Sherlock Holmes's
War of the Worlds
by Manly W. Wellman and Wade Wellman
A Warner Communications Company
TWO AUTHORS' NOTES
In the summer of 1968 I was fortunate enough to see A Study in Terror, a splendid movie involving Sherlock Holmes pitted against Jack the Ripper in London around 1890. This is the only film I have ever seen in which the magnificent speed of Holmes's thinking is brought to life with full effect. So effective was the portrayal of Holmes that, as I saw the film for the first time, I suddenly began to ask myself—wondering, indeed, why I had never thought of it before—how Holmes might have reacted to H. G. Wells's Martian invasion. I determined to write a story on this subject and, since I am primarily a poet, felt obliged to ask for assistance. My father agreed to collaborate, suggesting that another Doyle character, Professor Challenger, be included. Our collaboration, "The Adventure of the Martian Client," was published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction for December, 1969.
I then felt that more could be done with the idea and suggested a sequel. Our second story, "Venus, Mars, and Baker Street," appeared in the same magazine for March, 1972. After it appeared, I decided that the account of Holmes's activities in the first ten days of the invasion was far too brief, and that a third story, a sort of inverted sequel, must also be written. By the time this was purchased, we determined to turn the saga into a book, which we now offer to the public, with some additions and revisions.
Incidentally, it seems evident that Wells's The War of the Worlds was to some extent influenced by Guy de Maupassant's "The Horla," although the influence has never, to my knowledge, been observed by a critic. Readers of this saga should take notice of an excellent moving picture, loosely based upon de Maupassant's tale, Diary of a Madman. The bad title has damaged the film's reputation, but the title character, superbly played by Vincent Price, is a man who outwits and destroys a superior being in a fashion well worthy of Holmes. Two motion pictures, then, have played their parts in the various inspirations for these five tales.
I dedicate my part of the saga to my friend Bob Myers, in warm appreciation of the courage, resolution, compassion, and humor which are so nobly outstanding in his character and personality.
Wade Wellman,
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
My partner in this enterprise says he found inspiration while pondering two motion pictures, which I have not seen and cannot judge. But he vividly imagined Sherlock Holmes in The War of the Worlds for both of us. We have seen publication of our short stories about it, and we feel that the whole story was not told. Here is the effort to tell it.
Wells's novel was serialized in Pearson's Magazine, April—December, 1897, and published as a book in London and New York the following January. But Wells spoke from a time in the then future, dating the invasion as "six years ago." My partner, a better astrologer than I, pointed out that the only logical year of the disaster was 1902, in June of which year Mars came properly close to earth; which supplies for us the necessary dates for the other corridor of time in which these things happen, including Wells's viewpoint as of 1908 and publication presumably late that year or early in 1909.
All our labors would be plagiarism, did we not make positive and grateful acknowledgment to Wells's The War of the Worlds and his short story, "The Crystal Egg," which is a supplement to the novel; similarly to the whole Sherlock Holmes canon and to Doyle's The Lost World and other stories about the fascinatingly self-assured George Edward Challenger. Sherlockians both, we have also consulted with profit numerous works in the field and have found particular value in William Baring-Gould's exhaustive and scholarly The Chronological Holmes.
If I may dedicate my share of the present work, let me do so to the memories of the inspiring Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Herbert George Wells.
Manly Wade Wellman,
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
INTRODUCTION
The distinguished career of Sir Edward Dunn Malone in journalism and literature, as well as his brilliantly heroic service in both World Wars, is too well known to need review here. The present volume contains certain of his previously unpublished writings, recently brought to our attention by his literary executor. His account of some aspects of the so-called War of the Worlds, anonymously published some years ago under the title of Sherlock Holmes Versus Mars, now proves to be a greatly modified and abridged version of the original essay found among his private papers. Sir Edward's private correspondence reveals some displeasure at that modification, and it would seem that his fear of similar treatment dissuaded him from offering for publication two other studies of the same event. We have therefore decided to publish the three essays—two of them never published before, the other one presented only in condensed form—as a connected narrative.
It has been thought appropriate to add to them two other accounts by John H. Watson, M.D., which also were previously published in abridged and modified form. In the interests of making the collection more or less complete, there is further included Dr. Watson's letter to Mr. Herbert George Wells, which first appeared as a postscript to the anonymous Sherlock Holmes Versus Mars, but which we here offer as the final section of the volume, in the interests of historical continuity.
-----THE EDITORS
I
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CRYSTAL EGG
by
Edward Dunn Malone
1
It was one of the least impressive shop fronts in Great Portland Street. Above the iron-clasped door was a sign, ART AND ANTIQUITIES. In one of the two small windows with heavily leaded panes a card said RARE ITEMS BOUGHT AND SOLD. The tall man in the checked ulster gazed at this information, then walked in from the cold December afternoon.
The interior was like a gloomy grotto, its only light a shaded lamp on a rear counter. The shelves were crowded with vases, cups, and old books. On the walls hung sooty pictures in battered frames. The tall man paused beside a table strewn with odds and ends and bearing a placard reading FROM THE COLLECTION OF C. CAVE. From an inner door appeared the proprietor, medium-sized, frock-coated, partially bald. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"I hope to meet someone here, Mr. Templeton," said the other. His hawklike face bent above the table. "What are these articles?"
"Another dealer in antiquities died two weeks back. I took these things when his shop was sold up."
The visitor picked up a crystal as big as his fist, egg-shaped and beautifully polished. A ray from the lamp kindled blue flame within it. "What do you ask for this?"
"Cave priced it at five pounds."
"I'll pay that for it." A slim white hand flung back the ulster and from an inside pocket of the gray suit drew a pocketbook and produced a five-pound note. "Don't bother to wrap it."
As the purchaser stowed the crystal in his ulster pocket, another customer came through the front door. He was short and shabby, with truculently bristling gray hair. He stopped and stared at the tall man with suddenly wide eyes.
"Templeton," he blurted out, "did you bring Sherlock Holmes here?"
"I came of my own volition, Hudson," said Holmes coolly. "You have conjectured that I had come to anticipate you. Your powers of deduction, though slight, should tell you the reason for my presence."
"This is Sherlock Holmes?" Templeton was stammering. "Hudson, I assure you I did not know—"
"Nor did Morse Hudson know," interrupted Holmes. "I sought him here on behalf of young Mr. Fairdale Hobbs, whose Cellini ring was stolen."
"You can't prove I took it from him," blustered Hudson.
"My small but efficient organization has helped me trace it to
your possession. Mr. Templeton here should be wary of receiving stolen goods, and I will relieve him of such an embarrassment. I see the ring on your forefinger." Holmes extended his hand. "Give it to me at once."
Hudson swelled with fury, but he tugged the ring free and handed it over. "You're a devil, and no other word for it," he muttered.
"I am a consulting detective, which may mean the same thing to your sort," said Holmes, sliding the ring into the pocket of his waistcoat.
Hudson blinked at Templeton. "Where's that crystal egg?" he demanded. "I heard from a Mr. Wace about it."
"I have just bought it for five pounds," Holmes informed him, smiling. "I wonder, Hudson, how a man of your wretchedly dull esthetic sense could see the beauty of that object."
"You know about it," charged Hudson, glaring. "Shall I tell Templeton here some interesting private matters about you?"
"Do so, if you want me to tell the police some interesting matters about yourself. Suppose you keep silent and hope that I do likewise. I have recovered my client's property so easily that I feel disposed to let the matter rest."
He walked out. Hudson bustled after him into the chilly street.
"I demand that you sell me that crystal for five pounds, Mr. Holmes.
"You're in no position to demand anything of me, Hudson," Holmes said quietly, "but let me give you a word of advice. If ever again you prowl this close to Baker Street below here, for whatever reason, that day will see your shop filled with coldly suspicious men from Scotland Yard, and you will watch its sun set through the bars of a cell. Is that sufficiently clear? I daresay it is."
He signaled a hansom and got in, leaving Hudson to glower helplessly in the wintry air, and rode to the lodgings of Fairdale Hobbs in Great Orme Street near the British Museum. Hobbs was a plump young man, wildly grateful for the return of the ring. It was a family heirloom, he said, and had been promised to the girl he meant to marry. "You recovered it in less than twelve hours," he chattered as he paid out Holmes's fee. "Marvelous!"
"Elementary," Holmes replied, smiling.
Back at his rooms in Baker Street, he rang for Billy, the page boy, and gave him a handful of silver. "Circulate these shillings among the Baker Street Irregulars and give them thanks for tracing that lost ring."
"We've learned something else, Mr. Holmes," said Billy. "Morse Hudson has moved into a new shop. He was heard telling old Templeton that he wanted to get away from your investigations."
"Once I suggested that move to him," nodded Holmes. "Amusing, Billy, how even my enemies act on my advice."
Billy hurried away. Holmes hung up his ulster and took the crystal from its pocket. He had thought of giving it to Martha for Christmas; she loved beautiful things to put on her shelves. But why had Hudson been so interested? Sitting down, Holmes studied it.
Again he saw a gleam of misty blue light within it, shot through with streaks of rosy red and bright gold. This way and that he turned the crystal. At last he drew the curtains to darken the room and again sat down to look at his purchase more narrowly.
At once he found himself sitting eagerly forward and straining his eyes to see better. The blue light had grown stronger, and it seemed to stir, to ripple, like agitated waters. Tiny sparks and streaks of light moved in it, brighter red and gold, with green as well, swirling like a view in a kaleidoscope. Then there was a clearing of the mist, and for a moment Holmes glimpsed something like a faraway landscape.
It was as though he looked down from a great height across a plain. Afar in the distance rose a close-set range of blocky heights, red as terra-cotta. Closer, more directly below, stretched a rectangular expanse, as though of a dark platform. To the side he made out a sort of lawn, light, fluffy green, through which the reddish soil was visible. Then the misty blue returned, blotting out the vision.
A soft knock at the door, and a key turning. Quickly Holmes leaned down to set the crystal in the shadows beside his chair and rose. His landlady came in. She was tall, blond, of superb figure and her red lips and blue eyes smiled. He moved toward her and they kissed.
"Dr. Watson is gone to the theater," she said, "and I thought I would bring in dinner for the two of us."
"Excellent, my dear," said Holmes, drawing her close with his lean arm. "I have been thinking about Christmas for you. I have even decided what I shall give you."
"This first Christmas of the new century," she said. "But should you tell me so far ahead?"
"Ah," and he smiled, "you are breathless to know. Well, that Cellini ring I found for Mr. Fairdale Hobbs is a striking little jewel. What if I should have it duplicated for you?"
"You are too good to me, my darling."
"Never good enough. All right, fetch us our dinner."
She was gone. Holmes went to the telephone and called a number. A voice answered. "Let me speak to Professor Challenger," said Holmes.
"This is Professor Challenger," the voice growled back fiercely. "Who the devil are you, and what the devil do you want?"
"This is Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh," the voice rang louder still, "Holmes, my dear fellow, I had no wish to be abrupt, but I am in the midst of an important work, irritating in some aspects. And I have been bothered by journalists. What can I do for you?"
"There's a curious problem I would like to discuss with you."
"Certainly, any time you say," bawled back Challenger's voice. "You are one of the few, the very few, citizens of London whose conversation is at all profitable to one of my mental powers and professional attainments. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?"
"Suppose we say ten o'clock."
Holmes hung up as Martha Hudson fetched in a tray laden with dishes.
2
Next morning Holmes took a cab to West Kensington and mounted the steps of Enmore Park, Challenger's house with its massive portico. A leathery-faced manservant admitted him and led him along the hall to an inner door, where Holmes knocked. "Come in," came a roar, and Holmes entered a spacious study. There were shelves stacked with books and scientific instruments. Behind the broad table sat Challenger, a squat man with tremendous shoulders and chest and a shaggy beard such as was worn by ancient Assyrian monarchs. In one great, hairy hand was cramped a pen. He gazed up at Holmes with deep-lidded blue eyes.
"Let us hope that I am not interrupting one of your brilliant scientific labors," said Holmes.
"Oh, it is virtually finished in rough draft." Challenger flung down the pen. "A paper I am going to read at the Vienna meeting, which will hold up to scorn some of the shabby claims of the Weissmanist theory-mongers. Meanwhile, I am prepared to devote an hour or so to whatever problem may be puzzling you."
"As you were able to help me so splendidly in the matter of the Matilda Briggs and the giant rat of Sumatra."
"That was nothing, my dear Holmes, a mere scientific rationalization of a fortunately rare species. What is it this time?"
Holmes produced the crystal and told of his experience with it the night before. Challenger took the object in his mighty paw and bent his tufted brows to look.
"There does seem to be some sort of inner illumination," he nodded, frowning. "Will you pull the curtains? I think darkness will help."
Holmes drew the heavy draperies, plunging the room into deep shadow, and returned to look over Challenger's mighty shoulder.
"It has the appearance of a translucent mist, working and rippling," said the professor. "Almost liquescent in its aspect."
" 'Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn,' " said Holmes under his breath.
"Eh?" The bearded face swung around. "What are you saying? What has that drivel to do with the matter?"
"I was quoting a poem," said Holmes.
"Which strikes me as singularly lacking in merit."
Holmes smiled. "It is by John Keats."
"Indeed?" sniffed Challenger. "Well, I have never pretended to critical judgment in matters of that sort. In any case, w
e have no seas here, but a terrain. Look, Holmes."
He had taken a dark cloth from a drawer and cradled the crystal in it. Again the soft radiance of the mist had cleared, and they looked on the landscape which Holmes had seen the previous night.
It was like peering through the wrong end of a telescope, a view small but vivid. There was the great stretch of ground, the distant red-brown bluffs and, below in the foreground, an assembly of rectangles that seemed to be vast, flat roofs. Things moved there, and among the tufts of shrubbery on the sward alongside. Straight ahead, in an ordered row, sprouted up a series of lean masts, each tipped with a glare of radiance, like a bit of sunlit ice.
"Beautiful," said Holmes, enraptured despite himself. "Unearthly."
"Unearthly is an apt description of it," muttered Challenger. "No such scene exists in any land upon earth that ever I heard report of."
The vista fogged over a moment, then cleared again. Now they were aware of what the moving things were. On the ground they seemed to creep like gigantic beetles with glittering scales, while closer at hand, on the roof, several small rounded objects moved here and there. Then, among the masts straight ahead, a flying something, like a moth or bat, appeared. It swooped close, and suddenly a face looked from within the crystal.
Holmes had the impression of wide, round eyes staring deeply into his. Next moment it was gone, and the whole vision with it. Only blue mist churned in the crystal.
"Did you see it, Holmes?" said Challenger, springing up to draw back the draperies.
"I did indeed. Here, I'll write down what I saw on this pad. You might do the same."
Holmes drew a chair to the table, sat down and wrote swiftly. Challenger snorted over his own hurried scribbling. Both were silent for some moments, then exchanged pads. Each read the words the other had put down.
"Then it was no illusion," said Challenger. "We saw substantially the same objects. Perhaps my eye is more scientifically trained, better qualified to observe, but you have written down the rooftop and the remote system of cliffs and the presence of moving, living things. It is now our task to rationalize what this crystal has shown us."
Sherlock Holmes's War of the Worlds Page 1
