The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  I very naturally turned onto Baker Street after the consultation, the fine weather continuing with a positively Hispanic effulgence. The great world of London seemed wholly at peace. Holmes, in dressing gown and Moorish turban, was rubbing resin onto his bow as I entered his sitting room. He was cheerful while I was not. I had been somewhat unnerved by the sight of an ailment I had thought to be confined to the Chinese, as I had been disconcerted earlier in the week by the less harmful latah, a property of hysterical Malays, both diseases now manifesting themselves in a young person of undoubtedly Anglo-Saxon blood. Having unburdened myself of my disquiet to Holmes, I said, perhaps wisely, “These are probably the sins visited by subject races on our imperialistic ambitions.”

  “They are the occluded side of progress,” Holmes said, somewhat vaguely, and then, less so, “Well, Watson, the royal visit seems to have passed without mishap. The forces of Iberian dissidence have not further raised their bloody hands on our soil. And yet I am not altogether easy in my mind. Perhaps I must attribute the condition to the irrational power of music. I cannot get out of my head the spectacle of that unfortunate young man struck lifeless at the instrument he had played with so fine a touch, and then, in his death agony, striking a brief rhapsody of farewell which had little melodic sense in it.” He moved his bow across the strings of his violin. “Those were the notes, Watson. I wrote them down. To write a thing down is to control it and sometimes to exorcise it.” He had been playing from a scrap of paper which rested on his right knee. A sudden summer gust, a brief hot breath of July, entered by the open window and blew the scrap to the carpet. I picked it up and examined it. Holmes’s bold hand was discernible in the five lines and the notes, which meant nothing to me. I was thinking more of the shook jong. I saw again the desperate pain of an old Chinese who had been struck down with it in Hong Kong. I had cured him by countersuggestion and he had given me in gratitude all he had to give—a bamboo flute and a little sheaf of Chinese songs.

  “A little sheaf of Chinese songs I once had,” I said musingly to Holmes. “They were simple but charming. I found their notation endearingly simple. Instead of the clusters of black blobs which, I confess, make less sense to me than the shop signs in Kowloon, they use merely a system of numbers. The first note of a scale is one, the second two, and so on, up to, I think, eight.”

  What had been intended as an inconsequent observation had an astonishing effect on Holmes. “We must hurry,” he cried, rising and throwing off turban and dressing gown. “We may already be too late.” And he fumbled among the reference books which stood on a shelf behind his armchair. He leafed through a Bradshaw and said: “As I remembered, at eleven fifteen. A royal coach is being added to the regular boat train to Dover. Quick, Watson—into the street while I dress. Signal a cab as if your life depended on it. The lives of others may well do so.”

  The great clock of the railway terminus already showed ten minutes after eleven as our cab clattered to a stop. The driver was clumsy in telling out change for my sovereign. “Keep it, keep it,” I cried, following Holmes, who had not yet explained his purpose. The concourse was thronged. We were lucky enough to meet Inspector Stanley Hopkins, on duty and happy to be near the end of it, standing alertly at the barrier of Platform 12, whence the boat train was due to depart on time. The engine had already got up its head of steam. The royal party had boarded. Holmes cried with the maximum of urgency:

  “They must be made to leave their carriage at once. I will explain later.”

  “Impossible,” Hopkins said in some confusion. “I cannot give such an order.”

  “Then I will give it myself. Watson, wait here with the inspector. Allow no one to get through.” And he hurled himself onto the platform, crying in fluent and urgent Spanish to the embassy officials and the ambassador himself the desperate necessity of the young king’s leaving his compartment with all speed, along with his mother and all their entourage. It was the young Alfonso XIII, with a child’s impetuousness, who responded most eagerly to the only exciting thing that had happened on his visit, jumping from the carriage gleefully, anticipating adventure but no great danger. It was only when the entire royal party had distanced itself, on Holmes’s peremptory orders, sufficiently from the royal carriage that the nature of the danger in which they had stood or sat was made manifest. There was a considerable explosion, a shower of splintered wood and shattered glass, then only smoke and the echo of the noise in the confines of the great terminus. Holmes rushed to me, who stood obediently with Hopkins at the barrier.

  “You let no one through, Watson, inspector?”

  “None came through, Mr. Holmes,” Hopkins replied, “except—”

  “Except”—and I completed the phrase for him—“your revered maestro, I mean the great Sarasate.”

  “Sarasate?” Holmes gaped in astonishment and then direly nodded. “Sarasate. I see.”

  “He was with the Spanish ambassador’s party,” Hopkins explained. “He went in with them but left rather quickly because, as he explained to me, he had a rehearsal.”

  “You fool, Watson! You should have apprehended him.” This was properly meant for Hopkins, to whom he now said: “He came out carrying a violin case?”

  “No.”

  I said with heat: “Holmes, I will not be called a fool. Not, at any rate, in the presence of others.”

  “You fool, Watson, I say again and again, you fool! But, inspector, I take it he was carrying his violin case when he entered here with the leave-taking party?”

  “Yes, now you come to mention it, he was.”

  “He came with it and left without it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You fool, Watson! In that violin case was a bomb fitted with a timing device which he placed in the royal compartment, probably under the seat. And you let him get away.”

  “Your idol, Holmes, your fiddling god. Now transformed suddenly into an assassin. And I will not be called a fool.”

  “Where did he go?” Holmes asked Hopkins, ignoring my expostulation.

  “Indeed, sir,” the inspector said, “where did he go? I do not think it much matters. Sarasate should not be difficult to find.”

  “For you he will be,” Holmes said. “He had no rehearsal. He has no further recitals in this country. For my money he has taken a train for Harwich or Liverpool or some other port of egress to a land where your writ does not run. You can of course telegraph all the local police forces in the port areas, but from your expression I see that you have little intention of doing that.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. It will prove difficult to attach a charge of attempted massacre to him. A matter of supposition only.”

  “I suppose you are right, inspector,” said Holmes after a long pause in which he looked balefully at a poster advertising Pear’s Soap. “Come, Watson. I am sorry I called you a fool.”

  Back in Baker Street, Holmes attempted to mollify me further by opening a bottle of very old brandy, a farewell gift from another royal figure, though, as he was a Mohammedan, it may be conjectured that it was strictly against the tenets of his faith to have such a treasure in his possession, and it may be wondered why he was able to gain for his cellar a part of the Napoleonic trove claimed, on their prisoner’s death, by the British authorities on St. Helena.

  For this remarkable cognac was certainly, as the ciphers on the label made clear, out of a bin that must have given some comfort to the imperial captive. “I must confess, Watson,” said Holmes, an appreciative eye on the golden fluid in his balloon glass, one of a set presented to him by a grateful khedive, “that I was making too many assumptions, assuming, for instance, that you shared my suspicions. You knew nothing of them and yet it was yourself, all unaware, who granted me the key to the solution of the mystery. I refer to the mystery of the fingered swan song of the poor murdered man. It was a message from a man who was choking in his own blood, Watson, and hence could not speak as others do. He spoke as a musician and as a musician, moreover, who had some k
nowledge of an exotic system of notation. The father who wagged his will, alas, as it proved, fruitlessly, had been in diplomatic service in Hong Kong. In the letter, as I recall, something was said about an education that had given the boy some knowledge of the sempiternality of monarchical systems, from China, Russia, and their own beloved Spain.”

  “And what did the poor boy say?” After three glasses of the superb ichor, I was already sufficiently mollified.

  “First, Watson, he hammered out the note D. I have not the gift of absolute pitch, and so was able to know it for what it was only because the piece with which Sarasate concluded his recital was in the key of D major. The final chord was in my ears when the young man made his dying attack on the keyboard. Now, Watson, what we call D, and also incidentally the Germans, is called by the French, Italians and Spaniards re. In Italian this is the word for ‘king,’ close enough to the Castilian rey, which has the same meaning. Fool as I was, I should have seen that we were being warned about some eventuality concerning the visiting monarch. The notes that followed contained a succinct message. I puzzled about their possible meaning, but your remark this morning about the Chinese system of note-naming, note-numbering, rather, gave me the answer—only just in time, I may add. In whatever key they were played, the notes would yield the numerical figuration one-one-one-five—C-C-C-G, or D-D-D-A: the pitch is of no importance. The total message was one-one-one-five-one-one-seven. It forms a melody of no great intrinsic interest—a kind of deformed bugle call—but the meaning is clear now that we know the code: the king is in danger at eleven fifteen on the morning of the eleventh day of July. It was I who was the fool, Watson, for not perceiving the import of what could have been dying delirium but in truth was a vital communication to whoever had the wit to decipher it.”

  “What made you suspect Sarasate?” I asked, pouring another fingerful of the delicious liquor into my glass.

  “Well, Watson, consider Sarasate’s origins. His full name is Pablo Martin Melitón de Sarasate y Navascuéz and he is a son of Barcelona. A Catalonian, then, and a member of a proud family with an anti-monarchist record. I ascertained so much from judicious enquiries at the Spanish embassy. At the same time I discovered the Chinese background of the youthful Gonzáles, which, at the time, meant nothing. The republicanism of the Sarasate family should have been sufficient to cast a shadow of suspicion over him, but one always considers a great artist as somehow above the sordid intrigues of the political. There was, as I see now, something atrociously cold-blooded in the arrangement whereby the murder of his accompanist was effected only at the conclusion of his recital. Kill the man when he has fulfilled his artistic purpose—this must have been the frigid order delivered by Sarasate to the assassin. I do not doubt that the young Gonzáles had confided in Sarasate, whom, as a fellow musician and a great master, he had every apparent reason to trust. He informed him of his intention to betray the plans of the organization. We cannot be sure of the nature of his motivation—a sudden humane qualm, a shaken state of mind consequent on the receipt of his father’s letter. The assassin obeyed Sarasate’s order with beat-counting exactitude. My head spins to think of the master’s approbation of such a murderous afterpiece to what was, you must admit, a recital of exceptional brilliance.”

  “The brilliance was, for me, confirmed more by the applause of others than by any judgment of my own. I take it that Sarasate was responsible for another performance less brilliant—the note from His Royal Highness’s secretary and the exotic number seven.”

  “Evidently, Watson. At the Savoy Theatre you saw him chatting amiably with Sir Arthur Sullivan, a crony of the Prince. Grazie a Dio, he said among other things, that his long cycle of recitals had finished with his London performance and he could now take a well-earned rest. Any man unscrupulous enough to collaborate with that noted sneerer at the conventions Mr. William Schwenck Gilbert would be quite ready to pick up a sheet or so of the Prince’s private notepaper and pass it on without enquiring into the purpose for which it was required.”

  “Well, Holmes,” I now said, “you do not, I take it, propose to pursue Sarasate to condign punishment, to cut off his fiddle-playing career and have him apprehended as the criminal he undoubtedly is?”

  “Where is my proof, Watson? As that intelligent young inspector trenchantly remarked, it is all supposition.”

  “And if it were not?”

  Holmes sighed and picked up his violin and bow. “He is a supreme artist whom the world could ill afford to lose. Do not quote my words, Watson, to any of your church-going friends, but I am forced to the belief that art is above morality. If Sarasate, before my eyes and in this very room, strangled you to death, Watson, for your musical insensitivity, while an accomplice of his obstructed my interference with a loaded pistol, and then wrote a detailed statement of the crime, signed with the name of Pablo Martin Melitón de Sarasate y Navascuéz, I should be constrained to close my eyes to the act, destroy the statement, deposit your body in the gutter of Baker Street and remain silent while the police pursued their investigations. So much is the great artist above the moral principles that oppress lesser men. And now, Watson, pour yourself more of that noble brandy and listen to my own rendering of that piece by Sarasate. I warrant you will find it less than masterly but surely the excellence of the intention will gleam through.” And so he stood, arranged his music stand, tucked his fiddle beneath his chin and began reverently to saw.

  An Evening with Sherlock Holmes

  JAMES M. BARRIE

  (Published Anonymously)

  COINCIDENTALLY, JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE and Arthur Conan Doyle, two of the most popular and successful writers of the Victorian and Edwardian eras, attended Edinburgh University at the same time. The university had a greater influence on Conan Doyle, as that is where he encountered Dr. Joseph Bell, the professor whose skill at observation and rational deduction served as the model for Sherlock Holmes.

  In later years, Barrie and Conan Doyle formed a friendship, albeit one that was slightly tempered late in their lives when Barrie forbade any talk of spiritualism, the subject that had consumed most of Conan Doyle’s thoughts and energy in the last twenty years of his life.

  Barrie and Conan Doyle had both published books with moderate success and both found fame and imminent fortune in the same year, 1891, Barrie with the publication of The Little Minister, Conan Doyle with The Strand Magazine’s publication of the first Sherlock Holmes short stories (after the first two Holmes novels, A Study in Scarlet, 1887, and The Sign of Four, 1890). The staggering public adulation of Holmes, Watson, and Conan Doyle that followed the publication of the Holmes stories (the first, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” appeared in July 1891, followed by additional stories every month) made the detective a household name, thus ripe for parody. The first author to seize the opportunity was Barrie, who anonymously wrote “An Evening with Sherlock Holmes” a mere four months after the first Holmes story, for the November 28, 1891, issue of The Speaker: A Review of Politics, Letters, Science, and the Arts, a short-lived London journal that published work by Oscar Wilde and other British literary lights. The story bears the distinction of being the earliest parody of Holmes.

  AN EVENING WITH SHERLOCK HOLMES

  James M. Barrie

  I AM THE sort of man whose amusement is to do everything better than any other body. Hence my evening with Sherlock Holmes.

  Sherlock Holmes is the private detective whose adventures Mr. Conan Doyle is now editing in the Strand magazine. To my annoyance (for I hate to hear anyone praised except myself) Holmes’s cleverness in, for instance, knowing by glancing at you what you had for dinner last Thursday, has delighted press and public, and so I felt it was time to take him down a peg. I therefore introduced myself to Mr. Conan Doyle and persuaded him to ask me to his house to meet Sherlock Holmes.

  For poor Mr. Holmes it proved to be an eventful evening. I had determined to overthrow him with his own weapons, and accordingly when he began, with well-affected carefulness, “I
perceive, Mr. Anon, from the condition of your cigar-cutter, that you are not fond of music,” I replied blandly, “Yes, that is obvious.”

  Mr. Holmes, who had been in his favourite attitude in an easy chair (curled up in it), started violently and looked with indignation at our host, who was also much put out.

  “How on earth can you tell from looking at his cigar-cutter that Mr. Anon is not fond of music?” asked Mr. Conan Doyle, with well-simulated astonishment.

  “It is very simple,” said Mr. Holmes, still eyeing me sharply.

  “The easiest thing in the world,” I agreed.

  “Then I need not explain?” said Mr. Holmes haughtily.

  “Quite unnecessary,” said I.

  I filled my pipe afresh to give the detective and his biographer an opportunity of exchanging glances unobserved, and then pointing to Mr. Holmes’s silk hat (which stood on the table) I said blandly, “So you have been in the country recently, Mr. Holmes?”

  He bit his cigar, so that the lighted end was jerked against his brow.

  “You saw me there?” he replied almost fiercely.

  “No,” I said, “but a glance at your hat told me you had been out of town.”

  “Ha!” said he triumphantly, “then yours was but a guess, for as a matter of fact I—”

  “Did not have that hat in the country with you,” I interposed.

  “Quite true,” he said smiling.

  “But how—” began Mr. Conan Doyle.

  “Pooh,” said I coolly, “this may seem remarkable to you two who are not accustomed to drawing deductions from circumstances trivial in themselves (Holmes winced), but it is nothing to one who keeps his eyes open. Now as soon as I saw that Mr. Holmes’s hat was dented in the front, as if it had received a sharp blow, I knew he had been in the country lately.”