Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

  In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled to his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chattering jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said,

  “You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God is my witness I have never done any man harm!”

  A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was my work, mother! The tidings of your death can some day repeat the misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him, and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up and don’t be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the opposite of that muscle. They did everything they could think of to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who is a clever strategist, said,

  “If it’s only Sherlock Holmes that’s troubling you, you needn’t worry any more.”

  “Why?” asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly.

  “Because he’s dead again.”

  “Dead! Dead! Oh, don’t trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is he dead? On honor, now—is he telling me true, boys?”

  “True as you’re standing there!” said Ham Sandwich, and they all backed up the statement in a body.

  “They hung him in San Bernardino last week,” added Ferguson, clinching the matter, “whilst he was searching around after you. Mistook him for another man. They’re sorry, but they can’t help it now.”

  “They’re a-building him a monument,” said Ham Sandwich, with the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew.

  “James Walker” drew a deep sigh—evidently a sigh of relief—and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. “Old” is the right word, and a pity, too; old by the droop of him, and the frost upon his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face; though he is only in his prime in the matter of years. While he ate, we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.

  The “Wrong Man’s” Story

  It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don’t—but it isn’t any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—years and years before—in the East.

  I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was all disordered by fear, and I didn’t know. I was allowed very little time—only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was published, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said. It is always the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake they are sorry, but it is too late—the same as it was with Mr. Holmes, you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run away until it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then I escaped in the night and went a long way off in the mountains somewhere, and lived disguised and had a false name.

  I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear on any subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up, because my head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits and more voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the night, then in the day too. They were always whispering around my bed and plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged out, because I got no good rest.

  And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, “We’ll never manage, because we can’t see him, and so can’t point him out to the people.”

  They sighed; then one said: “We must bring Sherlock Holmes. He can be here in twelve days.”

  They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my heart broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and tireless energies.

  The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the middle of the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written “Dagget Barclay” in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and keen, and I read the true name through the scratches, and fled like a deer.

  He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—the Pacific states, Australasia, India—everywhere you can think of; then back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any rest; but that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left of me is alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me, yet I give you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.

  That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-heat, be sure of it. As for me—each word burnt a hole in me where it struck.

  We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest and Hillyer’s. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as he is well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabilitate his fortunes.

  The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowship handshake of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.

  At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich called us softly out, and said, privately,

  “That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has spread all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from everywhere, and are going to lynch the P’fessor. Constable Harris is in a dead funk, and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!”

  We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they chose, but in my heart’s privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in time; for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the sheriff, but for reassurance’s sake I asked,

  “Can he stop a mob?”

  “Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I should smile! Ex-desperado—nineteen scalps on his string. Can he! Oh, I say!”

  As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along. Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and at last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal roughs from Daly’s gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the calmest man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was master of it and no sign of it was allowed to appear.

  “Come to a vote, men!” This from one of the Daly gang, Shadbelly Higgins. “Quick! is it hang, or shoot?”

  “Neither!” shouted one of his comrades. “He’ll be alive again in a week; burning’s the only permanency for him.”

  The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thunder-crash of approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and closed around him, shouting, “Fire! fire’s the ticket!” They dragged him to the horse-post, backed
him against it, chained him to it, and piled wood and pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips.

  “A match! fetch a match!”

  Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone caught, a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to catch the sound of distant hoofs—it grew more distinct—still more and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another, stooped, and again the flame rose; this time it took hold and began to spread—here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The hoof-beats turned a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout—

  “The sheriff!”

  And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse almost on his hind feet, and said,

  “Fall back, you gutter-snipes!”

  He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground, and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly, and said,

  “Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick the fire away. Now unchain the stranger.”

  The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech; sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impressively disrespectful.

  “You’re a nice lot—now ain’t you? Just about eligible to travel with this bilk here—Shadbelly Higgins—this loud-mouthed sneak that shoots people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there’s anything I do particularly despise, it’s a lynching mob; I’ve never seen one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one before it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It’s made up of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine times out of a hundred the sheriff’s another one.” He paused—apparently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it—then he went on: “The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America last year. By the way it’s going, pretty soon there’ll be a new disease in the doctor books—sheriff complaint.” That idea pleased him—any one could see it. “People will say, ‘Sheriff sick again?’ ‘Yes; got the same old thing.’ And next there’ll be a new title. People won’t say, ‘He’s running for sheriff of Rapaho County,’ for instance; they’ll say, ‘He’s running for Coward of Rapaho.’ Lord, the idea of a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!”

  He turned an eye on the captive, and said, “Stranger, who are you, and what have you been doing?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing anything.”

  It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name made on the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He spoke up with feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader’s heart by the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under the Stars and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the name of the whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow, and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the mob and said,

  “Hunt your holes, you scum!” which they did; then he said: “Follow me, Shadbelly; I’ll take care of your case myself. No—keep your pop-gun; whenever I see the day that I’ll be afraid to have you behind me with that thing, it’ll be time for me to join last year’s hundred and eighty-two”; and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.

  When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time, we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up in the night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.

  V.

  Ten days later—“James Walker” is all right in body now, and his mind shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow morning.

  Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station— As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: “Keep this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb his mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of was really committed—and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the real criminal the other day—the unhappiest man that has lived in a century—Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!” There, mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my father is in his grave. Let him rest.

  The Cat of the Bunkervilles

  “Boothcut Hoyle”

  During 1901-02, The Hound of the Baskervilles was serialized in The Strand. Even if it didn’t mean his resurrection, the return of Holmes was still celebrated, as in this story from the April 10 edition of To-Day, the weekly magazine founded by Jerome K. Jerome of Three Men in a Boat fame. Readers of the previous volume will recall that Jerome was Conan Doyle’s friend who introduced him to skiing in Scandinavia. Note that like “The Book of 1900,” the author threw in appearances from Captain Kettle and Dr. Nikola.

  (Note:- The Jury returned a verdict of “Suicide while temporarily insane”, adding a rider to the effect that the relatives of the deceased Mr. Boothcut Hoyle should have limited his reading to the ordinary Board School curriculum. We print the concluding portions of the MSS. which has come into our hands, without further comment.-Ed.)

  As we crouched there behind the great rock, we could see the fog spreading itself over the moor like a wad of cotton wool, and coming towards us we could hear the “scrap, scrap” of four paws beating the earth. The fact that I am a doctor as well as a novelist prevents my saying that my heart was in my mouth. But I felt sincerely ill. As for Holmes, not a muscle of his face moved, though his heart beat. His great reputation was at stake. Readers of The Strand Magazine would have nothing more to do with him if Captain Kettle, who was strolling unconsciously down the track into the fog, were killed. It was an awful situation for any man, and I flatter myself I can turn out some pretty hot situations when I’ve got my back up.

  Suddenly, the great animal, mewing fiercely, sprang past us down the track towards the doomed Kettle. It was a horrible sight. With the diabolical ingenuity of a Preparatory school boy, Dr. Nikola had painted the whiskers of his great cat with phosphorescent paint, thus giving it the ghost-like appearance of a cat with whiskers painted with phosphorescent paint. Holmes darted forward, emptying his revolver into the hindquarters of the animal. But, as his six shots missed, they had no effect.

  At the sound of the sixth report, I saw Captain Kettle turn. As he stood there outlined against the mass of fog, with his cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his hands in the side pockets of his white drill coat, he reminded me more strongly than hitherto of the well-known tobacco advertisement—a peculiar resemblance which had at first given Holmes his clue as to the villainy perpetrated by Dr. Nikola. In previous chapters, I have already explained the subtle connection between the Imperial Tobacco Company, Ogden’s Tobacco, Nicotine, and hence Nikola and his cat, which enabled the great detective’s subtle brain at once to grasp the mystery of the Bunkervilles. Seeing Kettle standing there, I wondered that I had never guessed the solution before.

  While these thoughts were whirling through my brain, the loathsome tabby drew ever nearer and nearer to its prey. Kettle gave a shriek, as loud as the steam whistle of one of his favourite tramps, rapidly changed his cigar from the left corner of his mouth to the right, and turning, fled.

  At this terrible juncture, Holmes’ wonderful presence of mind did not forsake him. Running swiftly in the tracks
of the animal, he gave vent to such a miraculous imitation of a cat’s-meat man that the beast, just as it was about to spring on Kettle’s white drill coat, stopped, turned round, and in another minute was rubbing itself against the great detective’ leg, purring softly. Without a tremor, Holmes took the animal into his arms.

  “My dear Watson,” he said, as I came up breathless, “you will observe the utility of our late study of zoology, which puzzled you so much. You will remember that I drew your attention at the conclusion of those studies to an old and ancient discovery—that by gently rubbing the nerves beneath the chin you can immediately render the fiercest cat as tame as a domesticated fowl.”

  “And now, my dear Captain,” he continued, turning to Kettle, who had joined us, “will you tell me why you carry milk in your flask instead of the usual fluid?”

  “See here, Mr. Holmes,” began Kettle with a frown.

  “Pardon me,” said Holmes, whipping the flask out of the astonished Captain’s pocket and pouring a little of its contents into the hollow of his hand. “Ah, just as I thought, fresh milk. Dr. Nikola is an able criminal. This animal has been deprived of milk for four days and would therefore naturally follow the man it believed to be the milkman. And now, gentlemen, we will retrace our steps. We have yet to deal with Nikola!”

  In the deserted hall was a letter addressed to Holmes. He tore the envelope open and a theatre ticket dropped to the floor. Holmes read the short missive and then handed it to me. He was deeply moved.

  “Have also been dramatised—at the Princess’s. I enclose a box ticket.—Nikola.”