The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes

by Marvin Kaye

  The next morning, arising late, I learned from Mrs. Hudson that Holmes had been up and away hours earlier without informing her as to where he was going or when he could be expected back. This left me free to continue preparations for my American journey by calling at the Foreign Office to arrange my travel documents, to take care of paperwork at the American embassy and to consult with an official of my banking firm, Cox & Company, regarding my financial situation, including drawing up a letter of credit to allow me to open banking accounts in the United States. I also provided instructions to Cox & Company concerning what was to be done, should anything untoward happen to me while in America, with a box I kept in the firm’s vault which contained certain valuable documents and other papers of a most sensitive nature involving myself and Sherlock Holmes.

  Many hours after I returned to Baker Street and long after Mrs. Hudson had wearied of keeping Holmes’s dinner warm and edible did Holmes return, announcing his arrival by barging into the sitting room and blaring, “The mystery is nearly resolved, Watson! And a fancy little problem it has been. There remains but one loose end, and that will be neatly knotted at one o’clock in the afternoon tomorrow.”

  With that, he bounded into his bedroom and closed the door, a signal that I had quickly learned, soon after moving in with him, meant that I was not to disturb him under any circumstances. However, he did take me into his confidence in the morning to this extent. Over breakfast he whispered, “I can tell you this, Watson. The old woman in the picture is not a Russian. She is Serbian. More than that I cannot share with you at this time, except to say that Mr. Whistler’s amusing and ironic little theft could have resulted in one of the gravest crises in the already troubled situation on the European continent. Be here at two o’clock and I will explain it all!”

  Promptly at that hour, he entered the sitting room to find me as eagerly intent on hearing him as I had been to listen to Oscar Wilde speak about America.

  “I began, as you would have imagined, I’m sure,” he said, “by paying a visit to the Gordon Gallery in Sloane Street. Mr. Gordon had a vivid memory of the sale of the painting, not only because it nearly went for a paltry one pound and not because it had been bought at two by the renowned James McNeill Whistler. He remembered the event because another buyer for the work showed up at the gallery some three hours after Whistler carried it away to Tite Street.”

  “So that’s how the thief knew Whistler had the painting! Mr. Gordon told him.”

  “No, Watson. Although Mr. Gordon was offered a great deal of money to reveal the identity of the purchaser, he refused to give out that information. He is a businessman of deservedly high reputation. The person who stole the painting knew it had come into Whistler’s possession because the thief’s own agent was present when Whistler bought it. That the picture was stolen from Tite Street was pure chance. It would have been stolen from whoever had bought it at the auction. Everything had been organized in a manner to ensure that the individual who had been ordered to buy the painting—the man who showed up late—could not do so. He was late because he had been interfered with. I now know who is the mastermind behind this charade because I confronted him with what I knew at one o’clock. He admitted everything.”

  “Excuse me, Holmes, but you’ve lost me. Mastermind?”

  “I do not choose my words lightly. The man who arranged this theft is one of the most brilliant minds in England, perhaps the world. Little happens of importance in which his presence cannot be detected behind the scenes, manipulating!”

  “And you know this man’s name?”

  “As well as I know my own, Watson. But don’t ask me to divulge it. The time may come when I may feel I may safely take you into my confidence concerning him. But not now. As to any idea you might be entertaining about writing about this adventure, I must insist you reveal nothing of it so long as I am breathing under the sun. You may make notes and store them in that box at Cox and Company, but you must not publish any of this for years to come—if ever. As to the painting itself, it was produced by a pedestrian artist who specializes in what may be charitably called folk art.”

  “How on earth did you learn that?”

  “Mr. Gordon is quite knowledgeable. He recognized the brush of a man called Vukcic, who primarily paints rural scenes in the Balkans. I located that man late yesterday and interviewed him. In this instance, his subject was a farm woman in Montenegro. Are you up on the recent history of that region?”

  “Certainly, Holmes. Even out in Afghanistan we were keenly aware of the war between Serbia and rebels in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Prince Nicholas of Montenegro intervened on the side of the rebels, declared war on the Turks and, allied with Russia, came out of the crisis by seeing Montenegro’s size tripled under the terms of the Treaty of San Stefano in 1878. It is a widely held view among my friends at the War Office that the treaty is not the end of the troubles in the Balkans. Some of the generals are convinced that the treaty has planted seeds of trouble in the near future. They believe the area is destined to explode into a European war of immense, possibly catastrophic, proportions.”

  “Bravo, my friend. That’s it exactly!”

  “But what has all this to do with Whistler’s painting?”

  “It’s what’s beneath the painting that is the crux of it.”

  “Beneath it? What do you mean?”

  “Before Mr. Vukcic rendered the likeness of the old woman, he inscribed on the canvas nothing less than a detailed map of the deployments of Serbian and Montenegran armies in the region.”

  “The man is a spy! The scoundrel!”

  “Exactly.”

  “For whom does he work?”

  “His services are available to the highest bidder. In this instance, it was a representative of imperial Germany. It was an agent of the Kaiser who was to have purchased the painting at the auction at the Gordon Gallery. He surely would have succeeded had not our nameless mastermind learned all this through his own agents and taken steps to delay the Kaiser’s man from arriving in time to outbid all others at Gordon’s auction.”

  “Then it was simply a matter of this mysterious, all-knowing individual following whoever bought the painting and making off with it himself. What a clever boots!”

  Holmes chuckled. “I assure you this wily fellow did not perpetrate the theft himself. This man hardly ever leaves the comfortable surroundings of his headquarters in Pall Mall. No, it was one of his agents who carried out the theft.”

  “But what’s to be done, Holmes? Surely, Scotland Yard must be brought in on this. The Foreign Office must be informed. The War Office! The fate of Europe—of England—is at stake!”

  “I expect that they have been fully informed, Watson. All, that is, save Scotland Yard. This is not the sort of thing that the man at the Diogenes Club would ever entrust to the likes of an Inspector Lestrade! As to the fate of England and Europe, you needn’t worry yourself. They are in such competent hands that I’m confident in predicting that upon your return from America you will find both intact. And I do hope you will return soon, old man. I’ll be lost without my Boswell!”

  Historical Notes: Oscar Wilde’s lecture tour of America took place in the latter months of 1882 and early 1883. At that time, Whistler resided in Tite Street and Sargent spent most of his time in Paris, as Watson correctly reported. He was also accurate in relating the events in the Balkans, as were his unnamed sources in the War Office in predicting that the Treaty of San Stefano planted seeds for a monumental war. It began with an assassin’s bullet, fired in 1914, in the city of Sarajevo. Students of the Holmesian Canon will note that many years would go by before Holmes finally let Watson know that the secretive fellow who frequented the Diogenes Club was his brother Mycroft, although in this adventure he gives a slight hint of him when he tells Watson that he knows the name of the story’s mystery man “as well as I know my own.”

  Scholars of Nero Wolfe will note that the artist who painted the picture at the heart of this case has the
same surname as the best friend of Rex Stout’s immortal sleuth.

  Whether John Singer Sargent painted Sherlock Holmes’s portrait is not recorded either by Dr. Watson or Sargent’s biographers.

  Scandal still sells newspapers, but nowadays reputations are more likely to be made than broken by the tongues of rumour. Not so, however, in Victorian and Edwardian England. Imagine, therefore, Watson’s diffidence in making public certain details concerning his own literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930). Doyle was himself a renowned and masterful author of historical novels (The White Company), fantastic tales such as “The Captain of the Pole Star” and that classic novel about living dinosaurs and other prehistoric beasties called, guess what? The Lost World.

  The Adventure of the Noble Husband

  BY PETER CANNON

  In surveying the many cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes in which I had the privilege to participate, I confess that I have often been torn whether or not to publish the results. More than once in my eagerness to set a stirring story before the public I have, to my shame, shown scant regard for the privacy of Holmes’s more illustrious clients. Still, I am confident I know where to draw the veil. I doubt that I shall ever release the full facts regarding Ackerley, the bigamous banana king, who for years maintained a household in Richmond and a “secret orchard” in Castlenau, with neither family the wiser. Tawdry affairs such as this one are best left to moulder in their year-books on the shelves. And yet there are a few cases in this sensitive category which beg for disclosure, if only long after the eminent parties involved have passed on. Such was the adventure of the noble husband, a matter that threatened to destroy not only the good name of one of Britain’s most revered authors but also my relationship with my literary agent.

  One summer afternoon in the year 1900, finding myself in the vicinity of our old Baker Street lodgings after a professional call, I decided to drop by 221B. Mrs. Hudson informed me that a client had just arrived, but as Holmes customarily welcomed my presence at these interviews I did not hesitate to mount the stairs. In the sitting room I discovered Sherlock Holmes listening to a small, respectably dressed woman with a plain, pale face—an utterly unprepossessing type such as one might pass on the street with scarcely a glance.

  “Ah, Watson. I would like you to meet Mrs. Hawkins,” said my friend. “I trust you won’t mind, Mrs. Hawkins, but Dr. Watson often does me the courtesy—”

  “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I’m afraid I . . .” The stranger rose from her chair, her wan cheeks suddenly flushed. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to conceal a cough. Then it struck me; I knew this woman, though not under the name of Mrs. Hawkins. As soon as she recovered her composure, she spared us both further embarrassment by introducing, or rather I should say, reintroducing herself.

  “It’s Mrs. Doyle, Dr. Watson,” she said, extending a tiny hand. “We met once years ago, through my husband, who I believe still acts as your literary agent.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite so,” I answered. Her palm trembled in mine. “I regret, however, that it has been ages since he and I last met. How is Mr. Doyle, if I may ask?”

  During the silence that ensued, only the sound of Holmes thrumming his fingers against his chair could be heard.

  “I am very sorry, madam,” the detective said at last, “but if you are indeed the wife of Arthur Conan Doyle, the historical novelist and, more to the point, my colleague Dr. Watson’s literary agent, you present me with a potential conflict of interest. I cannot help you.”

  The woman gave a little gasp.

  “I could refer you, if you wish. A Mr. Adrian Mulliner—”

  “Oh no, Mr. Holmes, only you can help! Forgive me. Hawkins is my maiden name. I feared you would dismiss me without a hearing if I had revealed my identity immediately. You must understand. I’ve come all the way from Hindhead. For months I’ve been in agony over whether or not to seek you out. Please, Mr. Holmes, allow me at least to finish my story.”

  With these words the woman sank back in her chair and began to cry quietly into her handkerchief. Again she coughed, in a manner that suggested some serious lesion of the lungs. I hardly dared look Holmes in the eye. One would have to be a heartless fiend to ignore her distress.

  “Very well, madam,” Sherlock Holmes said gently. “As I had barely time to note that you are fond of animals and devoted to your children, a girl and a boy if I am not mistaken, before Watson here arrived, you might as well repeat for him what you have already confided to me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, her tears now dried. “You are truly a gentleman. As I said before, we met fifteen years ago in Southsea, Portsmouth, on account of my brother Jack, one of Arthur’s resident patients. Alas, poor Jack proved to have cerebral meningitis and succumbed within weeks. In my bereavement I naturally turned to Arthur for consolation, and he responded with a warmth that betrayed a deeper sympathy. We married that summer, and a kinder, more protective husband no woman could dare dream for, Mr. Holmes. If you have read my husband’s book The Stark Munro Letters, you may have gained some notion of the sweet, affectionate home life that was ours in those early days.”

  Holmes’s hooded eyes flickered in acknowledgment, though I was certain he had never opened The Stark Munro Letters, let alone any of the popular works penned by my literary agent. For my own part I was doing my best to stifle a smile, despite the gravity of the woman’s narrative, as it was not every day that a client failed to express instant astonishment at one of my friend’s personal deductions. Mrs. Doyle was either very simple—or very clever.

  “This idyll, like all perfect things, could not last, I regret to say,” our visitor continued. “First, in ’93, I was diagnosed with consumption. My quiet life became enforced. In the autumn of ’96 we moved from London to Surrey, for the sake of my health. That first spring in the country, Arthur started to behave oddly. At the time of our engagement he warned me that he tended to long silences and that I mustn’t mind, but thoughtful contemplation soon all but gave way to mournful brooding. Of late, when not withdrawn in silence, Arthur has been full of restless energy. He has taken up the banjo, practicing for hours, despite an obvious lack of musical aptitude. As for golf and cricket, games at which he excels, he now plays them with an enthusiasm more befitting a youth half his age.”

  “Pardon me, madam,” interrupted the detective, “but just how old is your husband?”

  “Arthur turned forty-one in May.”

  “Pray go on.”

  “He has grown increasingly irritable, too. While patient and paternal as always with me and the children, he has allowed himself to get drawn into silly literary feuding.”

  “A pity, madam, but perhaps not so surprising for a man who has advanced in his career from provincial doctor to world-renowned author.”

  “You may be right, Mr. Holmes, but there’s more.” The woman coughed into her knotted handkerchief, then took a deep breath. “In March, just before he left for South Africa—”

  “South Africa?” interjected Holmes.

  “Yes, to join a field hospital as unofficial supervisor.”

  “Most admirable. Pray continue.”

  “As I was saying, this past March I observed Arthur unawares in the garden at Undershaw, our house in Hindhead. He picked a snowdrop and carried it into the library. After his departure I examined his shelves and found pressed between the leaves of a volume of romantic verses three snowdrop flowers—one fresh, the other two dried and withered.”

  My friend leaned forward, eyes glinting. This was the kind of curious detail he relished.

  “Oh, Mr. Holmes, a man does not do such a sentimental thing unless he is in love—in love with another woman!” With this the woman broke into sobs.

  “What do you propose I do, madam?” said Sherlock Holmes after a decent interval.

  “Please determine whether or not my Arthur remains true.”

  “And if I confirm your worst fears?”

  “Oh, I do not know, Mr. Holmes, I do n
ot know. I am ill, sir, gravely ill. My time draws short in this world. You must believe that Arthur’s happiness matters more to me than my own. That he has found room for another in that great heart of his I can accept. But, as long as I live, I shall not abide his being unfaithful!”

  Our visitor resumed her sorry weeping. I was deeply moved, and despite the mask of the perfect reasoner he affected, I knew my friend could not be untouched by such pure and intense emotion.

  “Where is your husband now, madam?”

  “On his way back from South Africa. His ship, the Briton, is due to dock next week in Plymouth.”

  “Ah, then we have some time.”

  “Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes!”

  “Please, Mrs. Doyle. Before I can give my assent, I must first consult Dr. Watson on the ethics of my taking you on as a client. If you wouldn’t mind waiting downstairs, I dare say Mrs. Hudson should already have the water on the hob for tea.”

  After further expressions of gratitude, the woman put on her shawl, which was covered with cat hair, and gathered a shopping bag marked with the emblem of Hamley’s toy emporium, containing, I saw as I held the door for her, a doll and a set of tin soldiers. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Since I so rarely travel to London these days,” she said, smiling at her purchases, “I feel obliged to bring home something for Mary and Kingsley to show my expedition has not been unfruitful.”

  We stood listening to her dainty tread fade down the steps. Then the detective collapsed into his chair, his features unfathomable. A minute passed before he spoke:

  “Well, Watson, as I have said to you in the past, the fair sex is your department. What is your assessment?”