The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (39 page)

(Published Anonymously)

COINCIDENTALLY, JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
and Arthur Conan Doyle, two of the most popular and successful writers of the Victorian and Edwardian eras, attended Edinburgh University at the same time. The university had a greater influence on Conan Doyle, as that is where he encountered Dr. Joseph Bell, the professor whose skill at observation and rational deduction served as the model for Sherlock Holmes.

In later years, Barrie and Conan Doyle formed a friendship, albeit one that was slightly tempered late in their lives when Barrie forbade any talk of spiritualism, the subject that had consumed most of Conan Doyle's thoughts and energy in the last twenty years of his life.

Barrie and Conan Doyle had both published books with moderate success and both found fame and imminent fortune in the same year, 1891, Barrie with the publication of
The Little Minister
, Conan Doyle with
The Strand Magazine
's publication of the first Sherlock Holmes short stories (after the first two Holmes novels,
A Study in Scarlet
, 1887, and
The Sign of Four
, 1890). The staggering public adulation of Holmes, Watson, and Conan Doyle that followed the publication of the Holmes stories (the first, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” appeared in July 1891, followed by additional stories every month) made the detective a household name, thus ripe for parody. The first author to seize the opportunity was Barrie, who anonymously wrote “An Evening with Sherlock Holmes” a mere four months after the first Holmes story, for the November 28, 1891, issue of
The Speaker: A Review of Politics, Letters, Science, and the Arts
, a short-lived London journal that published work by Oscar Wilde and other British literary lights. The story bears the distinction of being the earliest parody of Holmes.

I AM THE
sort of man whose amusement is to do everything better than any other body. Hence my evening with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes is the private detective whose adventures Mr. Conan Doyle is now editing in the
Strand
magazine. To my annoyance (for I hate to hear anyone praised except myself) Holmes's cleverness in, for instance, knowing by glancing at you what you had for dinner last Thursday, has delighted press and public, and so I felt it was time to take him down a peg. I therefore introduced myself to Mr. Conan Doyle and persuaded him to ask me to his house to meet Sherlock Holmes.

For poor Mr. Holmes it proved to be an eventful evening. I had determined to overthrow him with his own weapons, and accordingly when he began, with well-affected carefulness, “I perceive, Mr. Anon, from the condition of your cigar-cutter, that you are not fond of music,” I replied blandly, “Yes, that is obvious.”

Mr. Holmes, who had been in his favourite attitude in an easy chair (curled up in it), started violently and looked with indignation at our host, who was also much put out.

“How on earth can you tell from looking at his cigar-cutter that Mr. Anon is not fond of music?” asked Mr. Conan Doyle, with well-simulated astonishment.

“It is very simple,” said Mr. Holmes, still eyeing me sharply.

“The easiest thing in the world,” I agreed.

“Then I need not explain?” said Mr. Holmes haughtily.

“Quite unnecessary,” said I.

I filled my pipe afresh to give the detective and his biographer an opportunity of exchanging glances unobserved, and then pointing to Mr. Holmes's silk hat (which stood on the table) I said blandly, “So you have been in the country recently, Mr. Holmes?”

He bit his cigar, so that the lighted end was jerked against his brow.

“You saw me there?” he replied almost fiercely.

“No,” I said, “but a glance at your hat told me you had been out of town.”

“Ha!” said he triumphantly, “then yours was but a guess, for as a matter of fact I—”

“Did not have that hat in the country with you,” I interposed.

“Quite true,” he said smiling.

“But how—” began Mr. Conan Doyle.

“Pooh,” said I coolly, “this may seem remarkable to you two who are not accustomed to drawing deductions from circumstances trivial in themselves (Holmes winced), but it is nothing to one who keeps his eyes open. Now as soon as I saw that Mr. Holmes's hat was dented in the front, as if it had received a sharp blow, I knew he had been in the country lately.”

“For a long or short time?” Holmes snarled. (His cool manner had quite deserted him.)

“For at least a week,” I said.

“True,” he said dejectedly.

“Your hat also tells me,” I continued, “That you came to this house in a four-wheeler—no, in a hansom.”

“—” said Sherlock Holmes. “Would you mind explaining?” asked our host.

“Not at all,” I said. “When I saw the dent in Mr. Holmes's hat, I knew at once that it had come unexpectedly against some hard object. Probably the roof of a conveyance, which he struck against while stepping in. These accidents often happen at such a time to hats. Then though this conveyance might have been a four-wheeler, it was more probable that Mr. Holmes would travel in a hansom.”

“How did you know I had been in the country?”

“I am coming to that. Your practice is, of course, to wear a silk hat always in London, but those who are in the habit of doing so acquire, without knowing it, a habit of guarding their hats. I, therefore, saw that you had recently been wearing a pot-hat and had forgotten to allow for the extra height of the silk hat. But you are not the sort of man who would wear a little hat in London. Obviously, then, you had been in the country, where pot-hats are the rule rather than the exception.”

Mr. Holmes, who was evidently losing ground every moment with our host, tried to change the subject.

“I was lunching in an Italian restaurant today,” he said, addressing Mr. Conan Doyle, “and the waiter's manner of adding up my bill convinced me that his father had once—”

“Speaking of that,” I interposed, “do you remember that as you were leaving the restaurant you and another person nearly had a quarrel at the door?”

“Was it you?” he asked.

“If you think that possible,” I said blandly, “you have a poor memory for faces.”

He growled to himself.

“It is this way, Mr. Doyle,” I said. “The door of this restaurant is in two halves, the one of which is marked ‘Push' and the other ‘Pull.' Now Mr. Holmes and the stranger were on different sides of the door, and both pulled. As a consequence the door would not open, until one of them gave way, then they glared at each other and parted.”

“You must have been a spectator,” said our host.

“No,” I replied, “but I knew this as soon as I heard that Mr. Holmes had been lunching in one of those small restaurants. They all have double doors which are marked ‘Push' and ‘Pull' respectively. Now, nineteen times in twenty, mankind pushes when it ought to pull, and pulls when it should push. Again, when you are leaving a restaurant there is usually someone entering it. Hence the scene at the door. And, in conclusion, the very fact of having made such a silly mistake rouses ill-temper, which we vent on the other man, to imply that the fault was all his.”

“Hum!” said Holmes savagely. “Mr. Doyle, the leaf on this cigar is unwinding.”

“Try anoth—” our host was beginning, when I interposed with—

“I observe from your remark, Mr. Holmes, that you came straight here from the hairdresser's.”

This time he gaped.

“You let him wax your mustache,” I continued. (For of late Mr. Holmes has been growing a mustache.)

“He did and before I knew what he was about,” Mr. Holmes replied.

“Exactly,” I said, “and in your hansom you tried to undo his handiwork with your fingers.”

“To which,” our host said with sudden enlightenment, “some of the wax stuck, and is now tearing the leaf of the cigar!”

“Precisely,” I said, “I knew he had come from a hairdresser's the moment I shook hands with him.”

“Good-night,” said Mr. Holmes, seizing his hat (he is not as tall as I thought him at first), “I have an appointment at ten with a banker, who—”

“So I have been observing,” I said. “I knew it from the way you—”

But he was gone.

(Writing as Luke Sharp)

THE BRITISH WRITER
, journalist, and short story writer Robert Barr (1850–1912) is best known for
The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont
(1906), his superb collection of stories about the French detective. It contains one of the most famous and ingenious mystery stories of all time, “The Absent-Minded Coterie.” As the first important volume of humorous detective stories in English literature, it was selected by Ellery Queen for his pioneering work,
Queen's Quorum
, which described the one hundred six most important collections of detective stories from 1845 to 1950.

Perhaps Barr's even greater contribution to Victorian and Edwardian fiction was the founding of
The Idler
, which was devoted to popular fiction and became one of the leading British magazines of the day. Barr brought along the famous humorist Jerome K. Jerome to be coeditor and the magazine soon published many of the leading illustrators and authors of the day, including Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, Arthur Conan Doyle, E. W. Hornung, H. G. Wells, and Barr himself; it was issued from 1892 until 1911.

An adept parodist, Barr targeted Sherlock Holmes twice and was one of the first to make sport of the detective, though this did not damage his friendship with Conan Doyle. In his autobiography, Conan Doyle described him as “a volcanic Anglo—or rather Scot-American, with a violent manner, a wealth of strong adjectives, and one of the kindest natures underneath it all.”

“Detective Stories Gone Wrong: The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs” was first published under the Luke Sharp pseudonym in the May 1892 issue of
The Idler
; it was first collected in book form under the title “The Great Pegram Mystery” in
The Face and the Mask
by Robert Barr (London, Hutchinson, 1894), acknowledging the true authorship.

I DROPPED IN
on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say about the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers had contained an article eulogizing the alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.

He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted me with his usual kindness.

“I have come,” I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind, “to hear what you think of the great Pegram mystery.”

“I haven't heard of it,” he said quietly, just as if all London were not talking of that very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on some subjects, and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance, that political discussion with him was impossible, because he did not know who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great boon.

“The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland Yard.”

“I can well believe it,” said my friend, calmly. “Perpetual motion, or squaring the circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is Gregory.”

This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. There was no professional jealousy in him, such as characterizes so many other men.

He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated armchair, placed his feet on the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his head.

“Tell me about it,” he said simply.

“Old Barrie Kipson,” I began, “was a stockbroker in the City. He lived in Pegram, and it was his custom to—”

“Come in!” shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.

“Excuse me,” said my friend, laughing, “my invitation to enter was a trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is, a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about this crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line.”

“Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude,” I said, rising.

“Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming.”

I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.

“I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of objects in
the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across the street. I recognized my card, because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows that
he
will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always—
Come
in!”

There was a rap at the door this time.

A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.

“I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,” said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision.

“This is Mr. Kombs,” I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.

“There is no need. You are a journalist,” said Kombs.

“Ah,” said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, “you know me, then.”

“Never saw or heard of you in my life before.”

“Then how in the world—”

“Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article condemning the book of a friend. He will feel bad about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him.”

“The devil!” cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid.

“Yes,” drawled Kombs, “it is a devil of a shame that such things are done. But what would you, as we say in France.”

When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself together somewhat. “Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you say you have never seen?”

“I rarely talk about these things,” said Kombs with great composure. “But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal. This smeared class embraces two subclasses, clerks or accountants, and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special Edition, which will not be on the streets for half an hour yet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in his own paper not written by himself; therefore, you wrote the article you have marked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author of the book referred to. Your paper makes a specialty of abusing all books not written by some member of its own staff. That the author is a friend of yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinary observation.”

“Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are.”

A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the sideboard and drew his self-cocking six-shooter.

“Do you mean to insult me, sir?”

“I do not—I—I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard tomorrow—I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir.”

“Then heaven help you,” cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.

I sprang between them.

“Don't shoot!” I cried. “You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don't you see the man means well? He actually thinks it is a compliment!”

“Perhaps you are right,” remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy—

“You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr. Wilber Scribbings?”

The journalist started.

“How do you know my name?” he gasped.

Kombs waved his hand impatiently.

“Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name.”

I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.

“You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery—”

“Tush,” cried the detective; “do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery. There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever
was
a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before. What about the Pegram affair?”

“The Pegram—ah—case has baffled everyone. The
Evening Blade
wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the commission?”

“Possibly. Tell me about the case.”

“I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at Pegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5:30 train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew something like three hundred pounds in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to catch the 5:30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class compartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between London and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head, and his money was gone, pointing plainly to murder and robbery.”

“And where is the mystery, might I ask?”

“There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the tickets sold for the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, how could the murderer have escaped? Fourth, the passengers in two compartments on each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and no shot fired.”

“Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 21st did not stop between London and Brewster?”

“Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal just outside of Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line was reported clear, and it went on again. This frequently happens, as there is a branch line beyond Pegram.”

Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe silently.

“I presume you wish the solution in time for tomorrow's paper?”

“Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would do well.”

“My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you can make it convenient to call here tomorrow at 8 a.m. I will give you the full particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sense in taking up much time over so simple an affair as the Pegram case. Good afternoon, sir.”

Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He left in a speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hat still in his hand.

Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his hands clasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at first, then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion, so I said nothing.

Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. “I do not wish to seem to be rushing things at all, Whatson, but I am going out tonight on the Scotch Express. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Bless me!” I cried, glancing at the clock. “You haven't time, it is after five now.”

“Ample time, Whatson—ample,” he murmured, without changing his position. “I give myself a minute and a half to change slippers and dressing-gown for boots and coat, three
seconds for hat, twenty-five seconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a hansom, and then seven minutes at the terminus before the express starts. I shall be glad of your company.”

I was only too happy to have the privilege of going with him. It was most interesting to watch the workings of so inscrutable a mind. As we drove under the lofty iron roof of the terminus I noticed a look of annoyance pass over his face.

“We are fifteen seconds ahead of our time,” he remarked, looking at the big clock. “I dislike having a miscalculation of that sort occur.”

The great Scotch express stood ready for its long journey. The detective tapped one of the guards on the shoulder.

“You have heard of the so-called Pegram mystery, I presume?”

“Certainly, sir. It happened on this very train, sir.”

“Really? Is the same carriage still on the train?”

“Well, yes, sir, it is,” replied the guard, lowering his voice, “but of course, sir, we have to keep very quiet about it. People wouldn't travel in it, else, sir.”

“Doubtless. Do you happen to know if anybody occupies the compartment in which the body was found?”

“A lady and gentleman, sir; I put 'em in myself, sir.”

“Would you further oblige me,” said the detective, deftly slipping half a sovereign into the hand of the guard, “by going to the window and informing them in an offhand casual sort of way that the tragedy took place in that compartment?”

“Certainly, sir.”

We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news there was a suppressed scream in the carriage. Instantly a lady came out, followed by a florid-faced gentleman, who scowled at the guard. We entered the now empty compartment, and Kombs said:

“We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster.”

“I'll see to that, sir,” answered the guard, locking the door.

When the official moved away, I asked my friend what he expected to find in the carriage that would cast any light on the case.

“Nothing,” was his brief reply.

“Then why do you come?”

“Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at.”

“And might I ask what those conclusions are?”

“Certainly,” replied the detective, with a touch of lassitude in his voice. “I beg to call your attention, first, to fact that this train stands between two platforms, and can be entered from either side. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware of that fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before it started.”

“But the door on this side is locked,” I objected, trying it.

“Of course. But every season ticket holder carries a key. This accounts for the guard not seeing him, and for the absence of a ticket. Now let me give you some information about the influenza. The patient's temperature rises several degrees above normal, and he has a fever. When the malady has run its course, the temperature falls to three-quarters of a degree below normal. These facts are unknown to you, I imagine, because you are a doctor.”

I admitted such was the case.

“Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the convalescent's mind turns towards thoughts of suicide. Then is the time he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. Barrie Kipson's friends did
not
watch him. You remember the 21st, of course. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud underfoot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified, if possible, but forgets his season ticket. My experience is that a man about to commit a crime always forgets something.”