by Bill Peschel
“Holes,” I said, as we came away, “what made you think of this?”
“I never think,” said Holes; “I always know.”
1919
The war was over, but the dying went on.
The influenza epidemic that took Kingsley swept the world. It started in Spain and spread into France and Germany. Soldiers on leave brought it into Britain, and it spread from there. In its most virulent form, it could kill within a day, and young adults between 20 and 30 were particularly vulnerable.
One of the victims was Conan Doyle’s brother, Innes, who died February in Belgium. They had been close throughout their lives. When Conan Doyle hung out his shingle in Southsea, nine-year-old Innes was sent there to act as his servant, much like Billy did for Holmes in the later stories. Conan Doyle supported his army career, sending him blank checks for his use. He brought him along on his American lecture tour. Now Innes was gone. Again, he found solace in Spiritualism: “All fine-drawn theories of the subconscious go to pieces before the plain statement of the intelligence, ‘I am a spirit. I am Innes. I am your brother.”
Meanwhile, he finished two more volumes of his war history and spent much of 1919 on the road lecturing on “Death and the Hereafter.” The list of places he visited represents a staggering show of fortitude for a 60-year-old man: Hastings, Birmingham, Walsall, Cheltenham, south Wales, Manchester, Leicester, Portsmouth, Glasgow, London, and Aberdeen. When church leaders attacked him, he altered his lecture and delivered a reply in Wolverhampton urging an alliance. Both sides believed in life after physical death; Spiritualism just proved it. If the clergy would open their eyes, he argued, they will see the truth. In fact, he believed that many clergymen were “amongst the strongest mediums which we possess at this time.”
In Brighton, the seed of a short-lived friendship was planted when he was introduced to an American magician touring Britain who shared his interest in the hereafter. For the next few years, Conan Doyle and Harry Houdini would engage in a struggle over Spiritualism that would play out in the press.
Publications: The British Campaign in France and Flanders, Vol. 4 (March); The British Campaign in France and Flanders, Vol. 5 (Sept.); The Vital Message (Nov.); The Guards Came Through and Other Poems (Dec.).
When the Spirits Rapped
A Nasty Incident in the Career of Sherlog Combes
Anonymous
While Conan Doyle never used Sherlock to promote his Spiritualist beliefs, there were those who used the detective as a way of taking the movement down a peg. The events at a typical séance described below were exaggerated for comic purposes, but not by much. This was published in the March 29 issue of London Opinion, a magazine that targeted a male readership with its mix of serious and satirical articles. It ran for 50 years, and was most famous for creating the “Lord Kitchener Needs You” recruitment poster that appeared on its cover. It was quickly adopted by James Montgomery Flagg, who substituted Uncle Sam for the renowned general.
Sherlog Combes sat in his study, wrapped in thought and a Jaeger dressing-gown.
He was conscious that he was growing old. “In my younger days,” he mused, “I should never have bought that purse from that race-course swindler for half-a-crown and expected to find the three half-crowns in it. But with regard to the three-card trick in the train coming back, I really had bad luck in losing my tenner. I thought the manipulator was doing the trick so clumsily that he was exposing which was the lady. But I was wrong.
“However,” he ran on in his reverie, “when Dr. Potson calls on me again—and I suppose he will, although he has left me severely alone of late—I shall have something startling to tell him of my discoveries about the spirit world.”
Here the ancient sleuth picked up his weekly copy of The Styx, a journal devoted to spirits (the medium brand, not the strong), and his eye caught the following announcement:
“SPIRITS! SPIRITS! SPIRITS!—PROFESSOR TRIXTER (the World’s Most Famous Medium) will hold a séance at 3.0 sharp. How would you like to talk to Julius Caesar? Admission. One shilling.”
Two hours later he was being carried rapidly in a luxurious sixty horse-power automobile (the property of the General Omnibus Company), and soon afterwards reached the flat in Bloomsbury where the séance was to take place.
The flat had the appearance of having been selected in a great hurry. It was unfurnished and dirty. A large room on an upper floor had been prepared for the ceremony by the simple expedient of darkening the window, and improvising seats out of soap boxes and planks.
Sherlog Combes was admitted by a hefty individual whose appearance alone would have quenched the ardour of a less enthusiastic investigator. He found a number of famous people already assembled, including two lady novelists, a Labour M.P., and Professor Foljambe, F.R.S., the eminent zoologist who had discovered the fallacy of the theory that it is impossible to say “Boo” to a goose.
The medium opened the proceedings by a brief lecture on the objects of the séance, spoken with a pronounced American accent. Then he seated himself in the only chair the room contained, and his hefty assistant proceeded to tie him up with much grunting and straining over every knot.
The visitors were requested to sit on the improvised forms, and to take each other’s hands. There was a slight diversion owing to Sherlog Combes sitting on a nail that had been left in one of the soap boxes. When all was ready the assistant switched out the lights.
For a few moments absolute silence ensued. Then a banjo thrummed once. As if this were a signal, a regular spiritual jazz band struck up. The room was filled with a medley of strange sounds. Instruments more or less musical seemed to be floating about in space, and twice Sherlog’s bald head was smitten by a tambourine. Then the noise died away as suddenly as it had begun, and the watchers became aware of a shadowy phosphorescent figure standing before them.
“Who are you?” asked a voice.
“I guess Julius Caesar’s my label, stranger,” replied the apparition; and then added, rather inconsequently, “Take away that bauble!”
The illustrious Roman appeared to be a talkative spirit. He remained chatting for about ten minutes, during which time he gave a racy description of his landing in England in the year 1066 at the head of the Invincible Armada, and his defeat of the Britishers under the Duke of Marlborough at the battle of Bannockburn. Then he began to grow more shadowy and less phosphorescent, and ended by vanishing altogether.
“Keep you seats, ladies and gentlemen!” urged the hefty assistant. “There are more marvels to come!”
Again the banjo twanged, and several sharp raps rang out from the region of the door. Then once again there was silence. For fully a quarter of an hour the assembly sat and waited, but nothing else happened.
“Oh, dear, I am so frightened!” cried one of the lady novelists.
“Why don’t they switch on the lights if it’s all over?” demanded Professor Foljambe.
It was the Labour M.P. who first took action. Freeing his hands from the grip of his neighbour’s, he plunged for the electric switch. The next instant the room was flooded with light.
In the centre stood the solitary chair, empty now, with the cords hanging limply upon it; but of the medium and his hefty assistant there was no trace.
“Strange!” murmured Sherlog.
He felt somewhat shaken, and longed for the soothing influence of a cigarette. His hand sought for the handsome gold presentation case he invariably carried, but to his surprise neither that nor anything else appeared to be in his pockets. He glanced at his companions, and noted the same bewildered expression on every face.
“What does it mean?” he asked, helplessly.
It was Professor Foljambe who took upon himself to answer. “It means,” he said in solemn accents, “that all our valuables have been spirited away!”
“Good gracious!” said Sherlog, “I hope Dr. Potson never gets to hear of this.”
Baffled
Another Adventure of the Dear Old Has-Been, Sher
log Combes
Anonymous
This is the second of two attacks on Conan Doyle’s Spiritualist beliefs from London Opinion, this time from the June 7 issue.
The aged detective affixed his signature to the Unemployment Benefit form; and, wrapped in reverie and a dressing-gown, sank back into his chair. His violin lay amongst the littered breakfast dishes. A quid of cocaine, or a wad or tumblerful of it—I forget exactly how you take it—stood at his elbow. The hound of the Vilkerbaskes, wearing a bird-cage in lieu of a muzzle, spread itself over most of the hearth-rug. All these properties had to be there. How otherwise would you have recognised Sherlog Combes, the greatest living—if only just living—detective? His brow, like his financial outlook and the whisky he was drinking, was clouded. He had not had a case for years (like the wine and spirit merchants).
Suddenly a jarring tintinnabulation shattered the sylvan calm of Baker Street. An ordinary mind would have imagined that the belfry of a neighbouring church had fallen into the road, but to Combes’ trained intelligence it could mean but one thing: the front-door bell. He removed his feet, and incidentally an oleograph of the Relief of Lucknow, from the mantelpiece. His hawk-like eyes glinted. His hawk-like nose quivered. His hawk-like ears—no. Sorry, that won’t do.
A lady entered hurriedly, without waiting to be announced. Her skirt and blouse were in the height of fashion, but her countenance was in the depths of despair.
Her voice was deeply agitated. “My husband—” she began.
“I understand perfectly,” interrupted Combes. “You wish to tell me that your husband has disappeared. Maddened by the horrors of the super-tax he has probably—”
“Nothing of the kind,” said the lady. “My husband and I—”
“Say no more. I see it all. Home troubles. Domestic affliction, You are being blackmailed by a former admirer, who holds the billets doux which you, as a schoolgirl, flicked across the aisle to him in church.”
“No, much worse. My husband and I and our baby—”
“Heavens!” cried Combes. “Your angel-child has been kidnapped. Four masked bandits, I presume, drove up in a black bassinette—”
“Please let me finish. We have been searching all over for—”
“Why didn’t you say so at first?” snapped Combes. “A jewel robbery, of course, Madam, confide in me. It was I who discovered the great Californian Carbuncle in the Duchess’s powder-box. It was I who—”
“No, not that.”
“Well, what can I do for you? Perhaps your uncle has been found lying dead in the conservatory with an aspidistra embedded in his brain?”
“No, no. Listen,” said the lady in a weary voice. “I have simply come to ask you to find us a house.”
“A house!” The detective’s jaw dropped; not on the floor, you understand; it just dropped.
“Madam,” he quavered in a voice broken with failure, “you demand the impossible. I have been a match for all the murderers, blackmailers, forgers and master-criminals in the world, but even I dare not tackle a modern landlord. I dabble every day in fabulous fortunes and missing millions, but London rents are beyond me. I can find diamonds and rubies as easily as a conjuror fetches rabbits out of a hat; I can produce coronets and tiaras as quickly as a politician can abstract coin from a taxpayer’s pocket; but a house! I am but human. With tief and grears—I mean grears and tief—I admit my powerlessness. I cannot find you a house.”
With a low, gurgling cry, reminiscent of the last half-inch of water bidding a reluctant farewell to a bath, the lady fell forward in a swoon.
Combes gently raised her, and laid her on the sofa.
He swallowed the quid, wad, or bucketful of cocaine at one gulp, and, taking his violin from under the butter-dish, he drew forth, with ineffable pathos and a bow that needed rosin, the first haunting notes of “There’s nae luck aboot the hoose.”
The lady swooned again. You cannot blame her.
Holmes Out-Sherlocked
W.J. McDonnell
When the war broke out, the Third London General Hospital was mobilized at the Royal Patriotic School in Wandsworth. Its orderlies were drawn from the members of the Chelsea Arts Club who were of invaluable help in contributing to The Gazette, which published from October 1915 to July 1919. This story came from that last issue. Nothing is known of W.J. McDonnell.
A great disaster recently overtook a patient in Q ward. The doctor had ordered stout, and as dinner time drew near his excitement was intense. But alas for human hopes! No stout came his way, and forthwith the matter was reported to the orderlette, who promptly carried the information to the Sister. A few moments’ enquiry resulted in the creation of a mystery concerning the missing bottle, and speculation was rife as to the perpetrator of the outrage. It was immediately recognised how serious the theft was regarded—obviously the Sister responsible for the ward stood in great danger from the Defence Act in allowing liquor to an invalid without the orders of the doctor—for the canteen was communicated with as to the exact number of bottles they had despatched that morning, but the mystery only deepened. It is not stated whether the Colonel was acquainted with the crime, but from subsequent happenings it would appear that the War Office was very soon in full possession of the details of the case, and with its customary ability handed the question over to Scotland Yard.
Now the whole world is well aware that Scotland Yard sets about its work with a simplicity that completely deceives the criminal. Accordingly no suspicion was aroused when two evenings later a new patient arrived in the ward and proceeded to solve the riddle. In the course of his short stay in our midst, he and I were much together, so that when finally the missing bottle was found it was not surprising that he explained to me the whole process of complex reasoning that had accomplished his object.
“You will observe, my young friend,” he began, “that there are three strange points in this extraordinary outrage. In the first place, only one bottle was taken from a case of twenty-three; secondly, the bottle was a very small one; and, thirdly, the stout was Reid’s. Now at first sight it becomes apparent that the thief was not actuated by thirst, consequently we are driven to accept one of several hypotheses—either he was a mathematical artist whose notions of beauty demand regularity and evenness. You will recall that there were twenty-three bottles; obviously one was taken to ensure even numbers. Now I confess I have great sympathy with an art that can transpose ugliness into beauty simply by abstracting one number. But the difficulty of applying this hypothesis in a practical manner was insuperable until I had studied the patients, doctors, nurses, and visitors of Ward Q.
“My second theory was simplicity itself. You recollect the bottle was very small—what motive could possibly actuate a man or woman to steal a small bottle of stout? Obviously a small bottle makes an excellent candle-stick; now the only person likely to require such a thing was the night nurse, for, as you know, the electric arcs in Q Ward are very unreliable. Here, then, was a clue to be followed closely. Accordingly I set to work to study the night nurse, and soon my efforts were rewarded. At about 10.30 p.m. I saw her leave the ward and enter the kitchen. Leaping from my bed, I crept, panther-like, towards the door. Presently my ears caught a jingling sound—she was emptying a bottle! With success in my grasp, I flung propriety and chivalry to the winds, and rushed into the kitchen. My entrance startled her, but, woman-like, she called the art of the actress to her aid, and smiled sweetly, asking in gentle accents, “Are you ill?” But my duty forbade any relenting—my reputation as the greatest of England’s detectives was at stake—firmness alone could conquer.
“‘Woman,’ I said, ‘give me that bottle.’
“‘Don’t you dare call me a “woman”; I’ll report you for impertinence.’
“Her look of pain and surprise affected me, and I apologised. She saw her chance, and, offering me the bottle, remarked, ‘It’s empty. I think a little hot milk would soothe your nerves; go back to bed, and I’ll bring you a cup.’
“But I was not to be so easily bluffed. ‘Nurse,’ I began, ‘I am a detective from Scotland Yard. I came here to clear up a strange mystery in connection with that bottle; can you explain how it came into your possession? I might mention that whatever you say will be taken down in evidence against you.’ She met this statement with a roar of laughter, and then replied, ‘Really you are such a funny boy, but do go to bed; you’ll catch an awful cold. I’m sure the mental doctor will be pleased to have you for an hour or so tomorrow, but do go to bed now.’
“My consternation overwhelmed me. I was speechless, but as I chanced that moment to glance at the bottle my tongue recovered its power, and I exclaimed, ’Sdeath! It’s a milk bottle!’
“I fled, and when she brought the hot milk to my bedside a few minutes later I could have wept—with rage.
“Next morning I had made up my mind; my first theory was the only tenable one. The Sisters, nurses, and orderlies were quite free from suspicion; what would they want with stout when champagne was so near? Ridiculous! Of course!! Nor could one bring home the crime to any one of the patients. They were nearly all Australians, consequently it was futile to suspect them, for no Australian would steal one small bottle of stout—he’d have taken the twenty-three!
“Then who on earth could have seized the thing? Now the most wonderful thing in detective science is the art of dovetailing the apparently most irreconcilable elements. A chance word gave me my greatest clue. I heard that there had been a whist drive the day following the disappearance of the bottle of stout, but the M.C. had failed to put in an appearance. Do you follow me?”
