by Bill Peschel
“No,” I replied, “that is a matter outside the province I had selected.”
“I have often told you, Watson, that you are the beau-ideal of the British jury-man. Light up another cigar, and I will lay before you the strange case of Miss Golightly.”
Part 3 – The Strange Case of Miss Golightly
Holmes went to his bureau, and returned with a small volume, a photograph, and a little bundle of cuttings.
“This little volume,” he began, “is the work of Professor Cranford, D.Sc. As Mr. Turfey’s polemical zeal has led him to cast suspicion on the bona fides of what he calls the diploma of this gentleman I have taken the trouble to verify it. He is a graduate of one British university and a member of the teaching staff of another. The volume contains some 240 pages, and is the record of eighty-three experiments conducted during a period of about two years by its author. The results obtained are entirely of a non-sensational order, consisting chiefly of the ‘levitation’ of an ordinary table. At the same time it is perfectly obvious that either some hitherto unrecognised force is being manifested in the operations, or that some person concerned is guilty of gross and deliberate fraud. There is no room whatever for amiable compromises. The only alternatives are Reality or Fraud. The persons who might be suspected of fraud are the Professor himself, Miss Golightly, and some one or more of the remaining six individuals who form the circle. As it is admitted that the most important factor in the production of the phenomena is Miss Golightly, obviously it is at her in the first instance that any suspicion of fraud should be directed.”
“Has any definite accusation of the kind been brought forward?” I enquired.
“No,” replied Holmes, “the critics as a rule fight shy of the case. Their tactics are prudent, for they are ill equipped for combat with a cool-headed scientist like Professor Cranford. Mr. Turfey, however, has ventured on a characteristic reference to the matter. He considers that the fact of the experiments being preceded by devotional exercises renders the experimenters fit objects for suspicion.”
“In other words,” I remarked, “he alleges as answer to a scientific treatise of 240 pages the fact that a young lady says her prayers.”
“Smart, Watson, very smart. Your innate chivalry is a wonderful stimulus to your intellect. But you are always an admirer of the sex, and an excellent judge of their character. What do you make of this photograph of Miss Golightly?”
I took up the photo, and studied it attentively. “It is a prepossessing face,” I replied; “the features are good, and there is much intellect and spirituality.”
“Are the intellect and spirituality unduly developed?” he asked.
“No,” said I, “I think not; not unduly so. I should imagine her to be quite a natural, healthy-minded girl.”
“Very good, then let us examine the hypothesis of fraud in the light of our knowledge of human nature. Accepting Mr. Turfey’s theory we are compelled to suppose that this healthy-minded girl, who is barely twenty years of age, has for more than two years devoted her leisure to a stupid routine of monotonous deception. Hour after hour, week after week she has sat in a dull, dark attic deliberately fooling a staid professor of mathematics. She is so skilful a conjuror that her tricks cannot be detected by expert engineers, yet she confines herself to so stupid a repertoire that it is a wonder the whole circle does not go to sleep. What on earth is her motive, Watson? Why doesn’t she go on the stage and turn her ability to profit? She gets no remuneration for her services, and from the money point of view is simply wasting valuable accomplishments. Is there any purpose behind this foolery, doctor? Or would Mr. Turfey have us believe that it is merely Irish humour manifesting itself in a somewhat ponderous form?”
“Hardly that, I fancy, Holmes. The joke is decidedly elaborate, and the humour must be rather stale by this time. Still, if I must suggest something—people have done very strange things merely to gratify their self-importance. She may desire the reputation of a wonder-worker even if it brings her no material gain.”
“You think, then, that she may consider the position of a psychical prima donna without salary worth the very tedious drudgery it involves, to say nothing of the moral repulsiveness of systematic deceit?”
“I do not think so, but it is a suggestion that might be made.”
“Well, it is certainly a possibility to be considered. But we have to take into account not only the prima donna but the chorus. Six other persons are concerned in these experiments, and their presence is necessary to ensure success. If she is a fraud, then it is inconceivable that she had no accomplice in the circle. How does she persuade the others to aid her in performing miracles for which they gain no credit? The position of a prima donna may be enviable, but there is no great distinction in being member of a chorus.”
“I give it up: the suggestion is none of mine.”
“Then, I presume you find for the defendant?”
“Certainly; the prosecution is frivolous and vexatious, and I should like to give heavy damages against the prosecutor. If Mr. Turfey has any evidence against Miss Golightly, he should produce it, and stand to his guns like a man, instead of proceeding by innuendo.”
“Ah, you are asking too much, my dear Watson. Mr. Turfey’s manoevres are certainly not manly; they are on the contrary what the ladies call cattish; but what would you have? So enlightened a moralist is not to be bound by the scruples of the barbarian or the bruiser. Literary combatants do not fight under Queensbury rules.”
“What are you chuckling at, Holmes?” I enquired curiously, for he had picked up another cutting from the pile, and was perusing it with audible enjoyment.
“I have just come across the passage in which our excellent Rationalist bewails the supposed degradation by Sir Roland of ‘Man’s lofty conceptions of a future state’. There is something infinitely amusing about appeals ad misericordiam coming from such a quarter. The now-converted iconoclast has been, all his life, acting with infinite gusto as Lord High Executioner to the cherished beliefs of others, but now that his own turn has come to be ‘worked off,’ he squeals in the most undignified manner. I am reminded of the euthanasia of Mr. Dennis as depicted in the closing chapters of Barnaby Rudge. You recall the incident?”
“See the hangman when it comes home to himself?’” I quoted. “But I had no idea, Holmes, that you were so staunch a champion of spiritualism.”
“I am not a champion of Spiritualism,” he quietly answered.
“So why are you so hot against its critics?”
“Not quite right yet, Watson. I have nothing but welcome for such criticism as your own. It serves to define issues, and to bring out the truth. Such opposition as that of Le Mesurier and Turfey is a different thing altogether.”
A flush of unwonted emotion came over his face; he arose and took a few steps up and down the room. Then looking steadily at me he went on in quiet deliberate tones.
“When you and I were young men, Watson, we devoted much time and energy to hunting down offenders against the law of our country. We received no material reward for our trouble. But we were warring for the good of society. The world is a little cleaner and better to-day because of our efforts. We are, I believe, well satisfied? We might have been wealthier men had we worked together for some selfish object. But we have no regrets on that score, I fancy?”
I looked across the room into the stern, strong face of my veteran comrade. One other face alone is so deeply engraved on my mind. Then, “Count me in once more, old man,” I replied. There was a pause. Then he resumed—
“If I had another lifetime before me in this world I should devote it to warfare against transgressors of the laws of thought. There are offences of incalculable moment which no existing statutes can touch. Had I my way, doctor, I should punish with far greater severity the man who, through ignorance or carelessness, disseminates false opinion among his fellows than his brother-criminal who contents himself with uttering base half-crowns. The currency of thought is a far more sacred
thing than the currency of commerce.”
“Rather an Utopian idea, surely, Holmes,” I remarked.
“Possibly so, but it has commended itself to some of the keenest thinkers that the world has ever seen. I owe the germ of the thought to W.K. Clifford. And it may not be as Utopian as you imagine. The world has had a very severe lesson. It has seen the slow gains of the ages all but swept away through the knavery and folly of the mandarins who have constituted themselves controllers of public opinion. It may learn not to suffer knaves and fools so gladly as it has done hitherto. It may yet teach editors and orators that there is such a thing as responsibility.”
“Perhaps so,” I said, “but I do not quite see how this bears on the subject of our discussion. I admit the soundness of the principle in social and political affairs, but surely we are now dealing with the abstract and emotional rather than the practical.”
“My dear man,” he replied impatiently, “this is the most practical matter that the world has ever had to consider. Nearly all the troubles of our generation arise from the fact that mankind is still in doubt on the most serious problem that has ever come before it.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“Whether what is called the supernatural is to be taken into serious account in the conduct of life. If there is no future state, or even if the evidence for it is negligible, then the supernatural had better be ignored altogether. Man must accept the situation, and constitute himself a law to himself as best he may. ‘Invisible kings’ who have no other kingdom than the sphere of our present existence are outside the question altogether. But mankind has been for some time halting between two opinions, and it cannot afford to do so much longer. It is in a state of unstable equilibrium, and soon it must move in one direction or the other. The one thing essential is to find out the truth. It is intolerable that knaves and fools should, purely for their own selfish ends, confuse the issue on which so much depends.”
He picked up from the table a copy of the Sunday Chimes, and sat down wearily in his arm-chair. “Ah, well,” he groaned, “in the meanwhile the knaves and fools aforesaid are having the time of their lives. Never was there such a market for rags and bones.” Spreading out the sheet before him he growled a series of comments on the correspondence column. “A sarcastic denunciation of Sir Roland House and his brother-simpletons by Miss May Tinkler. She is author of ‘Afternoon Tea’ and of certain lucubrations on Fantasticism. The latter are funny without being vulgar. A. Common Kipper, Esquire, writes from the Asinorium Club that all this so-called Research is blasphemous, and in addition is entirely unnecessary. The whole arcana of the Universe were explained to his complete satisfaction in a little book which he perused in his childhood. The volume is unfortunately out of print. Dr Le Mesurier announces that he devoted the whole of last Thursday to an exhaustive study of Occultism. He brought to the subject an entirely fresh and unbiassed mind of exceptional caliber, and is now prepared to practise as a consulting Mahatma. Ah, here is Turfey again, what is it now? He has dragged to light a flagrant act of dishonesty committed by the eldest of the appropriately names Foxes at the early age of thirteen months. The Foxes are as dead as Queen Anne, but the very graves are not safe from a Turfey in search of a subject. Really that fellow is the Jerry Cruncher of journalism. You may talk of his literary reputation, doctor, as much as you like and I shall not contradict you. But mentally and morally he is just a successful dealer in old clo’, with a branch business as resurrection-man. Faugh, Watson, faugh! Help yourself to some more whisky. I must have a little restorative before I tackle my supper.”
And he re-filled his pipe with the Platonic mixture.
Watson, Once Epaminondas, Joins Deteckative Gubb
Ellis Parker Butler
Illustrated by Thornton Fisher
Ellis Parker Butler(1869-1937) was an American humorist who wrote more than 2,000 stories and essays over a 40-year career. His most popular character was Philo Gubb, the paper-hanger turned correspondence school detective, who genially bumbled his way through 40 stories, solving cases usually by accident and frequently mangling the English language, such as in calling his profession “deteckative.” Gubb was a great admirer of Sherlock Holmes, but lacked only an admiring sidekick to make his life complete. Until Epaminondas, like Watson, appeared at his door seeking lodging …
This story had been written for Philo Gubb, Correspondence School Detective (1918) and appeared in the newspaper serialization before being dropped from the printed edition. Sherlockian Bill Blackbeard rediscovered it for his Sherlock Holmes in America collection. Among Gubb’s fans was Ellery Queen, who placed this book among the 106 best in Queen’s Quorum (1951). The illustrations were by comic strip artist (Wishing the Wisp and Raising the Family) Thornton Fisher (1888-1975).
The celebrated Philo Gubb, paper-hanger and detective, full graduate of the Rising Sun Detective Bureau’s Correspondence School of Detecting, and artistic interior decorator, reclined on his open folding bed, a bottle of milk in one hand, a sugared bun in the other. The great elucidator of hidden crime was attired in pajamas and bathrobe, and he was eating the bun according to the Fletcher system, in which he was a staunch believer. Half erect against his pillow, he inserted a part of the bun in his mouth, bit off a portion and masticated it thoroughly. When the portion of bun was thoroughly masticated, Mr. Gubb’s large and virile Adam’s apple glided upward, hesitated and glided downward again, with all the precision of some sort of mechanical jigger. After each portion of bun Mr. Gubb took a small amount of milk into his mouth, masticated it thirty times and swallowed that. In his regular and systematic manner he proceeded with his frugal breakfast.
The great detective was allowing himself this luxury of a breakfast in bed because he had worked late the night before. Mrs. Sarah Quimby, a widow, having received an offer of marriage from a gentleman named Orpheus Butts, had set the wedding day, and having set it, had decided that it was only right that her house should be entirely repapered before the ceremony. Mrs. Quimby was a woman of somewhat keen perceptions, and she reasoned in somewhat this manner: When a man marries for the love of a woman, that woman invariably prepares for the ceremony by attiring herself in entirely new garments. Too sensible to fool herself, Mrs. Quimby admitted to herself that Orpheus Butts was marrying her for love of her house and not for love of herself. Therefore it was proper that the house should be attired in entirely new garments for the wedding ceremony, and therefore she had called in Mr. Gubb—wall-paper being, in a way, the garments of a house.
The wedding day being set, it was necessary that the papering be done in some haste in order that Mrs. Quimby might have time to give the house its proper wedding lingerie (or, to speak plainly, new window curtains and so forth and to clean up the mess paper-hangers always leave). For this reason Mr. Gubb had worked late the night before to finish the job. It had been midnight when he turned up his straight-edge, pasting table, remainders of wall paper, paste pall, brush and so on, and had left the house. Mr. Orpheus Butts, being an unemotional and weary suitor, had gone home about 10 o’clock, and Mrs. Quimby had gone to bed about 11 o’clock, leaving her maid—Susan Dickelmeyer—to close the house after Mr. Gubb left.
Susan Dickelmeyer had waited in the kitchen, and when Mr. Gubb was ready to leave, he had to poke Susan with the end of the long handle of his paste brush several times before she stretched and groaned, “Oh, Lord! Is it time to get up already?” and finally awakened sufficiently to let Mr. Gubb out and lock the door behind him.
Because of this late work Mr. Gubb was taking an hour of relaxation in bed. He was about half through the bun and a quarter through the bottle of milk when some one tapped on his door. Mr. Gubb hurriedly slid his feet to the floor and sat keenly erect on the edge of his bed, the milk bottle in one hand and the bun in the other. Something in the quality of the sound of the tapping made Mr. Gubb think it was the announcement of a lady’s coming. The tapping had not been that of a horny-knuckled man; it was a dulled sound
, such as might have been made by a lady’s hand encased in a glove.
With exceeding care Mr. Gubb set the milk bottle under the bed and put the bun under the pillow. With extreme caution lest he made any telltale noises, he removed his temporary attire and began drawing on his garments, keeping one nervous eye on the door, for he could not recall whether he had turned the key or not. He was half-clad when the tapping on the door came again.
“In just one part of a moment of time, please!” he said. “I ain’t quite completely dressed into my garments yet, but I will be immediately soon.”
The tapping ceased, and in a few minutes Mr. Gubb was fully attired. He even paused to give his hair a few strokes of the brush, and then he went to the door. The key had been turned after all, and Mr. Gubb unlocked the door and opened it. Instead of a woman he saw a fat boy, the fattest boy he had ever seen in his life. The boy was so fat that his clothes bulged everywhere; the buttons of his coat seemed to hold him in precariously, and between the buttons, his coat gasped and bound him into great rings of adiposity like automobile tires. His wrists were like fat knees and his hands like puffs of flesh, and the fat, thick fingers explained why his tapping had been muffled. His cheeks bulged as if pumped up with a bicycle pump and crowded his eyes almost out of sight. Even his forehead was fat. He breathed heavily, like a grampus, but he smiled and smiled and smiled! Unutterable good-nature beamed from his face—crass, indestructible, idiotic good-nature. He stood, a heavy canvas telescope traveling-bag at his feet, and grinned at Mr. Gubb.
