Sherlock Holmes Victorian Parodies and Pastiches

by Bill Peschel

  His disposal of my hat and coat gave me ample opportunity to inspect the premises in the grey light filtering through the basement windows. The décor was plentiful and shabby, the furniture used but solid. Two chairs crowded the small fireplace in which a coal fire had been lit. The bookcases that lined one wall of the main room were crowded with manuscripts, scrapbooks and bound volumes. Rough wooden tables were set up for specialized tasks. On one was spread bank notes of various denominations, including one that looked like a work in progress, alongside lenses, bottles of ink and pens. Another table bore the weight of flasks, burners, test tubes, and trays covered with stained clothes. On the breakfast table was a plate under a metal serving cover. I lifted it up, and my stomach revolted at the sight of a dead man’s hand. Across its flesh crept tiny flying insects.

  Holmes reappeared by my side and took the cover out of my hand. “An observational study. I believe it is possible to determine the time of death according to the state of decomposition. If you will wait a moment—” and he gently manipulated the fingers with a scalpel.

  “Did you shake hands with it when he was alive?”

  “Yes. He was a generous man,” he said.

  “Certainly with his flesh,” I replied. Under his breath, Holmes calculated the rate of decay and judged the color of the skin. He replaced the dome and swiftly jotted figures into a notebook he kept next to the plate.

  “Your guests must find this a charming lunch companion.”

  “I have very few guests, and they have more concerns than the state of their stomach.” He slapped the pencil down with finality. “On to your matter. Please, take a chair. Tobacco? Ah, you have your own. Help yourself to my fire. The gasogene and siphon is beside you.”

  “Not at dawn, thank you.”

  “Is it that early? I’ve been up all night. Perhaps tea?” I shook my head. “Then let us consider your problem. We can start with your name, as we weren’t introduced last night.”

  That brought me up short. “Confound it! What do you mean ‘what’s my name?’ Do you not know who I am?”

  “Should I?” I wish I could say he was startled, but he was as calm as a surgeon preparing to operate.

  “I!—No, never mind. I’m not used to being a face in the crowd. It gives me the jitters. My name is Sam Clemens, better known as Mark Twain.” I waited for a flicker of recognition, or any other sign that he was giving me a hoist. I’ve been gulled before with absurd questions told with a straight face. Bret Harte made a specialty of asking a question so convoluted in logic that you would not realize that it was composed of 100 percent pure moonshine. He pulled that on me, and I asked three times for clarification before I twigged the trap. If Holmes was bullyragging me he gave no indication. He sat there as if he had never heard of the name that was on the lips of the world.

  He folded his hands in a prayerful position beneath his chin and nodded for me to continue. But I wasn’t going to be treated like a schoolboy under the master’s examining eye. I took out a cigar and reached for the spill vase by the fire.

  “See here, how d’you know I was being blackmailed? And what was all that folderol with the fan? What’s that about?” I lit the twist of paper and set the cigar alight.

  “Handmade objects have a pattern that is unique, and therefore their origin can be determined. Your wife bought her evening dress in Paris; it is of the slimline style favored there but it has not yet been adopted locally. The quality of the workmanship is excellent, as it has to be when the design shows off a figure such as your wife’s.”

  I could feel my face reddening. “Leave my wife out of this.”

  Holmes went on as if he hadn’t heard. “The Parisian connection is redoubled by the fan. There are eight fan makers in Paris whose work is worth noticing.” From one of the bookcases he pulled a small scrapbook. He flipped the pages, then turned it toward me. Glued to the page were press cuttings from French newspapers. He tapped a finger on an illustration that was a double of Livy’s fan.

  “Your wife’s fan is made of tortoiseshell with a feather tip, a design that Madame Caillaux favors.”

  The revelation that he categorized people by their articles of clothing annoyed me. “You have the makings of a fine stock clerk.”

  “I am merely observant, more so than most people,” he said mildly.

  “Why bother? What good does it do to tell whether a fan was made in Paris or in China?”

  “Because it is my line of work, Clemens. I make my living by consulting with police and private individuals on matters that interest them. To do that, I need tools. I need data. And people dissemble; their clothes, skin, hair, tattoos, everything they carry on them, does not. Their most intimate possessions identify them as clearly as if they shouted it to the world. Learning the language of objects gives us a useful tool for solving crimes.” He pointed at his decaying experiment on the table. “Eventually, we will be able to look at a body and tease out all kinds of delicate information; the cause of death, the tools by which it happened. Perhaps—,” and then he paused. An idea had struck him and the vacant gaze returned to his eyes. “By examining the blood, even where and how it occurred.” He murmured a series of scientific phrases as if forming a hypothesis.

  “You can test your little theories after I’m gone,” I said irritably. “If you didn’t know my name, which I must confess is far greater than yours, then how’d you twig me for an author?”

  “The calluses on the edge of your right hand. They are not present on the left. Few professions rely on the sole use of one hand. In addition, your middle finger has the tell-tale dip by the side the nail. You hold your pen there, and it took decades of steady writing to create that imprint.”

  “I could have been a reporter.”

  “And still a writer, which proves my point.”

  “So you don’t read books?”

  “I read works of use to my profession. Scientific works, the latest monographs by eminent men, and the newspapers. Most literature is a closed book to me. If you had done something notorious, even in America, I would have taken note. You’re not a criminal, by any chance?”

  “Only on the lecture platform. I am thinking of murdering a publisher, so I may come under your purview before too long. So how did you twig the blackmail? Did that come from my fingers as well?”

  He gave me a thin smile. “The answer is so simple that you might think less of me. You were talking to Alf Randall. The police have known him for quite some time. He even served a stretch at Pentonville for forgery. Lately, he’s been assisting a publisher of cheap works by the name of MacNaughton. He specializes in pirating books that are popular in the United States and Canada and pocketing the money that normally goes to its creator.”

  “So you don’t know literature but you know copyright law,” I grumbled.

  “I know crime,” Holmes said simply.

  “You won’t get an argument from me. America and Britain do not respect each other’s law on copyright, and unscrupulous publishers have used this loophole to pirate my books. One in Canada even had the temerity to ship their books into my country and undercut the price against my own publisher!”

  “Such tactics would not be above MacNaughton,” Holmes said. “In addition to pirating works, he also prints and distributes literature of a risqué nature. He also has a reputation, at least among those of a criminal bent, as a blackmailer. Through a network of allies—servants, footmen, spurned mistresses, anyone with information and a desire for money—he acquires letters that he threatens to release if not paid.” The thought disturbed his sanguine nature. He gripped the arms of his chair to steady his temper before continuing. “There is probably no crime more heinous in creation.”

  “Why don’t the police arrest him?”

  “They need someone willing to come forward with evidence. That’s not likely to come from someone with more to lose than the blackmailer. That makes this a crime greater than murder. It forces the victim to cooperate in the commission of a fe
lony. Anyone witnessing your reaction while talking to Alf, would conclude that you had fallen into his hands. What does he have?”

  “A talk I gave after dinner in Paris to a group of what I had hoped were discreet painters and writers. The Stomach Club. And never mind the topic. Too many people know about it already.”

  “So publication of this speech would harm you?”

  “It wouldn’t circulate openly; the subject matter prevents that.”

  “But privately?”

  “It would seriously damage my reputation.” The thought of how Howells, my friend of a decade and editor of The Atlantic would take it was particularly unpleasant. “Not bad enough to be cut in the street, but my friends in Boston would maintain a distance from me. Even worse would be the confession I would have to make to my wife! She would be very disappointed and embarrassed. She reads and comments on all of my writings.”

  “Except for this one.”

  “Yes . . . yes!” I could take sitting still no longer. I paced the little room. “She would have to endure going out into Hartford society and hear the veiled pity for having a vulgar brute for a husband. Holmes, compared to that my reputation can go hang! I must protect her at all costs!”

  “Then the chain of events is clear,” Holmes said as I paced. “Someone got a hold of your speech and copied it. It found its way into Alf’s hands and from there to his master.”

  A terrible thought halted me in my tracks. “Good God! You don’t think there is more than one copy out there?”

  “No, no, most likely not. It would damage the value of the original, don’t you see? If one was already out there, the copy in MacNaughton’s hands would be worthless. How much did he ask for?”

  “I’ll see him later at his home on South Audley. Holmes, can you help?”

  “If you do as I say, we’ll stand a chance of keeping this scandal quiet.”

  “That’ll be a relief. How do we force MacNaughton’s hand and get my papers back?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, Clemens. But all campaigns begin with a first step. Here’s what you’ll do—”

  * * * *

  London is an ancient city. It has had plenty of time to upend your expectations. There are plenty of palaces, and you might think the wealthiest, most powerful people live there. There are humble dwellings, well-built but not calculated to inspire awe. They appear to belong to the residents who have some money, but are otherwise undistinguished.

  And there you would find yourself caught unawares. The aristocracy live in the palaces, but many of them are land-rich and cash-poor. Instead, the wealthiest and most powerful people inhabit buildings that look like they would house the family of a prosperous manufacturer. This is how they brag about the size of their pocketbook; they’re so wealthy they can afford to live modestly. Meanwhile, a wealthy factory owner who has bought himself a peerage second-hand will throw up a monstrous pile suitable for a French king. This is to show everybody where he came from.

  Stuart MacNaughton was of the former, as I learned when I climbed the steps of his business on South Audley Street. His publishing concern was housed in a modest, two-story structure with two rooms on each floor flanking the landing leading to the staircase.

  The butler had the door open before the bell ceased ringing. Despite his uniform, he looked less like a servant and more like a bare-knuckle fighter filling in on his off-hours. He was a heavy-set bruiser who had lost all his hair young and never got over it. His contempt for me appeared to be instant and eternal. He did deign to accept my hat and coat, presumably to feed the fire when I wasn’t looking, and conducted me to the office just off the front door.

  MacNaughton was at his desk writing. He peered through his gold pince-nez at me and then ignored me while the butler settled me in a chair. This gave me time to take the man’s measure. He was a solemn stick, formally dressed, about as tall as Napoleon and with as much gravity. He showed plenty of skull forward, a slate of oily thin hair covered his aft, and he had civilized his reddish beard into a short and narrow structure. He looked like a constipated professor. That he was Scottish was evident by his name and his ancestry, all of whom were glaring down on him from the walls. They were bluff and hearty men, dressed in their distinctive family plaids and sporrans. They looked like they spent much of their time at the dinner table, raging against the Sassenach when not leading border raids on rival families. If these men had begat the likes of Stuart MacNaughton, book publishing has clearly decayed the family’s bloodlines. From their glum attitudes, they clearly agreed.

  When MacNaughton had finished his scratchings, he slotted his pen, patiently blotted his paper, folded it into an envelope and dropped it onto a silver tray. His task done, he took notice of me. His mood lightened. He greeted me courteously and offered me a dram of the spirits of his native land. I refused with equal courtesy.

  “Ach, weel,” his accent burred like a buzz saw. He poured himself a glass. “I appreciate you seeing me on a matter of business.” We traded words, just like many conversations I’ve had with book publishers: about the current state of the trade, the difficulties of getting work finished, the fickle tastes of the public. I could feel my steam rising in anticipation of the kick to come, but Holmes had briefed me thoroughly. He wanted details, as many as I could accumulate, and I must above all keep from braining the man. I was not accustomed to acting as someone’s camera, so I concentrated on the task at hand, and reminding myself that Livy’s fate depended on what happens now.

  “You have come about the Work, I reckon,” he fixed me with a sharp eye to see if I caught his meaning. “Your name is ranked high by the public, and I should like to acquire anything you might care to offer to the house for publication.”

  “You already have something of mine in hand,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Aye,” he took a sip, savoring the product of his native land with a smacking of his thin lips. “That there is; there is that. A fine piece it is, and I can see jobbing it with others we’ve found. Some of them even by you. I was thinking of calling it, ‘On the Science of Onanism and Other Sketches’ by Mark Twain. Is that a bonny title, ye think?”

  “You’ll publish no such thing,” I roared and leapt to my feet. What followed were detailed descriptions of his character, his appearance and his damnation. How I longed for a tool to smash that smug face! I was angry twice over. Once, for intending to publish the speech, but twice for admitting he would throw in pieces that were not by me.

  He took my abuse calmly. “I have heard that before, but I pay it no never mind.”

  “And I bet you don’t even have the speech,” I roared. “It’s easy to repeat a phrase or two and say you have it. How could anyone have gotten their hands on it when I have the only copy?”

  He smiled, and I knew he wasn’t afraid of me at all. He positively enjoyed this set-to. “If you will excuse me.” He stood and stretched and admired the colors my face was turning into. Then with careful deliberations, he opened a drawer, took out a plain brass key, and left the room.

  Quietly, I dogged his steps and paused behind the frame of the door where he wouldn’t see me. He climbed the central staircase and at the head, turned left and entered a room. I poked my head further into the hall, scanning the horizon for the butler. He had vanished. The ticking clock was the only sound in the whole of the house, possibly of all of creation. Keeping cautious and silent, I took the steps two at a time.

  My luck was in. The door was ajar. I applied my eye to the crack and saw a large gathering room with a billiard table in the middle. I could see the back of him, kneeling before the central door of a heavy mahogany sideboard against the far wall. A sharp click like a released spring, and he burrowed deep into the cabinet. He seemed to be rooting around for something. I retreated back to the office, my heart hammering in my chest, taking special care that a groaning board would not shout my presence.

  When he reappeared with his bruiser butler in his wake, he found me, innocent
as a lamb, taking in his collection of mementos from Scottish history. He had quite the bug for it. There were complete sets of Scott, Burns, McGonagall and other literary notables. Among the objects residing in a cabinet of curiosities was a set of medieval chessmen carved from ivory, and a cameo portrait of Mary, Queen of Scots. Had I looked longer, I probably would have spotted the stuffed spider that Robert the Bruce saw spinning its web.

  He re-established himself behind his desk, and I moved back to my chair.

  “You asked how I acquired the manuscript,” he squared the paper on his desk. “From what I was told, there was a moment during the evening when a clumsy waiter spilled wine on your jacket. With your consent, it was taken away for cleaning. While a maid sponged out the stain, two of the waiters rapidly copied the speech. Ten minutes later, all was restored, and you were none the wiser.” He waved a sheet before me. “I’m sure you will understand that I did not bring it all. I particularly appreciate this part.” He gave a small cough, and I heard my words in his weedy voice:

  “Of all the various kinds of sexual intercourse, this has the least to recommend it. As an amusement, it is too fleeting; as an occupation, it is too wearing; as a public exhibition, there is no money in it. It is unsuited to the drawing room, and in the most cultured society it has long been banished from the social board. It has at last, in our day of progress and improvement, been degraded to brotherhood with flatulence. Among the best bred, these two arts are now indulged in only in private—though by consent of the whole company, when only males are present, it is still permissible, in good society, to remove the embargo on the fundamental sigh.” He paused. “Do your words embarrass you?”

  I writhed in my seat. “It’s your performance. You have no cadence, no flow, no rhythm. You read like a boy in short pants.”

  His chuckle fluttered like dry leaves, and he returned to his torture:

  “My illustrious predecessor has taught you that all forms of the ‘social evil’ are bad. I would teach you that some of these forms are more to be avoided than others. So, in concluding, I say, ‘If you must gamble your lives sexually, don’t play a lone hand too much.’ When you feel a revolutionary uprising in your system, get your Vendome Column down some other way—don’t jerk it down.”