The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (5 page)

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THE cold and foggy weather seemed endless
these last few days and I found, after a hard day at my practice, that I wanted
to settle into my most comfortable chair and catch up on some reading I had
neglected. I had stoked the fire high to push back the chill in the room and
was glancing over a number of books in my library to see which one would catch
my attention. It was then I noticed my dispatch box tucked away on the upper
shelf of one of my bookcases. It had not been opened for a goodly number of
years. I had promised myself that I would again begin to write about the many
adventures I was witness to with my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, this
is what I had really wanted to do, I suddenly realized. Not to read, but to
write. I hurriedly pulled down the box, dusted it off, then seated myself
comfortably in my favorite chair and began foraging through the voluminous
notes I had taken over the years.

After a while I
came across an unfinished story about one of Holmes’ earliest cases. I began
reading, and the entire case came back vividly to my memory. Hurriedly, I went
to my desk, took out paper and pen and began to write. It was an unusual case
which actually had started as a prank.

The case of
which I speak occurred only a little while after Sherlock Holmes and I had
first met and taken up lodgings together at 221 B Baker Street. Holmes was a
profound mystery to me then. I had shared our lodgings with him for a month
before I was even certain of his profession, the knowledge of which I learnt,
to my awe and astonishment, when our first adventure A STUDY IN SCARLET took
place. And even after that adventure I wondered at times what I had let myself
in for sharing lodgings with such a strange companion. It was in one of those
moods of doubt and confusion that my story begins.

Late one March
evening I found myself in the neighborhood of Piccadilly Circus. It was cold,
and the steady drizzle of rain had dampened my spirits. I felt that a glass of
wine and the sound of music would put me in a better mood. And so, I entered
the Criterion restaurant. As I sat with a glass of rare vintage port at my
elbow, the orchestra playing a dreamy Strauss waltz in the background, I
relaxed, feeling my old self again.

Suddenly, I felt
a clap on my shoulder; I turned and, to my amazement, young Stamford was
standing before me, the young man who first introduced me to Sherlock Holmes.

“Watson, or
should I say, Dr. Watson! How are you my dear chap?”

“Well, hello
Stamford. Fancy us meeting here again. Come and sit down.”

“Thanks. I’m
glad to see that you’re not holding any grudge against me.”

“Why on earth
should I do that?” I said in astonishment.

“For introducing
you to Sherlock Holmes. I’ve reproached myself ever since. I think he’s as mad as
a hatter.”

“Not at all,” I
laughed, “he may be eccentric . . . in fact I’ll admit that he
is
eccentric, but he’s an extraordinarily
interesting fellow. He’ll make a great name for himself as a private detective
one of these days. You see if I’m not right, Stamford.”

“I saw something
about him in the paper the other day.”

“Yes,” I added, “I
expect that was the Lauriston Gardens affair. He’s a brilliant man, Stamford,
quite brilliant, I tell you. Though I must admit he’s difficult at times. He
works like a fiend, as a rule, but occasionally a reaction sets in and for days
at a time, he’ll lie on our sofa hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from
morning to night. It’s a bit depressing, I must say.”

“I think he
takes himself too seriously,” mused Stamford.

“Perhaps you’re
right.”

A sudden smile
came to Stamford’s face, as he leaned in close to me.

“How would you
like to join in a little plot?”

“A plot? Against
Holmes?”

“Well, its just
a rag, you know. We thought it would be rather fun!”

“We?” I said
with curiosity.

“Murphy and I.
We were just talking about it. Here, let me call him over.”

Stamford turned
and gestured to a young man who was seated at a nearby table.

“I’ve seen him
before somewhere, haven’t I?”

“I’m sure you
must have, Watson. He’s been round at Hospital, and any time you go into the
British Museum, you’ll find him there. Nice fellow, but dull, definitely dull.”

“Yes, Stamford?”
said the young man as he came forward.

“This is a
friend of mine, Dr. John H. Watson. This is James Murphy.”

“How do you do.
I think I have seen you at Hospital.”

“And I know I’ve
seen you, Dr. Watson.”

Stamford
gestured for Murphy to be seated. Once we all made ourselves comfortable, I
served them some wine, and a conversation was soon struck up.

“I was just
telling Watson about our little plot,” Stamford said gleefully.

“Now look here,”
I chimed in a little annoyed, “I’d like you fellows to realize that Holmes is a
very good friend of mine!”

“Don’t worry,
Watson,” said Murphy, “It’s all in good fun. Don’t you realize what the date is
tomorrow?”

“The first of
April, isn’t it?”

“Yes, April Fool’s
day!”

“Oh, now I see,”
I said, greatly relieved, “you’re going to play an April Fool’s day joke on
Holmes!”

“Yes, that’s our
plan!”

“Well, it’s
hardly our plan, Stamford. It’s really Lady Ann Partington’s idea. You see, Dr.
Watson, Holmes was very rude to her when she was at Hospital recently, and she
wants to . . . well, you know, take him down a peg or two.”

“Sounds innocent
enough. I must say he is inclined to be rather arrogant at times,” I mused. “What
exactly is your plan?”

“We’ll need your
help, Watson. You must be careful not to give the joke away,” said Murphy.

“I bet you a
fiver that Holmes falls for the whole story,” Stamford laughed, “hook, line and
sinker.”

Murphy, in a
conspiratorial air, gathered us closer together. He described a most amusing
plan to trick Holmes by his own over self confidence. It was a fascinating idea
and I readily agreed to do my part in fooling my friend.

The following
morning, Lady Ann Partington called on my friend Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson
ushered her in and Holmes quickly stood to greet her.

“Lady Ann, I am
flattered that you have called to see me in my professional capacity.”

“Surely, my good
man, you didn’t think this was a social call. You were much too rude to me in
Hospital the other day for that!”

“That was the
point I was trying to make,” Holmes said with a forced smile. “Please sit down,
won’t you?”

“Here,” I added,
“take this chair, won’t you, Lady Ann. It’s by far the most comfortable one in
the room.”

“Thank you, Dr.
Watson,” she returned, seating herself.

“And now, what
can I do to help you?” questioned Holmes.

“You’ve heard of
the Elfenstone Emerald?”

“Oh yes, yes
indeed,” Holmes said, “a magnificent stone of very considerable value. An
heirloom in your family, I believe?”

“That is
correct, Mr. Holmes. I keep the stone in a wall safe in my bedroom. However,
this morning, when I had occasion to go to the safe, I discovered that the
emerald had been stolen!”

“Stolen? Great
Scott, what a shocking business. Of course, you want Mr. Holmes to recover it
for you?”

“A remarkable
deduction, my dear doctor.” Holmes said impatiently. “Now, Lady Ann, when you
opened the safe did you observe any signs of it having been tampered with?”

“Mr. Holmes, I
think it rather stupid to sit and answer questions here in Baker Street. Why
don’t you come over to my house in Cavendish Square and examine the safe for
yourself? You are a detective, aren’t you?”

“Lady Ann,” Holmes
said with great annoyance, “just now you accused me of rudeness. I assure you
that at least mine was unintentional.”

“Oh, come, come,
Holmes. Don’t be so touchy,” I quickly added in an attempt to prevent the
flaring of tempers.

“I can promise
you a substantial fee, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes’ face
turned hard for a brief moment as he looked at Lady Ann.

“I’m a
struggling practitioner in a new profession, aye? My poverty, but not my will,
consents.”

“I pay thy
poverty,” Lady Ann retorted, “and not thy will. You see, Mr. Holmes, I too can
quote my Shakespeare. My carriage is waiting, gentlemen. Let us drive over to
Cavendish Square at once, shall we?”

Holmes bowed
politely to Lady Ann, then gestured for me to get our hats and coats. Within a
short while we were traveling through the streets of London in a four wheeler,
to shortly be deposited at Lady Ann’s door.

She ushered us
into a most glamourous living room, filled with heavy drapes, the finest china
and one of the most ornate pianos I have ever seen. Lady Ann went to one wall,
pushed a large portrait to one side, revealing a safe.

“This is the
wall safe, Mr. Holmes.”

“Ummm,” my
friend said as he took a close look, “not too difficult a safe to crack for an
expert. You placed the emerald in it last night, you say?”

“Yes, when I
went to bed. And this morning, it had gone.”

“Surely Holmes,”
I spoke out, “this is a good occasion to use that magnifying glass that you’re
always flitting about with.”

“An excellent
occasion, my dear doctor. That’s why I brought it with me.”

Holmes pulled
out his magnifying glass and began to look over the safe with great care. I had
to stifle a small laugh as Lady Ann smiled at me. We both knew what my friend
Sherlock had no knowledge of; the clues he would find were part and parcel of
our April Fool’s hoax on him.

“Well, that’s
very interesting.”

“What is it, Mr.
Holmes?”

“This safe was
opened by an expert. There’s no sign of its having been forced open. Hello,
what’s this? Watson, look here, there’s a peculiar tarnish on the steel knob.
It was obviously handled by someone whose fingers are habitually stained with
chemicals.”

“Are you sure,
Holmes?”

“It’s quite
elementary, Watson. Lady Ann, please tell me where those doors lead to,” he
said, gesturing to the large double doors at the end of the room.

“My boudoir.”

“I should like
to examine it if I may.”

“But, of course.”

He stepped to
the door, never once missing a chance to observe everything he could see. It
was amazing to watch him as he would pause, glance at something through his
magnifying glass, or touch something then rub his fingers against it to get its
texture or feel. Shortly he was in the other room and a good distance from Lady
Ann and myself. Whereupon she turned to me in excitement.

“Dr. Watson,” she
whispered in delight, “this is the most beautiful April Fool’s day fraud I’ve
ever played.”

“I say, Murphy
was right. He has fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. Just the same, Lady
Ann, I’m beginning to feel guilty about all this. I can’t help feeling a bit
disloyal.”

“Nonsense,
doctor, it’s all in fun.”

“Are Stamford
and Mr. Murphy listening?”

“Yes, they’re
next door, in my drawing room. I’m sure their ears are positively glued to the
keyhole.”

“I do hope
Holmes won’t be angry with me,” I said, my feelings of guilt rising to an
uncomfortable state.

In a short moment
Holmes had retraced his steps and stood before us.

“There is
nothing of any interest in there. The windows haven’t been tampered with. We
may presume, therefore, the thief did not enter by an upstairs window. Lady
Ann, this room has not been touched since you’ve discovered your loss?”

“No, Mr. Holmes.
I told the servants to leave the room exactly as it was while I came to fetch
you.”

“Splendid!” he
said, looking around, “a deep pile carpet, aye? Couldn’t be better! I can tell
you this, Lady Ann: The thief was a tall man with a long stride.”

“Come now,
Holmes,” I contradicted, “I know your methods. There aren’t any footprints on
this carpet that you can identify, even with your magnifying glass.”

“My dear doctor,
I’ve studied many crimes and I’ve never seen one yet that was committed by a
flying creature. As long as a criminal remains upon his two legs, there must be
some trifling displacement which can be detected by a keen observer. I assure
you that the marks on this carpet indicate the thief was a tall man with a long
stride!”

I was about to
speak again, but Holmes turned away and pulled forth his magnifying glass to
look at some minute item.

“Traces of
tobacco ash, Watson. Pipe tobacco. Shag tobacco that sells at four pence an
ounce.”