The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Peschel

  The Field-Marshal beckoned a firing party.

  As the shots rang out I whispered, “How did you know he wasn’t English?”

  “Watson, Watson, did you not see that he had no handkerchief in his sleeve?”

  * * * * *

  “It is all-important, Captain Holmes,” said the British Commander, “that we should ascertain what army is opposing our right wing. Our airmen are useless in this fog. I detail you for this duty.”

  Holmes saluted. “Come, Watson,” he said, and led me through the fog towards the enemy’s lines. We had not walked a mile when we reached a fine chateau.

  “You are cold, Watson,” said Holmes. “Light a fire in the front room whilst I scout for Uhlans.”

  In a moment he returned to me after having looked round the house. It was, I think, the first time the Chateau had known the scent of shag tobacco. A glow of heat rushed through me. I felt like another man.

  “Better than the trenches,” said Holmes, penetrating to my inmost thought. We sat for an hour and then I said, “Holmes, your mission.”

  “Ah, I forgot. Come on.”

  He led me into the thickening fog, and in a few minutes I was surprised to find myself in the British lines. The General emerged as we approached. Holmes saluted. “The Crown Prince’s army is on the enemy’s left, Sir. It is now in rapid retreat.”

  The General shook him warmly by the hand.

  “But, Holmes,” I said, as we went away. “We have done nothing. The lives of thousands of our men may depend on this.”

  “My dear Watson,” said Holmes, tapping the dottel of his pipe into his hand. “I used my eyes. In the house we visited the silver had almost all vanished. Inference—Crown Prince. But two solid silver spoons had been left on the table. Inference—Crown Prince in a hurry. Really, I am ashamed to explain a deduction which an intelligent child could have made.”

  1915

  Holmes Arrested

  A favorite way for Punch to fill space was to reprint an article sent in by readers and comment on it. This one came from a newspaper in Darjeeling, India, located north of what is now Bangladesh and near the Lesser Himalayan range.

  “Darjeeling, May 3.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes was arrested on the evening 1st at Kurseong for impersonating a Police Officer and has been bailed.”

  Bengalee (Calcutta).

  A case of professional jealousy, no doubt. We are waiting to hear what Watson has to say about it.

  The Valley of Fear

  For the fourth and final Holmes novel, “The Valley of Fear,” ACD drew on the exploits of real-life Pinkerton agent James McParland, who worked undercover to destroy the Molly Maguires group in Pennsylvania.

  A long study of tales of crime and detection has led me to the proud conclusion that I am not easily to be baffled by their mysteries; so it is incumbent upon me to confess that Sir A. Conan Doyle, in “The Valley of Fear” (Smith, Elder), has fairly and squarely downed me. The first of his tales is called “The Tragedy of Birlstone,” and here we have as rousing a sensation as the greediest of us could want, and Sherlock Holmes solving the problem in his most scientific manner, In the second tale, “The Scowrers,” the scene of which is laid in America, we have the story of a society which devoted itself to murder and crime, and we discover why Mr. Douglas, a Sussex country gentleman, was concerned in the Birlstone Tragedy and was also a doomed man. “The Scowrers” is rather overcharged with bloodshed for my taste, but in spite of this I can only praise the skill with which a most complete surprise is prepared. Respectfully I take off my hat to Sir Arthur. In addition let me say that dear old Watson is actually allowed a short but brilliant innings, for I can imagine no finer achievement on his part than to score one off Sherlock, and this for a fleeting moment he is permitted to do. (Cheers.)

  1917

  His Last Bow

  A rave review for “His Last Bow,” a collection covering the Holmes stories published in The Strand between 1908 and 1913.

  Although Sir Arthur Conan Doyle calls his collection of detective stories “His Last Bow” (Murray), and also warns us that Sherlock Holmes is “somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism,” there is not in my lay opinion any cause for alarm. If I may jest about such an austere personage as Sherlock, I should say that there are several strings still left to his bow, and that the ever amenable and admiring Watson means to use them for all they are worth. At any rate I sincerely hope so, for if it is conceivable that some of us grow weary of Sherlock’s methods when we are given a long draught of them no one will deny that they are palatable when taken a small dose at a time. Sherlock, in short, is a national institution, and if he is to be closed now and for ever I feel sure that the Bosches will claim to have finished him off. And that would be a pity. Of these eight stories the best are “The Dying Detective” and the “Bruce-Partington Plans,” but all of them are good to read, except perhaps “The Devil’s Foot,” which left a “most sinister impression” on dear old Watsons mind, and incidentally on my own.

  Holmes’ Death

  In the magazine’s Charivaria section was found the first mention in Punch of ACD’s public advocacy of spiritualism.

  In view of the attitude taken up by The Daily Express against Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on the question of “spooks,” we understand that the celebrated author, who has long contemplated the final death of Sherlock Holmes, has arranged that the famous detective shall one day be found dead with a copy of The Daily Express in his hand.

  1918

  His Final Arrow

  R.C. Lehmann

  The publication of “His Last Bow” gave Lehmann one last opportunity to revive Picklock Holes.

  My name is Potson, as all the world now knows. I am only a poor doctor and suffer from the consequences of a wound received in a border skirmish in Afghanistan many years ago. It is not for any merits of my own that my name has become celebrated, but because I have enjoyed the friendship and the society of the most illustrious and most detective man known to this or any other age. That man, as every reader will have guessed, was Picklock Holes. It was his custom, when engaged on one of those marvellous feats of investigation which made Continents shudder and Scotland Yard grow green with envy, to take me with him, not so much to help him—I never aspired to that—as to be the recipient of his confidences and the foil for his humour. “Potson,” he would say to me, “you are not clever; in fact, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re a fool; but if I want any one to tell me how many beans make five you will do for the job as well as any other man. Of course you ask silly questions, but they don’t worry me now and therefore I can endure you.”

  “My dear Holes,” I used to murmur, “I love your quaint harshness and could not do without it. Lead on and wherever you go I’ll follow.”

  I am now about to relate the last and perhaps the most striking example of my wonderful friend’s genius. Everyone will remember the sensation that was caused a year or two ago by the discovery that there was a shortage in the accounts of the Food-Controller of one lump of sugar and three standardized bread-crumbs. All kinds of guesses were hazarded to explain the deficiency and to discover the culprit who was responsible for it, but none was successful. It was thought at one time that German spies, whom this country, by the way, has never sufficiently hated, were responsible for the loss; but this supposition proved to be untenable. At last the War Cabinet decided to call in the assistance of Holes, and he, as usual, summoned me to his side. Without a moment’s delay I repaired to the Baker Street room on which Holes had conferred the dignity of his presence. I found him deep in calculations. Without looking up or even responding to my greeting he continued to cover sheets of paper with mysterious formulæ until at last he noticed that I was there.

  “Potson,” he said, “we learn from the arithmetic books that nine times twelve is a hundred and eight.”

  “Are a hundred and eight,” I ventured to object.

  “Brainless chatterer,” he hissed, “is
this a time for grammatical subtleties? Can you tell what this is?” and he handed me a fragment of something green.

  “It belongs,” I said, looking at it carefully, “to the vegetable kingdom.”

  He gave me one of his piercing looks. “Any fool,” he said, “could have told me that. Do you not see that it is a strawberry leaf, and do you not remember that, according to my Detective’s Manual, a strawberry leaf is always a clue of the first importance? Let us proceed. We will eliminate the strawberry and the cream, because there is no cream to be had, and the strawberry has already been eaten, and we then find ourselves brought up against a ducal coronet.”

  “Holes,” I said, “you are a perfect marvel.”

  He waved me aside and continued: “Proceeding twice, according to the well-known theory of ‘Next Things,’ we find that the next thing to a ducal coronet is a Duke, and the next thing to a Duke is a Marquis. This leaf was found in the back-garden. Therefore it was found outside. Now fetch Who’s Who, and look at this entry, ‘Outside, family name of the Marquis of Bobstay.’ Ah, Henry Brabazon Beltravers, Marquis of Bobstay, I think we have got you fixed at last, and shall bring your career of crime to a close.” In a moment we had flung ourselves into a taxi, and in about ten minutes we had arrived at the palatial mansion of the Marquis of Bobstay. We found his Lordship at home and were ushered into his library. He is a stout man and evidently well fed. Holes grappled with him at once, and after a short struggle produced from the Marquis’s breast-pocket a glistening lump of sugar. The bread-crumbs were discovered in the ticket-pocket of his Lordship’s overcoat. On the following morning the miserable man paid the penalty of his wickedness.

  “Holes,” I said, as we came away, “what made you think of this?”

  “I never think,” said Holes; “I always know.”

  1919

  Danger! and Other Stories

  Based on his experiences in the Boer War, ACD advocated army reforms that were largely ignored. He was to experience this again in the years prior to World War I. Through his friendships with Winston Churchill, then First Lord of the Admiralty, and other high officials, he had been made aware of the threat the rapidly increasing German U-boat fleet posed to British shipping. In articles and speeches through 1912 and 1913, he accused Germany of planning a U-boat blockade of the country and urged the development of anti-U-boat surveillance and devices. He even proposed that a tunnel be built under the English Channel to make it safer to move supplies from France.

  His short story “Danger!” (1914) described a devastating submarine attack by an unnamed country on the British fleet, followed by a blockade targeting British and American ships bringing food into the country. But few officials refused to believe that the slow submarines could cause that much damage. It was left up to the German fleet to teach them that they were wrong. In his preface, ACD described the consequences of ignoring the submarine threat and asked “whether there has ever been an example of national stupidity being so rapidly and heavily punished.”

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, on the strength of “Danger! and Other Stories” (Murray), may claim a place among the prophets who were not accepted by their own country. “Danger!”—written some eighteen months before the outbreak of war—foretells the horrors of the unrestricted use of the submarine. In those days Sir Arthur could get no one to listen to him, because “in some unfortunate way subjects of national welfare are in this country continually subordinated to party politics.” Possibly now that we have been taught by painful experience all we want to know about U-boat warfare, excitement in this tale is rather to seek, but it remains a most successful prophecy. In the last story of the book we have the author in his very worst form. “Three of Them” is a study of children, and the only excuse I can find for it is that it must be intended as a sop to the sentimentalists. Of the others my first vote goes to “The Surgeon of Gaster Fell,” and my second to “The Prisoner’s Defence;” but if you are susceptible to Sir Arthur’s sense of fun I can also recommend “The Fall of Lord Barrymore” and “One Crowded Hour.” Not a great collection, but just good enough.

  Literary Gossip

  C.L. Graves

  In addition to spiritualism, ACD was a believer in phrenology. In one story, Holmes deduced from the wearer’s large hat that he was “highly intellectual.” The tambourine and planchette (the object moved about on an Ouija board to point out letters) reflects ACD’s belief in spiritualism. Harold Begbie (1871-1929) was a journalist and author of more than 50 books, including poetry and biographies of Salvation Army founder William Booth and Boy Scouts founder Robert Baden-Powell. Oliver Lodge (1851-1940) was a physicist and innovator in wireless telegraphy. He was also a believer in spiritualism and good friends with ACD.

  Mr. Harold Begbie’s Life of the Kaiser is already far advanced, but he has laid it on one side in order to collaborate with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on the authoritative biography of Sir Oliver Lodge. It is understood that of the chapters dealing with the physiognomy and phrenological aspect of the subject Mr. Harold Begbie will be exclusively responsible for those on the frontal regions while Sir Arthur Conan Doyle will devote himself to the occipital Hinterland. In this way it is hoped that the whole area, which is enormous, will be adequately covered. The book will be published by Messrs. Odder and Odder at 10s. 6d.; but a limited number of copies, with special tambourine and planchette attachments, will be available at £2 2s.

  Reproduced with permission of Punch Ltd., www.punch.co.uk.

  From the Street of Adventure

  Conan Doyle, Lodge and Begbie are linked again a week later. The reference to the August Exile in Holland is Germany’s deposed Kaiser Wilhelm II.

  Journalistic reconstructions and amalgamations have been proceeding so rapidly and extensively of late that there seems no end to the kaleidoscopic possibilities of the future.

  Another persistent rumour, which hitherto lacks the seal of official corroboration, is to the effect that The Guardian is to be given a new range of activity as the organ of scientific spiritualism, under the title of The Guardian Angel and the joint editorship of Sir Oliver Doyle and Sir Conan Lodge. The investigations into multiple consciousness conducted by those two eminent savants have proved their mutual convertibility to such an extent that they have decided upon the rearrangement of their names. If the scheme materialises the stimulating collaboration of Mr. Harold Begbie is a foregone conclusion, and there is even a possibility of contributions from an August Exile somewhere in Holland.

  The Mud Larks

  World War I had been over for seven months, but not everyone had come home. “The Mud Larks” was a weekly column that kept those who still served in France in the public eye. This week’s “letter from the battlefields” recounted seeing old soldiers “offering to barter a perfectly good horse for a packet of Ruby Queen cigarettes” and the occasional shell-blast “tells us that our brave allies the Chinese are still on deck, salvaging ammunition after their own unique fashion of rapping shells smartly over the nose-caps with sledge-hammers to test whether they be really duds or no.” And a certain Consulting Detective kept himself occupied while awaiting demobilization.

  Sherlock the Sleuth keeps himself in fair fettle by prowling round the countryside and trying to restrain the aborigines from pinching what little British material they have not already pinched. Yesterday he came upon a fatigue party of Gauls staggering down a by-way under the shell of an Armstrong hut. He whooped and gave chase. The Gauls, sighting the A.P.M. brassard, promptly dumped the hut and dived through a wire fence. Sherlock hitched his horse to a post and followed afoot, snorting fire and brimstone. They led him at a smart trot over four acres of boggy plough, through a brambly plantation, two prickly hedges and a richly-perfumed drain and went to ground inextricably in some mine buildings. He returned, blown, battered and baffled, to the starting-point, to find that some third party had in the meantime removed the Armstrong hut—also his horse.

  On the River

  To understand th
e joke in this item, it helps to know that a bargee is a man who works on a barge.

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has discovered a clairvoyant bargee. This is the first recorded case, though many of them have been known to have the gift of second speech.

  1920

  The De Keyser Case

  In May 1916, the Crown took over De Keyser’s Royal Hotel in London under the Defense of the Realm Act and converted it into the headquarters of the Royal Flying Corps. When the government claimed it had a royal prerogative not to pay compensation, the owner sued under an 1842 statue. The case was appealed to the House of Lords where it ruled against the government.

  Á propos of the De Keyser case:—

  “Unfortunately, the Dora regulations against free speech and printing were never taken before the High Court, and our ancestors will wonder at our timidity.”—Daily Herald.

  We understand that Sir A. Conan Doyle has already received several urgent messages on the subject.

  Dedications

  W.F. Wyndham-Brown

  Sir Compton Mackenzie (1883-1972) wrote more than 100 books on a wide range of subjects, leading to gossip over whether he really wrote his books. In the dedication of “The Vanity Girl,” reproduced below, he denied the rumors. Mackenzie also worked for British Intelligence during World War I, influenced F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Orwell and Cyril Connolly, was tried for violating the Official Secrets Act, and agitated for Scottish issues, including co-founding the Scottish National Party. His sister, Fay Compton (1894-1978) was a noted actress. William Frederick Wyndham-Brown was a lawyer of the Middle Temple who later wrote a book about the trial of William Herbert Wallace, whose conviction for killing his wife was overturned on appeal.