Sherlock Holmes (22 page)

“You are most gracious,” I said.

“Besides, Mr Holmes is not why we have come all the way up from London,” the Home Secretary continued. “Our objective, unless I am much mistaken, lies yonder.” He nodded towards the Thinking Engine. “The eighth wonder of the world, if the rumours are even halfway true. I shall be fascinated to see it at work.”

The dignitaries gathered around Professor Quantock, who began delivering a lecture on his Engine – its origins, its construction, its purpose. It was clear from their demeanours that Grimsdyke and his colleague longed to evict me from the premises, but since no one instructed them to do so, they did not. They lingered nearby, however, Grimsdyke aiming the occasional reproving scowl my way. He obviously had not forgotten how Holmes and I had given him and Inspector Lestrade the slip in the cells beneath Scotland Yard, dashing off on an urgent errand before he could stop us. He seemed the type to hold a grudge, and to enjoy doing so.

I took the opportunity to draw Tomlinson aside and apologise again to him, this time man to man.

“I just don’t know what’s got into Holmes,” I concluded somewhat lamely, even though I knew perfectly well what had got into him: a gnawing worm of self-doubt and the several fluid ounces of Chlorodyne with which he had tried to drown it.

“I can’t say his comments did not cut me to the quick,” Tomlinson said. “But I’m prepared to chalk it up to the pressure he’s under. We are seldom at our best when the Devil is on our back.”

“The Devil? Holmes, as an arch-rationalist, would have little truck with
that
notion.”

“Then that is where he and I differ the most, for I am a Christian man, Dr Watson. A Quaker, to be precise.”

“Then you are in an unusual line of work for somebody of that persuasion. Indeed, I think you are the first Quaker policeman I have met.”

“I’ll admit I am a rarity, but the two traditions are not so incompatible. I belong to one of the liberal branches of the Religious Society of Friends, less strict and evangelical in its practices than most. I am a pacifist, but then what is one of the roles of a policeman if not to keep the peace? Otherwise my ethics are broadly in line with the law of the land. I may personally oppose capital punishment, but in general I am in favour of tolerance, equality and fairness, and the law exists to promote those, at least in theory. I see my religious convictions as underpinning my job, not at odds with it.”

“So that’s how you can find it in yourself to be so forgiving towards Holmes – your faith inclines you towards charity.”

“It goes hard sometimes, but yes.”

“I wish I could follow your example.”

The Thinking Engine began to clatter and grind once more, limbering up.

“Why,” I asked, “have these worthies chosen to call on Quantock and his machine? Is it just curiosity?”

“More than that,” replied Tomlinson. “The Commissioner of the Met? The Home Secretary? Why do you think
they
might have taken an interest in the Engine?”

I thought it through. “Because of its potential as an aid to police work.”

“Nail on the head, doctor.”

“A Thinking Engine at Scotland Yard, serving as an oracle for the London force. I can imagine what old Lestrade might have to say about that.”

“You are thinking on altogether too modest a scale,” said Tomlinson. “From what I can gather, Quantock has aspirations that are significantly bolder and further reaching. Hark at him.”

Quantock, voice raised above the ruckus from his machine, was expatiating on the possibility of a Thinking Engine in each and every police headquarters in the land. Regional departments would compile information about criminals and criminal activity in their areas. Each Engine would become a treasure trove of data about robberies, murders, dens of iniquity and other manifestations of illegality.

But there was more. Quantock was proposing that these Engines be linked to one another telegraphically, so that the information could be shared across the country by wire. Thus the constabulary in Liverpool might trade intelligence swiftly and automatically with the constabulary in Newcastle, and a Liverpudlian felon would find himself as known to the Geordie police as he was in his hometown, and vice versa. Provincial forces would have access to the records of every miscreant at large, so there would be no lying low in the countryside for a suspect on the run, no rural bolthole for an escaped convict. What Quantock had in mind was nothing less than a revolution in national policing, based around his remarkable device.

As he expounded his vision, he became eloquent and oratorical, his stammer all but vanishing. He foresaw dozens, nay hundreds of Thinking Engines yoked together, constellations of them dotting the kingdom, their united computational power making a career in crime that much harder to pursue and successful prosecutions that much easier to achieve.

“I am not prophesying an end to the bobby on the b-beat. Far from it. There will always be a call for constables patrolling their patches, watching out for signs of wrongdoing, physically collaring villains. But they will also serve as the eyes and ears of their station’s Engine. Their reports will supply it with the hard facts it n-needs to function and thrive.”

This was intended to allay any fears that ordinary coppers might be made redundant by a network of law-enforcement Thinking Engines, but on Inspector Tomlinson it had almost the reverse effect.

“So we are to become glorified worker bees, is that it?” he grumbled softly so that only I could hear. “Drones, slaving in support of a mechanical queen. Fattening her up with juicy titbits of knowledge, fulfilling her needs, but allowed no initiative of our own?”

Quantock’s immediate audience, by contrast, seemed quite taken with the notion. Colonel Sir Edward Bradford was nodding along sagaciously, while H.H. Asquith – who would subsequently rise to become Britain’s longest-serving but least-celebrated prime minister – opined out loud, with typical Liberal Party optimism, that anything which removed subjectivity from the application of the law and replaced it with cold, dispassionate reasoning could only be considered an advance. He added that he had been a Balliol man himself, a scholar at that college and subsequently a Fellow, which inclined him to look with approval on the handiwork of a Balliol professor.

Sir William Thomson of the Royal Society, as befitted a man in his position, adopted a more cautious, sceptical stance. “The proof of the pudding, Professor Quantock,” he said. “Put this invention of yours through its paces, if you would.”

“The Engine is all yours, good sirs. Ask it any question you like, issues of local interest a speciality. The acc-accuracy of its answers will astound.”

Questions there came; at first of a tentative, even facetious nature, but gradually turning more serious and personal, as Asquith stepped forward.

“What is my political future?” the Home Secretary asked.

I was rather interested in what the Thinking Engine would say, but just as Quantock was inputting the enquiry into the machine, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Time to go, gents,” Grimsdyke said, and he and his colleague ushered Tomlinson and me out of the chamber and shut the door firmly behind us. Clearly it was felt that we of the lowly rank-and-file should not be privy to serious affairs of state.

As we strode away we heard the Engine’s reply to Asquith’s query, a clamour of laughter, and some comments in response, every word muffled and unintelligible.

“Quantock is more ambitious than I gave him credit for,” I said. “That meek and mild exterior hides the soul of a Napoleon. I wonder what Lord Knaresfield would make of these shenanigans.”

“How do you mean?”

“His lordship has a proprietary interest in the Thinking Engine. He wants to use it as a tool to bolster the efficiency of his newspaper empire. Now Quantock is offering its services as a policing tool as well, seemingly without Knaresfield’s knowledge.”

“Why can’t it be both? An asset in both fields?”

“I suppose there is no reason why not. We appear, inspector, to be in at the birth of something that could well change the world. The creation and dissemination of the Thinking Engine look set to transform society as we know it. The future is taking shape before our very eyes.”

“Am I wrong in regarding that with trepidation?” said Tomlinson. “Change often brings upheaval. Could it be a mistake to place too much faith in our inventions? The Industrial Revolution has given us much but it has also taken away part of our humanity, turning people into little more than machines. Might a computational revolution not push us one step further away from our natural selves? There are devices to do the work of our bodies for us. Now there are devices to do the work of our minds?”

He shook his head darkly.

“I don’t know, doctor,” he said. “If this is God’s plan, I can’t make sense of it, and I’m not certain that I want to.”

I avoided Sherlock Holmes for the next few days and he made no attempt to get in touch with me at Mrs Bruell’s. I had never thought I would have cause to feel ashamed of my friend. There had been times when his brusqueness had given offence, both to me and to others, and I had longed for him to develop a little sensitivity, a little politesse. Yet I had come to accept that an occasional lack of manners was part and parcel of his soaring brilliance, the corollary of being a genius, and made the necessary allowances.

This time, however, Holmes had gone too far. His behaviour in the Thinking Engine chamber had been beyond the pale.

By rights, I ought to have returned to London. There was nothing tangible keeping me in Oxford, no real obligation to remain.

My loyalty to Holmes, however, prevented me going. We had been bosom companions for fifteen years – twelve if one doesn’t count his
Wanderjahre
– and I considered him not only the best and wisest man I knew but the very dearest of friends. Certainly I could not desert him in his hour of need. There would come a moment, I was sure, when sense would return to him and he would reach out to me. He would find me waiting patiently, good Watson, faithful Watson, steadfast as a Shire horse.

The weather brightened and spring proper set in. As the last days of March played out, the students embarked on their termly exodus home. For a couple of days the streets were thronged with cabs and carriages of every description, their roofs and luggage racks piled high with trunks, suitcases and stacks of books tied with string. In front of every college there were scenes of parting, cheery farewells, and promises to meet up during the holidays if feasible, as though it were an eon and not just five short weeks before Trinity Term began. For a brief period the city was as busy and vibrant as it is possible to imagine.

And then it all went quiet. The undergraduates were gone, and with them the source of much of Oxford’s vitality. University buildings stood unfrequented and forlorn. Pubs were notably emptier. The peals of the chapel bells sounded louder and somehow more plangent. No longer was there a burst of raucous laughter around every corner, knots of rosy-cheeked young men scampering to lecture or tutorial, hearty souls in sportswear racing to match or practice, lines of choristers filing to evensong, musicians and music lovers chattering on their way to a recital, a plethora of bicycles clattering to and fro. Many of the dons left too, taking the opportunity to visit friends or relatives elsewhere in the country, while others buried themselves in the libraries to concentrate on their dissertations and doctoral theses, rarely emerging into the light of day.

The Gown part of the Town-and-Gown equation dwindled to a negligible sum. Oxford’s citizens were for the time being free of the conquering army of academe. They had some breathing space before the scholarly occupying force returned.

At Mrs Bruell’s, I made the most of my free time by catching up on correspondence and making sure my journal was fully up to date. It was important to keep a thorough record of my adventures with Sherlock Holmes, setting everything down on paper while it was still fresh in my memory and annotating previous entries with afterthought marginalia.

The other lodgers at the guesthouse presented an ever-changing roster of overseas visitors, itinerant workers, and wayward eccentrics. On the whole they were a convivial lot, and I spent the evenings amiably with them in the parlour, passing around tobacco and brandy and swapping anecdotes. Naturally, since it was no secret who I was, they demanded I tell them stories about Holmes. Having no wish to disappoint, I regaled them with various cases that had already appeared in
The Strand
, and one or two I had not yet published and might never. I flatter myself that I made for an engaging raconteur, and I held the room spellbound for a good hour each night. Even so, I found it an increasingly wearisome practice and something of an imposition. My feelings were mixed as I recounted Holmes’s exploits, aware of the contrast between the man he used to be and the man he was now. Our present estrangement coloured my affection for him and hence my storytelling. Now and then, unconsciously or not, I would exaggerate his more abrasive traits, to such an extent that one member of my audience, a travelling brush salesman in town on business for a fortnight, was moved to comment that my friend seemed less attractive and heroic “in person” than on the page. I assured him this was not so, but it felt like a lie.

Come Saturday, I chanced upon the latest edition of the
Illustrated London News
at breakfast. Mrs Bruell, like Mrs Hudson, subscribed to the paper. Perhaps it should have been subtitled “The Landlady’s Favourite”.

As I flicked idly through the pages, my eye was caught by a short piece headlined “Great Detective Stricken?” Its author, needless to say, was Archie Slater, and it suggested that Holmes had come down with some mystery ailment, influenza perhaps, while hinting there was more to this illness than met the eye.

“Has Sherlock Holmes fallen prey to a foe that even he cannot out-think?” Slater wrote.