by Bill Peschel
“Now for the young man’s proceedings as envisaged by Holmes, who has no doubts:
“‘Of course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table, because from there he could see if you came across the courtyard, and so effect an escape. . . . Let me see the three strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over this one first and copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less.’ (So it takes much less time to copy out Greek than to correct it for the press!) ‘Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of that when your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat, very hurried, since he had no time to replace the papers which would tell you that he had been there.’
“Dramatic, isn’t it? And damning evidence. The clues are thickly strewn about; in fact, we might say, in vulgar parlance, that they are a bit too thick.
“Whatever the passage set was, from Thucydides or another, any student of sufficient knowledge and practice in Greek to enter for a University scholarship would take about a minute to get a clue to its authorship in the dangerous room, without throwing the proofs about, and would then leave to complete his researches in his own room, or in some library, perhaps the very library where Holmes was poring over early English charters. He would see that the passage was continuous, and would simply memorize one or possibly two rare words (sure to occur in an unseen set in a University scholarship), look them up in Liddell and Scott (a Greek Lexicon, Mr. Holmes) at ease, and so get the exact reference, which would enable him to study the passage set at his ease with the aid of a commentator or translator. Dons do not set their own Greek in examinations; they set authors who are easily accessible in an old University town or city.
“What then did induce the young man to copy (or pretend to copy) the Greek of a whole slip in such a hurry as to break a pencil and leave clues (1) in the distribution of the slips about the room, (2) in the shavings resulting from a broken pencil hastily sharpened? What, further, induced him to carry gloves as well as his athletic spikes, and leave the latter about so that the don’s servant had to sit on a chair to hide them and pretend to go into a fit for the benefit of the returning Soames? A college servant has more aplomb than that. This strange behaviour was meant for another strong clue to be reported to Holmes.
“Did the young man want to be found out? This was, indeed, I urge, his intention. He, Soames, and the servant were in league with Watson to give Holmes a job. Holmes was uncomfortable over his charters, and in a bad temper. He needed work more exciting. Watson feared his relapse into the drug-habit (this fear is openly expressed in the Cambridge story in the same series, ‘The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter’), and Watson got up this pretty little case for him. The stage managing was quite creditable; in fact, this is Watson’s masterpiece, though I do not think he realized the full absurdity of the supposed proceedings. Soames, like Holmes, doubtless knew his blundering way, and kept him in the dark as much as possible.
“There are fatal objections, as I have shown, to the story as told. What evidence, it may be asked, is there for my view? One or two hints are provided, or rather, I should say, have been slipped into the narrative, since it is told also as a genuine affair of fraud and detective brains. Soames is introduced as ‘an acquaintance,’ but Watson adds, ‘I had always known him to be restless in his manner.’ Surely that ‘had always’ implies a considerable intimacy with the tutor.
“As for the supposed criminal, when convicted, he fell on his knees and burst into a storm of passionate sobbing He probably belonged to the O.U.D.S. or the A.D.C. That is not a point, only a conjecture. But notice that, when he has explained that he will not be a competitor for the scholarship in question, he adds, ‘I have been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South Africa at once.’ Suspiciously apt and sudden this new post offered and accepted (no guardians apparently or relatives to consult) on the single night between the cribbing and the discovery. The young man had got the Rhodesian post before, and was really never in for the examination at all. Being an athletic person of a frank and free disposition, he was better suited for a good ‘rag’ than the other students, an Indian who might have been a dangerous accomplice, and an ill-tempered blackguard like the third man. Also he was of the right height to look in at the window and help Holmes to the solution, and he could play in with his old family servant, Bannister, who was Soames’s gyp. As he was leaving for South Africa at once, he had no chance to talk with his friends about the affair, and (an important point this) he was on exceptionally friendly terms with Soames, who calls him ‘my scholar.’
“A real investigator of the case might ask whether he carried a piece of foolscap in his pocket when he went to the athletic ground as well as jumping spikes and gloves, and, if not, whether he stole some of the don’s paper, and whether a sheet of such paper was obviously missing, the obviousness depending on Soames’s gifts for tidiness and observation. Finally, as Soames was only supposed to be an acquaintance, and Watson’s better knowledge of him could not appear, Holmes would have been justified in charging him something for relieving his mind. But no payment is mentioned. Watson managed that.
“We leave the inseparable pair proceeding to breakfast, Holmes being particularly cheered, no doubt, by the edifying little exhortation he delivered to the culprit.
“Here ends Watson’s narrative, but I continue it, though I am no writer, to fill out the scene in accordance with the situation.
“‘When they had left, the young man burst into a hearty laugh. Soames smiled, and merely said, “Bannister, I thought you had overdone it. That fit of yours in the chair, you know. It was temerarious.”
“‘And Watson, if only he had a sense of humour, might almost be credited with calling the College dignified with this mystery “St. Luke’s” as a tribute to the mad waggery of the whole business.’
“It is really interesting and delightful to know that for once he scored heavily against his supercilious companion.
“There is an exposure of the whole business, as clear as I can make it off-hand. Study the story for yourselves, and see if I have been unfair in any detail. Here is the Club copy of the book, and, as I said purposely at the beginning, you can buy it at any bookstall for sixpence. Denby, who is sitting over there, would have spotted the strange difficulties about the Greek unseen directly, for he knows Thucydides and the University Presses. Were you familiar with the story, Andrewes? We must have the view of a K.C.”
“Certainly. I’ve read it.”
“And did you see anything odd in it?”
“I must admit that I didn’t.”
“You didn’t really apply your great mind to it,” said Belsize insidiously.
“I feel that you are wrong, but I can’t refute you,” retorted Andrewes.
“An excellent state of mind for an eminent K.C.”
Belsize had the last word. He hated showing off, and had resolved to take it out of Andrewes in chaff. But the guest collared and retained him so relentlessly that he had to invent a sudden invitation to dine with his friend McQueen in the north of London.
1918
The new year began with Conan Doyle’s family still together from the holidays. Innes was on leave from the front, and Kingsley, detached from the army, was studying medicine in London. Conan Doyle helped celebrate the baptism of Innes’ second son with Kingsley standing as godfather. A few days later, Innes visited Buckingham Palace, where he was invested by the king as a Companion of St. Michael and St. George. At a celebration that evening, Conan Doyle watched as his brother wore for the first time his brigadier’s uniform. The next day, he would return to the front.
In the meantime, Conan Doyle continued work on his war history, finishing the 1917 volume by March. He also found the time to listen to the charming chatter of his young children—Denis was 9, Adrian 8 and Jean 6—to publish as sketches in The Strand.
In late August, his Spiritualism lecture tour reached Southsea, where he had first set up as a practitioner all those years ago. He rested by swimming every day, including a time spent during a full gale “when I was the only bather, so I feel virtuous.”
There was also time for one last visit to the front. Invited by the Australian government to visit their troops, he spent four days among them and observed preparations for the attack on Germany’s Hindenburg line.
Back home, he received a couple of interesting letters from a stranger in Glasgow. During a séance, he was asked to tell Conan Doyle that “Oscar Honourin”—the ghost of his sister’s son with E.W. Hornung—would help him with his Spiritualism cause. While he wondered why the spirit would mispronounce his own last name, he added, “This is very remarkable, is it not?”
Throughout the war, Kingsley carried on in his father’s spirit. Again and again, his officers described his drive and cheerfulness under the most dangerous conditions. He survived numerous battles, and had returned safely to England. But in London, he and his sister Mary were struck down with the Spanish flu that was sweeping the world. While Conan Doyle prepared to lecture in Nottingham, he received a telegram: Kingsley was dying. He gave his lecture, and soon after heard that his son was dead. He was 25. Conan Doyle carried on with his scheduled talks. “Had I not been a Spiritualist,” he wrote later, “I could not have spoken that night. As it was, I was able to go straight on the platform and tell the meeting that I knew my son had survived the grave, and that there was no need to worry.”
For Mary, who recovered, losing her sole sibling “was the greatest sorrow of my life, for we were so close.” All she had left of her family was her father, who was occupied with his writing, the war, Spiritualism, his new wife, and growing family. After his son’s burial, he wrote his brother, Innes, that “I have every hope of speedily being in touch again.” Ten days later, on Nov. 11, the war ended. To Conan Doyle, the bitter wind had swept the land, and the victory meant “Britain had not weakened. She was still the Britain of old.”
Publications: “The New Revelation” (April); The British Campaign in France and Flanders, Vol. 3 (April); Danger! and Other Stories (Dec.).
The Adventure of the Lost Meat-Card
Eric Arthur Blair (George Orwell)
One of the more obscure Holmesian parodies is this contribution from 15-year-old Eric Arthur Blair, better known as George Orwell (1903-1950). Unpopular as a child because of what he called his “disagreeable mannerisms,” he retreated to a private world where he could make up stories. Orwell attended Eton from 1917 to 1921 and there helped produce three publications, including five issues of The Election Times (created by students “elected” to become King’s Scholars). Students paid a penny or sixpence to borrow these handwritten issues. This episode—with its schoolboy spelling errors intact—appeared in issue 4, “published” on June 3. (A meat-card was a ration card that allowed the holder to buy a certain amount of meat per week.)
The author of 1984 and Animal Farm retained an appreciation for the Sherlock Holmes stories throughout his too-short life. In a 1936 letter he grouped them, along with tales by R. Austin Freeman and Ernest Bramah, as the only mysteries worth re-reading.
Next morning I awoke early, to find Holmes shaking me by the shoulder; “I am sorry to wake you up at this hour, Watson, “he remarked, “but we have got to continue with this case. “I sprang out of bed, and in half an hour I had had breakfast, and was prepared to start. “Today I shall visit the inn in my usual capacity” said Holmes, “Lestrade will arrive at about eleven”. In spite of the fact that he had been considering the case all night, Holmes was as active as ever. As he crept round the room, sometimes on all fours, and sometimes standing on his head, he looked like some terrible, remorseless machine for tracking down criminals. As he moved about the floor he occasionally gave vent to small ejaculations of triumph or annoyance. He also took a careful survey of the whole room with his lense: he took a handful of cigarette-ash from the waste-paper basket, a handful of ashes from the fireplace, and a little spilled beer from the bar, and put them into an envelope. Lestrade arrived at eleven, and stood looking on with a sardonic smile: “Mr Holmes is at his theories as usual,” he said. At last my friend stood up: “The criminal,” he said, “was an American, of short stature, with red hair and a long moustache.” “My dear Holmes,” I cried. “How on earth—” “Elementary,” he replied, “the landlord told me those facts himself yesterday.” He walked across to the sofa and siezed one of the legs: “Here Lestrade” he said, “help me with this sofa.” Lestrade knelt down; next moment there was a sharp click, and a muffled exclamation: both men sprang to their feet, and I saw that there were handcuffs on Lestrade’s wrists. “Gentlemen,” cried Holmes, “Let me introduce you to inspector Lestrade, of Scotland yard, alias “Darkey Ted”, the perpetrator of five audacious burglaries and three forgeries. And now, Watson, come along, for Charlie Chaplin acts in half an hour at “The Vulgarity”.” He stamped his foot, and two burly policemen appeared from the chimney, and took Lestrade away.”
* * * * *
“A simple case, Watson, but not without its interest. I suspected Lestrade from the first. The red hair and the moustache suggested a disguise, and I saw that his trowsers were marked with the dust from beneath the sofa. I knew too that he was no American.” “Why?” I ejaculated. “What American,” said Holmes, “would spit on the floors-boards when he could spit on the carpet?”
A Game at Chess
A Vacuosity in One Gasp
“E.A.G.”
Here we present a second chess-related problem, presented as a contest in which Holmes places his life on the line against his greatest nemesis. This appeared in the October issue of British Chess Magazine. Its author is probably Edwin A. Greig (1877-1952), who edited several books on the game.
Mr. Shercock Bones scratched his head. “My dear Whatson,” he said, as he prodded the tip of his nose with the end of his pipe, “have you ever heard of a game called chess?”
“No,” I said, “have you?”
There was a long silence.
“I propose to investigate its intricacies,” he said at last. “It is a game possessing many points which interest me. Prof. Moratorium showed me the moves, in an endeavour to distract my attention, just before I hurled him into the abyss. I have an appointment to play with him this evening. Will you come?”
“But—,” I began.
“Quite so, quite so, Whatson, your sagacity delights me. But it is only too true; my arch enemy is abroad again, hitherto unpublished, and quite unofficial.”
“You surprise me,” I remarked.
Bones thought deeply for a few moments. “Let me run over with you a few of the points which must concern us to-night. Each player has sixteen pieces. One, the King, cannot be captured—so he assured me. That leaves fifteen capturable units. Now, Whatson”—his long, boney fingers clutched at the table-edge as he suddenly swung round and fixed his gaze upon me—“how many sacrifices would be possible in one game?”
“Clearly fifteen,” I answered.
Bones jumped up like a released spring and rushed to the mantle-piece, and, before I could persuade him to reconsider his action, had injected fifteen grains of cocaine into the palm of his hand. Instantaneously his excitement subsided.
“Ha ha!” he exclaimed. “That’s what Prof. Moratorium said, so we are to play to-night to settle the matter.”
“What matter?” I asked.
“Come, come, Whatson,” he said, “come, come, come, come.”
I realised that my deductivity had failed me at a moment when I least expected, so I begged him for enlightenment.
He was again silent for some while in order to create an impressive pause, then pointed a long index finger straight at my collar-stud, and spoke in a slow and measured bass.
I shall play Moratorium to-night—I shall not lose the game—and I shall make more than sixteen sacrifices!
He fell back in his
chair, momentarily exhausted. I immediately injected sixteen grains of morphia to revive him, and, when he had opened his eyes, asked him how he could jeopardise his world-wide-known genius in such a reckless fashion.
“And the stakes?” I asked.
“If I lose,” he said, “Moratorium is entitled to have one point-blank revolver shot at me before I shoot him. If he fails to win, I may have one unhindered shot at him before he drops dead on the carpet!”
I whistled softly. Here was an adventure which placed all his previous exploits in the shade, which laughed to contumely the supine efforts of the regular Force, and, through extreme danger and daring, established him on the broadest pinnacle of lofty endeavour. I stayed rigid and motionless, as I thought of the prospects of the coming night, when suddenly I heard a sound and was frozen to complete immobility, I dashed to the door, and listened at the keyhole.
