by Anita Janda
“Watson, do you tell me that you have passed that portrait morning and evening for two weeks and never once noticed the resemblance?”
Dr Mortimer did not notice the resemblance, either, I am happy to say, in spite of his hobby and his greater familiarity both with the portrait in question and with Mr Stapleton, a Baskerville born on the wrong side of the blanket, as the saying goes. It’s like something out of King Lear, with Mrs Barrymore cast as Cordelia. Holmes has promised that I may be present at the dénouement of the Sutherland case, scheduled for twenty-four hours after our return to Baker Street.
“You know that I never willingly interrupt the unravelling of one case to tackle another. In accepting Dr Mortimer’s kind invitation, I determined to put the Sutherland case altogether aside until the Hound might be laid to rest. I have my hypothesis for that case. It remains only to confirm it.”
Other men may speak of hypothesis testing. Holmes speaks only of hypothesis confirming. In his words: “I do not expect to be disappointed.”
The Hound is real. Sir Henry is, was, has been in mortal danger. On Holmes’s advice, Sir Henry is to dare the moor tonight, alone, at all costs. Holmes thinks I don’t know what this means, but I do. A child could tell you what that means. I have written to Mary, advising her to expect me the day after tomorrow.
It has been an adventure.
Chapter 9
Are all wives given to these sudden flashes of insight, do you suppose?
Mary and I talked for hours last night, catching each other up on our separate doings. I was telling her about Mr Lassiter and his telescope, my discovery of Holmes’s lair in the neolithic hut and the way Holmes caught me out, when she broke in on my story (very unusual for Mary), saying in a wondering voice, “You must want to write these adventures of yours very badly, John.” I began to apologize for my selfishness, but again she cut me off.
“No, John, I don’t blame you! To want to be heard is very natural and the silence surrounding Mr Holmes begs to be broken. He feels it himself. And his own fumbling attempts at that side of the business have flown very wide of the mark. Articles on the taxonomic classification of the human ear do not begin to do justice to his deductive powers. You said so yourself. But I think it would be good for you to realize that your heroic perseverance in this matter is a measure of your own desire for publication. Not mine, not Mr Holmes’s, but yours, John.”
I wonder that I did not realize this myself. The admission comes hard, though, for all that Mary says ambition is a fine thing in a husband. I had not thought of myself as an ambitious man.
Holmes, now, Holmes is ambitious. For myself, I know that my next adventure will come more easily if I can bring myself to believe that telling that particular story will serve a more general purpose than my own aggrandizement.
* * *
My desk is prohibitively tidy this morning. In this corner, my letters to Mary, secured with a business-like India rubber band. A number lightly pencilled below our address tells me (I suppose) the order of their arrival in Paddington. She should see the greasy bundle of correspondence Holmes surrendered to me as we came down on the train yesterday.
It seems that Mary, like the rest of us, had high hopes for ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’.
* * *
One of the things it is going to be difficult to adjust to now that I am back in London is the sudden reduction in the amount of time I have for keeping my diary. Every time I bid a patient goodbye, I expect to be granted the indulgence of a short paragraph in my journal. This is a hard thing to lose.
* * *
Finally, Mrs Ogden’s Timothy, with nothing worse than a sprained ankle, thank goodness. That’s a relief. I believe I have been holding my breath, figuratively speaking, about that boy ever since Mary wrote me about him.
* * *
I am glad I thought to bring Mary those flowers last night. Lovely dinner—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, green beans and baked onions, I wonder if there is any left?—and Holmes did not stay very late, after all. Something about a letter he had to send with regard to the Sutherland case. I have been invited to present myself in Baker Street at a quarter to six this afternoon if I would like to see how it comes out. I expect I’ll go.
* * *
Bills, bills and more bills! Where is the money to come from? If it is to come from my practice, then I must refrain from investing my time in spectral hounds on Dartmoor. If it is to come from my writing, then I must not grudge the time I spend in pursuit of a story, but must work to develop the ability to turn a greater proportion of my material into adventures I can publish. Meanwhile, neither solution is advanced by the amount of time I spend with my diary. This truly is time spent to no financial purpose.
* * *
Found my notes on the Sutherland case, which tell me nothing I did not already know. I wonder why Holmes calls it a case of identity?
* * *
A quarter to six. No time to walk to Baker Street, plus I shall be late no matter how quickly I manage to get there. Holmes will have to understand, my time is not my own. Passed all day from pillar to post (Mrs Ogden as the pillar, Mr Jellett as the post), I am forced to admit that I have very little to show for all the claims on my medical attention since I returned from Baskerville Hall. What would I not give to have been spared this last half-hour with that hardy perennial, Mr Ambrose Jellett?
Holmes will never understand if a late arrival on my part spoils what would have been one of his dramatic moments. I suppose I must hope that Miss Sutherland’s stepfather will be equally delayed. There, I’ve found my notes at last. Five to six—I must fly!
Chapter 10
Not a word to Mary! My best strategy must be to wait and see what Mr Fitsch has to say to my submission. He may have forgotten all about his very obliging offer. It has been several months, after all. Time enough to tell Mary about my triumph when Fitsch has accepted ‘A Case of Identity’.
Up all night writing, then round to Baker Street at first light to hear the verdict. Breakfast under the sustaining influence of Mrs Hudson, a brief but mutually satisfying arrangement with Peterson the commissionaire, and the deed was done. I was back in my surgery by ten o’clock in the morning and if all the world is different-seeming, well so it is. Different, I mean. It must be nearly an hour now since Peterson delivered ‘A Case of Identity’ to Mr Fitsch, Editor, at the offices of the Strand Magazine.
Holmes can adjust to a new situation faster than anyone else I know. “Have you given any thought to your next adventure, Watson?”
“Holmes, please,” I sputtered, “that is months away.”
“Yes, I know, two months away, to be exact. But what is two months, Watson? Winter will take the city in its jaws, November will give way to December, and December will slip away, taking the old year with it. Then January will be upon us and your new adventure will be due at the Strand.”
Holmes made a steeple with his fingers. “‘The Sign of Four’ is too long. You agree with me, Watson?”
Actually, I don’t, but I know Fitsch does and as I recall, the sentiment was original with him, not Holmes. Holmes was almost as pleased as I was by ‘The Sign of Four’ when it was new. Holmes took my fidget for assent and began to tick the remaining candidates off on his fingers.
“‘The Sign of Four’ is too long, ‘The Speckled Band’ is out of the question while Helen Stoner is alive, ‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery’ must wait for the demise of John Turner—you are reading the obituary column daily, I hope, Watson?—and it is not yet time for ‘The Five Orange Pips.’
“You may not realize it, Watson, but ‘A Case of Identity’ puts paid to two adventures which were otherwise eminently suitable: ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ and ‘The Noble Bachelor.’ In the case of Lord St Simon, your noble bachelor, it is the nature of the problem which is too strongly reminiscent: social embarrassment and personal disappointment at the nuptial event, occasioned by the disappearance of the client’s newly wedded spouse. For
Mary Sutherland, it is true, the disappearance was in advance of the wedding, she lost a spouse-to-be, St Simon an apparent spouse, but this distinction, important though it may be to the client facing the necessity of instituting formal annulment proceedings, cannot be of comparable significance to the casual reader. In the case of Sir Henry Baskerville, it is the pattern of the solution which provides the damning echo. One case of identity is very like another, I’m sorry to say.”
I reminded myself that ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ would be as long or longer than ‘The Sign of Four’. “Lord St Simon?” I asked weakly.
“Engaged to Another,” he confirmed. “As I predicted. Another American, I believe. Wait, I have it here—yes, an American, from Philadelphia this time, the only daughter of a purveyor of tea and comestibles. How the mighty have fallen, eh, Watson? One can but hope that she will be equal to the challenge. Unlikely that St Simon’s recent experience of American womanhood will have gone very far toward sweetening his disposition. Haven’t you been reading the Society pages?”
“I thought it would take at least a twelvemonth before he was ready to test the waters again,” I said.
“So it would had his affections been engaged the first time, Watson. No, I fancy he returned to the field in very short order. Well, he must have done if he managed to bear off a second prize so nearly on the heels of the first. It is a pity you didn’t wait.”
I don’t think so. Had I known about St Simon’s engagement, I hope I should have done the same thing. It was important that ‘A Case of Identity’ be told. Besides, it is a better story than ‘The Noble Bachelor’.
* * *
Not a word to Mary, indeed! Five minutes after she’s popped her head into my surgery to wish me “Good morning” and make sure I’ve had my breakfast, I’ve told her everything. She thinks it’s wonderful. Imagine, A Case of Identity, what a wonderful title! When can she read it? I felt a momentary pang, telling her that I’d already sent it to Mr Fitsch, but she made nothing of it. “That’s as it should be, John. This way I’ll get the full effect, seeing it for the first time in print.” Of course Cousin Nat will like it! What could I be thinking? No cousin of hers could possibly be so lacking in discrimination as to reject one of my adventures. “Now, John, I know what you’re thinking and I don’t want to hear a word about ‘The Sign of Four.’ You know Cousin Nat explained why that was not suitable. It was a technical problem, a problem of length pure and simple. It’s a poor world where the painter must cut his canvas to fit the size of the frame, but if that’s the world we live in, there’s no sense in repining. ‘The Sign of Four’ is a beautiful story. Now how shall we celebrate your first sale? And shall we invite Mr Holmes to join us?”
I told Mary I’d have to think about it but the truth is, I don’t have to think about it at all. I know exactly what I want to do: I want to take Mary to see Annie Oakley in the American border drama, “Deadwood Dick, or The Sunbeam of the Sierras.” We saw the Peerless Lady Wing-Shot last year in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West (With Fifty Hostile Indians) at the American Exhibition, and I still remember her famous mirror shot—and the Attack on the Deadwood Coach! I wonder if they’ll do something similar here? I don’t see how they could, really. This is a dramatic presentation on a stage in a theatre, not an exhibition in an outdoor arena. I wonder what her voice sounds like? We can do without Holmes on this occasion, I think—a man who had no interest in seeing a demonstration of Miss Oakley’s marksmanship will have no interest in seeing a demonstration of her thespian abilities.
Afterwards, we’ll eat oysters and drink champagne and talk about the play. Mary will toast my first sale and I will toast her blue eyes. Maybe she will be able to help me plan my next few adventures. She’s already solved the St Simon problem for me.
“Is that all, John? There’s nothing else? Without telling me all of the details of the Sutherland case (I do so want to read it in the Strand!), is that the only point of similarity between that case and Lord St Simon’s? Because if so, I don’t see why we shouldn’t leave it to Cousin Nat’s judgement. You’ve already written ‘The Noble Bachelor,’ haven’t you? So what will it cost you to submit it to Cousin Nat, say a year from now? He’ll know better than any of us whether the coincidence is apt to strain the credulity of his readers. But you know, John, I doubt that this will prove to be the insuperable obstacle Mr Holmes imagines it to be. Hardly anyone is as disturbed by repetition as Mr Holmes. And the Strand is a monthly magazine, after all. Who is to say how many of those who read the December issue this year will still be reading the magazine next year or the year after that? As I understand it, Mr Holmes has been known to complain himself about the sameness of the problems presented to him by his clients. I may not be as logical as Mr Holmes, but I fail to see how he can expect you, who are only his biographer after all, to select from a pool of similar problems, problems that are all different from each other. It seems impossible to me.
“You know, John, one might even argue that a certain similarity in the opening paragraphs of your adventures was motivated by an admirable attempt at verisimilitude on your part.”
Trust Mary to see it from my point of view. We’ll go Sunday afternoon. Holmes almost never drops in on us of a Sunday and when he does, it is always in the evening. With any luck at all, he’ll never know we’ve gone and we won’t have to hear his scathing comments about the decline of the theatre, or his opinion of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, which he’s never seen. Holmes has no taste for popular entertainment. He’s told me so many times. I see no reason to issue an invitation I know will be refused.
Besides, Holmes is no doubt under the impression that he and I have already accorded the possible publication of ‘A Case of Identity’ all of the celebration it deserves. That’s Holmes’s idea of a party, anyway: poached eggs and porridge à la Mrs Hudson. His spare and meagre habit (all the more spare and meagre since I removed to Paddington, I might add) have led him to equate any early morning meal more substantial than a cup of coffee with riotous living and ruinous self-indulgence. By his rarefied standards, I was gay to dissipation this morning, downing two kippers and a piece of dry toast. Personally, I like breakfast.
I can’t wait to see how ‘A Case of Identity’ looks in next month’s Strand.
Chapter 11
“Are you happy, John?”
“Not as happy as I am going to be,” I replied gamely, tossing my newspaper to one side. I am a man who believes in seizing his opportunities. It was good to be home again.
“Not now, John! Please be serious,” she laughed. “It’s broad daylight.”
The thought crossed my mind that I had rarely been more serious, but I held my peace and hid my disappointment. The ladies have their own way of looking at things, bless them. Her blushes told their own story. I can be patient.
She regarded me thoughtfully and I felt the first faint pangs of uneasiness. Mary was uncommonly pensive today.
“Are you happy with me, John? Do I make you happy?”
“Mary—Darling,” the correction was immediate, “Darling, of course you do. How can you ask me that?” (I give you my word I did not know what she was leading up to.)
“Do you think Mr Holmes is happy?”
I stopped short. This must be what they mean by feminine intuition. The thought of feminine intuition applied to Holmes appalled me. Even had I known what to say, I am not sure my voice would have obeyed me. I could feel the hairs on my arms prickling to attention. Just a moment ago, things had been going so well. Now, without any warning, the conversational ground had been cut away at my feet, by my wife. There yawned before me a pit of immense dimensions and I stood stupefied on the brink of destruction. I had lodged with a man who could read my thoughts long enough to know that I did not look for the same accomplishment in my wife. How had she tumbled to my friend’s secret? How? That was the question that gnawed at me, to the perfect exclusion of more practical considerations.
I know Holmes for the most private of m
en. Whatever progress he has managed to make in his lonely battle with cocaine will be lost forever if he once realizes that he has an audience, and a female one at that. Mary’s manner must not develop even a hint of sympathetic understanding. I know Holmes. Which does not explain Mary’s sudden insight. All these months we have been pretending, he and I, that it is for the sake of our great friendship that he haunts my home. It is a polite fiction, nothing more, and its major prop (I confess it freely) is Mary’s unquestioning acceptance of our supposed friendship. She can have no way of knowing that I have seen more of Holmes in the six months since our marriage than in all my years in Baker Street, that he almost never shared his cases with me then.
To be sure, part of it is the excuse afforded by Mr Fitsch of the Strand Magazine, whose princely advance, split fifty-fifty with Holmes, held out the promise that he might be able to retain his rooms without having to subject himself to the vagaries of another and possibly less congenial fellow lodger. He is not easy to live with, is my friend Holmes. As for me, I was husband enough to welcome his intrusion into our family circle. It has been a long time since I last lived among the ladies and these after-dinner reversions to our cheerless days in Baker Street have lent a certain piquancy to the married state that I have been grateful for on more than one occasion. If I was husband enough to welcome him, I was also doctor enough to know why this man with no great talent for company should suddenly crave the distraction of strange surroundings and familiar faces on an almost nightly basis. I rejoiced to see it, buried the joy out of sight so as not to provoke him—I had learned my lesson over ‘The Sign of Four’—and…
Of course, ‘The Sign of Four’! Absurdly simple, once you see the intuitive chain in its entirety. I cursed myself yet again for having ended that tale by disclosing the syringe in his hand. Of all of the adventures that have emerged from my pen, that is the one Mary knows best, as that is the one that brought us together. She cannot have forgotten how he turns to the drug when I announce our engagement to marry on the last page.
