by Otto Penzler
“Maybe Mr. Doyle should consider trying the banjolele instead,” suggested the young cricketer.
This sparked more laughter, leading to talk between Miss Leckie and Wodehouse of notable stringed-instrument performers that season on the London music-hall stage. Doyle drew me aside.
“Isn’t she a peach, Watson?”
“Miss Leckie is most congenial.”
“An excellent horsewoman, rides to hounds, trained as an opera singer in Dresden.” The man gave a huge sigh. “I won’t pretend with you, old boy. I’ve already confided in a number of my close friends, as well as my mother. To my immense relief ‘the Ma’am,’ as I call her, has given her blessing. I know how it must seem. But I can assure you—”
That my literary agent should be sharing such a confidence was more than a little disconcerting, even though of course he was confirming the very information I most vitally sought. Perhaps the strain of attending the wounded in South Africa, combined with his excitement at seeing Miss Leckie after so long an absence, explained his lack of reserve. Fortunately, at this juncture Wodehouse interrupted to say he needed to go grab a bite before returning to the pitch. Shortly after he left we were joined by a couple who greeted Doyle like a long-lost brother, which in a real sense he was.
“Ah, Connie, Willie, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Miss Jean Leckie. And this is my client, Dr. John Watson.”
I had never met Ernest William Hornung, better known as E. W. Hornung, chronicler of Raffles, the “amateur cracksman,” and Conan Doyle’s brother-in-law, but I certainly knew him by reputation. While his wife, Constance, caught up with her celebrity brother, I exchanged a few words with my fellow detective-story writer.
“Can we look forward to any new adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson?” asked the man in a facetious tone I found irritating.
“I think not, Mr. Hornung.”
“Come, come, sir. Everyone knows Mr. Holmes has resumed his London practice. It’s been years now. When are you going to reveal how he survived that plunge into the Reichenbach Falls?”
“Some things are best left in mystery, Mr. Hornung.”
“Dear me, Dr. Watson, you are obstinate. If you refuse to honour us with further tales of your detective friend, then I suppose we lesser authors will just have to do our humble best to fill the gap.”
While the exploits of Raffles were all very amusing in their way, they were thin stuff compared with my own. Listening to this man prate, I began to think that perhaps it was time, after all, to “resurrect” Holmes, not that I was about to give my rival the satisfaction of saying so. I made a mental note to talk to Doyle later about that spectral hound legend, assuming we were still on speaking terms after the resolution of the present case.
With relief I turned to the conversation between the ladies, while Doyle reviewed for Hornung some of the finer points of that morning’s match. Mrs. Hornung queried Miss Leckie politely about her family, but it soon became clear that she was more interested in a topic closer to home.
“Where did you say you and my brother met, Miss Leckie?”
“At a party, Mrs. Hornung. My parents were entertaining at the Glebe House, in Blackheath.”
“You say this was in March, Miss Leckie?”
“March three years ago, Mrs. Hornung.”
“To be precise, March fifteenth,” Doyle chipped in, giving Miss Leckie’s hand a quick squeeze. For an instant both Hornungs frowned.
“I see,” said his sister. “Well, we must all have lunch together sometime.”
“Right now you must all excuse me,” said Doyle, looking at his watch. “Play resumes promptly on the hour.”
“Good-bye, then, Arthur. Shall we be seeing you at Undershaw?”
“On the morrow, Connie.”
The Hornungs made their farewells to Miss Leckie. Their frozen smiles, if I am any judge, left behind a distinct air of disapproval. But Miss Leckie, with whom I found myself suddenly alone, seemed not to mind if she even noticed.
“Oh, Dr. Watson, isn’t Arthur the best and wisest man you have ever known!”
—
That evening I returned to Baker Street and gave Holmes my report.
“I must congratulate you, Watson,” said the detective, “for all your discovery has fallen to you like ripe fruit from a tree. Your literary agent proclaims his attachment to this Miss Leckie as nothing less than an open secret!”
“Yes, Holmes, but I am certain it is no liaison, at least not yet.”
“Ah, there lies the nub of the matter. That Doyle has managed to resist temptation for more than three years shows the utmost chivalry. But for how many more years can he or any man in his position hold out? Especially if he must face censorious relatives who could provoke him into doing something rash.”
“One has to sympathize with the poor fellow, Holmes.”
“Sympathy is all very well, Watson, but one has also to act. The situation is in real danger of coming to a crisis. Tomorrow I shall catch the first train for Hindhead, where I think a little undercover work will be in order.”
“Must you go alone, Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson. Were you to accompany me to Surrey and Doyle learned of your presence, he might view your popping up so soon again as rather more than coincidence.”
Over the next few days, in between my rounds, I had ample opportunity to reflect on this complex business. Who was in the wrong and who in the right became less and less obvious the more I considered my literary agent’s predicament, and I could not help wishing that his wife had spared Holmes and me her problem in the first place. I had no word from Holmes. Then, four days after his departure from London, the wire came urging me to meet him at Paddington in time for an early afternoon train to Gloucester.
I arrived on the platform just as the final whistle was sounding.
“Quick, Watson!” shouted Sherlock Holmes from a carriage window. Moments later I was sitting opposite my friend in an otherwise unoccupied compartment.
“Watson, I only pray that we are not too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Let me start at the beginning. Once settled at an hotel in Hindhead, I sought to gain the confidence of one of the staff at Undershaw. This proved difficult, as the Doyles employ no women susceptible to the charms of the rakish alias I had chosen to assume. Then yesterday, by great good fortune, I was out for a stroll on the road to Undershaw when I ran into a tall, husky chap with a widow’s peak. In his hand he had a book, The Green Flag. I struck up a conversation and soon ascertained that he was indeed young Wodehouse, as you had described in such telling detail, down for the weekend at the invitation of his new friend and fellow cricket enthusiast.
“Sensing that here was a young man of character, I decided to take him into my confidence. At first he was hesitant, but in the end he agreed to act as my agent-in-place. Like you, he regards a woman’s honour as paramount. He told me he was aware that Mrs. Hornung had scheduled and then, at the last minute, cancelled a luncheon in the town for herself, her husband, her brother, and an unknown fourth party. I instructed Wodehouse to keep his ears open and report anything of significance.
“Early today Wodehouse rang me at my hotel. Over the billiard table late the night before, Hornung confronted Doyle on the matter of Miss Leckie. His taunts apparently hit home, for Doyle lost his temper and stormed out of the room. Wodehouse, who witnessed the entire ugly exchange, feared for his host’s sanity. He and I agreed to rendezvous within the hour at the same spot as our encounter the previous day.
“Wodehouse had more news by the time we met. Doyle was still in a temper and announced that he had to go away on unspecified business. His guests were welcome to stay at Undershaw. After his departure Wodehouse went into the garden, where he was accosted by Mason, the Doyles’s butler, who also serves as his master’s valet. Mason was extremely agitated and in a mood to talk to someone. Just as I had, Mason must have instinctively recognized Wodehouse as trustworthy. He in
formed Wodehouse of a phone conversation he overheard his master make shortly before he left—in which Doyle reserved a room at the Everson Arms in Gloucester, under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Parker. The man evidently wanted to discuss possible courses of action, but Wodehouse said not to worry and rushed out to meet me.”
“I say, Holmes, where was Mrs. Doyle during all this?”
“Too weak to leave her room, conveniently enough for everyone, so Wodehouse gathered. He never saw her, nor did I attempt to communicate with her. I immediately headed for the train station, while Wodehouse returned to Undershaw, vowing that if he ever became an author of fiction he would be sure to leave physical passion out of it. As soon as I got back to London I wired you and went straight to Paddington; hence here we both are, en route in a possibly futile effort to save a gentleman’s honour and a lady’s virtue.”
Any discussion of how we might thwart the designs of the two lovers we agreed to postpone until we got to Gloucester. Upon arrival we discovered the Everson Arms across the street from the terminal, the sort of down-at-heel establishment that catered to commercial travellers and less reputable patrons. In the shabby lobby we decided that Holmes would inquire at the desk, while I would survey the public room, through a side door by the entrance. There, so as to seem an ordinary customer, I ordered a pint of bitter at the bar. I barely touched the glass to my lips when I heard a hearty voice behind me.
“I say, Watson old chap, this is a coincidence!”
I turned my head and there, beaming over my shoulder, was my literary agent.
“Doyle! My goodness, what a surprise,” I replied, trying to sound as if I meant it.
“What on earth are you doing in Gloucester?”
I took a long sip of my bitter.
“By Jove, I’ve got it. You must be helping your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on a case. Well, I know better not to ask any further. If you aren’t too busy, old boy, might you join us for a little supper?”
Doyle gestured toward a corner table, where I could see two women sitting—one the fair Miss Leckie, the other an elderly woman in black.
“I’ll have to ask Holmes first.”
“It’s quite all right, Watson,” said Holmes, who had suddenly materialized on my other side. “We would be delighted to join Mr. Doyle and…company.”
The two men regarded each other warily and respectfully, as I imagined two gunfighters might have done on first meeting in a Wild West saloon.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr. Holmes.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, sir,” answered the detective mildly. They gripped hands. Sherlock Holmes was evidently willing to give my literary agent the benefit of the doubt, at least for the moment.
Doyle led us to the table, where he made the appropriate introductions—to Miss Leckie and to Mrs. Charles Altamont Doyle, his mother.
“The Ma’am was good enough to join our party at the last minute,” the author explained. “The more the merrier I always say,” he added with a laugh, which may have been a bit forced.
While there was undeniably a certain strain in the air, I have to say that supper passed agreeably. Holmes for one appeared wholly at his ease, discussing prospects in the prize ring with Doyle and the careers of various well-known sopranos with Miss Leckie. The senior Mrs. Doyle said little, presiding over the scene with quiet strength and dignity. As the public area filled up with voluble diners, conversation became increasingly an effort and we all focused on polishing our plates.
Afterwards, as everyone rose and said their farewells, Doyle drew me aside. “I say, Watson,” he whispered. “I almost did a foolish thing tonight. A very foolish thing. Fortunately, the Ma’am arrived when she did, though the devil knows how she found out to intercept us here. An amazingly omniscient woman, the Ma’am. After her lecture on fidelity and chastity, I assured her that Miss Leckie and I would never, as long as Touie…Well, I trust I can rely on your discretion—and that of Mr. Holmes.”
“You can indeed, Doyle,” I promised.
Since we had to maintain our pretence that we had come to Gloucester on other business, Holmes and I lingered at the Everson Arms public bar while the lovers and their chaperone proceeded to the railway terminal, to catch a late train to London. Over a final pint of bitter I recounted Conan Doyle’s parting comments to me.
“A noble husband, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes. “After this recent test of his mettle, I have no doubt the man will keep his word. The question now becomes what, if anything, we tell that saintly soul, his wife.” We finished our pints in silence.
“It has been a long day, old fellow,” announced my friend at last. “I am weary and in no mood to hurry back to London. While Gloucester may boast many respectable inns, I am sure the Everson Arms offers as comfortable a bed as any. They should have at least one available room, following the unexpected departure of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Parker.’ ”
The next day, after a short sightseeing excursion to the Forest of Dean, we rode the train back to Paddington. I accompanied Holmes to Baker Street, where two missives awaited him. The first, a wire dated the previous afternoon, was from Wodehouse, stating that Doyle’s man Mason had cabled Doyle’s mother to alert her to the impending assignation. Mason was confident Mrs. Doyle would do what was necessary. The second was a letter written in a feeble female hand. Holmes read it aloud:
My dear Mr. Holmes,
I hope you will not think too badly of me, but I no longer require your services. While I shall always wonder about the other woman, I now realize that it is quite the best and wisest course not to risk disrupting things as they are. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.
Since his return from South Africa, Arthur has been so kind and attentive to me, while I, confined to my room, have been no use to anyone. This past weekend I was too ill even to receive house guests.
Forgive me my foolishness! With apologies for any unnecessary trouble I may have caused you and Dr. Watson, I am
Sincerely yours,
Louise Hawkins Doyle
“I say, Holmes,” I said, unable on this occasion to suppress a smile. “Like Lady Chiltern in An Ideal Husband, Mrs. Doyle seems now content to await the perfect partner in the next world.”
“Indeed, Watson,” my friend replied, with only a hint of testiness, “though let us not forget the tragic example of the author of An Ideal Husband, who unlike the worthy Mr. Doyle permitted passion to overrule his better judgement.”
Epilogue
The following year I resumed publication of these memoirs of mine with The Hound of the Baskervilles, while P. G. Wodehouse made his first professional magazine sale. In 1902, for his efforts in presenting the British position in the Boer War, Arthur Conan Doyle received his knighthood, though he accepted only reluctantly, at the insistence of his mother. Sherlock Holmes refused a knighthood the same year. Louise Hawkins Doyle died of tuberculosis in 1907. The year after, Sir Arthur married Jean Leckie, who bore him three children. According to his son Adrian, a few months before his death, Conan Doyle left his sickbed unseen to go out into the garden. A few minutes later the butler found him, collapsed in a passage with a heart attack. In his hand he clutched a snowdrop. It had been his custom to observe the anniversary of his meeting Jean Leckie, on the fifteenth of March, 1897, by picking the first snowdrop of the season.
A Night with Sherlock Holmes
WILLIAM O. FULLER
ALTHOUGH VERY WELL known during his lifetime as a journalist, raconteur, and friend of such literary luminaries as Mark Twain and Henry Van Dyke, William Oliver Fuller (1856–1941) is little read today.
Born in Rockland, Maine, he lived there his entire life. He became the postmaster of Rockland (1902–1914) while also working as a newspaperman, having founded the Rockland Courier when he was only eighteen. It was merged with the Rockland Gazette to form The Courier-Gazette in 1882, of which he was the editor and manager for decades. He was presented with the Silver Plaque of the Maine Press Association
in 1937 for being the oldest editor in point of service (sixty-three years).
Known for his charm and wit, he was a successful lecturer, after-dinner speaker, and author. Near the turn of the previous century, he contributed humorous sketches to the New York World with such subject matter as “Unknown Husbands of Well-Known Wives.” He also wrote books: What Happened to Wigglesworth (1901), a comic novel in which the life of man-about-the-house Ellery Wigglesworth is a walking accident waiting to happen, and An Old Town by the Sea (1908), the story of the Thomas Bailey Aldrich Memorial House in Portsmouth, produced when the house was dedicated in 1908. His close friend, Aldrich once described Fuller as the nearest in style to Charles Lamb of any writer he had ever known.
“A Night with Sherlock Holmes” was a paper read by Fuller to the 12mo Club on January 1, 1929. He claimed that he had received the manuscript directly from Arthur Conan Doyle. It was originally published in a limited edition of two hundred copies (Cambridge, Massachusetts, The Riverside Press, 1929). It was first commercially published under the title “The Mary Queen of Scots Jewel” in The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes, edited by Ellery Queen (Boston, Little, Brown, 1944).
A NIGHT WITH SHERLOCK HOLMES
William O. Fuller
IT WAS ONE of those misty, rainy mornings in early summer when the streets of London contrive to render themselves particularly disagreeable, the pavements greasy with mud and the very buildings presenting their gloomy façades wreathed in a double melancholy. Returning from a professional call and finding Baker Street in my way, I had dropped in on my friend Sherlock Holmes, whom I found amid the delightful disorder of his room, his chair drawn up to a fire of coals and himself stretched abroad in it, pulling at his favorite pipe.
