tall man just came in and sat down in the opera chair behind me.

  Miss Marvel—It is true! Say, you do the most wonderful things. Now, tell me how you knew without looking of the tall man’s presence.

  Sherlock Holmes—His feet are sticking through under my chair.

  Amador Ledger, May 10, 1901

  Too Much for Sherlock

  Conan Doyle having tired of Sherlock Holmes, the latter was forced to look for work.

  He applied to District Attorney Jerome for a job.

  “Why, certainly,” said that gentleman, “I’m in need of a good, smart, willing detective just now. I’ll put you to work on the Dodge-Morse case.”

  But, with a muffled shriek, Sherlock Holmes fled out into the cold, cold night.

  Los Angeles Herald, Feb. 17, 1905

  The Stranger Unravels A Mystery

  John Kendrick Bangs

  John Kendricks Bangs (1862-1922) had a varied career as an editor and writer for American magazines, including Life (the humor magazine), Harper’s Magazine, Harper’s Bazaar, Munsey’s, and Puck. He also was a prolific lecturer and ran for mayor of New York City. Bangs is also credited with popularizing a fantasy subgenre in which notable figures from history and legend appear in humorous stories.

  He was also a prolific creator of stories that feature or were inspired by Holmes. He sent the detective to Hades twice, once to organize the chase of a house-boat swiped by Captain Kidd (The Pursuit of the House-Boat) and again to open a detective agency (Shylock Homes: His Posthumous Memoirs). He also created Raffles Holmes—son of Sherlock, grandson of Raffles—for a series of stories collected in R. Holmes & Co. (1906).

  What did Conan Doyle feel about all this? When Bangs dedicated A House-Boat on the Styx to him, Conan Doyle responded with a note thanking the author for inscribing “your most amusing and original book to me! I begin to have hopes of immortality now that I have got onto your fly-leaf.”

  In this excerpt from House-Boat, legal scholar William Blackstone asks Holmes why he should lead the expedition, and the detective responds with a story from his past.

  “Of what earthly interest is it to us to know that this or that cigar was smoked by Captain Kidd?”

  “Merely that it will help us on, your honor, to discover the whereabouts of the said Kidd,” interposed the stranger. “It is by trifles, seeming trifles, that the greatest detective work is done. My friends Le Coq, Hawkshaw, and Old Sleuth will bear me out in this, I think, however much in other respects our methods may have differed. They left no stone unturned in the pursuit of a criminal; no detail, however trifling, uncared for. No more should we in the present instance overlook the minutest bit of evidence, however irrelevant and absurd at first blush it may appear to be. The truth of what I say was very effectually proven in the strange case of the Brokedale tiara, in which I figured somewhat conspicuously, but which have never made public, because it involves a secret affecting the integrity of one of the noblest families in the British Empire. I really believe that mystery was solved easily and at once because I happened to remember that the number of my watch was 86507B. How trivial and yet how important it was, to what then transpired, you will realize when I tell you the incident.”

  The stranger’s manner was so impressive that there was a unanimous and simultaneous movement upon the part of all present to get up closer, so as the more readily to hear what he said, as a result of which poor old Boswell was pushed overboard, and fell, with a loud splash into the Styx. Fortunately, however, one of Charon’s pleasure-boats was close at hand, and in a short while the dripping, sputtering spirit was drawn into it, wrung out, and sent home to dry. The excitement attending this diversion having subsided, Solomon asked:

  “What was the incident of the lost tiara?”

  “I am about to tell you,” returned the stranger; “and it must be understood that you are told in the strictest confidence, for, as I say, the incident involves a state secret of great magnitude. In life—in the mortal life—gentlemen, I was a detective by profession, and, if I do say it, who perhaps should not, I was one of the most interesting for purely literary purposes that has ever been known. I did not find it necessary to go about saying ‘Ha! ha!’ as M. Le Coq was accustomed to do to advertise his cleverness; neither did I disguise myself as a drum-major and hide under a kitchen-table for the purpose of solving a mystery involving the abduction of a parlor stove, after the manner of the talented Hawkshaw. By mental concentration alone, without fireworks or orchestral accompaniment of any sort whatsoever, did I go about my business, and for that very reason many of my fellow-sleuths were forced to go out of real detective work into that line of the business with which the stage has familiarized the most of us—a line in which nothing but stupidity, luck, and a yellow wig is required of him who pursues it.”

  “This man is an impostor,” whispered Le Coq to Hawkshaw.

  “I’ve known that all along by the mole on his left wrist,” returned Hawkshaw, contemptuously.

  “I suspected it the minute I saw he was not disguised,” returned Le Coq, knowingly. “I have observed that the greatest villains latterly have discarded disguises, as being too easily penetrated, and therefore of no avail, and merely a useless expense.”

  “Silence!” cried Confucius, impatiently. “How can the gentleman proceed, with all this conversation going on in the rear?”

  Hawkshaw and Le Coq immediately subsided, and the stranger went on.

  “It was in this way that I treated the strange case of the lost tiara,” resumed the stranger. “Mental concentration upon seemingly insignificant details alone enabled me to bring about the desired results in that instance. A brief outline of the case is as follows: It was late one evening in the early spring of 1894. The London season was at its height. Dances, fetes of all kinds, opera, and the theatres were in full blast, when all of a sudden society was paralyze
d by a most audacious robbery. A diamond tiara valued at 50,000 pounds sterling had been stolen from the Duchess of Brokedale, and under circumstances which threw society itself and every individual in it under suspicion—even his Royal Highness the Prince himself, for he had danced frequently with the Duchess, and was known to be a great admirer of her tiara. It was at half-past eleven o’clock at night that the news of the robbery first came to my ears. I had been spending the evening alone in my library making notes for a second volume of my memoirs, and, feeling somewhat depressed, I was on the point of going out for my usual midnight walk on Hampstead Heath, when one of my servants, hastily entering, informed me of the robbery. I changed my mind in respect to my midnight walk immediately upon receipt of the news, for I knew that before one o’clock some one would call upon me at my lodgings with reference to this robbery. It could not be otherwise. Any mystery of such magnitude could no more be taken to another bureau than elephants could fly—”