Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

  Yes, there was no mistaking the fact, Holmes was run down completely. The evil long-impending had at last broken bounds. The drugs had done their work; and what had been a habit had now developed into a horrible mania.

  The question was: How to get Holmes out of London? That had troubled me for some time, when in a rather curious way a solution presented itself.

  One morning, I received a letter from an acquaintance of mine in Scotland, which ran as follows:—

  Brokenfords,

  Scotland, N.B.

  My Dear Watson,—Excuse neglect in not writing you for some time. Have been very busy of late electioneering, and the fact of the matter is we cannot find a man to contest next election. Do you know where we could find a really good man? If you can help us, let me know soon. Yours, &c.,

  G.A. Draig.

  P.S.—If you could find one, I will post him with data.

  An idea struck me at once—why not send Holmes? I confess it was a hare-brained idea, but it grew on me, and the next day found me pulling his door-bell at Baker Street.

  His “boy” let me in.

  “How is Holmes?”

  “Better to-day, sir.”

  “Has he been worse this week?”

  “Yes, sir, very much worse. He raved a lot yesterday. Talked about solving the mysteries of the universe, seeing through creation, and inventing eternal motion, and once I found him sitting astride a door-top making holes in the ceiling with a knife.”

  When I went upstairs, I found Holmes in his old position on the rug, the usual pipe in his mouth, and the same languid air about him as of yore.

  “Ah, take a seat Watson,” said he, in a sleepy manner, as he half-turned on the rug to greet me. “And how is Mrs. Watson?”

  “Quite well, thank you; but very much put out about you.”

  “Oh!” he muttered in a querulous tone.

  “By the bye, here is a letter I received this morning,” handing him my friend’s note.

  He took it, read it, and handed it back.

  “Well, do you want me to find a man? Rather out of my line, I fancy!”

  “My dear Holmes, you are very dense this morning; I never thought that for a moment, but, look here, why not be the man yourself?”

  “What? I,” exclaimed Holmes, sitting bolt upright. “Watson, are you mad?”

  “My dear sir, you want a change. Another three months in London, and the winter just coming on, will finish you. Do you understand, it means a change in either case.”

  “But then,” objected Holmes, “I know nothing about this. I would merely be a novice, and you know very well I have had little dealings with the Scots. And, besides, I know nothing about the country and its people; or even about Wallace, the Bruce, John Knox, or Rabbie Burns, and Rob Roy, &c. No, my dear Watson, it’s nonsense.”

  “But that matters nothing; my friend will do all that is necessary. Consider this,” I entreated him; “consider it well. Your life hangs in the balance. Which will it be? You could disappear for a time, no one would be the wiser. You could let your moustache grow, you know. Holmes, consider!”

  “Watson, for years you have been my friend. Seldom it is that I have taken your advice, but I believe you are right. I will consider it.”

  After many conferences it was arranged that Holmes should go North. The day of his departure found me early at Baker Street, but Holmes did not seem to be prepared to move. The only difference was his hair had been combed and brushed.

  “Where’s your luggage?” I asked.

  “On the chair, there.”

  I looked; his old hand-bag, that was all. “Good Lord, Holmes, is that all you are going to take?”

  “Yes,” said he, quite cool; “your friends, I think, will feed me, and the ‘boy’ can do the rest.”

  “But—” I interposed.

  “Now, Watson, let us have peace and quietness, please.”

  It was of no use speaking. I sat for a couple of hours with him, and then with a light heart I watched him go, because I knew when he entered the train his life was saved.

  About a week after his departure, I received a letter which may be of interest to those who have followed his career.

  Brokenfords.

  Dear Watson,—Arrived safe. This is going to be a rum affair. I have made, so to speak, my maiden speech. You never saw a pure Scotch audience. It was the greatest conglomeration ever I saw. In my professional capacity there were a few things I observed, and these may prove of much value should this election go against me. In fact, as it is, I am doing a little bit on my own. You might go over to Baker Street and get my little hand-bag, the one with the steel bottom and the double locks, and forward it here.

  Holmes.

  The Lost Democratic Majority

  “Dr. H.A.E. Watson”

  Understanding this story requires a little historical and political background. In 1904, the United States consisted of 45 states, and Congress was considering statehood for the Arizona Territory, as well as what would become the states of New Mexico and Oklahoma. It was also an election year, when voters returned to office Republican President Theodore Roosevelt and widened his party’s majority in Congress. When this was reported in the Nov. 8 issue of the Arizona Journal-Miner in Prescott—then the territorial capital—an anonymous writer took the opportunity to rub salt into the Democrats’ wounds, starting with setting the scene at a hotel owned by a co-founder of the local party.

  The day was drawing to a close on Monday evening, November 7th as Holmes and myself sat in the coffee room of the Hotel Burke. Holmes had just returned from a chemical test of some hash, a little of which he had reserved for this purpose from our supper the previous evening. He was looking pale but sat before the glowing steam register and was reaching for the cocaine, preparatory to relieving his depression. Just then, there was a rattle of wheels, and a coach drew up at the door.

  “Ah,” said my friend, “a four-wheeler. It has a green blind.” I was somewhat startled, I must confess, but I knew my friend’s methods.

  A man trembling, agitated, stepped from the carriage and exclaimed in a shaken voice, “Is—is a Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” He brushed passed the bystanders and rushed into the coffee room. He was rather tall, had a thin face, aquiline nose and black mustache inclining to the French. His eyes were piercing and keen in the extreme. I withhold his name for delicacy’s sake.

  “Is this Mr. Holmes?” he broke forth. “May I speak with you? I am limited to five minutes.”

  Holmes frowned, but in a little time, we being alone, he told our visitor to proceed.

  “There is a terrible calamity come upon me,” he said, “the democratic majority is missing.”

  Holmes immediately brightened up and asked, “What have you done?”

  “I have communicated with no one but Mark Smith,” said our guest, “but he knows nothing, as usual, and has wired to Colonel Wilson to find where he—”

  “Colonel Wilson,” interrupted Holmes, “ah, that is an important factor.” Our visitor stared, but I was more accustomed to my friend. “But pray proceed,” said Holmes, laying down the cocaine bottle and falling fast asleep.

  “The majority,” said our client “has been in the county for the months of August, September, and October, but as I returned to Prescott from Jerome this morning I was staggered upon going to my office. The majority was gone. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this is killing. I can not, can not bear it.” His teeth chattered so that he bit a large piece out of a steak that had been brought in for our meal.

  Holmes was deeply moved. “This may prove instructive,” he remarked. “Come at 1 o’clock Tuesday morning and Sherlock Holmes will reveal the mystery.”

  “Is there nothing you can do to relieve me, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Watson,” said Holmes, “give him a soda.” Our visitor was gone.

  I heard nothing more of the matter that evening. Our agitated visitor returned a little before the appointed time, more excited than ever. As the town cloc
k struck 1, a hand was laid on the door. It opened unsteadily, a coarse voice said, “I—I voted for Mike Hic-hic-hickey. I want two bits to get a hic-hand out.” Our client quickly turned away and grasped the Herald. I was about to show the drunken man out, when a well-known voice said “Well, well, Watson, we have been successful.”

  “Have you found the majority?” gasped our new friend.

  “No,” said Holmes, with a chuckle, “it is gone forever, see CLARK, ROBERTS and the others.” Our guest fainted.

  “Leave the poor follow alone,” said Holmes and we went to our room.

  “You have solved a great mystery,” said I.

  “Not much,” said Holmes.

  Hotel Burke envelope, promoting it as:

  “Only absolutely fire-proof hotel in Prescott.

  Lighted by Electricity.

  White Help Only Employed.

  All Stages Call at the Burke.

  Headquarters for Mining Men.

  Sample Rooms for Commercial Travellers.”

  The Adventure of the Gusty Night

  (A Sherlock Holmes Tale with Sherlock Left Out.)

  Arthur H. Folwell

  This rare Lestrade-centric contribution appeared in the Nov. 9 issue of Puck. Arthur H. Folwell (1877-1962) was a newspaper editor, writer, and cartoonist. He worked for Hearst newspapers, particularly the New York Herald Tribune, but his work also appeared in Puck (1902-16) and The New Yorker (1925-32). For 21 years, he wrote the Mr. and Mrs. comic strip for Hearst newspapers.

  It was a gusty night in April shortly after my marriage, and my wife being away on a visit to her half-sister, I was seated alone before my office fire. I had dropped my novel from sheer weariness—its puny plot made me tired after all the plotting I had seen with Holmes—and my mind was about made up to go to bed, when there came a sharp ring at the door bell.

  “It can’t be a patient,” thought I; “I have not had one of those for six months. Perhaps it is Holmes. I will wait and see.”

  Once more settling in my chair, I heard a step on the threshold and turning my head, I beheld—not Holmes, but Lestrade, the Scotland Yard detective.

  “Good evening, Dr. Watson,” said he. “I am sorry to drop in on you at such an hour—.”

  “Not a word, Lestrade,” I interrupted. “You are quite welcome at any time. Take the basket chair. You’ll find the tobacco in the coal scuttle”—pushing it toward him—“and the brandy flask in the clock.”

  Long association with Holmes had made me very much like him in little household habits.

  “And now, Lestrade,” I continued, when he had helped himself to tobacco and drink, “what is it I can do for you?”

  For a moment Lestrade hesitated. Then, summoning his voice, he spoke.

  “Well, the fact is, Doctor,” he began, “I’ve been coming to see you for a long time. I’ve got a little bone to pick with you, Dr. Watson, and there’s no sense in waiting any longer before getting down to it. Do you know, Dr. Watson, that if it wasn’t for you I’d be the most celebrated sleuth in Scotland Yard, or any yard, for the matter of that?”

  “You surprise me, Lestrade,” I replied, completely taken aback by the man’s speech. “In what way have I hampered you?”

  “In what way?” he repeated, bristling. “Why, by spreading before the public in the most bare-faced manner all the little understandings that Mr. Holmes and I have between us.”

  “What? Do you accuse me of—”

  “Wait a bit, my dear Doctor, and you’ll see. Take the case of The Six Apple Cores, for instance. After I had failed and Mr. Holmes had succeeded; after he had fitted the cores to the skins and traced the apples to Pitt, the fruiterer, on Tottenham Court Road, what did Mr. Holmes say? Answer me that, Dr. Watson. What did Mr. Holmes say?”

  “I think he yawned, Lestrade,” I said with a smile, “and added, if I remember rightly, how dreadfully commonplace crime was becoming.”

  “Yes, he did say that, true enough,” admitted my visitor; “but he said something else besides, and to me. He was willing, and said so, that I should have the credit for the arrest. ‘And you don’t want your name to appear,’ said I. ‘Not at all.’ said he; ‘the work is its own reward.’ Next thing I know, Dr. Watson, I see on the newsstalls ‘The Adventure of the Six Apple Cores,’ and, pouf! I find myself an imbecile! A fool! The laughing stock of Scotland Yard! Why, my word, it was only today that the chief inspector took me on one side and said, ‘Lestrade, we’re thinking of making you a doorman.’ I won’t stand it, Dr. Watson!”

  I was about to speak when Lestrade renewed his protests.

  “And that ain’t the only time, either, Dr. Watson. It was the same in the case of the Three Legged Toadstool; and in the strange affair of the Yellow First Mate and the Four Cracked Eggs; and in the mysterious business of the Doorless Dog Kennel. All was right enough until your stuff came out; then’t was, ‘’Ullo, ’ere he comes, gents; London’s prize bobby,’ everywhere I went.”

  “Well, Lestrade,” said I, as the detective paused for breath, “what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Do about it, Dr. Watson?” he returned. “Well I’ll be all fair and reasonable. All I want you to do is to write one Holmes story with Holmes out and Lestrade in—and nothing but Lestrade—thick, all through it. Just think of my reputation, Doc! A doorman! Me!”

  And so, just to oblige him, I wrote this story, for I always did like Lestrade.

  The Adventure of the Unthankful Gentleman

  Bert Leston Taylor

  The third piece this year from the prolific Taylor appeared in the Nov. 23 issue of Puck.

  Being the three hundred and twenty-fifth adventure in the never-to-be-forgotten return of Sherlock Holmes.

  At precisely 8:23 o’clock on the evening of 16 November 1904, Sherlock Holmes and myself were seated in my study, engaged in our favorite pastime of splitting infinitives. We were lodged transiently in Hoboken, in an extemporized laboratory over a Plattdeutsch beer saloon. At the proper time, I shall disclose the peculiar circumstances which dictated so uncongenial an environment, but for the present my lips are sealed. So painful a scandal should be allowed to grow cold. The unhappy woman is now where none may harm her. Besides, it has nothing to do with the remarkable adventure which I am about to relate.

  A sudden sharp in-drawing of Sherlock Holmes’ breath told me that a caller stood without the laboratory door. One of the peculiarities of my wonderful friend was his ability to instantly sense the proximity of a visitor before that person rapped upon the door. Without waiting for the summons, I threw it open and bade the man enter. It was as if a black London fog had suddenly enveloped us. A gloomier, danker individual never crossed my modest threshold. Holmes turned up his coat collar whilst I poked the grate fire.

  “Mr. Holmes,” began our visitor in sepulchral tones, “a condition of mind which I can characterize only as distressing has compelled me to seek assistance from you in solving a most perplexing problem. At first, I thought of applying to the police, but I decided that my only hope reposed in you.”

  “As preliminary, sir,” replied Holmes, “I must beg of you to cheer up. Watson, is there any whiskey left?” From the wastebasket, I produced what cheer remained, half-a-bottle of Lone Glenartney Scotch, and Holmes signed to our visitor to make his errand known.

  “My case,” said the gloomy gentleman, “may be stated in a few words. Thanksgiving Day is upon us—a day on which, as you are probably aware, it is customary publicly to return thanks to an academically divine providence. Now, sir, my perplexity is this: I detest roast turkey, I am averse from cranberry sauce, and the odor of chestnut stuffing makes me positively ill. Moreover, if there be any reason why I should participate in a national chorus of thanksgiving, I have completely forgotten it.”

  “Well?” said Holmes as our visitor paused and sighed dismally.

  “I wish to know, Mr. Holmes, if there exist any reasons why I should be thankful.”

  Holmes and I exchanged glances.
“A most remarkable case” his eyes exclaimed. I nodded.

  “Try your process of elimination on him,” I suggested.

  “It would be useless,” exclaimed the Unthankful Gentleman with a gesture of despair. “I have already eliminated everything, and nothing remains for which I am or should be thankful. I have carefully examined every governor’s and president’s Thanksgiving address from 1621 to 1903. I have gone over the entire list of mercies, real or fancied, that an alleged beneficent Providence has reluctantly granted to mankind. All to no purpose. Academically, the process of elimination is infallible; practically—”

  “Bosh!” said Holmes, irritably. “What is your name and business?”

  The Unthankful Gentleman passed a hand across his brow.

  “Unfortunately,” said he, “I have forgotten absolutely. I fear that complicates the matter enormously.”

  “Merciful Jove!” I burst out. Holmes checked me with an imperious gesture.

  “Whether or no it complicates the case we shall see presently,” he said. “I am more disposed to believe that it simplifies matters. Let me ask you first whether amnesia is epidemic in your family. Amnesia, Watson,” turning to me, “is the pathological term for loss of memory.”

  I was about to remark that, being a medical man, I was not unfamiliar with pathological terms, but Holmes went on, addressing the Unthankful Gentleman. “Try to recall, sir, whether amnesia is epidemic in your family.”

  “Academically, my grandfather died of it. He forgot he was living.”

  A triumphant smile flitted over Sherlock Holmes’ hatchet features. “I could have sworn it,” he said. “Now, sir, let me ask you how long a period has elapsed since you unfortunately mis-laid your identity.”

  “Scarcely two hours, Mr. Holmes. I dined at my club tonight, and I distinctly recall writing my name upon the dinner check. It is very strange, very unfortunate.” The Unthankful Gentleman groaned horribly. The fog thickened. Holmes reached for the whiskey whilst I poured another scuttle of coal on the fire. Holmes took a turn about the room; then, as was his wont, resumed his seat.