The Final Page of Baker Street

by Daniel D Victor

  With the familiar melodies of holiday carols still ringing in my ears and the violent strains of our recent mystery ebbing from my mind, I began 1912 with little thought of the Sternes, the Leonards, or Lord Steynwood. The New Year had already advanced two days, and there was no cause to make any connection between the harrowing events of the previous months and the stranger who approached my surgery in the early afternoon. The young gentleman in high collar and frock coat arrived just as I was preparing to leave.

  “Dr. Watson,” he asked, consulting a small sheet of notepaper. “Dr. John H. Watson?”

  “Yes, I am Dr. Watson. But, as you can see, my surgery is now closed for the day.”

  He extended a soft hand. “My name is Denis Woodbury, sir. I’m not here as a patient. I am, in fact, secretary to Mr. Cecil Cowper, editor of The Academy and Literature Magazine.”

  “The Academy and Literature Magazine?” I repeated. It took me a moment, but then I recognized the full title of the journal for which Billy had been writing. “Ah, yes, The Academy!”

  “Quite correct, sir,” Mr. Woodbury said stiffly. “If I might get right to the heart of the matter, sir, Mr. R.T. Chandler, whom I believe you know, has been contributing to our publication for more than a year now.”

  I nodded, still mystified by what any of this had to do with me.

  “It appears that Mr. Chandler has listed yourself, Doctor - along with a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, whom Mr. Chandler identifies as a ‘consulting detective, retired’ - as references to his good character. Since Mr. Holmes seems to live in Sussex and you, of course, are right here in London, Mr. Cowper has asked me to have a friendly word with you regarding Mr. Chandler’s recent work.”

  Not having heard from Billy in months, I was more than a bit surprised to be contacted on his behalf. Nevertheless, I ushered Mr. Woodbury into my consulting room. I took the wooden chair at my desk, and he, the one opposite, the seat generally occupied by my patients.

  “Now, sir, what can I do for you?” I asked.

  Mr. Woodbury cleared his throat. “To be perfectly frank, Dr. Watson, Mr. Cowper is greatly concerned with what he calls an ‘obsession’ on the part of Mr. Chandler.”

  Recalling our last exchange with Billy, I could easily imagine where this conversation was leading, but I dutifully asked my guest to explain the nature of this alleged affliction.

  “Mr. Chandler persists in writing some sort of denunciation of Lord Steynwood,” Mr. Woodbury announced. “Some humbug about concealing evidence that reveals the true nature of a number of untimely deaths. Mr. Cowper has encouraged Mr. Chandler to return to the more usual topics he has sent to us. Mr. Cowper has appreciated Mr. Chandler’s essays like “The Genteel Artist” and “The Remarkable Hero” - attacks, as it were, on what Mr. Chandler calls the ‘preciousness’ in literature. Such articles contain the kind of literary analysis that our readers have come to expect from - if I may say - so insightful a periodical as The Academy. In actuality, just this week we are publishing Mr. Chandler’s most recent submission. It is entitled ‘Realism and Fairyland’, and it extols the virtues of idealists who can create beauty out of dust. Mr. Cowper lays proud claim to having printed numerous noteworthy compositions by Mr. Chandler. But, to be perfectly frank, Dr. Watson, crime thrillers, whether real or fictive, have no place in our magazine - regardless of their source.”

  “And how did Mr. Chandler react to your objections?” I asked.

  Here Mr. Woodbury cleared his throat again. “He defends himself by saying that one of the deaths in question is that of Raphael Sterne, the noted novelist. Mr. Chandler argues that Sterne’s importance in the world of belle-lettres should render unnecessary any question of relevance regarding the piece.”

  Although I recognized the disingenuousness in Billy’s explanation, I added my support and that of Holmes in absentia. “It’s only fair to tell you, Mr. Woodbury, that both Sherlock Holmes - who is indeed a consulting detective, the world’s first - and myself, his colleague, have also been involved in solving this very real puzzle that Mr. Chandler has referred to.”

  Mr. Woodbury raised a single eyebrow in apparent disapproval.

  “Does not Mr. Cowper,” I asked, “find merit in the argument that this matter has significant literary relevance?”

  “Absolutely not. In the first place, as I would have thought Mr. Chandler also believed, the lurid work of the late Mr. Sterne is not the kind of high-minded prose we like to promote in our magazine. In the second place, if I may be perfectly frank,” and here, leaning forward, Mr. Woodbury spoke sotto voce, “regardless of Mr. Cowper’s personal feelings, it has been made known to us in the publishing industry - an industry that, although widely scattered, is still a part of Lord Steynwood’s vast dominion - that His Lordship forbids any publication whatsoever of Mr. Chandler’s composition by magazine, newspaper, or book. The appearance of this piece - or even a reference to it - will result in the immediate termination of the publishing house that is responsible - no matter how successful, important, or popular.”

  Mr. Woodbury took a white linen handkerchief from an inner breast pocket and pressed it against his forehead. Despite the coolness of the January air, he was perspiring freely. “Lord Steynwood is a most influential figure,” he proclaimed. “When His Lordship speaks, all Fleet Street listens. And to be perfectly frank, Dr. Watson, I need not remind you that Lord Steynwood has the power to carry out his threat.”

  No, to be perfectly frank, Mr. Woodbury did not need to remind me.

  “I’m not certain how familiar you are with The Academy,” the secretary continued, “but since its merger with Literature magazine about ten years ago, it has undergone a number of changes in ownership and, therefore, changes in editorial philosophy. Thanks to the notoriety that accompanied the controversial friendship between its previous editor, Lord Alfred Douglas, and the writer, Oscar Wilde, the publication can now ill afford any kind of dispute with the so-called ‘czar of the printed word.’ In short, Mr. Chandler has been instructed to cease promoting this notorious piece of his or, to be perfectly frank, his employment will be terminated. His contract rescinded.”

  “And his response?”

  “He resigned.”

  Left of his own volition - that sounded like our Billy.

  “But if he has resigned, Mr. Woodbury, why have you come to see me? Are you not finished with him then?”

  “Mr. Cowper sees promise in the man. That’s why he wanted me to encourage you to speak to Mr. Chandler. Mr. Cowper was hoping that you could talk some sense into Mr. Chandler in order to save the man’s writing career. For rest assured, Dr. Watson, that if Mr. Chandler persists in demanding to make public this murder story of his, he will have no literary future in England.”

  “Ah,” I sighed. “But, you see, Mr. Chandler claims that his independent streak comes from across the ocean. He was born in America, after all. Chicago, to be exact.”

  Mr. Woodbury’s eyes widened. “No, I didn’t know.” He daubed at his brow again, as if preparing himself for a final thrust. “Well, Dr. Watson,” he said, “if Mr. Chandler hopes to become a successful writer and if Mr. Chandler was indeed born in America as you say, then perhaps - to be perfectly frank - he ought to consider going back.”

  Message delivered, Mr. Woodbury returned his linen to his inner breast pocket and appeared ready to rise. Yet he did find it necessary to make one last point. “You know, Doctor, Lord Steynwood’s hand is far-reaching. And while I possess but a limited familiarity with the publishing industry, I do feel confident in predicting that Mr. Chandler’s narrative will never see the light of day - even if he does return to America. Between us, Doctor, I’ve heard it said that Lord Steynwood will be certain that no hint at all of Chandler’s connection to the Sterne case will ever be published. Anywhere.”

  His final arrow seemed aimed at me. “For that matter, Dr. Watson, I
would also be surprised if any reference about a connection between Raymond Chandler and you and this Mr. Sherlock Holmes ever appears in print.”

  With these last words left to reverberate in my head, Mr. Woodbury stood up, nodded in my direction, and exited.

  I watched him close the door. When he was out of earshot, I called after him, “And a Happy New Year to you too, sir.” Then I locked the surgery and, having lost interest in my usual luncheon and nap, shuffled aimlessly into the house.

  * * *

  In late April of 1912, news of the Titanic’s sinking a few weeks before still dominated the newspapers, usurping much talk about anything else. Some observers were predicting that a hundred years later people would still be fascinated by the arrogance and madness that led to the demise of so many unfortunates, both rich and poor.

  Despite the power of the tragedy at sea (not to mention the weeks Holmes and I had spent working together on other matters), it was our young friend Billy the page who once again came to occupy our thoughts. He had written to me that he wanted to leave England and return to the United States. At first glance, it might appear that he was following the advice of Denis Woodbury; but in point of fact, just as Woodbury had predicted, Billy was having great difficulty ridding himself of the acrid bitterness, sour disappointment, and burning rage that had so recently been plaguing his writing career.

  At the same time, the resentment in his Uncle Ernest at having to support Billy’s mother was intensifying. Feeling ostracized by the publishing world on the one hand and guilty over his mother’s situation on the other, Billy - now aged twenty-three - asked his uncle to lend him five hundred pounds for the trip to America. With the understanding that once he got established, Billy would repay his uncle (at six per cent interest) and send for his mother, Uncle Ernest agreed; and Billy booked first-class passage to New York on the S.S. Merion, departing from Liverpool on 10 July. All that remained now was a visit to Sussex so Billy could bid a personal farewell to Sherlock Holmes much as Billy had done seven years before when he’d come to Queen Anne Street prior to leaving for the Continent.

  And so it was that on the last Sunday morning in April 1912, Billy and I found ourselves at Victoria Station in preparation for the journey to Holmes’ retirement cottage. Although I had donned my casual tweeds for the weekend excursion, it was obvious that Billy, dressed in a blue-chalk-striped flannel suit, cut no doubt by a West End tailor, was bidding his farewells in style. A straw boater, perched on his head at a rakish angle, sported an old school-tie band. With a gloved hand, he held his silver-headed walking stick, which happily, since all of Billy’s injuries had long since healed, had returned to its rightful role as a simple statement of fashion.

  We greeted each other enthusiastically on the concourse, and soon we were settled in a railway carriage clattering along the tracks to Eastbourne. Although I had travelled by railway to the Sussex Downs many times after Holmes had moved there, I never tired of the trip. Especially exhilarating was the sense of seeing something anew whenever I was accompanied by a companion like Billy, who’d never made the journey before. Once the grimy buildings and soot-covered chimneys of London were behind us, Billy and I could marvel at the spring landscape that surrounded the rails. Soon the rolling hills - some covered in the yellows, blues, and purples of wildflowers, other sprinkled with white sheep and mottled cattle - gave way to thickets and forests, which in turn gave way to the chalky earth and ultimately to the white cliffs overlooking the English Channel.

  With a final shrill whistle, the railway deposited us at Eastbourne. An omnibus pulled by two weary horses slowly transported us to the village of Fulworth. From there, we made our way by dogcart the few more miles to Holmes’ cottage.

  As I have written elsewhere, the welcoming puffs of smoke that emanate from the small red chimney atop Holmes’ little house near the sea promise comfortable respite to the weary visitor. Equally promising is the knowledge that Holmes keeps his beehives well away from his domicile. But most comforting of all is the reassuring crunch one’s boots make while walking along the gravel path to Holmes’ entrance; the crunch signals the end of the journey - it announces that the traveller has actually arrived.

  Although Mrs. Hudson enveloped us both in hugs as soon as she opened the door, she was especially pleased to see Billy. After all, it was she who, having first taken in the lad as a novice, had transformed him into so disciplined a pageboy. With great scrutiny she eyed him up and down. “Aren’t you cutting quite the caper, then?” she teased. At the same time, she brushed some dirt from the dogcart off his sleeve.

  Billy offered a non-committing shrug, but Mrs. Hudson hugged him again.

  “So serious, Billy,” she said. “But then you always were one to ponder matters deeply.”

  In response, he took off the straw hat, straightened some dark strands of his hair that had gone astray, and broke into a broad grin.

  “Oh, those eyes,” she said, “those Irish eyes.”

  It was easy to see that Mrs. Hudson, even at her age, was still completely charmed by Billy’s handsome face and inviting smile.

  I have previously offered details of Holmes’ cottage - the numerous books in his library that sagged the shelves with their weight, the desultory volumes of science and law strewn on various chairs or tables, the cuttings from recent newspapers and magazines waiting to be filed, the scientific detritus like the Petri dishes and test tubes scattered hither and yon. In short, his digs in Sussex had much the same appearance as our old rooms in Baker Street.

  After luncheon, a magnificent rack of lamb prepared with mint jelly by Mrs. Hudson, we adjourned to Holmes’ sitting room for port and smokes. Although Holmes contented himself with his familiar briar, he offered Billy and me a choice of rich cigars that he kept in the same coalscuttle he’d used to similar purpose at Baker Street.

  We puffed away silently for a few minutes. Finally, through a haze of blue smoke, Holmes said, “So, Billy, tell me your thoughts. I’ve heard the explanation from Watson, but in your own words, why this escape from England?”

  Billy coughed once or twice; he really was more comfortable with a lighter tobacco. As he put it, gin and cigarettes were his chosen métier.

  He coughed again and, before addressing Holmes’ question, cleared the air with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been blackballed, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “That swine Steynwood has had it in for me ever since he learned I wanted to publish the true account of what happened to his daughter - not to mention what happened to the other poor souls who met their deaths in connection with the original murder.”

  “And you’re certain,” Holmes said, “that all this resistance you’re encountering is not simply because - you’ll forgive me - your written work doesn’t meet the standards the literary market demands?”

  “Ridiculous,” he scoffed, his voice growing stronger as the smoke dissipated. “I’ll admit I got off to a miserable start with The Express, but The Alleynian has always welcomed my contributions as have The Gazette and The Academy. In fact, The Gazette published my poem, ‘Time Shall Not Die,’ just last week. And this coming June, they’re still planning to run a couple of my articles - an essay and some book reviews, that we had earlier agreed upon. But they’ve told me not to submit anything more, especially not anything having to do with Sylvia Leonard’s murder. I don’t care, of course. It is upon that very subject I vow to focus my literary career. If not here in England, then in the States.”

  “And do you think,” Holmes asked, “that you’ll have any better luck in America? Lord Steynwood controls quite a few presses there too.”

  Billy savoured the port. It seemed to agree with him better than did the cigar. “In truth, Mr. Holmes, I’m ready for something new. I don’t believe I will ever give up writing, but the recent essays I’ve been working on lack the flash that I’m searching for. Writing some of those articles, the ones about l
iterary fops and genteel artists in particular, the ones in which I flay pretentious writers like Raphael Sterne, made me feel better. But you and Dr. Watson have exposed me to crime and murder. You’ve helped me witness a decadent part of human nature that I’d only read about, but never experienced first-hand.”

  Holmes bowed his head, as if accepting some kind of honour; I could think only of the beating Billy had suffered from one of Moran’s hired thugs: “First-hand,” indeed.

  “We’ve never really discussed it before,” Billy continued, “but after you rescued me from my career as Peeping Tom all those years ago, Mr. Holmes, I was forced to confront a side of my nature that I didn’t want to think about: my guilt. Our headmaster, Mr. Gilkes, would never admit that any of his boys could harbour such sordid thoughts as I had while staring at that naked model. And every time I saw Elaine - Mrs. Sterne - it was like looking through that window all over again. I like women, gentlemen. All women. All ages. Those peeks at that nude wench in Dulwich opened up to me a much larger perspective on the rest of the world; the difference between my view through the window of that photography studio and my view through the window on the world is much smaller than I could ever have imagined.”

  Billy laughed as he reflected on his observations; then he picked up his cigar and resumed smoking. He seemed at peace with his new insights.

  The longer I watched him sitting there so complacently, the more I was beginning to understand his psychological development. He was, I realized, sounding more like the emotionally open American he was about to become than like the two traditional Englishmen who were sitting before him and whose tight-lipped judgements he seemed so keen on avoiding.