20The borough of Wandsworth, on the south bank of the Thames, contains a large number of factories and breweries. When Mr. Melas was dropped off at Wandsworth Common, the wide, green expanse would have been ringed by comfortable two- and three-storey villas of yellow and red brick. Among Wandsworth’s notable former residents are Voltaire, Edward Gibbon, William Makepeace Thackeray, and Oscar Wilde, who in 1895 served part of his sentence at Wandsworth Prison after being convicted of homosexuality.
21Why did Mycroft not tell Sherlock immediately? Ronald Knox intimates some ulterior, perhaps sinister, motive, explaining, “The case was clearly urgent; here you had a man starving; Mycroft, for all his indolence, would surely have called in his brother if he had not been squared in the interests of the villains.”
22Knox points out that even before Mycroft consulted Sherlock, he advertised in the papers for information—a step that seems foolish and even dangerous, as it would have immediately alerted the culprits to Mr. Melas’s lack of discretion about what he had witnessed. Yet Knox sees this as further evidence that Mycroft, too clever to make such a naive error, was in league with the villains: “He was in effect sending a signal to his accomplices in Beckenham, to say, ‘Your secret is out, and the police are already on your track. Charcoal for two.’ ”
23A broad-pointed pen. The letter “J” probably referred to the size of the nib. Harrod’s 1895 catalogue, for example, offered “J,” “G,” and “R” pens by various manufacturers. However, some theorise that it refers to the shape of the nib, and, adding further mystery, most J pens have the letter “J” embossed or engraved on the stem.
24In hot pursuit of his theory that Mycroft was behind this entire affair, Ronald Knox ponders the elder Holmes’s actions preceding the discovery of Melas’s second kidnapping. Why, he wonders, had Mycroft chosen this particular day to visit Sherlock for the first time in his life? And why had he not picked up Melas on his way? He must have had prior knowledge that another kidnapping attempt was imminent and realised that his presence at the nearby Diogenes Club might look suspicious. “An alibi was indicated,” charges Knox, and “what better alibi than to take a cab, and rejoin his brother in Baker Street?”
25Knox concludes his argument by suggesting that Mycroft initially advocated visiting J. Davenport in Lower Brixton (“Do you not think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock . . .”) in order to waste time, so that the charcoal fumes might have eliminated Melas before help arrived. Was Sherlock taken in by Mycroft’s conduct? Knox believes not. While Sherlock says nothing, “it is probable,” Knox asserts, “that Sherlock knew a good deal about his brother’s nefarious associations, and was at pains to conceal his knowledge.” Knox’s assertions of Mycroft’s villainy are considered further in the notes to “The Final Problem.”
26The villains’ choice of charcoal fumes—with its strange, almost cinematic (not to mention inefficient) effect—seems a puzzling one, especially in light of the fact that they had clearly already dealt Melas a “vicious blow.” Yet they are hardly alone in their folly, as D. Martin Dakin marvels: “It is an odd thing how many of the scoundrels with whom Holmes had to deal seemed unable to resist the temptation to dispose of their victims by some complicated and lingering process which left them a chance of escape. . . .” Well after Holmes’s adventures ceased to appear in the Strand Magazine, of course, countless criminals depicted in print and film continued to make the same mistake.
27Regarding the question of who sent the newspaper cutting, D. Martin Dakin considers the possibilities: Sophy herself knew nothing of Holmes or his involvement, and there is no known connection between “J. Davenport,” who replied to Mycroft’s advertisement, and Hungary. Yet perhaps the cutting arrived not from the city of Budapest but merely from a Budapest newspaper, mailed to Holmes by a source closer to home. Dakin is yet another who sees the crafty elder Holmes’s hand everywhere: “Mycroft, who in the course of his duties (at that time unknown to Watson) had to keep an eye on the foreign press, [must have seen] the item, cut it out, and sent it to Sherlock.”
THE NAVAL TREATY1
The longest of all of the “short stories” penned by Dr. Watson, “The Naval Treaty” is a case brought to Watson by a classmate from prep school days. Percy “Tadpole” Phelps has risen high in the Foreign Office, and a treaty has been stolen from his office. Although suffering from the euphemistic “brain fever,” Phelps begs Watson to bring in Holmes. When Holmes recovers the treaty, based primarily on his careful observations of the two key locations involved, Holmes cannot stop himself from revealing his success in a cruel but dramatic manner. But while the treaty is unquestionably recovered, scholars speculate that Holmes may have missed the real “brains” behind the crime. If Watson’s physical descriptions of the characters are accurate, there is reason to suspect that Holmes was deceived and that the real villain went unpunished.
THE JULY WHICH immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable by three cases of interest, in which I had the privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the headings of “The Adventure of the Second Stain,” “The Adventure of the Naval Treaty,” and “The Adventure of the Tired Captain.” The first of these, however, deals with interests of such importance and implicates so many of the first families in the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or has impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known specialist2 of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon what proved to be side-issues. The new century will have come, however, before the story can be safely told.3 Meanwhile I pass on to the second on my list, which promised also at one time to be of national importance and was marked by several incidents which give it a quite unique character.
“The Naval Treaty.”
E. S. Morris, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, March 3, 1912
During my school-days4 I had been intimately associated with a lad named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself, though he was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant boy and carried away every prize which the school had to offer, finishing his exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on to continue his triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I remember, extremely well connected, and even when we were all little boys together we knew that his mother’s brother was Lord Holdhurst, the great Conservative5 politician.6 This gaudy relationship did him little good at school.7 On the contrary, it seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy8 him about the playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket.9 But it was another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won him a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed completely out of my mind until the following letter recalled his existence:
Briarbrae, Woking.
MY DEAR WATSON:
I have no doubt that you can remember “Tadpole” Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in the third. It is possible even that you may have heard that through my uncle’s influence I obtained a good appointment at the Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation of trust and honour until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast my career.
There is no use writing the details of that dreadful event. In the event of your acceding to my request it is probable that I shall have to narrate them to you. I have only just recovered from nine weeks of brain-fever and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live in this state of horrible suspense. Assure him t
hat if I have not asked his advice sooner it was not because I did not appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare not think of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am still so weak that I have to write, as you see, by dictating. Do try to bring him.
Your old school-fellow,
PERCY PHELPS.
There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So moved was I that even had it been a difficult matter I should have tried it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive it. My wife agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the matter before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.
Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown and working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved retort10 was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner,11 and the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his investigation must be of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited. He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally brought a test-tube containing a solution over to the table. In his right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.
“You come at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains blue, all is well. If it turns red, it means a man’s life.” He dipped it into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson. “Hum! I thought as much!” he cried. “I will be at your service in an instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the Persian slipper.”12 He turned to his desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw himself down into the chair opposite and drew up his knees until his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.
“Holmes was working hard over a chemical investigation.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1893
“A very commonplace little murder,13 said he. “You’ve got something better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel14 of crime, Watson. What is it?”
I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated attention.
“It does not tell us very much, does it?” he remarked as he handed it back to me.
“Hardly anything.”
“And yet the writing is of interest.”
“But the writing is not his own.”
“Precisely. It is a woman’s.”
“A man’s, surely,” I cried.
“No, a woman’s, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the commencement of an investigation it is something to know that your client is in close contact with someone who, for good or evil, has an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened in the case. If you are ready we will start at once for Woking15 and see this diplomatist who is in such evil case and the lady to whom he dictates his letters.”
We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and in a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods and the heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large detached house standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes’ walk of the station. On sending in our cards we were shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where we were joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man who received us with much hospitality. His age may have been nearer forty than thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that he still conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous boy.
“I am so glad that you have come,” said he, shaking our hands with effusion. “Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah, poor old chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother asked me to see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very painful to them.”
“We have had no details yet,” observed Holmes. “I perceive that you are not yourself a member of the family.”
Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he began to laugh.
“Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket,” said he. “For a moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph Harrison is my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I shall at least be a relation by marriage. You will find my sister in his room, for she has nursed him hand and foot this two months back. Perhaps we’d better go in at once, for I know how impatient he is.”
The chamber into which we were shown was on the same floor as the drawingroom. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as a bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near the open window, through which came the rich scent of the garden and the balmy summer air. A woman was sitting beside him, who rose as we entered.
“Shall I leave, Percy?” she asked.
He clutched her hand to detain her. “How are you, Watson?” said he cordially. “I should never have known you under that moustache,16 and I daresay you would not be prepared to swear to me. This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“A young man very pale and worn.”
W. H. Hyde, Harper’s Weekly, 1893
“ ‘I won’t waste your time,’ said he.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1893
I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her hand in that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a little short and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black hair. Her rich tints made the white face of her companion the more worn and haggard by the contrast.
“I won’t waste your time,” said he, raising himself upon the sofa. “I’ll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I was a happy and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my prospects in life.
“I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and through the influence of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign minister in this administration he gave me several missions of trust, and as I always brought them to a successful conclusion, he came at last to have the utmost confidence in my ability and tact.
“Nearly ten weeks ago—to be more accurate, on the twenty-third of May—he called me into his private room, and, after complimenting me on the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new commission of trust for me to execute.
“ ‘This,’ said he, taking a grey roll of paper from his bureau, ‘is the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy17 of which, I regret to say, some rumours have already got into the public press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to learn the contents of these papers. They should not leave my bureau were it not that it is absolutely necessary to have them copied. You have a desk in your office?’
“ ‘Yes, sir.’
“ ‘Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give directions that you may remain behind when the others go, so that you may copy it at your leisure18 without fear of being overlooked. When you have finished, relock both the original and the draft in the desk, and hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.’
“I took the papers and—”
“Excuse me an instant,” said Holmes. “Were you alone during this conversation?”
“Absolutely.”
“In a large room?”
“Thirty feet each way.”
“In the centre?”
“Yes, about it.”
“And speaking low?”
“My uncle’s voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at all.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes; “pray go on.”
“I did exactly what he indicated and w
aited until the other clerks had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had some arrears of work to make up, so I left him there and went out to dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my work, for I knew that Joseph—the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just now—was in town, and that he would travel down to Woking by the eleven-o’clock train, and I wanted if possible to catch it.
“Then take the treaty.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1893
“When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of such importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration in what he said. Without going into details, I may say that it defined the position of Great Britain towards the Triple Alliance,19 and foreshadowed the policy which this country would pursue in the event of the French fleet gaining a complete ascendency over that of Italy in the Mediterranean. The questions treated in it were purely naval. At the end were the signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced my eyes over it and then settled down to my task of copying.
Contemporary copying machine.
“It was a long document, written in the French language,20 and containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I could, but at nine o’clock I had only done nine articles, and it seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from the effects of a long day’s work. A cup of coffee would clear my brain. A commissionaire remains all night in a little lodge at the foot of the stairs and is in the habit of making coffee at his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working overtime. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.
The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Short Stories: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (Non-slipcased edition) (Vol. 1) (The Annotated Books) Page 87
