Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

  “So far so good. And—”

  “Later still the plot deepened. Why, when I was retailing to you the steps that led up to the arrest of the Norwood builder by the impression of his thumb, I found a very great surprise that you were not listening at all to my reasoning, but were lilting a very sweet—a very sweet tune, Watson—‘The Flowers of the Forest’; then I in turn consulted an authority on the subject, and found that that lovely if tragic song had a special reference to Selkirk. And you remember, Watson, how very enthusiastic you grew all of a sudden on the subject of Common-Ridings, and how much you studied the history of James IV, with special reference to Flodden Field. All these things speak, Watson, to the orderly brain of a thinker. Hawick, Galashiels, and Selkirk. What did the combination mean? I felt I must solve the problem, Watson; so that night when you left me, after we had discussed the ‘Tragedy of a Divided House,’ I ordered in a ton of tobacco, wrapped my cloak about me, and spent the night in thought. When you came round in the morning the problem was solved. I could not on the accumulative evidence but come to the conclusion that you contemplated another Parliamentary contest. Watson, you have the Border Burghs in your eye!”

  “In my heart, Holmes,” said Watson.

  “And where do you travel to on Saturday, Watson?”

  “I am going to Selkirk; I have an engagement there to open a Bazaar.”

  “Is it in aide of a Bridge, Watson?”

  “Yes,” replied Watson in surprise; “but how do you know? I have never mentioned the matter to you.”

  “By word, no; but by your action you have revealed the bent of your mind.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Let me explain. A week ago you came round to my rooms and asked for a look at ‘Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome.’ (You know I admire Macaulay’s works, and have a full set.) That volume, after a casual look at, you took with you. When you returned it a day or two later I noticed it was marked with a slip of paper at the ‘Lay of Horatius,’ and I detected a faint pencil mark on the slip noting that the closing stanza was very appropriate. As you know, Watson, the lay is all descriptive of the keeping of a bridge. Let me remind you how nicely you would perorate—

  When the goodman mends his armour and trims his helmet’s plume,

  When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom,

  With weeping and with laughter still is the story told—

  How well Horatius kept the bridge, in the brave days of old.

  “Could I, being mortal, help thinking you were bent on some such exploit yourself?”

  “Very true!”

  “Well, goodbye, Watson; shall be glad of your company after Saturday. Remember Horatius’ words when you go to Border Burghs:—‘How can man die better than facing fearful odds.’ But there, these words are only illustrations. Safe journey, and success to the Brig!”

  Bannerman’s Bridge in Selkirk, built with the help of proceeds from the bazaar.

  1904

  Despite his bitter experiences running for Parliament in 1900, Conan Doyle agreed to try again as a Liberal Unionist candidate in the next election. Instead of Central Edinburgh, he would campaign for a seat in the Border Burghs, consisting of the Scottish towns of Galashiels, Hawick, and Selkirk. For the next two years he visited the area. He opened bazaars. He spoke at dinners and open-air meetings. For a week in June, he led a team from the Marylebone Cricket Club against the local clubs. Repeatedly, he promoted his support for the Boer War and tariff reductions on imports from the Colonies and his opposition to free trade with the rest of the world.

  Meanwhile, he finished the new round of Holmes stories. “The Golden Pince-Nez,” and “The Missing Three-Quarter” were written in March, “The Abbey Grange” in April and “The Second Stain” shortly thereafter. With that chore out of the way, he began thinking about a prequel to The White Company, creating a saga that would encompass what he thought of as “the greatest epoch in English History.”

  Otherwise, Conan Doyle stayed away from his desk. There were rounds of golf and cricket to be played. The public man had to be fed with appearances on behalf of groups such as the Boys’ Empire League, the Bradford Textile Society, and the Compatriots’ Club. He joined the Crimes Club and attended debates about notable criminal cases. He welcomed the Marylebone cricket team’s return from a tour of Australia at one dinner and encouraged better relations with the United States at another.

  He also continued investigating the new hobby of motoring. He had bought a 10-horsepower Wolseley in 1902 and learned to drive, but not without mishaps along the way. In March, with his brother Innes at his side, he clipped the Undershaw gatepost and overturned the car. Innes was thrown clear, but Conan Doyle was pinned underneath. Only the timely arrival of help kept him from a crushed spinal column. Undeterred, he ordered a more powerful model later this year.

  He also continued to see Jean Leckie, a relationship entering its seventh year. His love for his “tender & loving helpmate” has grown, he wrote his mother, and he was proud of Jean’s courage in enduring his “difficult position.” “I should think that our case was about unique,” he boasted.

  Publications: Holmes stories in The Strand: “The Adventure of the Priory School” (Jan.); “The Adventure of Black Peter” (Feb.); “The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton” (March); “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons” (April); “The Adventure of the Three Students” (June); “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez” (July); “The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter” (August); “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” (Sept.); “The Adventure of the Second Stain” (Dec.).

  Jean Leckie.

  Sherlock Holmes

  A.H. Hamilton

  This ditty, based on an Irish jig called “Top of Cork Road” or “Father O’Flynn,” appeared in the Feb. 13 issue of Tit-Bits. Its author could not be identified.

  We’ve many detectives of great personality

  Famous for hunting down crime and rascality;

  But still there’s none of them reached the finality

  Of Sherlock Holmes, who’s the king of them all.

  CHORUS:

  Here’s a health to you, Sherlock, my boy,

  Tales of whose deeds fill our hearts with such joy;

  Smartest clue scenter

  And best crime preventer,

  And ’cutest thief tenter in all the wide world.

  Don’t rave of your experts in crime that’s political,

  Nor of your savants with minds analytical,

  For I would say, without being too critical,

  Our Sherlock Holmes would make sport of them all.

  All evil-doers have heard of his fame,

  Shake in their shoes when one mentions his name;

  Right from the flyest one down to the shyest one,

  Fear of him lies on their hearts like a pall.

  CHORUS: Here’s a health, etc.

  Who but yourself could have found out so handily

  All of the facts in the murder at Mandily;

  Proved that the murderer must have walked bandily

  Just by the prints of his feet on the floor?

  Then you just picked up a thread from his vest,

  Analyzed that, and it told you the rest,

  Told you his weight, and the foot that he ate, and

  How he had done the foul deed, and lots more.

  CHORUS: Here’s a health, etc.

  Though yet you’ve not entered the state matrimonial,

  Gladly we’d help you at that ceremonial,

  See you installed in a manor baronial,

  Enjoying the fame you’ve so worthily earned.

  Then, as the little ones grew up around,

  In the home circle you’d shine, I’ll be bound,

  Study paternity down to eternity,

  And other joys that you’ve hitherto spurned.

  CHORUS: Here’s a health, etc.

  Why Musical Comedy Has No Plot

  “C. O’M.”
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  This appeared in the April edition of The Playgoer: The Illustrated Magazine of Dramatic Art, which covered London’s theatrical offerings. The author and artist could not be identified.

  The epidemic of crime among the crowned heads of Europe having abated somewhat, my friend Mr. Potluck Bones, the greatest detective in the world, was able to give a little of his precious time to the affairs of ordinary mortals. For some years, Bones had refused to undertake a case for anyone under the rank of a Grand Duke, but a rise in the price of tobacco had compelled him to alter his rules of business. I am afraid that Potluck was getting cynical. Humanity, he declared, was too good and too dull. Intellect counted for nothing, for Scotland Yard had developed an irritating habit of arresting the criminal while Potluck was making deductions, and clients only paid according to results. My friend’s great talents were in danger of being lost in the abyss of the commonplace when the celebrated case of The Hi-ti Girl came to the rescue. It was Potluck’s first theatrical adventure, and therefore I have taken the liberty of transcribing the notes I made at the time.

  We were seated at breakfast one spring morning when our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, entered, and announced that a gentleman in a fur coat desired to see Potluck. As it was only four o’clock—Bones insisted upon breakfasting at this hour—the visit was unexpected.

  A Gentleman in Fur Coat to See Potluck.

  “Who can want to see you at this hour?” I couldn’t help saying. “And a man in a fur coat, too!”

  “Oh, he’s either a millionaire or a theatrical manager, one never knows. You remember my monograph on ‘Coats and Crime’? Show the visitor up, Mrs. Budson,” continued Bones, as he put on a yellow dressing gown in order to appear like his photographs. “Where’s my fiddle?”

  Potluck had scarcely assumed his well-known pose, when the door was violently thrown open, and a stout, fat-faced individual rushed in and sank in a half-fainting condition upon the floor, knocking the table over with him.

  “Pick him up,” said Potluck, lighting a pipe. “It’s obvious that the poor man is excited—it’s too early for him to be drunk.”

  By this time, our visitor had recovered, and Bones motioned him to a seat. The fellow seemed reluctant to obey, however, and I had a suspicion that he had overheard Potluck’s last remark. The same idea must have struck my friend, for he casually picked up the poker and continued to toy with it until the stranger deposited himself upon the electric chair.

  “Now, Mr.—I didn’t quite catch your name,” began Bones.

  “I am Mr. Plantagenette Bailey of the Legall Theatre,” he exclaimed, brandishing what looked like a menu card, but turned out to be his visiting card.

  “Well, Mr. Balley, what can I do for you?” said Bones blandly. “I presume you did not call to consult me about the weather, eh?”

  “No, sir. My business concerns my profession. For twenty years, I have kept the sacred lamp of musical comedy burning. It is in danger of going out, and I want you to prevent that. Will you assist me?”

  “I should like more particulars,” said Potluck, dropping into a chair and apparently going to sleep.

  “Last Saturday week,” continued Mr. Bailey, “I produced a new musical comedy, The Hi-ti Girl. It went strong, sir, very strong, but the critics say that there is no plot in the piece. I maintain that there is; and I want you to prove my case.”

  I trembled for my friend’s reputation, for I instinctively guessed that this would be too much for him. But I did not know that Bones was more than mortal. No case could be too difficult. It is true enough that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, but Bones got there before either the fools or the angels.

  “You want me to discover the plot of a musical comedy?” exclaimed the great detective, stretching himself out and yawning. “I wasn’t aware that musical comedies had plots.”

  “Those produced by me are remarkable for their plots, sir,” replied the manager with dignity. “I pride myself upon their complexity. It has been my endeavour to provide a plot that the audience cannot discover until the third act. What they think of the fourth doesn’t matter.”

  “Then why have a fourth act?” I observed.

  “My dear, sir,” he replied with a pitying smile, “how ignorant you are of theatrical matters. We must amuse the members of the audience while they are putting their coats on.”

  “With regard to this musical comedy of yours,” interrupted Bones. “What is the principal feature of it—a dance or a song?”

  “Well, there are plenty of both,” Mr. Bailey answered. “But the greatest draw is Scooping the Scoop.”

  “What’s that?” said Bones.

  “The leading comedian, dressed in an inflated rubber costume, jumps from the roof to the stage. His attire causes him to rebound and re-bound. I tell you,” exclaimed the manager enthusiastically, “it’s the surest draw in town. You see, it is difficult to stop the man, and on three occasions we’ve had to puncture him with a pitchfork before he’d stop. The process lost us two fine comedians.”

  Dressed in an Inflated Rubber Costume.

  “Resigned, I suppose?” said Bones.

  “No—buried. They were punctured at the wrong moment. It was the fault of our lancer. He happened to be a little unsteady with the pitchfork. A regrettable business, certainly, but we all run risks nowadays.”

  “The public loves a legitimate suicide,” observed Potluck. “The leading lady murders the music, while the principal comedian murders himself. Surely such a combination of horrors ought to fill the largest theatre in London.” Bones spoke in Japanese—the fashionable tongue at the time—so our visitor did not understand the drift of his remarks. There is nothing like tact.

  “Now, Mr. Bailey,” said Bones genially, and speaking in English, “Let me have particulars of the motif of this comedy of yours. A mere sketch will suffice.”

  “In the first place you must understand how the play is made. When we have decided upon the posters, we hold a meeting of the authors and composers. There are four of each. The authors try to remember all the really funny jokes they have heard during their lives—the older the men the better—while the composers attempt to combine the melody of the classical song with the catchiness of the comic song.”

  “I see,” said Bones, “a sort of cross between ‘The Lost Chord’ and ‘When Father Laid the Carpet on the Stairs.’”

  “That’s it,” replied the manager. “I think you will be able to help me. Well, when we have the jokes and the music ready, a librettist is called in to combine them, it is his duty to make a coherent story out of the material placed at his disposal. Our man is the well-known novelist, Nonden Scones; he took a double first at Oxford. I discovered him starving in Fleet Street, took an interest in the fellow, and—er—in short—made him. He is the best man at the game—now, thanks to my tuition.”

  “And yet some people decry the advantages of a university education,” said Bones, turning to me. “Pray proceed, sir.”

  “The plot of The Hi-ti Girl is this: Four men are in love with the same woman. She discovers this, and, in order to be left free to marry the man she really loves, she persuades four friends of hers to impersonate her. They agree. In the second act, the four impostors are married to the four men, each believing that he is marrying Kitty Hifly, the Queen of the Ballet. The fun is furious when the duped men meet at their club and tell each other that they have married Kitty Hifly. There are all sorts of complications and surprises.”

  “I should think so,” observed Bones, dryly. “Is that all?”

  “Yes; but it’s enough.”

  “No doubt,” said Potluck, rising. “Good morning, Mr. Bailey. I’ll visit your theatre to-night and will let you know the result of my observations to-morrow morning.”

  “Good morning, sir,” exclaimed the manager; “I’ll keep a box for you and your friend. Good morning, sir.”

  “Well, what do you think of it?” said Potluck, as he carefully examined the footprints made by our visit
or’s dirty boots.

  Examining Footprints Made by Our Visitor.

  “Simple enough,” I answered unthinkingly.

  “Rubbish!” cried Bones. “What appears simple to the average person is really difficult to the expert, whose erudition complicates matters.”

  “I can’t see the good of examining his footprints,” I said. “We are not tracking a murderer.”

  “Perhaps not. But I’m wondering what Mrs. Hudson will say when she sees this mess. We owe her for three weeks, you know,” he added sorrowfully.

  “Never mind, Potluck,” I answered. “We must not ride in hansoms so often. You engaged half the cabmen in London last Saturday. You remember, to follow that man you thought was a murderer, but who turned out to be a Covent Garden salesman taking a holiday.” To my surprise, I found that Potluck had left the room. He is very sensitive, I may say here.

  That night, Bones and myself occupied a box at the Legall Theatre. The great detective spent most of his time in pointing out to me various persons in the audience who had come in contact with him professionally, he seemed to know everybody who was anybody, as well as several nobodies. Not once did I notice his eyes turned in the direction of the stage, and I was about to call his attention to the play when he seized me by the throat and whispered excitedly:

  “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go home.”

  On our way back to Baker Street, I endeavoured to draw Bones, but he was in one of his silent moods, and when like that he never speaks. Long association with Potluck had given me some of his wonderful talents. But why should I talk like this? I am a modest man.