The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Peschel

For Dicky’s sake, who did his cover.

  1927

  The Velvet Blotting Clue

  In ACD’s time, Holmes was used to sell safes, razor blades and dubious medical treatments. This example is unique in that it told a story, spread over four pages, with illustrations by Eric Fraser, with the solution requiring the reader to hold the last page up to the light! Fraser (1902-1983) was noted for designing the dust jackets for the Everyman’s Library series in the 1960s and the Folio Society edition of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings” (1977).

  “Mr. Holmes!” cried the elderly lady who had burst so unceremoniously into our little flat in Baker Street, “he’s gone—vanished! Oh, what shall I do? I knew they would, and now they have!” With a gesture of admirably concealed ennui, Holmes motioned me to provide a chair. Then he bent on her the penetrating gaze that has probed to the heart of so many a tragic mystery.

  “I presume, madam,” he said at length, “that you refer to Professor Wilfred Bulkeley, the eminent Egyptologist. You are Mrs Bulkeley, of 19 Cranford Gardens, West Kensington.”

  I drew in a sharp breath of astonishment. This was incredible! Was there nothing he did not know? “I had the honour,” Holmes continued inexorably, “of dining at your house last Tuesday. I never forget my hosts. Professor Bulkeley, then, has vanished. Excel!—too bad, I mean, too bad. Perhaps you had better recount the story from the beginning.”

  I felt my face become grave as she complied. She had left her house at eleven that morning, when her husband had been in his study correcting the proofs of his latest book. At one o’clock she had returned; had vainly searched the house for her husband. The servants knew nothing. No one had called, or been heard to go out. There was not the smallest trace of the husband she had left apparently happy and in perfect health—nothing—except the sinister message she was now waving in the imperturbable Sherlock’s face.

  “Pinned to the mantelpiece!” she cried. “Yes,” for Holmes had snapped out one of his terse, illuminating questions, “pinned with a pin. It’s those awful Copts! You know the fuss there was about that Luxor tomb. And ever since we’ve been back, the queerest people have called. Black people! I always knew they were only waiting . . .”

  Holmes took the missive from her trembling fingers, and with one nervous stride was at the window. Even from where I stood, I could see that the paper he held to the yellow, evening light was of no ordinary sort. It was thick, and of a curiously soft texture, like velvet; and the writing—could it indeed be Coptic, as Mrs Bulkeley suggested? It looked, I thought, like Coptic . . .

  Holmes was back in his chair, and his tones had now that decisive ring I knew so well. “Madam,” he said, “it is well you came to me. The police—but no matter. Professor Bulkeley is safe. He is at present with friends, and if you care to meet the 2.35 train from Edinburgh to-morrow, you will find him, I am sure, little the worse for his experiences.”

  When Mrs Bulkeley, almost hysterical with relief, had left the room, and I had found my breath, I turned to my friend. “Holmes!” I ejaculated, “you astound me! How on earth—?” Holmes had sunk back into his chair as though unspeakably weary. “Blotson,” he said, “you know my methods. Look at this paper. Examine its texture, note its unusual purity. Does it suggest nothing to you? Imagine the professor at work on his proofs. It suddenly becomes necessary—for reasons that will be apparent in a moment—that he should instantly proceed to Edinburgh.”

  “He scrawls a note to his wife, blots it carefully, and then . . . Hold the paper (reversed) to the light, Blotson. The words “Craig’s Velvet Blotting” are visible, are they not? To the trained mind, what does that convey? Blotting paper. And—for I have given some little time to this subject—the best blotting paper. Probably, since the paper was used for the first time, its property of perfect absorption will reveal something further. It does, you say? And so—to end our conjectural scene—the professor absent-mindedly puts the note back in the drawer of his desk, pins the blotting paper to the mantelpiece, and runs out into the street for a hansom . . .”

  I read what you may read for yourself if you turn this paper and hold it up to the light. “Holmes!” I cried, “this isn’t marvellous at all! You don’t astound me in the least! Why, I myself—”

  “Could have solved the mystery?” Holmes coldly suggested. “And did you?”

  “No,” I replied after a moment’s thought. There crept into his voice that testiness with which my friend was only too apt to receive the gentlest of reproofs. “Well, then, shut up,” said the great detective.

  Hold this paper up to the light again. Did you notice the watermark—Craig’s Velvet Blotting? Make a note of it in your memory. After all, you would rather use good blotting paper than bad. Anyone would. If the blotting paper you buy is sometimes poor in quality—seems to be sold as blotting paper only because it does blot paper, instead of drinking ink—that is because you have never been given this very simple piece of advice. When you are buying blotting paper, hold a sheet of it up to the light—exactly as, just now, you were holding this. Either you see the words Rob. Craig & Sons’ Velvet Blotting—and all is well; or you don’t—and the stuff may prove to be good, indifferent or downright bad. Don’t be content to pay your money and take your chance—with the odds against you. That’s not good enough. Look for the water-mark that distinguishes perfect blotting paper from every other kind.

  1928

  My Dear Holmes (His Positively Last Appearance on Earth)

  Ralph Wotherspoon

  Ralph Wotherspoon was an Oxford-educated World War I veteran who wrote for various magazines, including Punch, between the 1920s and 1940s.

  [The abnormal vitality and resilience of Mr. Sherlock Holmes have given rise to the belief that his final retirement in 1927 might be compatible with a reappearance. The following episode of last month, narrated by himself, shows this belief to have been reasonable; at the same time it frustrates any hope of yet further resurrection.]

  I find from my notebook that one night last month my friend John H. Watson, M.D., called on me at Baker Street, in the room which had formerly been in part his own. Time was hanging heavy on my hands. I had at the moment no case worthy of my serious consideration, and the advent of my biographer and foil was, if not supremely exciting, at any rate opportune. I waved him to an arm-chair, threw across my case of cigars and indicated a spirit-case and a gasogene in the corner.

  “Now, Watson,” I began pleasantly, “how many steps would you say there are leading from the hall to this room?”

  “Seventeen,” replied Watson. “Did you not tell me so on the evening that we first became interested in the Scandal in Bohemia? But to-night, my dear Holmes,” he continued, “I want you to take steps rather than to talk of them.”

  I could scarcely forbear an exclamation of surprise. Was this the old Watson I used to know? His set teeth and flashing eyes betokened a more than ordinary determination. I invited him to proceed.

  “I suppose, my dear Holmes,” he said, “that the best methods of employing anesthetics are familiar to you?”

  “Perfectly,” I assured him; “I have even contributed a small monograph to the literature of the subject.”

  “You would not hesitate to administer an anesthetic if necessary?”

  By way of answer I drew from underneath my arm-chair my violin and bow and improvised a variation on an old eighteenth-century air from The Beggar’s Opera.

  “How happy could I be with ether” was the burden of my song.

  When I had finished Watson resumed his remarks.

  “You have on hand at present, I believe, no case,” he said.

  “You are correctly informed,” I replied.

  “Then, Holmes,” went on my old friend impressively, “have one of mine. It is possible that you have heard me speak of my practice.”

  “Frequently, my dear fellow.”

  “I wonder if you would consent to give an anesthetic to a patient on whom I propose to operate.”


  It did not take me long to make up my mind.

  “When would you require my services?”

  “To-night. Now.”

  “You may rely on me from this moment.”

  Overjoyed at the prospect of action I instantly summoned a taxi and we set forth. I noticed that, with the achievement of his purpose (he had nerved himself to entreat my assistance and obtained it), my companion had become more natural in manner, his eyes flashed less brightly, the set of his teeth relaxed. He was in fact once more the warm-hearted wooden-headed Watson I knew so well.

  “This anesthetic you were speaking of,” I said to him, “what and where is it?”

  “We call it A.C.F.—a hospital technical term,” he replied. “I have a bottle of it here in my bag.”

  “Where are we going?

  “33, Nordic Road.”

  “In that case,” I answered, leaning forward and observing by the dim light of a street-lamp the name “Nordic Road,” “unless I am very much mistaken we are here. Let us complete our journey on foot.”

  Our cab was dismissed and we set out in quest of No. 33. It was not long before we found No. 32 and, next door but one to it, No. 34, but the intermediate building was in darkness and its fanlight so murky as to reveal no legible number. Nor did the gate furnish us with any clue, numerical or nominal, as to the identity of the silent house at which we gazed.

  “Strange,” muttered Watson. “There is 34 and there is 32.”

  “And here,” I rejoined smilingly, “is 33. Between 34 and 32 we find the integers 3 and 3. So it is, so it ever has been, and so, Watson, it ever ought to be.”

  My companion admitted the correctness of my deduction and applied himself to the bell. But though he rang and knocked repeatedly there was no answer to his imperative summons. He turned to me.

  “Holmes, this is serious,” he said. “It may be a matter of life and death.”

  “Then I fear there is nothing for it,” I replied, “but to have recourse to other methods.”

  I had taken the precaution to bring with me a skeleton key, and with its aid our difficulties were speedily surmounted. We entered together; I closed the door behind us and shed a light from an electric torch. The beam fell on bare boards, dismantled walls and general dilapidation.

  “Why,” gasped Watson, “the house is empty.”

  Stooping, I possessed myself, with a quick feline movement, of an envelope which was lying at my feet. It was a halfpenny circular, but I had seen the address.

  The number of the house in which we stood was 32a.

  I became austere and abstracted as is my wont when confronted by a clue of absorbing significance, and, after assisting Watson to light the ball gas, fortunately still laid on, I handed him the torch and said:—

  “Run you upstairs, Watson, and investigate. I will in the meantime digest the contents of this paper and by the time you return I may have news for you.”

  Responsive to my request, Watson, with a combination of the bull-dog intrepidity which procured for him his old wound and the constitutional ineptitude which rendered him uncertain as to its precise location in his anatomy, dashed impetuously downstairs, leaving me to my reflections. These were in some small measure disturbing. I had inadvertently led Watson into the wrong house. No. 33 was almost certainly, nay must be, on the other side of the road. So rapidly does the brain act that simultaneously with this realisation I resolved that, as Watson by himself would have in all probability but the vaguest conception of what had occurred, no words of mine should enlighten him.

  It was at this juncture that I perceived the small black bag which Watson had been carrying and which he had set down on the floor prior to his stampede below stairs. What, I wondered, was this A.C.E. of which he had spoken? True I had professed myself an authority on anesthetics, but in reality my knowledge of the subject was superficial and I welcomed the opportunity now afforded me for first-hand inspection and analysis.

  I removed the stopper from the bottle and sniffed once or twice with the view of establishing in my mind the various qualities of the components. I detected a pungent odour of a not wholly unpleasing character, but being for the moment unable to determine to my satisfaction its precise nature I continued to sniff introspectively.

  I went on sniffing.

  * * * * *

  For over two hours Dr. Watson attempted artificial respiration, but in vain.

  I was dead.

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

  Appendix

  Punch cover from 1888 with Richard Doyle’s illustration that was used for decades.

  A Taste of Punch

  For 151 years, Punch magazine served as Great Britain’s mirror, critic, and jester. Born when the Industrial Revolution was revving up and surviving until long after Rule Britannia had fallen apart, its cartoons, columns, essays and stories commented on the passing scene, the latest news, the newest fads, and the way people lived.

  The origins of the magazine are obscured by time and the varying stories told by those who were there and their descendants. The infighting over who deserves credit grew so competitive that several histories of the magazine were published at the turn of the century, each putting forth their candidates. What can be established is that the magazine was founded in 1841 by journalist Henry Mayhew, engraver Ebenezer Landells, and Mark Lemon, a Jewish yeoman’s son who had middling success as a dramatist and had been sacked from his job running a pub. Lemon took the lead in organizing the magazine. But Lemon turned out to be a talented manager, and the first issue appeared on July 17, 1841. Landells financed its publication with £25, and Lemon and Mayhew acted as co-editors.

  Punch Editor Mark Lemon

  The origin of Punch’s name was also indirectly due to Lemon. During the magazine’s incubation, someone made the sad pun that the magazine should be called Punch, because “Punch would be nothing without Lemon.” The name stuck. Because the format – particularly its use of full-page illustrations – was inspired by the popular French paper Le Charivari (meaning a cacophony of noises) – the paper was subtitled the London Charivari.

  Naming the magazine Punch was a brilliant idea, so much that several short-lived publications used the name. It worked because of its association with Punch and Judy, puppet characters whose skits were a popular amusement on the streets and at the seaside. An early example of an anti-hero, Mr. Punch was a nasty character who beat his wife with a stick and mistreated their infant child. He was also crude and rude, punctuating pretensions and saying what people think but never say. Anarchy personified, he was the perfect mascot for a humor magazine.

  Punch was one of many magazines and newspapers sprouting up at the time. Writers and editors would gather in the taverns and coffeehouses to drink, trade professional gossip, and dream up ways to create and sell their work. They were joined by printers with idle presses looking for work. It was a Darwinian struggle for survival, and many publications lasted only a few issues before succumbing.

  Like many publications at the time, Punch struggled through its first years. Sales averaged around 7,000 a week, depending on how well the magazine was distributed. An almanac edition combining a calendar with pages stuffed with as many jokes as it could hold surprised everyone by selling more than 90,000 copies, but it was a temporary success.

  Things started looking up in the magazine’s second year when it was sold to Bradbury and Evans. As the publisher of Dickens and Thackeray, the firm had the money to sink into the operation for the long-term. They also made the brilliant decision to name Lemon its sole editor, where he would remain for 30 years until his death in 1870.

  Indispensible to the magazine’s launching, Lemon was equally crucial to its survival. He solicited capable writers regardless of their politics, such as the Conservative Thackeray. He showed an ability to get the best work out of his contributors, even when they treated him coolly for his Jewish roots. He also increased his stake in the magazine by investing th
e earnings from his plays.

  The magazine’s support for radical causes led Lemon to Punch’s first major success. Against the advice of his staff, he accepted Thomas Hood’s poem “Song of the Shirt,” a heartfelt attack on the working conditions of the poor:

  With fingers weary and worn,

  With eyelids heavy and red,

  A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

  Plying her needle and thread –

  Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!

  In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

  And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

  She sang ‘The Song of the Shirt!’

  Overnight, the magazine’s circulation tripled. Its voice began to be heard elsewhere. Squibs from Punch appeared in the better magazines. “To judge from the number of references to it in the private letters and memoirs of the 1840s,” wrote historian Richard Altick, “Punch had become a household word within a year or two of its founding, beginning in the middle class and soon reaching the pinnacle of society, royalty itself.”

  Lemon’s stable of writers began making lasting contributions to the culture. Arthur Conan Doyle’s uncle, Richard, designed the cover illustration that was used for decades. Thackeray’s “The Snobs of England” popularized the word “snob.” George du Maurier’s cartoons poked fun at both the pretensions of the Victorian middle-class and the intellectual class of artists and writers. John Tenniel – who drew the iconic illustrations for Lewis Carroll’s “Alice” books – supplied beautiful, detailed political cartoons for more than 50 years. Another prolific contributor was John Leech, who also found time to illustrate Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” When we think of what the Victorians looked like and how they acted, chances are it was inspired by a Punch cartoon.