by Val Andrews
'Why yes, they both wore grey and had green gloves.'
'There you are, it may be that the second lady was the confidence trickster referred to, whilst the young lady you gave the money to could conceivably have been genuine. You are a good judge of character,st f chara Watson.' He cheered me up a little and I said, 'Alas, we shall never know.'
'On the contrary, if she was genuine she will return your money.'
I couldn't help feeling that taking on the garb of a priest had softened Holmes somewhat.
On the following morning Holmes knocked upon my bedroom door at an unreasonably early hour. I remonstrated. 'Holmes, it is not yet eight, breakfast is not served for nearly an hour. What is making you disturb me so early after we have burned the midnight oil?'
'Good old Watson, as ever unchanged in a changing world! Had I not stirred you I'm sure you would have slept until ten. But we have work to do and your share of it will involve an errand which cannot be too long postponed.'
We were the first to be seated at the breakfast table and Holmes did not even have the decency to allow me to finish my bacon and eggs before explaining his plans.
'Watson I have an errand which will take me to Leicester Square, the purpose of the errand will be revealed to you in due course but I want you to go to Fleet Street to see my friend Richard Hawke at the Daily Falcon office. I will give you a note explaining a favour which I need from him. Naturally I will take you into my confidence and explain to you that which I require leans heavily upon a long acquaintance. I will rely on you to press and explain the urgency of the matter.'
He passed the note to me which I read quickly with, I confess, a growing amazement. 'Holmes, do you really think the matter is important enough to ask Mr Hawke to take such pains?'
He looked at me as severely as his benevolent disguise would allow. 'Watson, you considered it important enough to summon me from the peace of the Sussex coast and become involved in it.' I could think of no answer.
Alas, dear reader, I cannot, at this point, reveal the exact nature of either Holmes's errand or mine. These things will be explained in their proper order lest you might feel like one reading the first and then final page of what is now known as a detective story (a genre quite unknown by that term when Sir Arthur first developed my diaries before the century's turn).
Shadows were growing longer by the time Holmes and I conferred again in the hotel lounge. We compared notes upon our separate expeditions and discovered that all had gone as planned for us both.
Holmes said, 'This may well be the final occasion on which I will be forced to wear this wretched cassock and dog collar. I will be glad to get back to my bees and my books, yes, and above all, my pipes!' He stubbed out one of his seemingly endless supply of Turkish cigarettes.
'Surely it is permitted for a clergyman to smoke a pipe?'
'Have you seen the style of pipe that is in character for a man of the cloth? Most effete and incapable of holding more than a thimbleful of the most stringy and mild tobacco. These Abdullas are at least satisfying without arousing any sort of incongruous appearance. If I am not mistaken I think I can see friend Hawke in the near distance.'
Sure enough the journalist was soon seated beside us, having first placed a copy of the early evening edition of the Daily Falconal>Daily n upon the tea table.
'Mr Hawke, please allow me to pour you a refreshing cup of tea?'
The man from Fleet Street blinked at Holmes, 'I don't think we have met before, padre, yet you know me by name. Watson here asked me to meet him and Sherlock Holmes.'
My friend lowered his voice so that he could speak in his normal tones, 'Come Hawke, I am glad that my disguise is good enough to deceive a sharp-eyed newspaper man!' He glanced at the newspaper upon the table as he poured tea. Hawke soon accepted Holmes's disguise without further show of surprise. He had been on the spot for many of Sherlock's dramatic exploits and more than a couple of aliases.
'As you will see, I did manage to get our printers to run off a single copy of our early evening edition with an altered front-page headline. As you suggested in your letter, I got them to make it the secondary front-page story. I agree that this is more convincing. The death of Sherlock Holmes would make our front page but not our banner headline.'
Holmes nodded and having glanced at the paper he passed it to me. I read it with a sort of dreary fascination. There was a twenty-year-old portrait of Holmes, under the announcement BAKER STREET DETECTIVE DIES! There followed a story (as I am assured they call it in Fleet Street), the first paragraph giving details of Holmes's demise from a heart attack at his home on the Sussex coast where he had resided since his retirement in 1903. His age was given as sixty-nine (which was as near correct as I am able to ascertain). There followed several other paragraphs detailing Holmes's life and career, including highlights of some of his most famous cases and exploits. The article finished, 'Mr Holmes had few close friends but doubtless his passing will be greatly mourned by his close colleague Doctor J H Watson, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who collaborated to bring some of Holmes's greatest triumphs and adventures to the attention of the readers of The Strand magazine.'
Although of course I knew the whole thing to be contrivance - for was not my friend seated beside me - yet the small hairs on the nape of my neck still crept at its realism. I was reminded of that dreadful day so many years earlier when I had been led to believe that Holmes had plunged to his death in mortal combat with his arch enemy.
'It is depressingly convincing Mr Hawke,' I commented.
The newsman smiled, then nodded. 'Then perhaps in return, gentlemen, you would explain to me what it is?'
Between us Holmes and I explained everything about Houdini, the Blackthornes and the involvement of the Conan Doyles to Hawke.
He whistled. 'I understand Houdini's concern - as a pressman - because if my colleagues got wind of all this, I'm afraid his campaign against fraud spiritualists would have floundered without the exposure of the Blackthornes. I know quite a lot about Marina and I can tell you she makes news. Fake or not, she has sold her psychic powers to many a seemingly shrewd person. Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle would just about complete her collection, so to speak. Unless they can be discredited they could certainly harm our tub-thumping friend. Is he going to be with us tonight at this seance given by ... who did you say?' He took out his note book and started to write in it with a pencil (not an ordinary wooden one but a gold-plated patent contraption).
'The Reverend Septimus Carstairs, a simple cleric but enlightened and emancipated enough to be something of a spirit medium. He is my altar ego, if you will forgive the pun!' Holmes replied.
Hawke laughed, 'Well, the reverend gentleman had better have something good up his cassock sleeve if he is going to impress the Blackthornes. But Holmes, what is the point of this seance, whatever its content?'
Holmes leant over, so that his prominent nose was close to the journalist's ear. Speaking quietly he said, 'My dear Hawke, all will become clear to you and I am hoping the events of this evening will resolve the whole affair. All I ask is that you will report the seance and all that happens, including comments of those present, truthfully in your newspaper. The only other favour is that you keep up the deception concerning my demise in front of the Doyles and Blackthornes, to whom it will be a complete surprise. Houdini knows of the deception already and Watson, as my best and only friend, you must of course behave as if you had indeed been bereaved. Though not of course at the expense of the seance. That must go on, come what may.'
Houdini was the next to arrive, soberly dressed in a dark and incredibly creased formal suit. He shook hands with Hawke. 'Why Richard, how nice to see you again. Say did I ever thank you for that great story you wrote about my underwater escape from the Thames?'
Hawke smiled wryly, 'I had an official thank-you note, I believe your wife signed it.'
Houdini examined the fake news article. 'Say that is a real good job! I don't pretend to understand exactly what you hope
to do, Mr Holmes, but if you just want me to play up, I'm your man.'
The Doyles and the Blackthornes arrived together, having evidently dined out as a foursome. After the usual niceties of greetings and introduction to Richard Hawke, the first test of Holmes's whole planned deception occurred.
Doyle was the first to glimpse the news story. He picked up the newspaper. 'Good Lord, is this true, Sherlock Holmes is dead?' After being assured that it was so he said, 'What a sad loss; a fine man, such a magnificent mind. Watson, my dear fellow you, as the one person really close to him, have my very deepest sympathy.'
Lady Doyle looked sad, casting her eyes downward and saying little more than 'God rest his soul'. As for the Blackthornes, Marina was a good enough actress to appear sad but I thought I detected an expression of complete disinterest on the doctor's face.
Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle, being the kindly and sensitive people that they are, were all for postponing the seance. 'Do you really think Watson that we should go ahead under the circumstances?'
Lady Doyle added, 'Yes, Doctor, maybe we should call it off as a mark of respect to your dear friend?'
Houdini took up his cue, 'Oh come on, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have wanted us to cry off on his account!'
They all turned to me to decide upon the matter and, in my turn, I transferred the responsibility to Holmes in his character of the benign cleric, 'I really do believe that Holmes would have wanted us to go ahead, but I will be guided entirely by the Reverend Septimus Carstairs.'
Hirewidth="olmes pressed the tips of his fingers together and pursed his lips in a fine ascetic manner. In a voice as unlike his own incisive tones as can be imagined, a voice which sounded as if it could have filled a cathedral, he announced, 'Dear friends, I have given it some thought but I cannot believe that Sherlock Holmes was the sort of man who would have wished us to change firmly made plans. After all, there is nothing frivolous in what we plan. I may be a spiritualist but I am also a man of God.'
With this matter settled we shortly repaired to the seance room which had again been hired for the occasion. As instructed by the reverend gentleman, we seated ourselves in a semicircle, facing the medium who sat with that same small table before him. He asked if anyone wished to search his person, as had been done with the Blackthornes.
No one wished to do so, in fact Sir Arthur expressed a general feeling when he said, 'If we cannot trust a vicar who can we trust, what?'
There was a little polite and sympathetic laughter to which Holmes responded by saying, 'Dear brothers and sisters, I do not call you ladies and gentlemen because I feel that I know you too well.' Then he put a hand to his lips as if to stifle a belch but, in fact, obviously from embarrassment. Again there was polite laughter and his muttered apology was scarcely necessary. Having recovered his composure he continued:
'As a man of God I have never quite understood the attitude of the Anglican Church toward spiritualism. Surely to make contact with the spirits of the dear departed is a good thing, especially for the bereaved and, indeed in so much as the very existence of the afterlife can be proven beyond doubt, I am of course a mere beginner in this field by comparison with some of you. I do not attempt the sort of manifestations that we witnessed and marvelled at last evening. But I do, once I have entered a suitable and receptive frame of mind which some of you might refer to as a trance, hear voices which can only be of spiritual origin. I converse with them and I feel sure that if I do receive such messages this evening, which I may or may not, that you will find this as fascinating as I do. There is no need for the joining of hands, but I would appreciate absolute quiet and of course I would like the electric light to be extinguished.'
Being nearest to the light switch I snapped it off so that the room was then in complete darkness. We sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes; certainly it seemed that long, before the cleric spoke: 'I am beginning to hear voices, several voices, oh dear, they are all trying to speak to me at once. One of them says that his name is Charlie that he was once a soldier. Did anyone here know a Charlie who was in the British Army?'
It so happened that we had all known a soldier named Charlie at some time or other. Messages were repeated, purporting to be from Charlie, but which one of them was never quite clearly defined. Then a strange voice, obviously that of Septimus Carstairs lightly disguised, was heard, shouting such things as, 'I want to go home. Why am I here?' and 'I'm fed up with the lot of you!' The latter retort surprised us a little, but one had to admit that, compared to Marina's Wallace, Charlie was a mild spirit.
Another long silence ensued, which seemed to go on long enough to cause us concern as to the possibility that Carstairs had silently stolen away. It had been a most disappointing demonstration, with the medium simply speaking in his own and one other voice remarkably similar to his own, uttering a few phrases that seemed to have nkined to ho particular significance.
The Doyles and Blackthornes shuffled in their seats with embarrassment with only Houdini and myself eventually remaining completely still and silent. At last someone spoke. The voice was that of Doctor Robert Blackthorne. 'Perhaps you could try to contact the spirit of Sherlock Holmes?'
There were embarrassed tutting noises from the Doyles and Houdini said, 'Sir, is that quite a nice thing to ask with Holmes so lately passed on and with his good friend Doctor Watson present?'
'Please, sir, do not worry on my account,' I said, 'such a message would comfort me; especially as I do not think my friend had any kind of conviction regarding the hereafter.' I tailed off, hoping to have said the right thing as far as Holmes was concerned.
Evidently I had, for Carstairs said, 'Thank you Doctor Watson, I will indeed try to contact your dear friend, though I imagine it is a little soon for any sort of spiritual presence to make itself known.'
Another silence followed but mercifully, this time, it was a short one. Carstair's voice was heard again, 'If the spirit of our dear brother Sherlock Holmes is present would it please make itself known to us by speaking or giving a sign?' He repeated this invitation two or three times until the whole thing began to be embarrassingly ridiculous. Only respect for the cloth kept our little circle intact.
Then, quite suddenly, a voice was heard, a very distinctive voice entirely unlike that of anyone in the room, in fact probably somewhat unlike that of anyone else upon this planet. It was beyond doubt the voice of Sherlock Holmes. It said, 'You called upon me brother Septimus, so I am answering you. What do you wish to ask me?'
The agitated voice of Carstairs answered, 'Dear brother Sherlock we, your friends, wish to know that you are safe and happy?'
Holmes's incisive tones replied, 'I appear to be safe enough but far from happy as I have nothing to occupy my mind. Watson, dear old friend, I will await your arrival here with impatience but I warn you that there is no tobacco.'
The eerie nature of the situation gripped me as much as anyone, even if I did know that it was not a spirit voice that spoke. No, it was the flesh-creeping drama with which Holmes the superb actor and mimic conducted this ghostly dialogue. The Doyles were greatly affected by it, I could sense, even in the dark. All attempts to observe any sort of silence were now cast aside through the dramatic shock of the situation.
Sir Arthur said quietly, 'Praise be to God that you have been permitted to make contact with us my dear Holmes! You see Houdini there is life after death and it is possible for those on the other side to make contact with us!' Houdini grunted but said nothing.
Then at last Marina spoke, uttering the first words of doubt. 'How do we know that this is the spiritual voice of Sherlock Holmes - or a spirit at all? I for one have never heard Mr Holmes's voice, to me this could be anyone, probably the old boy is a mimic.'
Lady Doyle said, 'Madam, you can take my word for it that we have indeed heard the voice of Sherlock Holmes. My husband and I have heard it so many times!'
I piped up, 'That was Holmes speaking; tak'
It was Robert Blackthorne who struck the so
urest note by saying, 'Well, as Marina and I are unfamiliar with Sherlock Holmes's voice perhaps we too could be convinced by some other sign or manifestation?' There was a mocking note to his voice, as if he genuinely believed that Carstairs was a charlatan.
The vicar burbled and muttered, 'I am just a simple cleric, I have served my purpose in allowing our dear brother to speak with you. I can say no more...I can...Oooh!'
Carstairs appeared to suffering some sort of seizure. Then an incredible thing happened, almost as incredible to myself as to anyone. A faint, eerie blue light picked out the upper half of a figure seated at the table. But it was not the likeness of Carstairs that we saw but that of Sherlock Holmes! He sat as still as a statue, the faint blue glow just enough to make it clear to anyone who had ever seen him or his likeness that this was indeed the figure, or spectre, of Britain's most celebrated detective. The light, although faint, appeared to be directed from below, throwing into deep shadow every cadaverous ravine of his sharp-featured face. A mocking gleam seemed to emanate from his lustrous eyes.
At last he spoke, 'It is good to see you again my dear Watson.'
