by Marvin Kaye
“It is a sport, Holmes, not merely a game,” I countered, inexplicably upset by his words, feeling it was somehow my duty to defend the sport. “I have found it an enjoyable pursuit over the last few months and have been invited to play at some of the most prestigious courses in England and Scotland, including the very home of golf, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews. I have even become friends with Tom Morris himself, Old Tom Morris as he is called, a legend of the game. I tell you it is not a game of luck, it is fraught with hazards and challenges which require a high level of skill.”
Holmes brushed all this aside with a casual wave of his hand. If it was not criminal in nature, nor fell within the narrow scope of his interests, he was rarely engaged.
“You know, Holmes,” I told him allowing a hint of annoyance to enter my voice, “We are now four years into the 20th Century, a time for new beginnings and newer things — such as golfing. The game has lately set up strict rules of play affecting every contingency. I would think this is one aspect of it that you would find appealing and even approve of.”
“Rubbish! You mentioned rules as in a sport, yet you yourself just called it a game. Checkers would be more stimulating.”
“Oh, come now, Holmes!” I retorted peevishly.
“You yourself called it a game,” he countered with a wry grin.
“That was merely a figure of speech.”
Holmes looked at me shaking his head in mock despair, “Watson, poor, poor Watson, I am saddened to hear that you have succumbed to the frippery of such a game of chance. Far better it would be to spend your time and your meager funds on the roulette wheel. Better odds, eh?”
“I beg to disagree. I have found there is great skill involved in every aspect of golfing, from the opening drive down the fairway, to the chipping, and of course putting on the green. It can be most stimulating and challenging. You of all people should not be so quick to disparage a game — or dare I say sport — which you have never once tried yourself.”
Sherlock Holmes looked thoughtful and then gave me a wry grin, “You have me there, old fellow. You may be correct. Perhaps some day we shall have a go at it.”
“I would be most delighted to do so, Holmes. Perhaps when you are not so heavily engaged with cases?”
“Well, Watson, you have come at the perfect time. Cases have been few and far between lately. It seems the criminal classes have gone on holiday. Most disappointing.”
I laughed at his dilemma. “Well, I am sure something of merit will turn up soon.”
“Obviously it shall, but tell me more of this golfing mania you have contracted like a bad London cold. I see that there is something that evidently disturbs you about it.”
I looked at Sherlock Holmes closely. The man was remarkable. So far I had been quite careful, through neither word nor gesture, to let on to him the true nature of my visit. “You are as perceptive as ever. How did you guess?”
“Guess! Did you say ‘guess’?”
“I meant … What I meant to say …” I fumbled quickly.
“Never mind, old boy,” Holmes smiled indulgently at my discomfort. “Put it down to my knowledge of your person through our long association. I can see there is something bothering you, and yet you are loathe to bring it up, but it picks at you nevertheless. It is about this game of yours, is it not?”
I sighed, “Yes, Holmes, it is a most depressing problem, but surely it does not rise to the level where your magnificent talents need to be employed.”
“Why not let me be the judge of that? As I told you, interesting cases are scant right now so if you have something of merit I should be happy to hear the details.”
I nodded with relief that my friend was concerned, collected my thoughts and then began my narrative as I sat down in my old chair across from his own. “You are correct that it has to do with golfing. I have already mentioned that I have made the acquaintance of Old Tom Morris. He is a most decent and gentlemanly fellow. These days he is the greenskeeper at the R&A, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews, in Scotland.”
“Yes, where they play the British Open. I believe Old Morris even won the championship four times in the ’60s?” Holmes stated.
“Why, yes,” I smiled. “So you know something of the game?”
“A niggling bit here and there. I heard about the fellow primarily through the mystery that befell his son, Young Tom Morris.”
“Young Tom?” I asked casually, but curious. “I had not heard.”
“A most tragic affair, Watson. Old Tom’s son, Tommy — these days known as Young Tom — was a golfing prodigy. He was a legend in his own time who followed his father into golfing history by winning four British Opens. He was young, barely 24 years of age when his wife and child died in childbirth. Young Tom died three months later on Christmas Day in 1875 of unknown causes. It was all quite mysterious, but most people at the time blamed it on a broken heart.”
“A sad tale,” I said softly.
“Sadder still was the loving father’s reply when asked if such a death could be possible.”
“What did he say, Holmes?”
“It is said Old Tom replied that if it were possible for a person to die from a broken heart, then he would surely have died himself at the time.”
I sighed. “That is sad. I had no idea.”
“Old Tom has outlived his son by a quarter of a century. By all accounts he is a man of unique and outstanding character and talents. I should very much like to meet him some day.” Holmes stated, then he looked directly at me and asked, “So now, Watson, tell me what you came here for.”
“Well, Holmes, the Open will be concluded tomorrow evening with the presentation of the Championship Cup to the winner — it is a large silver trophy more commonly known as the Claret Jug. The problem is, the Claret Jug has turned up missing.”
“Is this jug valuable?” Holmes asked with more interest now.
“Yes, sterling silver, worth a considerable sum — but it is priceless to the club.”
Sherlock Holmes nodded, looked at me from his seat and said calmly, “Tell me, has anyone at the club turned up missing?”
I looked at Holmes, shrugged, “No, not that I know of. However Old Tom mentioned to me that one of his boys, a caddy, has gone sick and not reported to work for the last two days. Old Tom says it is most unlike the lad not to be available for any match, much less a championship.”
“And is this boy interested in the game?”
“Well, I assume so, most of the caddies are enthusiastic about golfing. Old Tom told me this boy is well-mannered, but rather more fanatical than most about the game.”
“I see,” Holmes said thoughtfully. Finally he looked up at me with an inexplicable smile upon his face. “Well, Watson, you must know there is little I can do about this here in London.”
“I understand, Holmes,” I replied softly, apparently defeated, but grateful he had at least listened to my story. “It’s just that Old Tom is very upset over the loss of the trophy. It will be a disaster for the Open, for the club, and for the game of golf itself.”
Holmes suddenly stood up from his seat and looked at me sharply, “Well then, there is nothing else to do but set off for Scotland at once and remedy this situation. Come, Watson, the game — of golf this time — is afoot!”
* * * *
Due to the efficiencies of the British railway system, Holmes and I reached Saint Andrews in no less than eight hours and once at the club I introduced the great detective to Morris. Old Tom had also been a winner of the British Open no less than four times, but these days he was a famous ballmaker, clubmaker and course designer. For many years he had been the head greenskeeper at Saint Andrews.
Old Tom Morris certainly looked every one of his eighty-three years of age, sporting a long, flowing white beard that rested on the center of his broad chest. He was dressed in golfing attire, a sporting jacket and plaid cap on his grey head. His left hand often rested in his trouser pocket where he
kept an ever-present pipe and he used an upside-down hickory-shafted mashie niblick as a cane. While he never seemed to smile, his piercing blue eyes exuded intense energy and gentle kindness.
I introduced the golfing legend to the detective legend.
“Ach, as I live and breathe, can it be none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes come hither to Scotland to visit our lovely club?” Morris asked with a thick Scottish brogue and a joyful face that lit up with mirth. He proved a most hearty and cheerful fellow. While it appeared he never cracked a smile and was the epitome of the dour Scot, Old Tom was truly a kind and warm-hearted man. His eyes fairly twinkled as he spoke. “I am so honoured to meet you, sir, and I welcome you to Saint Andrews. I assume Doctor Watson has told you about our little problem?”
“Yes, he has, that is why I am here, Mr. Morris.”
“Well, I thank you, but please, just call me Old Tom, good sir.”
Holmes allowed a warm smile, “Well, Old Tom, you have a missing trophy and I hear the presentation is later this evening?”
“Aye, the championship is just finishing up and we find ourselves in dire difficulty,” Old Tom said sadly. “The Claret Jug, as it is called, has permanently resided at the R&A, as we call the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews, since 1873. The trophy is presented to the winner of the British Open each year. The winner gets to keep it for a year before returning it to the R&A, thence to be passed on to the next champion. It has lately been returned to the club by last year’s winner. Now the trophy has gone missing. I fear it may even have been stolen.”
“The good doctor has told me that one of your boys has gone ill and not turned up for work.”
“Why yes, that is true. Young Daniel Roberts, a caddy, a good boy.”
“And where may we find young Mr. Roberts?” Holmes asked.
“In the village. He lives with his mum over her dressmaker shop.”
Holmes nodded, “Then let us repair there immediately, for we have no time to lose.”
* * * *
When we reached the home of the boy we found young Daniel Roberts upstairs in his room in bed with an apparent and dire illness of unknown origin. With the consent of his mother and under Holmes’s instructions, I quickly attended to the boy, giving him a thorough medical examination. Finally I walked outside the room to confer privately with my friend.
“Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?” Holmes asked me.
“There’s nothing physically wrong with the boy at all. But he is terrified of something that he is desperately trying to hide. His heart is pounding fearfully from it.”
Holmes just nodded, then walked back into the room with me. There we saw Old Tom and Mrs. Roberts looking sadly upon the boy laying so sickly in the bed. The boy saw us enter and coughed lightly.
Holmes grew grimly serious, “This will not do, Daniel. Doctor Watson has given you a full examination. There is nothing wrong with you. I know you are feigning illness. Time is wasting. You must tell me what you did with the Saint Andrews trophy.”
The boy’s face fell into despair, he was trapped and looked over to his mother.
“Daniel Roberts, now you tell these men the truth!” the boy’s mother commanded.
Daniel looked shocked, fearful with despair, but he did not reply.
“I know you stole the trophy, young man,” Holmes declared. “The game is up, so you might as well make a clean breast of it now.”
“Come on, lad, ’tis time to speak up,” Old Tom prompted, looking dour and disappointed that one of his boys had actually stolen the famed trophy.
The boy began to cry.
“Come now, Danny,” Old Tom added gently, “tell me what happened. Why did you steal the trophy? Who did you sell it to?”
“Oh no, that’s not the way it was at all, Mr. Tom,” the boy blurted through tears. “I took it when the previous winner retuned it to the club a few days ago. I just wanted to see me name on that trophy like all the great golfers of years before, because one day me name could be etched there, too. So I used some ink to write me name there, right below Young Mr. Tom’s last win from ’72, I did.”
“Danny Roberts, you didn’t!” his mother shouted angrily.
Holmes motioned her to silence, “Go on, Danny. Where is the trophy now? Did you sell it?”
“Sell it? Of course not, sir! I would never think of such a thing,” the boy stammered, obviously upset at the very thought.
“Then what did you do with it?” Old Tom prompted.
Danny looked grim, wide eyes pleading with Old Tom, “I’m so sorry. I was scared, sir. I know I did wrong by putting me name there and was trying to remove it, but it just would not come off. I was terrified! Then I got the idea to take the trophy down to the stream to use the water to wash off the ink. To my relief my name came off, but then I dropped the trophy down into the stream. It went in deep.”
“So why didn’t you dive in after it?” I asked the boy.
Danny looked up sheepishly, “I can not swim.”
“I see,” Holmes said, hiding a wry grin.
Danny went on to explain, “I was fearful of disappointing Mr. Tom. He been so good to me and all. He always told me how golf teaches responsibility and good sportsmanship, then I failed him. So I pretended to be ill so I would not have to face him. I am sorry, Mr. Tom.”
Old Tom smiled gently, “Think no more of it, lad.”
“Will I be going off to prison?” the boy asked nervously.
Old Tom laughed with gentle warmth, “Of course not, Danny.”
“So where’s the trophy now?” Holmes asked.
“Why, still at the bottom of the stream, where I left it,” Danny replied.
Holmes nodded, “Very well then. Now Danny, get yourself out of that bed and let us go and fetch it immediately.”
* * * *
It was early the next morning when Sherlock Holmes and I played our first round of golf. The problem of the day before had been solved satisfactorily; the trophy had been retrieved and then presented in time to the championship winner with nary a hitch. Young Danny had been suitably chastised by Old Tom but was allowed to keep his position as a caddy at the club. Once again all was right and well at the R&A.
Still and all that next day offered us a lovely, brisk, Scottish morning, perfect for a round of golf at the Royal and Ancient Saint Andrews. Old Tom had made a gift of a favorable tee time to Holmes and I, in gratitude for our deed. So my companion reluctantly agreed to play a round. We decided to play a singles match, just him and me, stroke play. Old Tom and Danny even volunteered to act as our caddies, each giving us much needed and helpful instruction and information before we began play.
The course at the R&A was sandy in nature, with small hills that played havoc with even the most well-struck drive, frequently knocking the ball devilishly off-line and into an insidiously placed pot bunker that only the most diabolically warped mind could have created. It was a challenging course to play.
The first hole, known as the “Burn” hole, was a par four. With a good deal of luck, Holmes and I both bogied it with five. We were lucky to shoot only one stroke over par. I did better on the second hole actually making par, while Holmes did better than I on the third. By the fourth hole I began to realize that Holmes seemed to know a lot more about playing golf than he’d ever let on to me. We played a few more holes and we did well enough, mostly through the good advice of our caddies, both of us going over par, of course, but not terribly so.
“Where did you learn to play so well?” I finally asked Holmes, astounded by his quality of play. I was no master of the game, nor was he, but I was surprised by the rapidity with which he had picked up the essentials.
Holmes only smiled, adjusted his deerstalker cap, and replied, “On the train to Saint Andrews, of course. While you slept the hours away, I studied up on the game, reading the golfing books in your pack. I found Horace E. Hutchinson’s volume most useful, while The Art of Golf by Simpson was highly informative. Did you know it
even includes photographic plates of our friend Old Tom demonstrating the value of the swing? His advice is priceless. You may be correct in stating that once you understand this game it opens up a true appreciation of it.”
“Posh, Holmes! Golf from books!” I snorted derisively, but I could not help but laud his improved attitude. “Okay, then, we’ll see where this leads, we’re off to the Tenth. So far we are even, so let’s see what you can do on the back nine.”
We moved on to the Tenth hole and played through. I went ahead by a stroke, but by the next hole Holmes had drawn even with me. He went ahead on the Thirteenth, but I caught up to him by the Fifteenth. At this point it was anyone’s game. Holmes played with grim determination, scowling at bad shots but seemingly elated when he made a good one — in that way he proved no different from any other golfer.
It was on the approach to the last hole that Old Tom announced, “Gentlemen, the Eighteenth Hole. It is a par 4, at 360 yards in length, and you both be even up to this point.”
“A close contest, Watson,” Holmes said ruefully. “You are quite right, this pursuit can be most challenging. I think I shall win this hole and then put to bed once and for all your obsessive dreams concerning this game.”
“I shall give you a good fight, Holmes,” I warned.
Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I would expect nothing less, old man.”
It had taken us each two strokes to get onto the green of the Eighteenth. Holmes had a difficult 20 foot putt to make the hole. My putt was shorter, being almost 12 feet in distance. Being farthest from the hole, Holmes played first.
Holmes’s putt went straight and true right towards the hole. It looked like it just might go in. My face grew grim with the bitter taste of impending doom. Surely his ball was heading straight for the hole and would fall in right away. I looked over at my friend and he appeared elated. Then I saw his ball suddenly stop dead, less than a foot from the cup. Holmes stared at the ball in utter shock and disbelief as if willing it to move on its own accord and go into the cup. But it did not.
