Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 15

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Mary, my wife, had gone away for a protracted visit to the north country to look after her ailing mother, so I found myself alone and lonely at home without her. I was much buoyed when Holmes suggested I move back into our old lodgings at Baker Street for the next month or two while she was away. It was a generous offer on his part to assuage my loneliness and I felt beholden to do something to reciprocate his generosity—and I knew exactly what I would do to repay my good friend.

  “Watson? Now what is it?” Sherlock Holmes asked me with obvious disdain that morning as we finished breakfast. “I can smell the wood burning.”

  “Should I stoke the fire?” I asked coyly.

  “Hah! Not the fireplace, old man, but you, your very thoughts. Your mind is working in high gear. I fear you may hurt yourself if you tax your faculties so harshly.”

  “You…fear…What?” I blurted, holding down my chagrin.

  Holmes laughed, allowing a mischievous grin, “You are up to something. I can read the signs all over you, though you are trying hard to hide it. Now I wonder what it can be?”

  “Really, Holmes! You can be insufferable at times.”

  Sherlock Holmes smiled victoriously. I knew he was playing with me now. “That does it! Now whatever can you be planning? Surely not that execrable birthday party scheme again? Each year at this time you endeavor to harass me with that ridiculous nonsense, and each year I refuse you adamantly.”

  “That may be, Holmes, but this is different. This January, the sixth will be your fiftieth birthday, a singular milestone in your life and career,” I spoke softly, imploringly, for I knew his rages and upon this matter he had always been very firm. Nevertheless, I felt I had to press ahead for he was correct, you see, I did have plans. I added, “This is a special moment in your life. You should celebrate this occasion. I wish to celebrate it. Many people would like to celebrate it with you.”

  “Then do so. Tip a pint! Tip a dozen pints for all I care, but do please leave me out of it. I have no wish to be put on display, regaled by gawkers with whom I am forced to make pleasantries, while being force-fed food and victuals, then stuffed with cake or pastry, only to finally be presented with meaningless gifts—none of which I need by the way—all the time having to thank the givers profusely. I can think of nothing more loathsome. Why, I should be forced to resort to the cocaine needle or even the opium pipe to assuage my wounded psyche. Thank you, but no thank you, Watson.”

  “But, Holmes…?” I stammered, then stopped abruptly for I saw his face had grown dark and grim.

  My companion only shook his head sadly and suddenly flung down his Times, then he swiftly arose from his chair with a huff and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door firmly behind him. I believe Holmes had made his feelings quite clear to me upon the subject of birthdays, but I would not let that stop me from planning a party in his honour—whether he wanted one or not!

  * * * *

  The next day Holmes and I were in our sitting room. He was smoking prodigiously upon his favourite pipe, creating quite the thick fog, no doubt deep in some deductive thoughts. I was quietly perusing my notes of the Carfax Case.

  “Holmes?” I inquired softly.

  He looked up at me and allowed a grim smile. “Absolutely not, Watson!”

  “But…but…”

  “No ‘buts’ need be applied. I know you are ignoring my wishes and are planning to have a birthday party for me here on January sixth. I know you will invite friends and even some…acquaintances…”

  “Please, Holmes, be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable, Watson! You harm me deeply with this request. I want no party. I have never wanted a party. I never celebrate my date of birth. A ridiculous custom. Why should I begin now? In any event, do as you will, but I certainly will never attend such a gathering. Case closed.”

  I nodded, subdued by my friend’s firm conviction, but more determined than ever to give him a party to celebrate his life, something he so richly deserved.

  “Your birthday party will go on with or without you, Holmes,” I stated firmly.

  “Then it shall go on without me,” he replied just as firmly. I could see he was immovable upon this subject, so I would have to amend my plans accordingly. My ace in the hole was his brother, Mycroft, who told me that at the right time he would call Holmes away upon some pretext.

  * * * *

  The days passed and Holmes seemed distracted by several interesting cases that climaxed at the end of the year. The situation regarding Abercrombie I could tell was now uppermost in his mind, but he would still give me no details.

  New Year’s Day, 1904, saw us enjoying a lovely dinner compliments of our landlady, Mrs Hudson. She winked at me as she took away the empty dishes of our feast. She was excited by the idea of the party and naturally was the first person after Mycroft who I invited. She was overjoyed by the idea but had not let on to Holmes her excitement. I believe she was more difficult for Holmes to read than was I. Irrespective of all that, I began to grow concerned because the big event was now just five days away.

  Holmes remained as obdurate as ever upon the subject.

  “So, my good Watson, you thought your little plan slipped my mind in all the rush of recent cases. I assure you nothing could be farther from the truth.”

  “Be reasonable, Holmes,” I implored once more, trying to take a different tack with him.

  “Reasonable, yes, by all means, I shall be. My reasonableness extends to the promise that I shall not leave these premises the entire day of the sixth. Ah, but do not celebrate victory just yet, my friend. For I will allow no visitors to enter our rooms either. Nor will I permit you to hang one single party ribbon nor atrocious piece of celebratory bunting anywhere on these premises. If you do so, I will simply pull them down and tear them into tiny pieces. So you see, my friend, your party is effectively aborted. It shall be still-born. Now why not just admit defeat so we can put all this silliness behind us? There is a new magic act at the Lyceum that is all the rage, a female magician by the name of ‘The Young and Lovely Lucille,’ and I have obtained two tickets. What do you say?”

  “So that is how you prove to be reasonable? To buy me off! I am sorry, my friend, but I do not accept your offer. January sixth marks your half century and upon my soul, a celebration of your birth will take place upon that day!”

  Holmes just moaned, relit his pipe and walked over to our front window to stare down at Baker Street below. I saw him take something from his pocket, look over it carefully, then quickly put it back into his pocket. Was it the tickets or something else? I had no idea what it was about, but he looked grim now. Holmes was quiet and in deep thought and grew morose, as if struggling with something, but he would not tell me and I knew better than to ask. I knew with my friend that all things were made known in their proper time, so I did not intrude upon his thoughts. Since my marriage and moving out of Baker Street, I feared he had gone back to his old secretive ways. He was being difficult. Nevertheless, I did not care, Sherlock Holmes was going to have his birthday party if it was the last thing I ever did—but he had now put up a serious impediment to my plan.

  * * * *

  When the morning of the sixth approached I felt that all was lost. Holmes was firmly ensconced in our rooms like some grim stone monument, unmoving, inflexible. True to his word he would allow no visitors, not even Mrs Hudson. He would not allow me to decorate the rooms. I was effectively flummoxed. I had the nightmare thought of Holmes standing steadfastly behind our locked door all that evening, chiding our guests by not allowing them to enter. Some of the people I invited were coming from quite a distance. It was looking as if all my plans would end up in utter disaster.

  Mycroft was essential to my plans, but upon the morning of the party his scheme to get Sherlock out of our rooms upon some pretext proved futile. Holmes would not bite. He would not take the bait Mycroft dangled before him and leave our rooms. What was I to do? And guests would be arriving later that very evening, just hours away
.

  As the day wore on my nerves grew more frayed. Holmes just sat there calmly smoking up a storm, a whimsical smile playing across his face as he watched me in my agitated state of quiet dismay. I quite believe he was enjoying my distress. The scoundrel!

  The morning passed badly. Later Mrs Hudson brought us up a light luncheon. Holmes graciously allowed her to enter our rooms and she quietly placed the meal tray down before us. She shot me an inquiring look and when Holmes was distracted her lips made the silent words, “What is happening?” I shook my head negatively. Nothing was happening. I could well understand her concern, but I was nonplussed by Holmes’s activity—or lack of it. He would not leave our rooms and I realized by doing so, he had effectively stymied all my party plans.

  I had to get Holmes out of our rooms so I could decorate them, then bring up the food and punch that Mrs Hudson had secreted below, and I had to do this all before our guests arrived. Then, even more difficult—I had to somehow get Holmes to come back to 221B. That was the real rub—but I would worry about that later, as I was looking to Mycroft to help me with that obstacle.

  After a quiet lunch, the early afternoon was too soon upon us and I was simply jittery with nerves, though trying hard not to let it show. I did not want to give Holmes the satisfaction. For his part, my friend continued smoking and watched me with a rather whimsical leer upon his face. He was quite enjoying my discomfiture and openly taunted me with quick jibes, inquiring how the party was shaping up and if all was in readiness, reminding me that time was growing short.

  “You can be abominable sometimes,” I stated, anger covering my hurt pride.

  Holmes just sat there glowing in my distress. He even had the effrontery to ask, “Do you need any help decorating?”

  “No, thank you!” I barked, quite upset now that he was obviously doing all he could to make me squirm. He was baiting me. Well, I would have none of it, but I forced myself to calm down. I took a deep breath, sighed and asked, “Holmes?”

  “No, Watson, not at all,” he stated firmly, but then I was surprised to see him get up from his chair, walk over to the door and put on his coat. Now what, I thought?

  “I think I need to get a bit of fresh air,“ Holmes suddenly informed me in a firm tone. “The air in here is a bit stuffy, I believe I will go out for a walk. I shan’t return before the early morning of the seventh, Watson, so have your party if you must, but know that I shall not be in attendance.”

  Then Sherlock Holmes left our rooms. I ran over to the front window and saw him walking briskly down Baker Street. I sighed, gathered myself together, astounded by this sudden action but overjoyed, for this was just the break I had hoped for. I immediately called down to our landlady that we were to begin to set the party in motion.

  “Mrs Hudson, he’s gone out, the party is on! Full speed ahead!”

  “Jolly good, Doctor Watson! Jolly good!”

  Mrs Hudson proved a bounty of excellent ideas. First, she helped me move the chairs and sofa out of our sitting room and into Holmes’s bedroom to create more open space. My bedroom would be used for the hats and coats of our guests. Then we moved our breakfast table in front of the fireplace, which created a large open area for guests to mingle. Soon afterwards our landlady brought up plate after plate of enticing finger sandwiches along with her famous rum punch. The guests began to arrive promptly at the prearranged hour of seven o-clock.

  Inspectors Lestrade of Scotland Yard was the first on the scene, accompanied by Inspector Tobias Gregson. They were old friends who had known Holmes for almost twenty years, since the case I had chronicled as A Study in Scarlet back in ’87. Also from Scotland Yard were Inspectors Alec MacDonald, the younger Stanley Hopkins and MacKinnon, whom Holmes felt showed great promise and referred to as “Mr Mac.” While it was good to see them all, I thought it a bit odd since my invitation had only gone out to Lestrade. Now there seemed to be many more men of the law arriving than I invited and I barely knew what to do about it. I finally shrugged and accepted it in good order, putting it down to Holmes’s long years of work with the police.

  Then Wiggins and his small gang of former street ruffians appeared, whom Holmes liked to call his Baker Street Irregulars. Various others entered the house and our rooms; former clients, people who Holmes had come into contact with over the years. There were so many. It was good to see Holmes’s old friend from Oxford, Reginald Musgrave once again, whose strange problem I had written up as “The Musgrave Ritual” so many years ago; as well as my old friend ‘Young’ Stamford, older now and a distinguished medical man. Stamford was the fellow who had first introduced me to Holmes so many years before. Mycroft Holmes appeared soon afterwards. I was happy to see him, and to see that tonight’s party was important enough for him to uproot himself from his sedentary seat in the Diogenes Club.

  “Is Sherlock here yet?” the elder Holmes brother asked me, Sherlock’s senior by seven years. He immediately turned towards the refreshments table and liberally partook of Mrs Hudson’s exquisite rum punch—which was proving to be the hit of the evening. Soon the room filled with still more guests, all of whom were talking softly in little clusters, all seemingly sharing their favourite Sherlock Holmes story or memory. I felt sad that the great man himself would not be here for any of this celebration and that he would miss it all. It was a shame.

  “I’m afraid your brother will not be coming,” I told Mycroft Holmes glumly.

  I looked around the rooms. They were nicely decorated—Mrs Hudson and I had done a credible job. The party was going full force, with even our bedrooms and the outer landing and stairway filling up with happy chatting guests.

  “Oh, I think not, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft told me with a little smile. “I am sure brother Sherlock could never resist such an event, all his protestations aside. However, you may be correct, he certainly is not the birthday type.”

  “I know that only too well.” I blurted, my eyes scanning the rooms and outer landing. Something was not right. There seemed to be many more guests than I had ever invited. Though I scanned every face visible to me, I did not see my friend at all. I looked inquiringly at the elder Holmes.

  “I do not see Sherlock anywhere.”

  Mycroft smiled indulgently. “Perhaps he is in disguise?”

  “Disguise? Of course!” I blurted. Yes, of course, that had to be it! The wily scoundrel was in disguise. Holmes’s ego would not allow him to resist being present at his own party so he could investigate all the goings on—but it never occurred to me that he would do so in disguise. I simply assumed he would arrive later, as would any other person, when the party was going full throttle and make some grand entrance. I hadn’t thought that he might already be here, right this very minute. I looked over all the faces once again. I quickly discounted the Scotland Yard inspectors and others I knew by sight, but there seemed to be an alarming number of guests I did not know at all. Men and even women I had never seen before. That was perplexing. Who were all these people? Where had they all come from? There were also a number of rather flirtatious woman present. What were they doing here? I was confused. I planned for a rather small gathering, an intimate party, not this! It was rapidly turning into a three-ring circus. Holmes’s great popularity had apparently grown beyond even my own comprehension.

  “Can you tell me which of these men is your brother?” I asked Mycroft hopefully.

  “No, Doctor, I do not see him here,” Mycroft replied with a wry grin.

  “Then how do I find him?” I asked hopelessly.

  “If he is here at all, you must use the deductive methods you have learned from brother Sherlock. If you do so I am certain you cannot go wrong, Dr Watson.” Then Mycroft Holmes walked off with a glass of rum punch to speak to someone who appeared to be a member of the royal family, who was speaking to a man I knew to be the French ambassador.

  Now I was in a quandary. Holmes had apparently secretly stole into his own birthday party but was here in disguise and I could not find him. I was sur
e the fiend was doing this just to annoy me. I feared he might not ever reveal himself, which would certainly put a dampener upon the party. It was all up to me now.

  Once again I looked over each of the guests. Some certainly appeared to be rather disreputable examples of the lower classes—or even of the criminal classes. I wondered how many might be burglars, forgers, pick-pockets, or confidence men. I was aghast. I even recognized one man who Holmes had been instrumental in having arrested, wily Jack Thomas, the pocket picker. He, at least, was harmless. I sighed, what was going on here? Then I saw another man who seemed familiar to me. I assumed he was one of the reformed criminals who sometimes aided Holmes. Maybe he knew something? I sidled up to him.

  “Glad you could make Mr Holmes’s party,” I stated. Then I introduced myself.

  “I knows who you be, I seen you with Mr ’Olmes ’pon occasion. I helps him sometimes. Me name be Rafferty.”

  “Rafferty? Just Rafferty?”

  “Rafferty will do for today, eh?” he responded with a snicker, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth. Wherever Holmes had met such a disreputable rogue I feared to imagine.

  “Well, Mr Rafferty…”

  “No mister, just Rafferty,” he corrected me, quite adamant upon the matter. He showed me a fierce demeanour and I grew nervous.

  I took a step back, wondering if I might not need my revolver before this evening was over. Had this man come here to…burgle the house? No, my alarm was unnecessary. He was a reformed criminal, who told me he now worked with my companion, so he should prove safe. At least I hoped so. However, as I looked around the room at all the unknown faces, it dawned upon me that there were many people who might wish to do harm to my friend and one of them might even be here at this very party. The thought chilled me.