|
|
|
||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Angry Author
The Plague [New York University], 3, No. 4 (May 1980)
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Hey, there's a sequel, doncha know!
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Cited in the Universal Sherlock Holmes bibliography.
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
I need only glance at my notes in the most cursory fashion to relate this most unusual
episode in the career of my friend, Sherlock Holmes; consulting detective. I was again
lodging in our old quarters while my wife cared for a sick aunt in Dover and my practice
suffered from an epidemic of good health which seemed to strike London in the early
summer of 1895. We had only the night before finished work on a case involving a
most brutal murder and an Indian carpet woven from human hair. Holmes was up early
refilling his Persian slipper with a new supply of shag. Mrs. Hudson's breakfast was
already on the table by the time I had dressed for the day.
"Well rested, I hope," Holmes said as I consumed my meal.
"I feel well enough. Any reason for your inquiry?"
"Just this wire I received. Mrs. Hudson brought it up with the breakfast." Holmes
handed me a note.
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
"Well rested, I hope," Holmes said as I consumed my meal.
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Mr. Holmes (it read)
Wish to speak to you on
personal matter. Will
call 11:00 this am.
-A.C. Doyle
"A personal matter, Holmes? What possibly could this Doyle want from you?"
"If my ears don't deceive me, we will discover his motives shortly. I believe those are his footsteps on our staircase now."
A few moments later Mr. Doyle, a slight man with a bushy mustache, stood before us, hat in hand. Holmes proceeded to welcome our visitor. "Good morning, Mr. Doyle, I'm--"
"Yes, I know. You are Sherlock Holmes and this is the good Doctor John Watson." There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.
"Quite. Now then, what is the nature of your problem, sir?" Homes remained strangely cool toward our guest.
"I would think you would know already," Doyle replied. I hadn't seen such antagonism toward Holmes since Lestrade learned of Holmes' involvement in the MacMurphy Rocking Horse case. Ill feelings to the degree of those displayed by Doyle were rare, certainly by a client. "Surely the name Arthur Conan Doyle must have struck a chord in that remarkable memory of yours."
"The name is not unfamiliar to me, nor was your visit a complete surprise." Holmes lit his pipe, tossing the match into the long-dark fireplace. "Doyle, yes. Born 1859 in Edinburgh. Educated at Stonyhurst College and the University of Edinburgh. You were a practicing physician from 1882 until 1890, when you devoted yourself to writing full time."
"Really, Holmes, " I interjected, "How on earth did you deduce all that?"
"I didn't deduce it, I learned it. As I said before, Mr. Doyle's visit was not unexpected. On the assumption that he would be calling on us, I simply did some research."
Again I spoke out, "What is the purpose of this visit?"
"I'm sure Mr. Doyle---"
"Doctor Doyle," Doyle interrupted.
"Of course," Holmes said, bowing slightly to Doyle, "Pardon me. I'm sure Dr. Doyle could answer that better than I."
"Are you here to obtain Holmes' service as consulting detective?" I asked.
"I should say the exact opposite," Doyle replied. Then turning back to my friend, "Aren't you acting a bit too independent for your own good?"
I felt again compelled to speak. "Holmes was never one to work with the police."
"Not from the police," said Doyle, "From me."
I was taken back by that last statement. Holmes beholden to any man? Outrageous! I looked toward him and found he had seated himself, assuming his usual position when dealing with a new client. Inasmuch as my face showed a lack of comprehension, Holmes seemed perfectly willing to accept this news. "What are you talking about, my good man?"
Holmes raised his hand. "Please, Watson, allow our guest to continue."
"Don't act so smug. You're becoming too free. Don't forget I'm the one who created you."
"What?" I gasped. Any previous look of surprise paled in sight of my present expression. "Created him? Are you accusing him of being some kind of Frankenstein's Monster?"
"Nothing so blatant, Doctor," said Doyle. "Not directly, anyway. But since his first appearance the amazing Sherlock Holmes seems to have taken on a life of his own. Yes, to the point where one may say it has turned on its master."
Homes straightened up in his chair as his spoke, "Well, Doyle, I always assumed I had served you well."
Doyle seemed to be making himself at home in our lodgings. In fact, he seemed quite familiar with the layout of our rooms and the decorations which were the result of Holmes eccentricities. Doyle walked by the "V.R." formed by bullet holes in our wall, the chemical-stained table where Holmes bandied about with his experiments and the wax bust of Holmes used as a decoy for an air rifle attack. He studied them not with any sense of discovery, but with an air of approval at what he saw. Then he spoke. "Yes, you did serve me well; thanks to you, I became an established writer. But somewhere along the line, you ceased to be a literary figure."
"I say, Holmes, is he serious?"
"Most serious, Watson."
Doyle continued. "I want you to end your consultation service. I have other works worth recognition. Why, my manuscripts on British history have been called the definitive word. I've been given a knighthood for my volumes on the British Boar War."
"I was offered one also, but turned it down," said Holmes.
"I know what you did. I wrote it. I'm sure you recall that. Now it's at an end. I want to move on to other things."
By now Holmes was out of his chair. As he spoke, the two men circled me in a casual pace around the room. "I think that would be impossible, Sir Arthur. You see, I'm bigger than you now. There's nothing you can do that will deter me from serving the public. They expect Sherlock Holmes to protect them and serve justice."
"You are a fictional character," Doyle protested.
Holmes was unaffected by this claim. "I'm afraid there are vast numbers of persons who would disagree. You see, I have books, movies, and television shows about me. I have a fan club. People adore me. I walk the same streets of London you do. I meet the same people. I am real."
"You're not! I can finish you off at any time!"
"I'm afraid you can't. You tried once to kill me off. Not only was it such a feeble attempt that any semi-literate could pick out the holes and inconsistencies in the narrative but public outcry forced you to resurrect me. Others will simply pick up where you left off. They'll probably improve on the whole series."
"I doubt it."
"People know I'm real. They know they can depend on me. Why, I solved the Jack the Ripper case no less than three times."
"Oh, sure. And one of the times you were the killer."
"Nonetheless, that's three more than the real police. My Baker Street Irregulars know more about me than you ever knew or wrote about me. They know my complete biography. They've even psychoanalyzed me. Did you know Professor Moriarty was a figment of my imagination?"
"No, he wasn't," Doyle exclaimed. "He's a figment of my imagination. I created him as the perfect foil for you."
"He was only my mathematics teacher as a boy."
"He was your mortal enemy! He nearly killed you twice. You ran up against him later in 'The Valley of Fear.' I am not in the habit of writing detective stories with a candidate for Bedlam as the hero. That would be lovely, a detective who hallucinates his own antagonists. And I don't need books written about your past. Everything that mattered was contained in the stories. Your history, as I wrote it, would barely fill a single page."
"Really, Doyle," I said, "I'm not an expert in the field of psychiatry, though I did meet with Sigmund Freud for several months..."
"Not while I was writing, you didn't!"
"Nonetheless," I continued, "all of Holmes' strange little quirks could be explained with a study of his childhood.
"He had no childhood. These 'quirks' are there for color. Things like the Persian slipper, the Inverness cape or his traveling cap are little details I used to bring the character to life, to make him spring from the page."
"Then it would seem that it has succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. It's out of your realm now, Doyle. You washed your hands of me. I've seen some of the quotes. 'Marry him, murder him, do what you like,' indeed. And let us not forget your own attempt, as the Americans say, to "bump me off."
Doyle fumed. "You've pushed me beyond the limits of endurance. I have a right to be known for other things."
"I made you famous. You're riding my coattails. Face it, man, along with Watson here, Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft, you owe it all to me. Now I really am growing weary of this conversation. If you don't leave now I shall have you arrested for trespassing. Lestrade may be a dolt but he does have the power to make arrests."
Doyle put on his hat and prepared to leave. "You haven't heard the last of me."
"Nor you, I," replied Holmes as the door was pulled shut.
"Riding your coattails, Holmes?"
"Sorry, old boy, but I was merely making a point. Nothing personal, you understand."
"That Doyle certainly is a moody chap."
"The artist's disposition. All creative people seem to have it. I've told you my relation to the French artist, Vernet? Same way. Even you Watson, as author of those melodramatic accounts of our exploits, go through similar moods."
"Remarkable, Holmes. Do you think Doyle will be back?"
"I'm as sure of it as I am of sitting here in 221B Baker Street. Let us move on to other things. Now, would you mind handing me this month's copy of 'The Strand?' I adore those short mystery stories."
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
| page created with Easy Designer |