Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6

by Marvin Kaye

  Though perhaps a hair too long, Bob Clark’s greatest work can be viewed as a triumph in its depiction of a part of Victorian London never before done justice on screen, and in its thoroughly convincing portrayal of the two friends, Holmes and Watson.

  Not all Ripper pastiches are quite so effective, alas. Ray Walsh’s 1984 novel The Mycroft Memoranda seeks the solution to this famous mystery within the Canon itself, identifying Watson’s alcoholic brother, mentioned in passing in The Sign of Four, as Jack. Walsh goes one better still, by suggesting that Mary Jane, Watson’s unsatisfactory maid in A Scandal in Bohemia, was none other than the Ripper’s final victim Mary Jane Kelly. After the Doctor is injured and sent away to convalesce with Conan Doyle, Sherlock’s brother Mycroft provides him with a temporary assistant in the shape of Lord Roxton (from Conan Doyle’s The Lost World). The remainder of the novel is presented as a series of conversations transcribed by one of Mycroft’s minions, hiding behind a secret panel in his master’s office. This technique robs the remainder of the novel of any real drama, and the reader might actually miss the killer’s fate, such is the lack of impact at the climax.

  Walsh completes his book with a consideration of earlier Holmes/Ripper confrontations, but his condemnation of the factual errors in Murder by Decree (as though his own tale had any more basis in reality) is so spiteful, it dissipates any goodwill built up by the author in the preceding chapters.

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  he Whitechapel Horrors, a 1992 novel by Edward B. Hanna, is even more exasperating — it is easily one of the longest pastiches ever written, and yet Hanna never bothers to identify his candidate for Ripperhood, having spent the novel incriminating Randolph Churchill, only to exonerate him in the final chapters. Equally peculiar is the fact that the tale is told in the third person, and that Holmes has been given some fairly unlikely dialog, including the use of the dreaded “F-word.” Would the detective ever have said it, one wonders, even in the guise of a cockney layabout?

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  T

  hankfully, Holmes’s many run-ins with the Ripper no longer end on such a disappointing note, thanks to those recent additions to the genre mentioned earlier. Near-perfect in its recreation of the squalor of Whitechapel and the elegantly simple prose of Conan Doyle, Lindsay Faye’s Dust and Shadow can stand alongside Richard Boyer’s The Giant Rat of Sumatra as one of the best pastiches ever written. Here, Holmes’s investigation is hampered by a tabloid journalist who slyly suggests that the Master himself might be the Ripper (a notion pursued to a disturbing end in Michael Dibdin’s 1978 book The Last Sherlock Holmes story). Faye has the detective and his faithful friend assisted in their manhunt by a prostitute, Mary Ann Monk. Thankfully, her involvement in the story does not threaten to overshadow the two main characters, as Mary Russell has in Laurie King’s pastiche series. The plot unfolds in a a highly cinematic manner, and it seems certain that a movie adaptation cannot be far behind. The solution to the crimes, while wholly fictional, is entirely logical, although it may not be a surprise to anyone familiar with Thomas Burke’s 1929 classic The Hands of Mr Ottermole.

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  lso newly-available is a fresh production of a play first performed in Wales in 1988. Holmes and the Ripper, by Avengers mastermind Brian Clemens, has been released as an audio drama by Big Finish Productions, a British company that has enjoyed great success with its range of Doctor Who CDs. Nicholas Briggs — who adapted the script and also plays the lead — decided upon launching a new series of Holmes audio dramas with Clemens’s play after starring in a revival at the Theatre Royal, Nottingham. In an interview conducted exclusively for Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Briggs had this to say: “It wasn’t my decision to revive the play for the theatre, but I was more than happy to be part of it. After the last performance, which Brian Clemens attended, some of my fellow cast members egged me on to ask Brian for the audio rights. He instantly agreed. I always had in mind that it might form the springboard for a new series of Holmes audio plays, in which I would play the lead. Holmes is fascinating to play, really rewarding. And the whole Ripper murder idea is something that is somehow programmed into us all as the ultimate, horrific serial killer mystery. It had double appeal. Brian does have a unique approach to Holmes. There is a heavy helping of Rathbone in there, but he balances that with a sensitive side to Holmes. This also relates to the relationship aspect that Brian introduces in the play. Holmes becomes entangled with a woman who claims to be a clairvoyant. He is never entirely convinced by the woman, but he is very strongly drawn to her.

  “The play does feature real historical characters, and Brian has based it on some real research, which he acknowledges freely. But I will not be drawn further on the culprit Holmes unmasks. There have been a few minor changes, which Brian was entirely happy with — just a few alterations to make it more audio-friendly. Apart from me, only one of the stage cast remains, Sam Clemens, Brian’s son, who is particularly brilliant. But I always wanted to cast Richard Earl as Watson; he just is Watson. The CD will be available for American stores to order, but it’s probably easier to get hold of it through our website (www.bigfinish.com) either as a CD or a download. Or both!”

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  learly, there is as much chance of interest in the Ripper dying out as in Sherlock Holmes. But how many times can they go on meeting like this? Well, there are probably as many unwritten stories as there are theories — the manhunt continues…

  A Memo from Inspector Lestrade

  M

  y old friend Dr Watson has informed me that Mrs Hudson is away in Yorkshire attending to an ailing aunt of hers, and has therefore asked to be excused from writing her usual column for this periodical. Graciously consenting to her request, Dr Watson, as he was posting a reply to her, chanced to meet me a short distance from the Marble Arch. He asked whether I might consider jotting down a few personal impressions of my long association with him and Holmes, and I am flattered by his invitation.

  In the discharge of my constabulary chores, I have been required to pen a great quantity of crime reports and various other departmental documents. In those days, I never would have had the leisure to scribble a column for a mystery magazine, but now that I am retired I have no such pressing demands on my time. Thus, I have agreed to contribute a reminiscence, albeit with some trepidation, for I am not the accomplished writer that the good doctor is.

  Those who have faithfully read Dr Watson’s many accounts of Mr Holmes’s adventures and exploits may wonder that I began this piece with a reference to Dr Watson as my old friend. My appearances, of course, in various of his compositions are restricted to the details of those investigations. But in my ongoing involvement with Holmes, I swiftly apperceived Dr Watson as one of the kindest gentlemen I have ever met. In the earlier years, we had no occasion to interact socially, but when I learned that Sherlock Holmes had supposedly died at Reichenbach Falls, I paid Dr Watson a visit to offer my condolences. Both touched and grateful, he poured us two generous measures of brandy and proposed a toast. I lifted my glass and with heart-felt sympathy drank to Holmes’s memory.

  It is true that Holmes was a trial to me at times, but for all his unorthodox modes of investigation, his ratiocinative abilities were formidable, and I freely acknowledge (at least now) that it was a privilege to work with him. But work, you see, always defined our relationship, whereas Dr Watson’s affability, humour, and his skill as a raconteur made him a splendid companion to sit by a fireside and share a wee dram with.

  I saw less of the doctor after the astonishing return of Sherlock Holmes, but on one occasion, all three of us were brought together when I sought assistance on a purely personal matter. I am grateful to have this opportunity to tell about it, and to thank Mr Holmes through the aegis of this public forum.

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  he year prior to my retirement was less demanding than I was accustomed to; I was relegated to a desk job,
and a younger officer was assigned to duties that I suspected were now considered too taxing for my accumulated years. My wife, at least, was pleased, and for two reasons: first, I was less at risk; second, my hours were now much more regular, which resulted in my being able to spend more time at home.

  It was this second reason that prompted me to seek membership in the Nonpareil Club. This was a gentleman’s establishment a short distance from Holmes’s Baker Street quarters. The geographic proximity proved fortuitous, though that never would have occurred to me had not the club extended its hospitality to one Colonel Barton P. Upwood, a person who soon earned the disfavour of the rest of the members, myself included, though I had not sought to cultivate his acquaintance. But his presence in our sacrosanct “quiet chamber” swiftly disturbed all of its denizens.

  Do not be misled; what I refer to as the “quiet chamber” was the Nonpareil’s main room. Our club is not very large. It has a few private parlours devoted to whatever business might prompt members to reserve their use for a designated time, and the upstairs floor offers a few modest suites designed for over-night stays.

  The central chamber of the venue holds a number of over-stuffed armchairs that I generally lounge upon whilst sipping brandy, reading daily news-sheets, and perhaps puffing upon a Havana cigar. There are also tables and upright chairs for those who wish to play at whist, vingt-et-un, and other card games. At one time the addition of a billiard table was considered, but the idea of all that clicking of cue-sticks against the balls did not appeal to most of the membership, and the notion was, shall we say, tabled.

  The main room, you see, always was intended to be a quiet place — not to the extent that I have been told pervades a certain chamber at The Diogenes Club, to which Sherlock Holmes’s formidable brother Mycroft belongs. But all actions and events pursued within the Nonpareil, whether they be for business or pleasure, are expected to be done with gentlemanly discretion and as irreducible a minimum of sound as is humanly possible. A long array of potables arranged along one wall, paralleled by a counter with several high stools for imbibers to perch, is presided over by a bar-tender who carries on his duties without producing anything louder than an occasional chink of an ice-cube. As for the gentleman’s gentleman who serves drinks, empties the ash-trays and dusts the furniture, the Executive Committee even went to the extent of hiring a deaf-mute named Richmond.

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  ow try to imagine the consternation that was wrought when Colonel Upwood joined our club! Dr Watson once made passing reference in print to the man’s “atrocious conduct” as well as that card scandal which the Nonpareil Executive Committee vainly tried to hush up, a circumstance that I regret, though that body of worthies perhaps deserved what they got for accepting Upwood as a member in the first place.

  To begin with, the man was incapable of addressing anyone in soft tones; his customary mode of utterance was precious close to a shout. He even spoke loudly to Richmond, though the Colonel was told more than once that our butler was not only incapable of speech, but also suffered from a hearing deficiency. This would have been bad enough, but Upwood was responsible for a variety of coarse nonverbal noises: snorts, burps, ear-shattering sneezes and equally loud nose-blowing, as well as other sounds I prefer not to name.

  The elder club members naturally began to complain, but it soon became general knowledge that the Executive Committee, which for some time had been troubled by difficulties in balancing the club’s budget, had voted in favour of membership for the Colonel because of the generous gratuity he elected to pay over and above the usual initiation fee and annual dues assessment.

  This so thoroughly exasperated one Admiral Norrington Miles, one of the club’s founding members (and chief complainant against Colonel Upwood), that he took it upon himself to confront him. In a frosty tone that I imagine once chilled the Admiral’s nautical subordinates, he said, “Sir, from now on you will desist from disturbing the Nonpareil with your loud voice and catalogue of abominable noises.”

  Colonel Upwood’s response was raucous laughter. He banged a large pistol on the card table where he sat. “This thing,” he declared, “makes a lot more noise.”

  I half expected Admiral Miles to seize the weapon and pistol-whip the man, but after several seconds of tense silence, he pivoted smartly and left the club. As soon as he was gone, Upwood pocketed his firing-piece and riffle-shuffled his deck of cards three times, declaring, “Is anyone in the mood to play bridge-whist?” After it was clear that no one intended to answer him, he snorted, “Hardly surprising. Obviously, none of you have the cojones to challenge me, not even at cards.”

  This was more than I could tolerate; I stepped up to his table and demanded to know what the stakes were. Two other Nonpareil members followed my example, and for the next few hours I sacrificed much of the currency in my billfold, but my suspicions were confirmed: Colonel Upwood was not only a bounder, he was also a cheat.

  * * * *

  “

  How curious!” Dr Watson exclaimed. “This is the second time that we have heard that name this evening!”

  “Tut, Watson, tut, we must not disclose the identity of our previous caller.”

  “Of course not, Holmes! You know me better than that.” The good doctor offered me a snifter of excellent brandy and we all took seats in the front chamber of 221B Baker Street, where a cheerfully crackling fire warmed us.

  Sherlock Holmes regarded me thoughtfully. “Inspector, assuming you are correct and Upwood is a devious gambler, why come to me about it? After all, you have the resources of the London police force available to pursue the matter.”

  “I am loath to subject the Nonpareil to the distress and negative publicity that might entail. Furthermore, as yet I have no evidence to support my belief that he is cheating. I know a few things on the topic, but it is not my area of expertise. I could speak with someone in the vice squad, of course, but even that might have negative results. Thus I have come to you, for I know I may rely upon your, and Dr Watson’s, discretion.”

  They both thanked me. “As Watson has revealed, we have already been visited to-night about Colonel Upwood.”

  “Has someone else complained that he cheats at cards?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I am not at liberty to discuss the nature of the commission I accepted, but I have already consulted both my library and my brother and you may be interested to know that Upwood is not a British colonel.”

  “I wondered about that. His raucous speech patterns are decidedly unfamiliar.”

  Dr Watson chuckled. “I should think so. Holmes has placed him as an Australian who migrated to Canada.”

  “So he only pretends to be a military man!”

  “Not so, Inspector,” Holmes replied. “He’s also been in America and took an army commission there, though Mycroft says Upwood has seen no significant action. Watson, another round, if you will?”

  Our friend, replenishing our brandy, asked me, “Why do you think Colonel Upwood is rigging his card games?”

  “I have two reasons. The first is the manner in which he holds the deck.”

  “Describe it for me,” said Holmes.

  “He lets it nestle in his palm with his thumb on top. His pinky, ring and middle finger press the edges against the heel of his hand.”

  “And,” Holmes added, “his forefinger curls round the deck’s top edge?”

  “Precisely. A magician I know holds cards in the same manner.”

  Holmes smiled. “I learned about it the same way, Inspector. It’s what is sometimes called the engineer’s clutch, or the mechanic’s grip. It allows for considerable control of the deck should the manipulator wish to deal from the bottom, execute a false shuffle, or a variety of other stealthy maneuvers. In itself, of course, it consitutes no proof that Upwood is doing any such thing. But you said you have another reason to be suspicious?”

  “Yes. The man almost never loses.”

  “That,” Holmes nodded, fin
ishing his brandy, “is indeed a tell-tale. I think a visit to your club, Inspector, is, shall we say, in the cards? Could Watson and I accompany you there in a few days?”

  I said I would arrange it. Holmes then had me describe the Nonpareil Club to him in considerable detail, from the physical arrangement of the main chamber, its shape, size, furniture and related appurtenances, to the customary club members and staff; he even had me describe the design of the club’s card decks.

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  hree days later we met in the early evening at the club’s front entrance. Holmes outlined his plan of action in the most general of terms, for, I suspect, his sense of the dramatic, which Dr Watson has mentioned on several occasions, compelled Holmes to reserve the particulars of the evening’s intended programme, except to the extent that he found it necessary to instruct me and his friend in what he wished us to do.

  Our chief role, he explained, was to play cards with him and “our mark,” as Holmes put it, and we were told to play like the veriest amateurs.

  “Do not be concerned about your losses, gentlemen. Our costs to-night are amply under-written.” With that he produced three large rolls of currency, two of which he gave us, keeping the third bundle for himself. This circumstance reinforced my suspicion of the identity, though not the mission, of Holmes’s secret client.

  As we entered the club’s main chamber, the first person I saw was Upwood, who was seated in the middle of the room at a green baize card table. He faced the bar where several members sat nursing drinks, their backs turned (necessarily, due to the angle, yet also deliberately, I supposed) to the abrasive Colonel who was playing some variety of solitaire, cursing quite audibly from time to time at the turn of the cards.