“The world of scholarship is a complicated one, Watson, and even the mind that sees conspiracies everywhere might chance on a real one now and then.”
“Holmes, you can’t mean—”
“All parties involved may have acted quite honourably in their own minds, Watson. After years of denial, none of them may even believe they were involved in any kind of conspiracy or deception. History will judge matters better than we.”
That was Holmes’s last word on the subject. I choose not to believe that Darwin—the family man, the dedicated scientist, the loyal friend—was the sort of person who would claim credit for another’s work, but anyone who has run a race of any kind understands the drive to reach the finish line first.
Was the Galapagos manuscript authentic? In many ways, I was the wrong person to decide. I even had to ask my wife what a stock pin was. (A stock, per The Concise Oxford Dictionary, is a “[s]tiff wide band of leather or other material formerly worn round neck, now displaced in general use by collar & tie. . . .” The stock pin, then, even I could figure out was the pin that held it in place—and pictures of Darwin indeed show him wearing such an accessory.)
I told the guide the manuscript read at least somewhat like Watson’s work, a first draft perhaps, and I’d like to take a photocopy home with me. When I returned to California, I couldn’t let the problem go, plunging into some enthusiastic, if somewhat disorganized, Darwin research of my own.
His biographers record that Darwin cut short his pre-Christmas visit to London in 1881 because of the onset of heart problems. Since his death followed in April 1882, no one has had reason to doubt the truth of this account. Probably it was true, at least in part, but the Galapagos manuscript offers an intriguing alternate possibility.
A frequently repeated anecdote has come to haunt me. While in London the week before Christmas, Darwin called at the house of a friend, George Romanes, who proved to be out. Romanes’s butler believed Darwin was not well and asked him to come into the house until a cab could be brought for him. Darwin refused and walked to the cab stand himself, declining the butler’s offer to accompany him. Partway there, he was seen to stagger and hold onto a railing for support. The butler saw him turn back toward the house, then change his mind and proceed toward the cab stand.
What does the story mean? Was Darwin genuinely ill or was he faking his discomfort for reasons of his own? Was his indecision about returning to the house based on the admirable qualities friends of Darwin liked to remember: his kindness, consideration for others, and disinclination to give trouble? Or was he somehow suspicious of his friend’s butler? Picturing that indecisive Darwin reminds me of one of the unrecorded Holmes cases. Did Darwin fear, if he walked back to his friend’s house and crossed the threshold, like Mr. James Phillimore returning to his house for his forgotten umbrella, he would never be seen again in this world? Too fanciful? No doubt.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE
SECOND VIOLET
Daniel Stashower
In glancing through my notes for the year 1899, I find record of three remarkable cases which arose to challenge the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. The first was the extraordinary affair of the weeping coachman, which so perplexed the Sussex constabulary and the citizens of Godalming. The second concerned the curious business of the ox, the aster and the ivory eyepiece, which threatened to bring a scandal on one of Europe’s reigning families. But of all the cases which crossed our threshold in Baker Street that year, perhaps none presented my friend with such a baffling problem—or threw his talents into such brilliant relief—as that of the unhappy Mrs. Violet Oldershot, née Hunter.
I had arisen late upon a Tuesday morning in the second week of December to find Holmes lost in contemplation of the morning newspapers. The columns were filled with accounts of the mounting tensions in South Africa, and of the intractable views of Mr. Kruger, the leader of the Dutch Boer settlers.
“A bad business, Watson,” said Holmes, throwing down the Times.
“Surely the matter will be over in a matter of weeks?” I answered. “These Boers are simple farmers.”
“These farmers will show themselves to be the most formidable antagonists who ever crossed the path of Imperial Britain,” Holmes declared. “Napoleon and all his veterans never treated us so roughly as will these hard-bitten farmers with their ancient theology and their inconveniently modern rifles.”
“But Holmes—” I began.
“In any case,” he said, “there are matters closer to home which commend themselves to our attention. What do you make of this?” He passed across a sheet of notepaper which had evidently just arrived in the morning post. Taking it from his outstretched hand, I read:
Dear Mr. Holmes:
I trust that you will recall the episode at the Copper Beeches when you rendered such invaluable service to my wife, the former Miss Violet Hunter. I fear that she is once again in need of your assistance, though she shows no inclination to seek you out on her own behalf. I assure you that the present matter is no less grave—perhaps even more so. May I call at 9:00?
Yours faithfully,
—Mr. Henry Oldershot
“Violet Hunter!” I exclaimed.
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “An intriguing prospect, is it not?”
It was seldom that Holmes had occasion to offer his services twice to the same client. Almost by definition, the problems which were brought to him were singular and exceptional, and therefore of a type unlikely to occur twice in the lifetime of any given client. It was notable indeed, then, that we should have found ourselves once again entertaining the difficulties of the woman we had first known as Miss Violet Hunter.
Some of my readers will recall the remarkable episode which first brought Miss Hunter to Baker Street, an episode which I have chronicled as The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. Miss Hunter had been engaged as a governess by a Mr. Jephro Rucastle, who had insisted as a condition of her employment that she sacrifice her luxuriant chestnut hair. It subsequently emerged that Mr. Rucastle secretly intended that Miss Hunter would impersonate his own daughter, whom he had imprisoned in an isolated chamber of the house, so as to discourage the attentions of a persistent suitor. Only the timely intervention of Sherlock Holmes brought this disagreeable business to a satisfactory conclusion.
We had heard that Miss Hunter had gone on to become headmistress at a private school for girls at Walsall, where she enjoyed a very notable success until her marriage some little time later. Indeed, Holmes had been so impressed by the spirit and intelligence of Miss Hunter that I recall expressing some disappointment at the time that he himself evinced no further interest in her, as I had not yet fully apprehended the degree of his bachelorhood.
Now, studying the note from Mr. Henry Oldershot, I naturally wondered what fresh difficulty had brought Miss Hunter back within our horizons. “What sort of problem do you suppose has so agitated this gentleman?” I asked.
“I can think of any number of possibilities,” Holmes answered, “but in the absence of corroboration I would imagine—ah! There is our client’s ring. We shall have our answer shortly.”
Holmes rose and opened the door to admit a tall, broad-shouldered young man with pale-reddish close-cropped hair, a strong chin and clear green eyes. He stood in the doorway for a moment nervously fingering the brim of a worn bowler. “I am Henry Oldershot,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be Sherlock Holmes.”
“I am,” said my companion, “and this is my colleague Dr. Watson.”
“Of course,” he said, stepping into the room. “Violet has spoken of you both so often that I feel we are already acquainted.”
“Pray sit down, Mr. Oldershot,” said Holmes, as I took the young man’s hat and coat. “We are most interested to hear the nature of the difficulty which has brought you to Baker Street. Apart from the fact that you are a school teacher, that you have recently sold your pocket watch, and that you have lately suffered a financial
reversal which you are anxious to conceal, I know nothing.”
Mr. Oldershot dropped into an armchair by the fire with an expression of frank wonder upon his features. “I see that Violet has not exaggerated your abilities, Mr. Holmes. I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man, but I’m afraid I can’t conceive of how you were able to arrive at those conclusions.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows at me. “Watson?”
I studied our visitor and attempted to apply my friend’s methods. “The ink stain?” I asked.
“Excellent, Watson!” cried he. “You are coming along nicely.” He turned to Mr. Oldershot to explain. “Your marriage to Miss Hunter naturally suggested some connection to the school at Walsall. The stain of Pressman’s Blue ink on your left shirtcuff—a variety commonly found in school inkwells—indicates that you are employed in the classroom, rather than the headmaster’s office. The dusting of chalk along the inner sleeve of your coat confirms the notion.”
“But the watch?” asked our visitor. “And the financial difficulties?”
Holmes glanced at me. I shook my head to indicate that I had not followed his reasoning that far. “Simplicity itself,” said Holmes, turning back toward our client. “You are a schoolmaster, a profession which requires a certain degree of punctuality, and yet you arrived here at our lodgings seventeen minutes past the appointed hour, a fact you confirmed by glancing at our mantel clock rather than at your own pocket watch. The inevitable conclusion is that you have either sold your watch or sent it out for repair. The fact that you still wear a leather watch strap on your waistcoat suggests the former alternative—that your watch has been sold, and that you do not wish to call attention to this fact. It naturally follows, therefore, that you have endured a financial blow which you are eager to conceal.”
Our visitor’s stunned expression confirmed the accuracy of all that Holmes had said. “I must confess,” Mr. Oldershot said at length, “that your words have amazed me. All that you say is quite true, though it brings me no pleasure to admit it. In fact, my recent—my recent embarrassments lie at the root of the problem which brings me here today.”
“I imagined as much,” said Holmes. “Pray let us have the details.” He settled back in his armchair and closed his eyes.
“Very well,” said Mr. Oldershot. “I am not a wealthy man, as you have surmised, Mr. Holmes. My schoolmaster’s salary has been enough to provide a comfortable existence for the two of us, and my wife is not of a disposition to complain. In the two years since our marriage I have had everything to make a man’s happiness complete—an interesting and challenging profession, a devoted partner and my good health. You will recall that my wife is a most remarkable woman, and no man has ever been graced with a more gentle or amiable companion. Indeed, many are the nights when I find myself sitting beside her at the fire and thinking myself the most favored man in the whole of Britain, or perhaps even the entire—”
“I’m sure that is most gratifying,” said Holmes, without opening his eyes. “Please state the nature of your difficulty.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Oldershot with a start. “I will not waste any more of your time than necessary. I should explain, however, that at the time of our marriage I enjoyed the income of a small bequest from my late uncle. I chose to invest these funds in a small publishing concern, as I have some modest ambitions in that arena. Unfortunately, my efforts to launch a literary journal have not met with any great success. We have now been thrown back on my salary alone, which should have been sufficient but for the outstanding business debts which I am now forced to honour. I had sought to ensure our future, but instead I have placed a severe strain on what little remains of our resources.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “And your wife knows nothing of this?”
“On the contrary, she has been steadfast in her support of my literary aspirations. I might have wished to spare her the anxiety of my misfortunes, but in the circumstances I could scarcely conceal them from her. She has faced the challenge very bravely, and we are attempting to reduce our expenses wherever possible. She had even suggested that she might return to her previous post at the Walsall Academy for Girls, but of course this was impossible.”
Holmes opened his eyes and sat forward in his chair. “You object to the prospect of employment for your wife?”
“I should not have enjoyed seeing my wife return to work, if that’s what you mean, Mr. Holmes, but I would not have stood in her path if she desired it. No, the Academy would have forbidden her return so long as I remained at the boys’ school.”
“I see,” said Holmes, reaching across toward his pipe rack.
“We soon resolved to manage as best we could until our circumstances improved. If we no longer ate quite as well or as often, or enjoyed entertainments in the evening, we still had enough to be content. Or so I thought until last Sunday evening.”
Holmes snatched up his oily black clay and began filling it with tobacco. “And what happened on Sunday evening?”
“I had just finished correcting some exam papers when Violet suggested that we take a walk along the High Street. The shop windows had all been dressed for the holidays and we were admiring the displays when a strange man hurried toward us from the opposite direction. He was a small man, and rather fat, with a strange trick of hopping from foot to foot as he walked. Although I had never seen him before, he appeared to recognize my wife. Lifting his hat, he said, ‘Good evening, Miss. Have you had a chance to reconsider my offer?’ ”
“Did your wife acknowledge this greeting?” Holmes asked.
“She did not. She simply gripped my arm and urged me forward, without giving a response of any kind. But as we walked on, I heard his voice calling after us. ‘That’s all right, my dear,’ he said, ‘I shall hold the offer open until tomorrow.’” Mr. Oldershot winced at the memory.
“How did your wife explain this encounter?”
“She insisted that the fellow must have mistaken her for someone else. But when I looked back as we crossed the next street, he stood looking after us with the most unpleasant expression one could imagine, like a fox gloating over a plump hen.”
Holmes stood up and walked to the mantelpiece. “Can you tell us anything else of this gentleman’s appearance?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Holmes. He looked for all the world like Mr. Jephro Rucastle, the villain who employed my wife at the Copper Beeches!”
“Surely not!” I ejaculated.
“Of course I cannot be certain, having never laid eyes on the fellow. But he strongly resembled your own description of him, Dr. Watson, from the account you published at the time. ‘A prodigiously stout man with a very smiling face.’ Was that not how Violet described him to you? Those words would have fit this man perfectly.”
Holmes picked up a glowing ember with the fireplace tongs and used it to light his pipe. “Forgive me, Mr. Oldershot, but I could easily walk to our front window and point out some half dozen other men who match that vague description.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. Holmes, although you would not be so quick to dismiss my fears had you seen the look of absolute revulsion on Violet’s face. I assure you, however, that I would not have travelled all the way down to London to consult you simply because my wife brushed up against a stranger in the street.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, drawing at his pipe, “there was a second encounter?”
“There was. Yesterday afternoon an unexpected thunderstorm cancelled the scheduled cricket match at the school. I took advantage of my sudden liberty to do a bit of holiday shopping in the town. I had just completed my purchases when I happened to glance across the road. To my utter astonishment, there stood my wife in earnest conversation with this very same man—the man she had so vehemently denied knowing.”
Holmes folded his hands. “Did you confront her?”
“I was too astonished to do so. Instead I turned and walked through the village for some little while, wondering how best to deal with the situation.
I had all but convinced myself that I had entirely exaggerated the matter, but when I returned to our flat my darkest fears were confirmed. It is now clear to me, Mr. Holmes, that the man in the street was indeed Mr. Jephro Rucastle, and that my wife has once again fallen under his malign influence.” Our young client looked earnestly into Holmes’s face, gathering his resolve before he continued. “Mr. Holmes, when I returned home that evening, I found that my wife had cut off all of her hair.”
“Again!” I cried.
“Just so. As you know, my wife’s hair is of a particularly captivating chestnut shade. It is her greatest vanity and, if I may say so, her strongest feature. You are familiar with the extraordinary circumstances which led her to sacrifice it the first time—when Mr. Rucastle intended that she should serve as an unwitting substitute for his own daughter. Those events, you will grant, were most exceptional. In her ignorance of Mr. Rucastle’s true intentions, one can understand how my wife might have been influenced to wear her hair in a certain way. But would she do so a second time? I have cudgelled my brains, and I cannot imagine how or why she would agree to such a thing. Is it possible that Mr. Rucastle—if, indeed, it is he—has persuaded her to resume the impersonation of his daughter for some purpose?”
I looked over at Holmes. His eyes were shining as he pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Did she offer no explanation?” he asked eagerly.
“To the contrary, she would not even entertain my questions on the subject. Instead, she attempted to turn the conversation.”
“How do you mean?”
“Her attention seemed fixed on our reduced circumstances. She would speak of nothing else.”
“Was there anything specific in what she said?”
“I hesitate to tell you, Mr. Holmes, for you will think that my wife has lost her reason. She made repeated reference to mutton chops.”
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 19
