by Otto Penzler
Watson’s face became flooded with color. He was silent, holding the cigar tight in his mouth.
“The fact of the matter is, my friend, that it is more than three months since you have hidden yourself away, and although you have not left London, you have severed all connections with me. That happened for the first time during our uninterrupted friendship. I presume you were not sick, nor have we had any discord.”
“This, if you like, is a thought, but not a reason. I might have been very much occupied.”
“Just as I thought it was; you were very much occupied with your party. Tell me, Watson, since when is it that you began to spruce, wear such cravats, frizzle your hair, and in general employ methods of rejuvenation? The odor of your perfume is such as I have met in café-chantants only. Besides, where have your streaks of gray hair disappeared to? And why this white flower in your coat-lapel? I remember you never gave a snap for all that. And that gold tooth in your mouth, you didn’t have it before! All this, my friend, forces me to fully presuppose that a woman is at the bottom of it all.”
“I admit that your presumption is not without substantial logic, but it is no proof by any means, Sherlock.”
Watson overcame his confusion, but refused to yield.
“I shall now unleash my last reserves, Watson,” continued the detective unperturbed. “About a month ago, when I was tracing my wife, I found myself, much to my surprise, near your house. Thinking of you, I decided to step in and share with you my affairs. Alas, my friend, you could not receive me because there was a woman in your apartment. I confess, however, never before have I met a female in your house, with the sole exception of your servant-maid who, on that occasion revealed the secret; she was fetching up to your room freshly bought candies, fruits, and flowers. Oh, Watson, how I wished I could share with you then my frame of mind. I, perhaps, would not have been married now!”
“But that happened only about three weeks ago, Sherlock!” surprisingly remarked Watson.
“Yes, and I was married only a week ago. Till then I was busily engaged in an unsuccessful search for my competitor. A strong depression of mind suddenly possessed me and I became doubtful of my suspicion and art and…put on this ring.”
A concentrated silence ensued. Finally, hard pressed and silenced, the doctor meekly brushed away the ashes from his cigar and confessed naively.
“You are right, Sherlock, I am in love!”
“What happened then; you have parted with your sweetheart?”
Watson’s face turned dead white suddenly.
“What makes you think so, Sherlock?”
“I judge by the sadness and disappointment you have expressed about women, and most of all, by the fact that you have come to me. I presume you were overwhelmed with the desire to have a heart-to-heart talk with someone; you felt lonesome, and your first thought, undoubtedly, was about me, your old, reliable friend. Why, you look awfully bad, Watson! I see you have not shaved for several days. I heartily congratulate you, my dear friend, upon the loss of your woman!”
“You are terrible, Sherlock,” declared Watson, and continued sullenly, “Why, I am experiencing now a silent heart-tragedy. I have been searching her for the last ten days, but, alas; as if the earth itself had swallowed her down! I have availed all the methods of sleuthing you have taught me, but without success. Her traces lose themselves somewhere in this neighborhood. Having strayed down here, I ran in to have a chat with you and forget myself a bit.”
Sherlock puffed away at his pipe with great effort, as if vexed by it, and after a short pause, he began with a grimace of anxiety on his face:
“The more searches I conduct, the more convinced I become of how dangerous and deceitful the art of a detective sometimes is. What horrid, strange and incomprehensible concurrences of circumstances there are in our life—concurrences that create a full picture, an illusion of truth, which at the end turn out to be nothing but falsehoods and myths. How many people have been sent to the jails, hard-labor prisons, to the gallows, because of such mistakes of the courts of justice!”
“Why do you say that, Sherlock?” exclaimed Watson, being amazed at the sudden change of subject on the part of the detective. He took the cigar from his mouth and remained agape for awhile; he continued in complete stupor for some time, unable to determine whether his friend was merely joking or spoke in earnest.
“Don’t be surprised, Watson,” calmly continued Sherlock Holmes, without even looking at his guest; instead, he concentrated his eyes upon the edge of his fuming pipe, “even though it may sound unpleasant to you. Haven’t we agreed and concluded long since, that everything in this world is possible, is natural and has its organic reasons? Well, then—only an hour ago you tried to convince me that I should regard the affair with my wife objectively and abstractedly. And so, my friend, I am following your kind advice. But, have you considered, at least for a brief moment, this very strange coincidence, that, when I have been looking for my wife, traces have brought me down to your house, and when you have been searching for your sweetheart, her traces led you straight to me? Of course, this is a mere coincidence, one of those coincidences which usually cause the mistakes of the courts. On the other hand, the very circumstance which brought us together today is misleading us. Now, supposing I were not acquainted with you, I would, even then, beyond all doubts, have entered your house, not in a friendly way, of course, but by means of direct detective indication. Presently, you have come to me also by means of detective indication, although if I were not your friend, you would have been here just the same. And during our conversation I caught the odor of your handkerchief, when you were wiping your forehead, and recalled immediately the redolence of that unknown man’s perfume my wife always brings with her after she returns from her rendezvous. Besides, I have already told you that she also brought with her the smell of cigars; indeed, you are smoking cigars…”
Watson availed himself of the chance when Holmes stopped to fix the ashes in his pipe and turned to the detective:
“You are right, Sherlock, and presently you will convince yourself how curious and amusing the pranks of sleuthing sometimes are. In order to prove to you that my case has nothing to do with yours, I shall relate to you briefly the history of my romance, the beginning of which you know, without any doubt.”
The latter made a move, seated himself more comfortably in his armchair, and with an imperturbed expression on his face, prepared himself to listen to his friend’s love affair.
“Surely, you remember, Sherlock,” began Watson, after he lit up a new cigar, “our last adventure about three months ago, after which we first met today. Perhaps you have by now forgotten that charming young lady with the golden tresses and celestial eyes—the girl that kissed our hands and begged us to save her father, whom the agents of the king’s police were about to seize and arrest. Your genius then manifested itself in its full glory; in half an hour you put the police to shame and made them confess of the rude mistake they had committed. They suspected the poor gentleman, a cashier of the Trade Bank of England, of embezzlement of two thousand pounds sterling, while, as you directly pointed out, it was stolen by his assistant, who lost the money on the stock exchange.”
“I do remember, Watson,” confirmed Sherlock through his pipe, “the investigation was brief, but beautiful. Yes, I remember that well.”
“But I doubt whether you remember the statement the charming young lady had made—about her going to business every morning at 10 a.m. I confess, Sherlock, the young lady has made a powerful impression on me. I fully agree now with those individuals who claim that love is an infectious disease, sometimes more obstinate than malaria. Promptly at 10 a.m. the next morning, I was at her house and walked her over to her place of business. Thank God, it was a long way off and I had plenty of time to enamor myself, more and more, with her exquisite charms. I have thus been escorting her to her place of business every day.
“Sherlock, I was infinitely happy. All this time she fill
ed my life with love, caresses, and sweetness; she respected my principle never to marry, never to bind my fate with another, nor to surrender my liberty and comfort. Suddenly, about ten days ago, she disappeared. I have not found her yet, and while searching for her, false traces have brought me to you, my dear Sherlock. I believe, however, that it was the instinct, rather than the track, that led me here; I must have just felt the need of some counsel from a man like you.”
Sherlock Holmes for several minutes sat with eyes shut. Then he took out the pipe from his mouth, placed it on his knees and then only did he look up to his guest.
“I remember,” said he, “that I could not forget that girl with the golden tresses and celestial eyes. Nor have I forgotten when she had remarked about her going to business at 10 a.m. in the morning, the exact hour when I am eating my breakfast. But you apparently have forgotten that the very same charming girl added also that she is returning from business at 4 p.m., at the time you are accustomed to have your dinner. And, if you, my friend, were wont to escort her every day to the office, then I was escorting her every day from the office to her house. I also have succumbed to the fever of love. In my case, my friend, it ended in a catastrophe: I married her, sparing you from such fate.”
Watson was all white and deeply shaken by the phlegmatic confession of his friend, whose malaise was evinced by the quivering pipe he now held in his hand and with which he beat against his knee, in order to mask his emotions. Nothing interested him more now than his competitor, upon whom he riveted an obstinate look of his dark gray eyes. Both were silent. It is not an easy venture to guess what the outcome would have been of their unusual, stiffened silence, but presently they heard a sound that set both of them to tremble and an unforeseen shadow of uneasiness spread over their faces. That brief moment was nothing short of horror. Both host and guest were aghast. They were ready to run. But fate had decreed that each look into the other’s eyes and that assimilated look brought light into their hearts, and the lacking roads of retreat and exits out of the created situation, led them into a silent agreement. And when the door flung open and into the room briskly entered Mrs. Holmes, the two chums sat like statues, true to themselves, and returned to their school of life.
Mrs. Holmes indeed was very charming. Beside the golden tresses and celestial eyes, her round face, with its soft and delicate colors and shades, seemed almost enameled; it gleamed with moral chastity and cheerful indolence; a sort of elegant naivete, which combined both that which is childish and feminine into one beautiful smile and look.
Smartly dressed and childishly cheerful she stopped suddenly, as if rooted down to the very spot, and after a second of thoughtful gazing at the two friends, she smilingly extended her hand to Watson, exclaiming in her sweet elastic voice:
“Ah, Mr. Watson! I know you! My husband has spoken to me a great deal about you. Besides, I actually could not forget you since the first moment I met you. I had dreamed ever since I married my Sherlock to become acquainted with you more closely. Sherlock had told me a great many fine and interesting things about you, Mr. Watson.”
“Poor Watson is in a quandary,” explained Sherlock calmly, “he was left flat by a woman whom he was madly in love with and, on whose account, he forgot everyone in this world, even me, his bosom friend. He should be appeased, don’t you think so, Mary? I wish you would take upon yourself this task.”
“Poor Mr. Watson,” sincerely exclaimed Mrs. Holmes, as she shot a cunning glance at the sad and silent doctor, who sat in his armchair with downcast eyes.
Sherlock Holmes by now completely regained his composure and watched, not without pleasure, the transpiring scene. He intended, apparently, to carry on his intrigue against his wife, but presently the latter noticed the strange turns of mind on the part of the men and a flash of suspicion flit through her eyes and face.
The spark of animation the young lady brought in with her into the room was suddenly extinguished and all at once a weird silence, which none seemed willing to interrupt, filled up the whole room. Mrs. Holmes began to feel the grip of danger, but could not yet compute its proportion. Finally, Watson could hold out no longer. Determination glowed in his look; the instinct of self-preservation was abetting his desire to put an end to this tormenting situation from which, it seemed, there was no way out. His voice sounded dull, he was staring into the distance:
“Stop that, Mary, Sherlock knows it all…”
Mrs. Holmes turned white at once, and tears appeared in her eyes.
“You did not act fairly, Mr. Watson, not in the least gentleman-like!” was all she was able to utter.
Watson instantly jumped to his feet, as if someone had struck him. His voice quivered now, he was unspeakably agitated.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Holmes,” he exclaimed plaintively, “please do not condemn me; is it my fault that your husband is a great detective?”
During Watson’s brief complimentary praise to the detective, the latter attentively puffed away at his pipe, and having inhaled a goodly portion of smoke, he spoke up in his usual tone:
“Most important of all is that this mystery has at last been brought to a satisfactory conclusion; the whole affair has been cleared up in all its details. I can make you rejoice but at a single fact, my darling Mary, that during my long career as a detective, I have not yet tackled such an enigma.”
Mrs. Holmes somewhat regained her self-possession. Hearing, at last, her husband’s words, she dropped slowly on the edge of the sofa and began:
“Act as you like, Sherlock, but I have not deceived you. When you and Mr. Watson displayed so much interest in me, by saving my father, my whole being became filled with affection for you; the two of you became so dear to me that I began to feel a strong penchant for your society—the society of both of you. That was at the beginning. I was at a loss then, not knowing for whom to show my preference. Were the two of you to come to me together, it would have been much easier for me to decide on either one of you. But right then you two parted, and each one separately made a different impression upon me. In the beginning, when we first met, I did not even suppose that you, Sherlock, had any intentions of marrying me. You proposed marriage to me only three days before our wedding. And because of that, am I to blame that Mr. Watson proved himself to be more ardent and willing than you were, Sherlock? Both of you were aiming at one and the same object, but through different roads. Still, Sherlock, I have not deceived you, just as I have not deceived Mr. Watson, yet you two have made me suffer. You are men, and, therefore, you cannot conceive the heart of a woman when it is filled with gratitude; it begets all sorts of feelings and sufferings. When you proposed to me, I left Mr. Watson immediately because to you, my dear, I had already given away myself, my freedom, and the right over my feelings. You may do as you please, Sherlock, but it would have been far more proper on your part had you informed me of your intentions beforehand, rather than occupy yourself with investigations that permeate our relationship with a spirit of strife and enmity. Sometime in the future I shall relate to you how I strove against your art and I hope that you will extol my contriving spirit, my dexterity and ingenuity.”
The young woman grew silent, encouraged by the address she had delivered, and darting a glance at the men, a shade of crimson unwillingly passed through her cheeks; a current of delight and appeasement filled up her heart. The two friends exchanged furtive glances, and it seemed that, in another second, they would begin to smile.
“It is quite a different task to fathom a woman’s heart and soul,” at last spoke up Watson, with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.
“And a hopeless one!” concluded Sherlock Holmes, as he pressed heartily the hand of the doctor.
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
E. F. BENSON AND EUSTACE H. MILES
LIKE HIS TWO brothers, Edward Frederic Benson (1867–1940) was a master of ghost and horror stories, but his first great success was a society novel, Dodo (1893), which remained in print for more than eighty years.
Its continued sales enabled him to devote himself full-time to writing and he produced a prodigious amount of social satire, notably his series about Emmeline “Lucia” Lucas and Elizabeth Mapp, which was adapted for TV by London Weekend Television as Mapp and Lucia in 1985–1986.
Benson also wrote highly regarded biographies, including the standard one at the time for Charlotte Brontë—more than seventy books in all. While most of his novels of manners and society are now predictably dated, his frequent forays into the realm of supernatural and horror fiction remain high points in the literature. All four volumes of his ghost stories—The Room in the Tower (1912), Visible and Invisible (1923), Spook Stories (1928), and More Spook Stories (1934)—are in print today and still avidly read, with a more recent volume, The Flint Knife (1988), collecting previously uncollected work.
Benson’s collaborator on this excellent parody, Eustace H. Miles (1868–1948), was a British amateur tennis champion who also wrote, among other works, a book on improving memory, How to Remember (1901), and a physical exercise book, Daily Training (1902), with some emphasis on being vegetarian, cowritten with Benson.
“The Return of Sherlock Holmes” was first published in The Mad Annual (London, Grant Richards, 1903).
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
E. F. Benson and Eustace H. Miles
MY FRIEND, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was apparently killed, as the many millions of my readers will remember, somewhere in Switzerland, by Mr. Moriarty. Since then, however, he appears to have been exercising his deductive faculties somewhere down in Devonshire in connection with a large dog painted with phosphorus. So, as the many millions of my readers will already have come to the conclusion that he was not really killed in Switzerland, I may as well tell them, in my usual manner, what really took place between his supposed death and his rather feeble reincarnation at the damp house of the Baskervilles.
