by Otto Penzler
Among Cannon’s critical and appreciative studies of Lovecraft are his graduate theses: A Case for Howard Phillips Lovecraft (Honors thesis, Stanford, 1973) and Lovecraft’s New England (MA thesis, Brown University, June 1974). Again combining his areas of expertise, he wrote “You Have Been in Providence, I Perceive” (Nyctalops, March 1978), which illustrates the influences of the Sherlock Holmes stories upon Lovecraft. This was followed by another analysis of Holmes’s influence on Lovecraft, “Parallel Passages in ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches’ and ‘The Picture in the House’ ”; it was published in Lovecraft Studies 1, No. 1 (Fall 1979).
Cannon’s Lovecraftian fiction includes Scream for Jeeves: A Parody (1994), which narrates some of Lovecraft’s stories in the voice of P. G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster; The Lovecraft Chronicles (2004), a novel based on Lovecraft’s life; and several short stories in the Cthulhu Mythos genre, including “Azathoth in Arkham” and “The Revenge of Azathoth,” both sequels to “The Thing on the Doorstep”; and “The Madness Out of Space,” originally presented as a lost story by Lovecraft. A collection of his stories was published as Forever Azathoth (1999).
“The Adventure of the Noble Husband” was first published in The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes, edited by Marvin Kaye (New York, St. Martin’s Press, 1998).
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE HUSBAND
Peter Cannon
IN SURVEYING THE many cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes in which I had the privilege to participate, I confess that I have often been torn whether or not to publish the results. More than once in my eagerness to set a stirring story before the public I have, to my shame, shown scant regard for the privacy of Holmes’s more illustrious clients. Still, I am confident I know where to draw the veil. I doubt that I shall ever release the full facts regarding Ackerley, the bigamous banana king, who for years maintained a household in Richmond and a “secret orchard” in Castlenau, with neither family the wiser. Tawdry affairs such as this one are best left to moulder in their year-books on the shelves. And yet there are a few cases in this sensitive category which beg for disclosure, if only long after the eminent parties involved have passed on. Such was the adventure of the noble husband, a matter that threatened to destroy not only the good name of one of Britain’s most revered authors but also my relationship with my literary agent.
One summer afternoon in the year 1900, finding myself in the vicinity of our old Baker Street lodgings after a professional call, I decided to drop by 221B. Mrs. Hudson informed me that a client had just arrived, but as Holmes customarily welcomed my presence at these interviews I did not hesitate to mount the stairs. In the sitting room I discovered Sherlock Holmes listening to a small, respectably dressed woman with a plain, pale face—an utterly unprepossessing type such as one might pass on the street with scarcely a glance.
“Ah, Watson. I would like you to meet Mrs. Hawkins,” said my friend. “I trust you won’t mind, Mrs. Hawkins, but Dr. Watson often does me the courtesy—”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I’m afraid I…” The stranger rose from her chair, her wan cheeks suddenly flushed. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to conceal a cough. Then it struck me; I knew this woman, though not under the name of Mrs. Hawkins. As soon as she recovered her composure, she spared us both further embarrassment by introducing, or rather I should say, reintroducing herself.
“It’s Mrs. Doyle, Dr. Watson,” she said, extending a tiny hand. “We met once years ago, through my husband, who I believe still acts as your literary agent.”
“Oh, yes. Quite so,” I answered. Her palm trembled in mine. “I regret, however, that it has been ages since he and I last met. How is Mr. Doyle, if I may ask?”
During the silence that ensued, only the sound of Holmes thrumming his fingers against his chair could be heard.
“I am very sorry, madam,” the detective said at last, “but if you are indeed the wife of Arthur Conan Doyle, the historical novelist and, more to the point, my colleague Dr. Watson’s literary agent, you present me with a potential conflict of interest. I cannot help you.”
The woman gave a little gasp.
“I could refer you, if you wish. A Mr. Adrian Mulliner—”
“Oh no, Mr. Holmes, only you can help! Forgive me. Hawkins is my maiden name. I feared you would dismiss me without a hearing if I had revealed my identity immediately. You must understand. I’ve come all the way from Hindhead. For months I’ve been in agony over whether or not to seek you out. Please, Mr. Holmes, allow me at least to finish my story.”
With these words the woman sank back in her chair and began to cry quietly into her handkerchief. Again she coughed, in a manner that suggested some serious lesion of the lungs. I hardly dared look Holmes in the eye. One would have to be a heartless fiend to ignore her distress.
“Very well, madam,” Sherlock Holmes said gently. “As I had barely time to note that you are fond of animals and devoted to your children, a girl and a boy if I am not mistaken, before Watson here arrived, you might as well repeat for him what you have already confided to me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, her tears now dried. “You are truly a gentleman. As I said before, we met fifteen years ago in Southsea, Portsmouth, on account of my brother Jack, one of Arthur’s resident patients. Alas, poor Jack proved to have cerebral meningitis and succumbed within weeks. In my bereavement I naturally turned to Arthur for consolation, and he responded with a warmth that betrayed a deeper sympathy. We married that summer, and a kinder, more protective husband no woman could dare dream for, Mr. Holmes. If you have read my husband’s book The Stark Munro Letters, you may have gained some notion of the sweet, affectionate home life that was ours in those early days.”
Holmes’s hooded eyes flickered in acknowledgment, though I was certain he had never opened The Stark Munro Letters, let alone any of the popular works penned by my literary agent. For my own part I was doing my best to stifle a smile, despite the gravity of the woman’s narrative, as it was not every day that a client failed to express instant astonishment at one of my friend’s personal deductions. Mrs. Doyle was either very simple—or very clever.
“This idyll, like all perfect things, could not last, I regret to say,” our visitor continued. “First, in ’93, I was diagnosed with consumption. My quiet life became enforced. In the autumn of ’96 we moved from London to Surrey, for the sake of my health. That first spring in the country, Arthur started to behave oddly. At the time of our engagement he warned me that he tended to long silences and that I mustn’t mind, but thoughtful contemplation soon all but gave way to mournful brooding. Of late, when not withdrawn in silence, Arthur has been full of restless energy. He has taken up the banjo, practicing for hours, despite an obvious lack of musical aptitude. As for golf and cricket, games at which he excels, he now plays them with an enthusiasm more befitting a youth half his age.”
“Pardon me, madam,” interrupted the detective, “but just how old is your husband?”
“Arthur turned forty-one in May.”
“Pray go on.”
“He has grown increasingly irritable, too. While patient and paternal as always with me and the children, he has allowed himself to get drawn into silly literary feuding.”
“A pity, madam, but perhaps not so surprising for a man who has advanced in his career from provincial doctor to world-renowned author.”
“You may be right, Mr. Holmes, but there’s more.” The woman coughed into her knotted handkerchief, then took a deep breath. “In March, just before he left for South Africa—”
“South Africa?” interjected Holmes.
“Yes, to join a field hospital as unofficial supervisor.”
“Most admirable. Pray continue.”
“As I was saying, this past March I observed Arthur unawares in the garden at Undershaw, our house in Hindhead. He picked a snowdrop and carried it into the library. After his departure I examined his shelves and found pressed between the leaves of a volume of romantic verses thr
ee snowdrop flowers—one fresh, the other two dried and withered.”
My friend leaned forward, eyes glinting. This was the kind of curious detail he relished.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, a man does not do such a sentimental thing unless he is in love—in love with another woman!” With this the woman broke into sobs.
“What do you propose I do, madam?” said Sherlock Holmes after a decent interval.
“Please determine whether or not my Arthur remains true.”
“And if I confirm your worst fears?”
“Oh, I do not know, Mr. Holmes, I do not know. I am ill, sir, gravely ill. My time draws short in this world. You must believe that Arthur’s happiness matters more to me than my own. That he has found room for another in that great heart of his I can accept. But, as long as I live, I shall not abide his being unfaithful!”
Our visitor resumed her sorry weeping. I was deeply moved, and despite the mask of the perfect reasoner he affected, I knew my friend could not be untouched by such pure and intense emotion.
“Where is your husband now, madam?”
“On his way back from South Africa. His ship, the Briton, is due to dock next week in Plymouth.”
“Ah, then we have some time.”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes!”
“Please, Mrs. Doyle. Before I can give my assent, I must first consult Dr. Watson on the ethics of my taking you on as a client. If you wouldn’t mind waiting downstairs, I dare say Mrs. Hudson should already have the water on the hob for tea.”
After further expressions of gratitude, the woman put on her shawl, which was covered with cat hair, and gathered a shopping bag marked with the emblem of Hamley’s toy emporium, containing, I saw as I held the door for her, a doll and a set of tin soldiers. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Since I so rarely travel to London these days,” she said, smiling at her purchases, “I feel obliged to bring home something for Mary and Kingsley to show my expedition has not been unfruitful.”
We stood listening to her dainty tread fade down the steps. Then the detective collapsed into his chair, his features unfathomable. A minute passed before he spoke:
“Well, Watson, as I have said to you in the past, the fair sex is your department. What is your assessment?”
“To be blunt, Holmes, if we are to credit what Mrs. Doyle tells us, her husband is suffering from acute…frustration. The overindulgence in sport, the banjo playing, the literary feuding, for a healthy male in his prime—”
“Enough, Watson,” said Holmes. “Like you, I have concluded that the man is in dire danger of violating his marital vows. The real issue for me, my dear fellow, is your role here. It has never been my policy to pry into your affairs, but just how well do you know your literary agent?”
“Not well, Holmes, though our relations have always been cordial and correct. As fellow medical men we have traded a tale or two of the dissecting room, and Doyle did present me with an inscribed copy of his story collection Round the Red Lamp, but there all confidences end. I am grateful that he continues in his capacity as my agent, despite his rising fame as an author, though again it has been some while since I have put any work his way.”
After believing Holmes had fallen to his death in ’91 in the grasp of his archfoe Professor Moriarty, I was too grief-stricken to publish any adventures beyond that of “The Final Problem.” My friend’s abrupt resurrection three years later provided an additional jolt which reinforced my silence.
“Tell me, Watson. I confess I am ignorant of literary practices,” said Sherlock Holmes, “but why on earth have you not submitted your fanciful melodramas directly to The Strand magazine?”
“Well, Holmes, if you can keep a secret, this chap Doyle has done more than act as middleman. He has touched up my prose here and there, checked details, consistency of names and dates, that sort of thing. After all, he’s a professional, I a mere amateur.”
I was not about to admit that in many instances my agent had been a virtual co-author. Indeed, to safeguard my posthumous reputation, the extent of Doyle’s hand in my own writings must forever remain in mystery.
“Do you, then, have any objections to my assuming Mrs. Doyle’s case?”
“None at all, Holmes.”
“I am sure Mulliner could handle this affair ably enough in my stead.”
“No, Holmes. A lady’s honour is at stake. She trusts only you. If a scandal ensues from your investigation, I am prepared to risk the loss of her husband’s services—of which I may have no real need in future anyway.”
“Good old Watson! How fortunate for your wives to have a man of your loyalty.”
“Thank you, Holmes.”
For a few moments we sat in a silence that was almost comfortable.
“The old queen cannot live forever,” my friend resumed. “Her son, the heir, has already set the moral tone for the new century that looms. With her will pass an age that for all its cant and hypocrisy still upholds the gentlemanly virtues. I suspect, dear fellow, that you and I shall find ourselves increasingly out of step with the laxer times ahead. In the meanwhile, let us put Mrs. Doyle out of her suspense, then join her in a cup of tea.”
—
Later that month the newspapers heralded Arthur Conan Doyle’s return from South Africa, on holiday from his exertions in the Boer War. He was badly in need of rest, so a clandestine message from his wife informed Holmes; though that would not prevent him from coming up to London to play for Surrey at Lord’s. The detective determined that it might be interesting to learn who might be watching among the crowd. “For now I prefer to theorize in the background,” he said before I set off alone for St. John’s Wood. “Besides, Watson, you instinctively appreciate the nuances of a game, like the subtleties of women, which I with my logical mind find completely baffling.”
In truth I was fond of cricket, if more as a casual peruser of the box scores in the pink sheet than as a spectator on the grounds. In the event I welcomed the chance to visit Lord’s, though by the time I entered the gate the teams had adjourned for lunch. I headed for the pavilion, where I nodded to more than a few former patients and consumed strawberries and cream. It was while I was so engaged that I heard a familiar voice at my side.
“Watson, old chap!”
I turned and there stood the tall, athletic figure of my literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle, wearing whites. He looked a bit gaunt but otherwise exuded robust good cheer.
“My dear Doyle,” I said, dropping my spoon. We clasped hands.
“I say, this is a stroke of luck,” my companion began in that solid, precise way of his. “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you since my return from South Africa—a frightful situation there, you know; it’s all in my forthcoming book, The Great Boer War. At any rate, on board the ship home I met a journalist named Fletcher Robinson. Told me the most wonderful West Country legend about a spectral hound.” Conan Doyle winked. “Back in the eighties, I understand, a crime connected with this hound brought a certain private consulting detective—”
“Sounds promising, Doyle,” I interrupted hastily, “but I’d rather we—”
I disliked discussing business in so public a place, but fortunately the arrival of a third party put an end to this line of conversation.
“Ah, Jean,” said the author, addressing a young woman dressed in a summer frock that showed to advantage her long, slender neck and beautifully sloped shoulders. “I’d like you to meet my client, Dr. John Watson. Watson, may I present Miss Jean Leckie.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Dr. Watson,” said the woman in a Scots accent like a melody. “I used so much to enjoy the adventures of your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes in The Strand. Pray, is there any hope of his return?”
Usually when confronted with this question, as I had been all too often since the appearance of “The Final Problem,” my answer was curt. On this occasion, I have to admit, I was no proof against the charm of my lovely interlocutor’s smile and went so far as to say that I had not ruled out th
e possibility.
We were shortly joined by a fourth individual, a balding young fellow in the colours of the opposing Middlesex team. As tall and strapping as Doyle himself, he was carrying a book.
“Good day, Mr. Doyle,” said the youth, who despite his imposing build had a shy, quiet manner about him. “I hope I’m not intruding. My name is Wodehouse. You may recall you bowled me out for six this morning.”
“Ah, yes, Wodehouse,” replied Conan Doyle with a grin. “One of the stars of the Dulwich eleven your final term, I hear.”
“My friend Fletcher Robinson tells me the two of you met aboard the Briton, Mr. Doyle.”
“Indeed, a capital chap. Spoke highly of you as a cricketer—and as an aspiring journalist.”
“I confess that for the moment I work in a bank, but literature is my great love. I’m a particular fan of yours, Mr. Doyle.” A faint blush mantled the young man’s cheek. “Would you be so good as to sign my copy of your latest book?” Here Wodehouse produced the volume he had under his arm, The Green Flag and Other Stories of War and Sport, by A. Conan Doyle. The author scribbled on the title page with a pen supplied by his admirer.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Doyle.”
“Always glad to oblige a fellow cricketer, my lad. Oh, pardon me, my manners suffered somewhat on the veldt. Allow me to introduce Miss Leckie”—Wodehouse bowed—“and Dr. Watson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. Yet another literary man, are you not? Author of The Adventures and The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes?”
I acknowledged the compliment, though mindful of the fact that if you failed to publish, after a while the public tended to forget you, no matter how keenly they may have received you at first.
Attention soon shifted back to Doyle and his recent writing, then to his musical efforts. “It was I who encouraged Arthur to take up the banjo, to accompany my singing,” said Miss Leckie. “He hasn’t told me yet whether he had the chance to practice in South Africa, though I gather his butler was threatening to resign until his timely departure from England.” She laughed, and we all joined in, no one more heartily than the banjo-playing author himself.
