by Otto Penzler
“A most characteristic question of yours, Watson,” said he. “You will not, I am sure, be offended if I say that any reputation for sharpness which I may possess has been entirely gained by the admirable foil which you have made for me. Have I not heard of debutantes who have insisted upon plainness in their chaperones? There is a certain analogy.”
Our long companionship in the Baker Street rooms had left us on those easy terms of intimacy when much may be said without offence. And yet I acknowledge that I was nettled at his remark.
“I may be very obtuse,” said I, “but I confess that I am unable to see how you have managed to know that I was…I was…”
“Asked to help in the Edinburgh University Bazaar.”
“Precisely. The letter has only just come to hand, and I have not spoken to you since.”
“In spite of that,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and putting his finger tips together, “I would even venture to suggest that the object of the bazaar is to enlarge the University cricket field.”
I looked at him in such bewilderment that he vibrated with silent laughter.
“The fact is, my dear Watson, that you are an excellent subject,” said he. “You are never blasé. You respond instantly to any external stimulus. Your mental processes may be slow but they are never obscure, and I found during breakfast that you were easier reading than the leader in the Times in front of me.”
“I should be glad to know how you arrived at your conclusions,” said I.
“I fear that my good nature in giving explanations has seriously compromised my reputation,” said Holmes. “But in this case the train of reasoning is based upon such obvious facts that no credit can be claimed for it. You entered the room with a thoughtful expression, the expression of a man who is debating some point in his mind. In your hand you held a solitary letter. Now last night you retired in the best of spirits, so it was clear that it was this letter in your hand which had caused the change in you.”
“This is obvious.”
“It is all obvious when it is explained to you. I naturally asked myself what the letter could contain which might have this effect upon you. As you walked you held the flap side of the envelope towards me, and I saw upon it the same shield-shaped device which I have observed upon your old college cricket cap. It was clear, then, that the request came from Edinburgh University—or from some club connected with the University. When you reached the table you laid down the letter beside your plate with the address uppermost, and you walked over to look at the framed photograph upon the left of the mantelpiece.”
It amazed me to see the accuracy with which he had observed my movements. “What next?” I asked.
“I began by glancing at the address, and I could tell, even at the distance of six feet, that it was an unofficial communication. This I gathered from the use of the word ‘Doctor’ upon the address, to which, as a Bachelor of Medicine, you have no legal claim. I knew that University officials are pedantic in their correct use of titles, and I was thus enabled to say with certainty that your letter was unofficial. When on your return to the table you turned over your letter and allowed me to perceive that the enclosure was a printed one, the idea of a bazaar first occurred to me. I had already weighed the possibility of its being a political communication, but this seemed improbable in the present stagnant conditions of politics.
“When you returned to the table your face still retained its expression and it was evident that your examination of the photograph had not changed the current of your thoughts. In that case it must itself bear upon the subject in question. I turned my attention to the photograph, therefore, and saw at once that it consisted of yourself as a member of the Edinburgh University Eleven, with the pavilion and cricket-field in the background. My small experience of cricket clubs has taught me that next to churches and cavalry ensigns they are the most debt-laden things upon earth. When upon your return to the table I saw you take out your pencil and draw lines upon the envelope, I was convinced that you were endeavouring to realize some projected improvement which was to be brought about by a bazaar. Your face still showed some indecision, so that I was able to break in upon you with my advice that you should assist in so good an object.”
I could not help smiling at the extreme simplicity of his explanation.
“Of course, it was as easy as possible,” said I.
My remark appeared to nettle him.
“I may add,” said he, “that the particular help which you have been asked to give was that you should write in their album, and that you have already made up your mind that the present incident will be the subject of your article.”
“But how—!” I cried.
“It is as easy as possible,” said he, “and I leave its solution to your own ingenuity. In the meantime,” he added, raising his paper, “you will excuse me if I return to this very interesting article upon the trees of Cremona, and the exact reasons for their pre-eminence in the manufacture of violins. It is one of those small outlying problems to which I am sometimes tempted to direct my attention.”
How Watson Learned the Trick
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
ONE OF THE most remarkable English artifacts of the early part of the twentieth century was a dolls’ house designed and built for Queen Mary, the wife of George V. Created as a gift to Queen Mary from the people, it was produced to serve as a historical document on how a royal family might have lived during that period in England.
In addition to furniture and other household items built on a scale of 1:12 (one inch to one foot), resulting in a structure more than three feet tall, it contains curious items that actually work, such as a shotgun that can be cocked, loaded, and fired; toilets that flush; and electric lights that illuminate with the flick of a switch. The garage holds six automobiles, including a Daimler and a Rolls-Royce. Perhaps most impressively, it has seven hundred and fifty original works of art.
Remarkably, it has a substantial library of tiny books, each written specifically for the dolls’ house. Among the authors who contributed to the project were Rudyard Kipling (who wrote seven poems and illustrated the book himself), James M. Barrie, Aldous Huxley, John Buchan, M. R. James (who wrote a ghost story, “The Haunted Dolls’ House”), Thomas Hardy, W. Somerset Maugham, and Arthur Conan Doyle, who produced this charming parody of Holmes and Watson.
The house is on display at Windsor Castle.
“How Watson Learned the Trick” was originally published in The Book of the Queen’s Dolls’ House, two volumes edited by A. C. Benson, Sir Lawrence Weaver, and E. V. Lucas (London, Methuen, 1924); it was limited to fifteen hundred copies.
HOW WATSON LEARNED THE TRICK
Arthur Conan Doyle
WATSON HAD BEEN watching his companion intently ever since he had sat down to the breakfast table. Holmes happened to look up and catch his eye.
“Well, Watson, what are you thinking about?” he asked.
“About you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Holmes. I was thinking how superficial are these tricks of yours, and how wonderful it is that the public should continue to show interest in them.”
“I quite agree,” said Holmes. “In fact, I have a recollection that I have myself made a similar remark.”
“Your methods,” said Watson severely, “are really easily acquired.”
“No doubt,” Holmes answered with a smile. “Perhaps you will yourself give an example of this method of reasoning.”
“With pleasure,” said Watson. “I am able to say that you were greatly preoccupied when you got up this morning.”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because you are usually a very tidy man and yet you have forgotten to shave.”
“Dear me! How very clever!” said Holmes. “I had no idea, Watson, that you were so apt a pupil. Has your eagle eye detected anything more?”
“Yes, Holmes. You have a client named Barlow, and you have not been
successful with his case.”
“Dear me, how could you know that?”
“I saw the name outside his envelope. When you opened it you gave a groan and thrust it into your pocket with a frown on your face.”
“Admirable! You are indeed observant. Any other points?”
“I fear, Holmes, that you have taken to financial speculation.”
“How could you tell that, Watson?”
“You opened the paper, turned to the financial page, and gave a loud exclamation of interest.”
“Well, that is very clever of you, Watson. Any more?”
“Yes, Holmes, you have put on your black coat, instead of your dressing gown, which proves that you are expecting some important visitor at once.”
“Anything more?”
“I have no doubt that I could find other points, Holmes, but I only give you these few, in order to show you that there are other people in the world who can be as clever as you.”
“And some not so clever,” said Holmes. “I admit that they are few, but I am afraid, my dear Watson, that I must count you among them.”
“What do you mean, Holmes?”
“Well, my dear fellow, I fear your deductions have not been so happy as I should have wished.”
“You mean that I was mistaken.”
“Just a little that way, I fear. Let us take the points in their order: I did not shave because I have sent my razor to be sharpened. I put on my coat because I have, worse luck, an early meeting with my dentist. His name is Barlow, and the letter was to confirm the appointment. The cricket page is beside the financial one, and I turned to it to find if Surrey was holding its own against Kent. But go on, Watson, go on! It’s a very superficial trick, and no doubt you will soon acquire it.”
The Unique “Hamlet”
Being an Unrecorded Adventure of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
VINCENT STARRETT
IT SEEMS TO me that Charles Vincent Emerson Starrett (1886–1974) succeeded in being one of America’s greatest bookmen, and his young daughter offered the best tombstone inscription—“The Last Bookman”—for anyone who is a Dofob, Eugene Field’s useful word for a “damned old fool over books,” as Starrett admitted to being. Once, when a friend called at his home, Starrett’s daughter answered the door and told the visitor that her father was “upstairs, playing with his books.”
Starrett produced innumerable essays, biographical works, critical studies, and bibliographical pieces on a wide range of authors, all while managing the “Books Alive” column for the Chicago Tribune for many years. His autobiography, Born in a Bookshop (1965), should be required reading for bibliophiles of all ages.
He wrote numerous mystery short stories and several detective novels, including Murder on “B” Deck (1929), Dead Man Inside (1931), and The End of Mr. Garment (1932). His 1934 short story, “Recipe for Murder,” was expanded to the full-length novel, The Great Hotel Murder (1935), which was the basis for the film of the same title and released the same year; it starred Edmund Lowe and Victor McLaglen.
Few would argue that Starrett’s most outstanding achievements were his writings about Sherlock Holmes, most notably The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1933) and “The Unique ‘Hamlet,’ ” described by Sherlockians for decades as the best pastiche ever written. It was privately printed in 1920 by Starrett’s friend Walter M. Hill in a hardcover limited edition of unknown quantity. It is likely that ten copies were issued for the author with his name on the title page. The number of copies published with Hill’s name on the title page has been variously reported as thirty-three, one hundred, one hundred ten, and two hundred. It was selected for Queen’s Quorum (1951), Ellery Queen’s selection of the one hundred six most important volumes of detective fiction ever written.
THE UNIQUE “HAMLET”
Being an Unrecorded Adventure of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Vincent Starrett
1
“HOLMES,” SAID I one morning, as I stood in our bay window, looking idly into the street, “surely here comes a madman. Someone has incautiously left the door open and the poor fellow has slipped out. What a pity!”
It was a glorious morning in the spring, with a fresh breeze and inviting sunlight, but as it was early few persons were as yet astir. Birds twittered under the neighboring eaves, and from the far end of the thoroughfare came faintly the droning cry of an umbrella repairman; a lean cat slunk across the cobbles and disappeared into a courtway; but for the most part the street was deserted, save for the eccentric individual who had called forth my exclamation.
Sherlock Holmes rose lazily from the chair in which he had been lounging and came to my side, standing with long legs spread and hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. He smiled as he saw the singular personage coming along; and a personage the man seemed to be, despite his curious actions, for he was tall and portly, with elderly whiskers of the variety called muttonchop, and eminently respectable. He was loping curiously, like a tired hound, lifting his knees high as he ran, and a heavy double watch chain bounced against and rebounded from the plump line of his figured waistcoat. With one hand he clutched despairingly at his tall silk hat, while with the other he made strange gestures in the air, in a state of emotion bordering on distraction. We could almost see the spasmodic workings of his countenance.
“What in the world can ail him?” I cried. “See how he glances at the houses as he passes.”
“He is looking at the numbers,” responded Sherlock Holmes with dancing eyes, “and I fancy it is ours that will give him the greatest happiness. His profession, of course, is obvious.”
“A banker, I should imagine, or at least a person of affluence,” I ventured, wondering what curious detail had betrayed the man’s vocation to my remarkable companion in a single glance.
“Affluent, yes,” said Holmes with a mischievous twinkle, “but not exactly a banker, Watson. Notice the sagging pockets, despite the excellence of his clothing, and the rather exaggerated madness of his eye. He is a collector, or I am very much mistaken.”
“My dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “At his age and in his station! And why should he be seeking us? When we settled that last bill—.”
“Of books,” said my friend severely. “He is a book collector. His line is Caxtons, Elzevirs, and Gutenberg Bibles, not the sordid reminders of unpaid grocery accounts. See, he is turning in, as I expected, and in a moment he will stand upon our hearthrug and tell the harrowing tale of a unique volume and its extraordinary disappearance.”
His eyes gleamed and he rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. I could not but hope that his conjecture was correct, for he had had little recently to occupy his mind, and I lived in constant fear that he would seek that stimulation his active brain required in the long-tabooed cocaine bottle.
As Holmes finished speaking, the doorbell echoed through the house; then hurried feet were sounding on the stairs, while the wailing voice of Mrs. Hudson, raised in protest, could only have been occasioned by frustration of her coveted privilege of bearing up our caller’s card. Then the door burst violently inward and the object of our analysis staggered to the center of the room and pitched headforemost upon our center rug. There he lay, a magnificent ruin, with his head on the fringed border and his feet in the coal scuttle; and sealed within his motionless lips was the amazing story he had come to tell—for that it was amazing we could not doubt in the light of our client’s extraordinary behavior.
Sherlock Holmes ran quickly for the brandy, while I knelt beside the stricken man and loosened his wilted neckband. He was not dead, and when we had forced the flask beneath his teeth he sat up in groggy fashion, passing a dazed hand across his eyes. Then he scrambled to his feet with an embarrassed apology for his weakness, and fell into the chair which Holmes invitingly held toward him.
“That is right, Mr. Harrington Edwards,” said my companion soothingly. “Be quite calm, my dear sir, and when you have recovered your composure you will find us ready to listen.”
“I had never heard of you until this moment; but if you wish to conceal your identity it would be well,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for you to leave your bookplates at home.” As Holmes spoke he returned a little package of folded paper slips, which he had picked from the floor. “They fell from your hat when you had the misfortune to collapse,” he added whimsically.
“Yes, yes,” cried the collector, a deep blush spreading across his features. “I remember now; my hat was a little large and I folded a number of them and placed them beneath the sweatband. I had forgotten.”
“Rather shabby usage for a handsome etched plate,” smiled my companion; “but that is your affair. And now, sir, if you are quite at ease, let us hear what it is that has brought you, a collector of books, from Poke Stogis Manor—the name is on the plate—to the office of Sherlock Holmes, consulting expert in crime. Surely nothing but the theft of Mahomet’s own copy of the Koran can have affected you so strongly.”
Mr. Harrington Edwards smiled feebly at the jest, then sighed. “Alas,” he murmured, “if that were all! But I shall begin at the beginning.
“You must know, then, that I am the greatest Shakespearean commentator in the world. My collection of ana is unrivaled and much of the world’s collection (and consequently its knowledge of the veritable Shakespeare) has emanated from my pen. One book I did not possess: it was unique, in the correct sense of that abused word, the greatest Shakespeare rarity in the world. Few knew that it existed, for its existence was kept a profound secret among a chosen few. Had it become known that this book was in England—anywhere, indeed—its owner would have been hounded to his grave by wealthy Americans.
“It was in the possession of my friend—I tell you this in strictest confidence—of my friend, Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman, whose place at Walton-on-Walton is next to my own. A scant two hundred yards separate our dwellings; so intimate has been our friendship that a few years ago the fence between our estates was removed, and each of us roamed or loitered at will in the other’s preserves.
