The thing that has vexed me most about all previous published editions is they contained the same egregious typo in the last line of Watson’s narrative. As written, in regard to Holmes’s directive to Stevenson to leave Holmes and Watson out of his account of the Jekyll case, it read: “I was not very much surprised to learn that he had not forgotten the advice which Sherlock Holmes had given him.” As published in the first Doubleday edition, it read: “I was not surprised to learn that he had forgotten the advice which Sherlock Holmes had given him.” The deletion of that second not made nonsense of the crucial last line and negated the entire premise, suggesting as it did that Holmes and Watson had appeared in the Stevenson version, rendering Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes redundant. Despite editorial promises to correct the error in future printings, it cropped up in every edition published by Doubleday, Penguin, and the Book-of-the-Month Club. The copy you hold is thus the first to contain the correct ending.
Literary legend has it that Stevenson wrote the first version of Jekyll in a delirious three days, under the influence of a nightmare, only to destroy it upon being told by his wife that he had overlooked the story’s mythic potential in favor of creating a lowbrow “crawler.” The version he then wrote is the one which has come down to us. Under the influence of my own premise, I wondered if perhaps the story I sat down to tell was the one Holmes had persuaded Stevenson to abandon. Con men and writers of fiction are equally susceptible to their own pitches.
There is a popular misconception, circulated by critics and scholars who should know better, that the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle passed into public domain some time ago. They are still very much in the control of those who administer his estate. The death-plus-thirty-years rule that governed British copyright law protected all rights worldwide until 1980, but the dates of publication in Collier’s of the later Sherlock Holmes stories continued to shield the characters of Holmes and Watson in the United States until 2000. In the meantime, an international copyright law was passed stating that literary creations will remain the property of a writer’s estate until seventy years after death. The ghost of Sir Arthur is still to be reckoned with; a situation with which I have no problem, except for migraines caused by some of the people I have had to placate. Dame Jean Doyle-Bromet, daughter of Sir Arthur, was a treasure. A number of the supernumeraries who have claimed to speak for her, before her death and after, are disinterred findings of a different type.
My first agent, the late Ray Puechner, bore the brunt of these associations, and confided to me that he had never come closer to quitting Alcoholics Anonymous than he did during and after conferences attendant to receiving permission to publish Sherlock Holmes vs. Dracula. The opinions of the editors at Doubleday were similar. Cathleen Jordan wrote me that when all the feathers had settled and then Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes landed on her desk, with its promise of more confrontations to come, she had to go out for a long walk before she could bring herself to read the manuscript. She liked it enough to join hands once again with Ray and walk back into the Valley of Fear.
My next project was Motor City Blue, the first Amos Walker mystery, but I would not tell Ray what it was about. In those days I didn’t discuss ongoing work, believing that a negative comment would halt my momentum. After the trouble with the guardians of Conan Doyle’s characters, however, I felt compelled to assure him it was not a story involving Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson or Professor Moriarty or any of that lot. Ray’s reply: “If the new one is a Professor Challenger story, I’ll kill you.”
Afterword first published in the 2001 edition.
JOHN. H. WATSON, M.D., M.B., B.S., M.R.C.S., was born in England in 1852, and was friend, confidant, and chronicler of the great detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, whose exploits have served to inspire generations of amateur sleuths around the world since its first publication in the Strand magazine in the late 1890s. In 1878 he took his medical degree at the University of London and shortly after served as assistant surgeon with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Afghanistan. There he transferred to the Berkshires, and was severely wounded in the Battle of Maiwand, after which he left the service and returned to London. While there, he began his long association with Sherlock Holmes, who became the subject of his more than sixty published books and articles. Dr. Watson died in 1940.
LOREN D. ESTLEMAN is a graduate of Eastern Michigan University and a veteran police-court journalist. Since the publication of his first novel in 1976, he has established himself as a leading writer of both mystery and western fiction. His western novels include Golden Spur Award winner Aces and Eights, Mister St. John, The Stranglers, and Gun Man. His Amos Walker, Private Eye series includes Motor City Blue, Angel Eyes, The Midnight Man, The Glass Highway, Shamus Awardwinner Sugartown, Every Brilliant Eye, Lady Yesterday, Downriver, and A Smile on the Face of the Tiger. Mr. Estleman lives in Michigan with his wife, Deborah, who writes under the name Deborah Morgan.
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The further adventures of
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS
by
EDWARD B. HANNA
One
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1888
“It is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself.”
— The Adventure of the Dancing Men
“A perfectly marvelous, gruesome experience,” observed Sherlock Holmes brightly as he and Watson wended their way through the crowds streaming out of the theater into the gaiety and glare of the gaslit Strand. “I cannot thank you enough for insisting that I accompany you this evening, Watson. Rarely have I been witness to a more dramatic transformation of good to evil, either onstage or off, than our American friend has so ably portrayed for us.”
He pondered for a while as they walked, his sharp profile silhouetted against the glow of light. It was the first of September, the night was warm and clinging, the myriad smells of the city an almost palpable presence. London, noisy, noisome, nattering London: aged, ageless, dignified, eccentric in her ways — seat of Empire, capital of all the world; that indomitable gray lady of drab aspect but sparkling personality— was at her very, very best and most radiant. And Holmes, ebullient and uncommonly chatty, was in a mood to match.
“I have no doubt the author was telling us,” he said after a time, “that we are all capable of such a transformation. Or, should I say transmogrification? — such a wonderful word, don’t you think? — capable of it even without the benefit of a remarkable chemical potion; that we all, each and every one of us, have the capacity for good and evil — the capability of performing both good works and ill — and precious little indeed is required to lead us down one path or the other. While hardly an original thought, it is sobering nonetheless.”
But if he found the notion sobering, it was not for very long. He was in particularly buoyant spirits, having just the previous day brought about a successful conclusion to the amusing affair concerning Mrs. Cecil Forrester. And if his hawklike features seemed even sharper than usual, the cheekbones more pronounced, the piercing eyes the more deepset, it was due to an unusually busy period for him, one of the busiest of his career, when case seemed to follow demanding case, one on top of the other, with hardly a day between that was free from tension and strenuous mental effort. Though the pace had taken its toll insofar as his physical appearance was concerned — he was even thinner, more gaunt than ever, and his complexion a shade or two paler — it did nothing to sap his energy or weaken his powers. It was obvious to those who knew him — Watson in particular, who knew him best — that he not only thrived on the activity, but positively reveled in it, was invigorated by it. As nature abhorred a vacuum, he was fond of saying, he could not tolerate inactivity.
Still, Watson was glad to have been able to entice him away from Baker Street for a few hours of diversion and relaxation. Left to his own devices, Holmes would have been content to remain behind, indeed would have p
referred it, cloistered like a hermit amid his index books and papers and chemical paraphernalia, the violin his only diversion, cherrywood and shag his only solace.
Several theaters seemed to be emptying out at once along the Strand, and the street was rapidly filling with even greater throngs of gentlemen in crisp evening dress and fashionably gowned women, their laughter and chatter vying with the entreaties of the flower girls and the urgent cries of the newsboys working the crowd.
“‘Ave a flower for yer button’ole, guv? ‘Ave a loverly flower?”
“Murder! Another foul murder in the East End! ‘Ere, read the latest!”
“Nice button’ole, sir? Take some nice daffs ‘ome for the missus?”
Holmes and Watson elbowed their way through the crowd with increasing difficulty, conversation made impossible by the press and clamor around them.
“Here, Watson, we will never get a cab in all this. Let us make our way to Simpson’s and wait for the crowds to dissipate.”
“Capital idea, I’m famished,” Watson shot back, dodging a pinched-faced little girl with a huge flower basket crooked in her arm.
Holmes led the way, stopping momentarily to snatch up a selection of evening newspapers from grimy hands. Then the pair of them, holding on to their silk hats against the crush, forced their way through to the curb and navigated the short distance to the restaurant, gratefully entering through etched-glass doors into an oasis of potted palms and marble columns, ordered, calm, genteel murmurings, and starched white napery.
It was not long before they were ushered to a table, despite several parties of late diners waiting to be seated; for the eminent Mr. Holmes and his companion were not unknown to the manager, Mr. Crathie, who ruled his domain with a majesty and manner the czar himself would have envied. Shortly after taking their places, they were served a light supper of smoked salmon and capers, accompanied by a frosty bottle of hock.
Conversation between the two old friends was minimal, even monosyllabic, but there was nothing awkward about it or strained, merely a comfortable absence of talk. Small talk was anathema to Holmes in any case, but the two had known each other for so long, and were so accustomed to each other’s company, the mere physical presence of the other was enough to satisfy any need for human companionship. Communication between them was all but superfluous in any case, their respective opinions on almost any subject being well known to the other. And besides, throughout most of the meal Holmes had his face buried in one or the other of his precious newspapers, punctuating the columns of type as he scanned them with assorted sniffs and grunts and other sounds of disparagement occasionally interspersed with such muttered editorial comments as “Rubbish!” “What nonsense!” and, for variety’s sake, an occasional cryptic and explosive “Hah!”
Watson, well used to Holmes’s eccentric ways, resolutely ignored him, content to occupy his time by idly observing the passing scene. The captain and waiters, on the other hand, could not ignore him: An untidy pile of discarded newspapers was piling up at his feet, and they were in somewhat of a quandary over what to do about it. Holmes, of course, was totally oblivious to it all.
“It would seem,” he said finally, laying aside the last of the journals with a final grunt of annoyance as their coffee was served — “It would seem that our friends at Scotland Yard have their work cut out for them.”
“Oh?” responded Watson with an air of disinterest. “What are they up to now?”
Holmes looked at him quizzically from across the table, an amused smile on his thin lips. “Murder! Murder most foul! Really, Watson! Surely you are not so completely unobservant that you failed to take note of the cries of the news vendors as we left the theater. The street is fairly ringing with their voices! ‘Orrible murder in Whitechapel,’” he mimicked. “‘Sco’ln’ Yard w’out a clue.’”
Watson made a face. “Well, I hadn’t noticed, actually. But surely, Holmes, neither bit of information is hardly unusual. There must be a dozen murders in that section of the city every week, and few if any are ever solved: You above all people must be aware of that. What makes this one any different?”
“If the popular press are to be believed —” He broke off in midsentence and laughed. “What a silly premise to go on, eh? Still, if there is even a shred of truth to their rather lurid accounts, this particular murder contains features that are not entirely devoid of interest. But what intrigues me more, Watson — what intrigues me infinitely more at the moment — is your astounding ability to filter from your mind even the most obvious and urgent of external stimuli. It’s almost as if you have an insulating wall around you, a magical glass curtain through which you can be seen and heard but out of which you cannot see or hear! Is this a talent you were born with, old chap, or have you cultivated it over the years? Trained yourself through arduous study and painstaking application?”
“Really, Holmes, you exaggerate,” Watson replied defensively. He was both hurt by Holmes’s sarcastic rebuke and just a little annoyed.
“Do I? Do I indeed? Well, let us try a little test, shall we? Take, for example, the couple sitting at the table to my left and slightly behind me. You’ve been eyeing the young lady avidly enough during our meal. I deduce that it is the low cut of her gown that interests you, for her facial beauty is of the kind that comes mostly from the paint pot and is not of the good, simple English variety that usually attracts your attention. What can you tell me about the couple in general?”
Watson glanced over Holmes’s shoulder. “Oh, that pretty little thing with the auburn hair — the one with the stoutish, balding chap, eh?”
“Yaas,” Holmes drawled, the single word heavy with sarcasm. He examined his fingernails. “The wealthy American couple, just come over from Paris on the boat-train without their servants. He’s in railroads, in the western regions of the United States, I believe, but has spent no little time in England. They are waiting — he, rather impatiently, anxiously — for a third party to join them, a business acquaintance, no doubt — one who is beneath their station but of no small importance to them in any event.”
Watson put down his cup with a clatter. “Really, Holmes! Really!” he sputtered. “There is no possible way you could know all that. Not even you! This time you have gone too far.”
“Have I indeed? Your problem, dear chap, as I have had occasion to remind you, is that you see but do not observe; you hear but do not listen. For a literary man, Watson — and note that I do not comment on the merit of your latest account of my little problems — for a man with the pretenses of being a writer, you are singularly unobservant. Honestly, sometimes I am close to despair.”
He removed a cigarette from his case with a flourish and paused for the waiter to light it, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Watson gave him a sidelong look. “Very well, Holmes, I will nibble at your lure. Pray explain yourself!”
Holmes threw back his head and laughed. “But it is so very simple. As I have told you often enough, one has only to take note of the basic facts. For example, a mere glance will tell you that this particular couple is not only wealthy, but extremely wealthy. Their haughty demeanor, the quality of their clothes, the young lady’s jewelry, and the gentleman’s rather large diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand would suffice to tell you that. The ring also identifies our man as American: A ‘pinky ring,’ I believe it is called. What Englishman of breeding would ever think of wearing one of those?”
Holmes drew on his cigarette and continued, the exhalation of smoke intermingling with his dissertation. “That they are recently come from Paris is equally apparent: The lady is wearing the very latest in Parisian fashion — the low decolletage is, I believe, as decidedly French as it is delightfully revealing — and the fabric of the gown is obviously quite new, stiff with newness, probably never worn before. That they arrived this very evening is not terribly difficult to ascertain. Their clothes are somewhat creased, you see. Fresh out of the steamer trunk. Obviously, their appointment a
t Simpson’s is of an urgent nature, otherwise they would have taken the time to have the hotel valet remove the creases before changing into the garments. That they are traveling without personal servants can be deduced by the simple fact that the gentleman’s sleeve links, while similar, are mismatched, and the lady’s hair, while freshly brushed, is not so carefully coiffed as one might expect it to be. No self-respecting manservant or lady’s maid would permit their master or mistress to go out of an evening in such a state, not if they value their positions and take pride in their calling.”
Watson sighed, a resigned expression on his face. He smoothed his mustache with his hand, a gesture of exasperation. “And the rest? How did you deduce all of that, dare I ask?”
“Oh, no great mystery, really. The man’s suit of clothes is obviously Savile Row from the cut; custom made from good English cloth. It is not new. Ergo, he has visited our blessed plot before, at least once and for a long enough stay to have at least one suit, probably three or four, made to measure.”
“Three or four? You know that with certainty, do you?”
Holmes, who was fastidious in his dress and surprisingly fashion conscious, and the possessor of an extensive wardrobe now that his success permitted it, allowed a slightly patronizing tone to color his reply.
“Formal attire would usually be a last selection; an everyday frock coat or ‘Prince Albert’ and more casual garments for traveling and for weekend country wear would customarily be the first, second, and third choices.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes Page 20
