Sherlock Holmes Victorian Parodies and Pastiches

by Bill Peschel

  “This was from the Czar of Russia over the Countess Chemiseoff case; this from the Shah, when I discovered the man who shot his cat—and so and so on;” and Sheerluck Gnomes raked his hawklike hands through a strong box of priceless jewels as he sighed wearily. “I haven’t had a case of interest for some three days,” he said at last. “Seven murders and some eighteen or nineteen mysterious robberies, perhaps, but not one of those simple affairs that are so difficult—” Suddenly a sharp ring came at the bell, followed by one of greater duration and less violence.

  “Stop,” said Sheerluck Gnomes, with his head on one side like a listening vulture. “The ringer is a short man clad in a thick coat with a severe cold (the man, not the coat, has the cold). He is wearing boots, which have been recently half-soled and heeled!”

  “Great heavens,” I said; “how do you know this?”

  “A mere trifle,” he responded. “Open the door.”

  I obeyed, and a stout-built man in a rough coat and butcher boots asked me between his sneezes if my distinguished friend was at home.

  I ushered him upstairs, and as we entered the room, Sheerluck Gnomes was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, his eyes half closed, his ears standing out at right angles from his head, and his finger tips gently touching.

  After humming the overture from “Tannhauser” quite through twice, he turned to the stranger and said, after a moment’s scrutiny, “Your name is not Smith, you come from Limehouse. You bought that coat and waistcoat in Petticoat Lane yesterday. You have on a pair of ready-made trousers which cost five shillings and sixpence, and you pawned your cast-off garments for one shilling and ninepence at Issac’s this morning.”

  “S’elp me, guvnor,” said the astonished listener, ignoring the deprecatory wave of the long white fingers, “you’re got it all fust time.”

  “My dear Gnomes,” I exclaimed, “you are more marvellous than ever!”

  Motioning me to silence with one glance of his fathomless eyes, he turned again to the stranger and asked coldly, “Your business?”

  Shifting slowly from one foot to the other, the man said mumblingly, “’Earin’ as ’ow you was willin to ’elp a pore party in trouble, Mr. Gnomes—me an’ my mate—’im as is waitin’ outside—’Orse-faced ’Arry—”

  “You mean the tall man with a long face who is smoking and has on india-rubber shoes?”

  “Yus, Mr. Gnomes,” said the stout visitor in an awed whisper, “When did you see ’im?”

  “Never in my life,” replied Gnomes, laughing in the hearty, noiseless fashion peculiar to him. “Go and bring him up.”

  As the stranger left the room I seized my friend humbly by the hand, “Sheerluck,” I exclaimed, “you are more wonderful than ever!”

  With half-closed eyes, and a smile on his thin face, he nodded assentingly. “Nothing, a mere nothing. When the first ring came to the door, I knew it was a short stout man because the bell hangs high, and his weight was on the handle. I heard him stop to sneeze, and then I knew a taller man rang it. As the first ringer had a cold I surmised he would wear an overcoat; his heavy boots on the steps did not creak like new ones—they had been recently repaired. As to his name not being Smith, I saw a pawn ticket with that name upon it protruding from his waistcoat pocket, and men rarely pawn in their own names. On his boots was the calcareous deposit peculiar to the Mile End Road, so I knew he came from the East; his trousers were painfully creased, and the ready-made ticket was still tacked on the heel.”

  “But his friend?” I asked amazed.

  Sheerluck Gnomes glanced sharply across at me, and with a shrug of his shoulders said: “The friend of a short man is always tall. I knew he was smoking, because a working man always smokes when waiting; that he was soft shod, because even my ears,” and they lengthened and quivered viciously as he spoke, “could not hear him.”

  “Marvellous!” I began, when the return of the two men stopped further conversation.

  “Look ’ere, guvnor,” said the first speaker, after they had been told to seat themselves; “it’s like this. Me and my pal ’Arry—‘’Orse-face’, as we calls ’im—keeps a boardin’ ’ouse in Lime’ouse, an’ we’re bein’ ruined by three lunatics as don’t sleep night or day guardin’ some bars of soap. They’re drivin’ us dotty with their goin’s on! There’s three black niggers in my third floor back as is marchin’ up and down, day and night, with drawed skimiters, watchin’ a couple of ’undredweight of soap!”

  “They weighs more than that, Sam,” said the other gravely.

  “Well, perhaps they does,” grunted Sam, “’cos when I was peepin’ through the key’ole last night I see a nigger try to lift one up an’ ’e could hardly carry it across the room.”

  I could see the tigrine impulse throb through my friend’s sinuous frame, as, putting his slippered feet on my head, he lisped, “Where do they come from?”

  “From a place called Okey-te-Pokey, on the Heast coast of Hafricky.”

  “I thought so,” smiled Sheerluck, “where the bullion caravan was raided in August, ’97.”

  “But the soap ain’t the worst of it, mister,” said Horse-faced Harry, “on the first night they came, a week ago, they sent out for old Issacs—’im as done two years on suspicion of receivin’; he come with a chisel and a big pair o’ scales lookin’ like old Sheerluck—no offense, sir—in the Merchant o’ Wenus, an’e never come out!!” They don’t buy nothin’ to eat, but they borrowed a roastin’ jack an’ a big carving knife and fork,” and the tall man mopped his face hurriedly and horridly.

  “This is slightly interesting,” yawned Gnomes, “bars of bullion and a fricasseed fence—let us go at once, Potson.”

  “Won’t do at all, sir,” said the stout man, “only two of us—me an’ ’Orsey—can wenture near the room; that’s why we come to you.”

  “Then,” said Sheerluck Gnomes, with that rapid energy so distinctly his own, “your friend Horsey is about my height. I will take his coat, hat, and soft shoes, accompany him, leaving you with Mr. Potson as an evidence of good faith,” and he smiled.

  After a short consultation the men agreed, and my lynx-eyed friend assumed the clothes and character of Horse-faced Harry so exactly that the original laughed, and as the couple left the room it seemed hard to believe that Sheerluck Gnomes, and not the East-end lodging-house keeper, had gone.

  After the street door slammed a strange thing happened. Horse-faced Harry rose from his seat, and, after putting on my friend’s slippers and smoking-jacket, he produced a coil of fine copper wire and a formidable revolver. Pressing the muzzle of the latter against my forehead, he said, in the measured tones of an educated man, “If you move or make a noise, I’ll blow your brains out.”

  I complied, and with the wire he made what I have since learned is a clove hitch on each thumb, and, passing it through the back of the chair, put a running noose around my neck. While I sat straight and perfectly still the loop was loose, but the slightest movement caused semi-strangulation.

  “There,” he said calmly, as he laid the revolver provokingly near me, “you’re fixed up Mexican fashion.”

  “Where does your friend keep his best cigars?”

  I thought it best to tell him.

  “Sorry you can’t smoke now, Mr. Potson; but I want your friend’s best portmanteau.”

  Again I thought it best to tell him.

  “I’m just going through Mr. Sheerluck Gnomes’ valuables—sampling his precious stones. Sit easy; he won’t be back for some time I opine, considering that he’s promenading with Sing Sing Sam just at present.”

  I started and hurt myself.

  Mr. Horse-faced Henry went to the strong box which Sheerluck Gnomes had left on the table, presumably in my care, and calmly sorted the glittering contents.

  “Good,” he said, as he placed the Shah’s present in the Gladstone bag. “Magnificent,” as he appropriated the Moses and Co.-I-Noor jewels, and “Bogey,” as he threw the Czar’s paste brilliants on the floor
. He carefully took the best part of the rest, and I murmured slowly—the wire hurt me—anxious for the honour of Sheerluck, “You underrate my friend’s great ability. If he says those diamonds are good they must be. Look how he knew all about you and Mr. Sing Sing Samuel.” I thought it best to temporise.

  “All a plant laid for him,” said Horse-faced Harry between the puffs of his cigar.

  “But how,” I said, wary of the wire, “did he know that your friend’s clothes had been bought down Petticoat Lane, eh?”

  Horse-faced Henry burst into a genial laugh. “Why, that was the very thing that gave us the putting up of this plant. He sold those clothes to Aarons, the old clothes man, yesterday. We found some memoranda and a copy of the “Grand Magazine” in the coat-tail pocket, and we’ve played it down on him. Good night,” lifting a well-filled bag. “Don’t move or it will hurt you.”

  I passed a really uncomfortable two hours; the oil had burnt low in the lamp, and it smoked quite unpleasantly. My face was covered with blacks and just as an explosion seemed imminent I heard my friend’s key in the door, and his slow soft step on the stairs. “Now,” I said, “I can forget my defeat because I can participate in his victory.”

  Sheerluck Gnomes straggled into the room, his necktie all awry, his watch had gone, the broken chain hanging down over his unbuttoned waistcoat, his pockets were turned inside out, and (after releasing me) as he placed a piece of raw beefsteak to his (black) eagle eye with his hawklike hand, he said gravely, “Potson, to-morrow—if the swelling has left your thumbs—you must write the ‘Adventure of the Done Detective.’”

  SHEERLUCK GNOMES ON HIS RETURN.

  Lady Honiton’s Diamonds

  Maitland Leroy Osborne

  “Lady Honiton’s Diamonds” appeared in the October 1898 issue of National magazine. Maitland Leroy Osborne (1846-1918) was a prolific short-story writer who also wrote historical articles under the penname O.S. Borne. He was also editor of the New Bostonian and supported with his work Colored American magazine, the first general-circulation publication aimed at African-Americans.

  “I have been robbed,” shrieked Lady Honiton calmly, as her eyes fell upon the open jewel casket. Picking them up, she decided that under such trying circumstances she was called upon to faint, but was restrained from doing so by the opportune appearance of Hemlock Holmes, the great detective, who emerged from the upper bureau drawer with kodak and notebook in hand.

  Gliding stealthily to the thermometer, he carefully noted the temperature, took a snap-shot of the wallpaper, and then removing a false impression carelessly deposited two footprints and the lower portion of a wineglass upon the dressing table.

  After smoking in contemplative silence for thirteen minutes he rested his tired glance upon Lady Honiton’s face and thoughtfully remarked, “I am here, my Lady.” Closely observing the effect of this startling announcement, he continued, “There is a clue connected with this affair, and my name shall go down in obloquy to oblivion if I do not unravel it.”

  “There is my French maid—” suggested Lady Honiton wildly.

  “No,” replied the daring detective, “you are wrong in your surmise. The simple process of deduction proves conclusively that an analysis of your face powder will reveal the truth.”

  “Then you do not think—” began Lady Honiton.

  “No, Madam, in my profession that is diametrically opposed to all precedent. I am even now engaged upon a monograph showing how numberless desperate criminals have by mental telepathy fathomed the plans of their pursuers and thus escaped punishment for their misdeeds.”

  At this thrilling moment the intense silence was fractured by the monotonous ticking of the ormulu clock.

  “Ha!” exclaimed the detective, “someone has tampered with the fire-escape. All that is now lacking is the name and description of the thief. The appearance of the window curtains convinces me that the culprit is either a man or a woman.”

  “What wonderful insight,” murmured Lady Honiton.

  “Do you use Apple’s soap?” the detective suddenly inquired, intently watching her countenance.

  “Always,” replied Lady Honiton firmly. Hemlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with a relieved expression. “That,” said he, “was the only missing link in the chain which I am about to coil round the dastardly disturber of your peace.”

  “Then you are sure—” began Lady Honiton, as she lifted a handkerchief from the stand at her side, and sank back with a cry of surprise. The missing jewels lay revealed where she had placed and forgotten them.

  “I am sure,” answered Hemlock Holmes with conviction, “that the correctness of my theory is incontrovertible.”

  1899

  Conan Doyle’s personal life surfaced in his literary life in March with the publication of A Duet with an Occasional Chorus. The story of a courtship and marriage, based on his romance with Louisa, also sparked a public feud over a scene involving an attempted seduction of the husband by his former lover. William Robertson Nicoll (1851-1923), a Scottish minister and journalist, called the scene prurient. He led a one-man charge on Duet in the press, sometimes under pennames. Conan Doyle discovered his ruse and responded with such hot words that Nicoll considered suing him. But passions faded and the men later became friends. Despite praise from Swinburne and H.G. Wells, the consensus of the critics was that Duet was unworthy of Conan Doyle. One reviewer even called it “a rather daring experiment on the docility of his public.”

  Conan Doyle had a copy of the manuscript bound and presented to Jean Leckie, the woman who “kept my soul and emotions alive.” Biographer Daniel Stashower speculated that the gift was a way of making amends, showing what their courtship could have been had he not been married to Louisa.

  Meanwhile, the Sherlock Holmes stage adaptation moved forward. Gillette had recast Conan Doyle’s script into a melodrama, weaving in elements from the stories. He asked Conan Doyle if Holmes could declare his love for the woman he saved from Moriarty’s clutches, wiring “May I Marry Holmes?” Forgetting his restrictions that there be no “love interest,” he replied: “You may marry him, murder him, or do anything you like to him.”

  By May, Gillette had a play to show Conan Doyle for his approval. Unsure of his reception, he sailed to England with a plan. At the Hindhead train station, Gillette stepped out of the train as Holmes: deerstalker cap, silver-headed cane, and ulster. Approaching Conan Doyle, he whipped out a magnifying glass and inspected him closely, then declared that he was “unquestionably an author.” An astonished Conan Doyle roared in approval and pumped his hand.

  At Undershaw, Gillette read the play to Conan Doyle, who purred “It’s good to see the old chap again.” He did not object to the love scenes, the melodramatic escape from the gas works, and the Baker Street encounter with Moriarty. Conan Doyle smelled a hit, and a renewed stream of pounds to pay for Undershaw and his other projects. He was right. The play opened Oct. 23 in Buffalo, N.Y., moved to Broadway on Nov. 6, and ran until June of the following year. Two companies took the show on the road in the U.S. until March 1901, and finally opened in London that September.

  As Sherlock Holmes opened in Buffalo, Britain declared war on the Boer republics. Willing to serve, Conan Doyle in December traveled to a recruitment station, where he met probably the only officer who hadn’t heard of him. Turned away due to his age and physical condition, Conan Doyle ended the year determined to do his part for the war effort.

  Publications: A Duet with an Occasional Chorus (March).

  The Mystery of Pinkham’s Diamond Stud

  John Kendrick Bangs

  Illustrated by Edward Penfield

  This story appeared as a chapter in The Dreamers: A Club (1899). A group of 13 men agree to gather for dinner, eat “such stuff as dreams are made of,” go to sleep and transcribe the resulting visions. The set-up was a frame on which to hang his pastiches of authors such as Hall Caine, James Whitcomb Riley, Rudyard Kipling, J. M. Barrie, and Conan Doyle. Edward Penfield (1866-1925)
was a leading American illustrator noted his simple yet bold designs.

  “It is the little things that tell in detective work, my dear Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat over our walnuts and coffee one bitter winter night shortly before his unfortunate departure to Switzerland, whence he never returned.

  “I suppose that is so,” said I, pulling away upon the very excellent stogie which mine host had provided—one made in Pittsburg in 1885, and purchased by Holmes, whose fine taste in tobacco had induced him to lay a thousand of these down in his cigar-cellar for three years, and then keep them in a refrigerator, overlaid with a cloth soaked in Chateau Yquem wine for ten. The result may be better imagined than described. Suffice it to say that my head did not recover for three days, and the ash had to be cut off the stogie with a knife. “I suppose so, my dear Holmes,” I repeated, taking my knife and cutting three inches of the stogie off and casting it aside, furtively, lest he should think I did not appreciate the excellence of the tobacco, “but it is not given to all of us to see the little things. Is it, now?”

  “Yes,” he said, rising and picking up the rejected portion of the stogie. “We all see everything that goes on, but we don’t all know it. We all hear everything that goes on, but we are not conscious of the fact. For instance, at this present moment there is somewhere in this world a man being set upon by assassins and yelling lustily for help. Now his yells create a certain atmospheric disturbance. Sound is merely vibration, and, once set going, these vibrations will run on and on and on in ripples into the infinite—that is, they will never stop, and sooner or later these vibrations must reach our ears. We may not know it when they do, but they will do so none the less. If the man is in the next room, we will hear the yells almost simultaneously—not quite, but almost—with their utterance. If the man is in Timbuctoo, the vibrations may not reach us for a little time, according to the speed with which they travel. So with sight. Sight seems limited, but in reality it is not. Vox populi, vox Dei. If vox, why not oculus? It is a simple proposition, then, that the eye of the people being the eye of God, the eye of God being all-seeing, therefore the eye of the people is all-seeing—Q. E. D.”