The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

“Rheumatism, in my case.”

“Also, I think it possible that you have not entirely given up your former life, or perhaps it has not entirely given you up. I see a vague area of pale skin on your chin, which shows that some time last summer you had a goatee, since shaven off. There hasn't been enough sun yet to erase the line completely. As you don't normally wear a beard, and would, in my opinion, look unpleasant with one, I can assume it was for the purpose of a disguise, in a rôle which lasted some months. Probably it had to do with the early stages of the war. Spying against the Kaiser, I should venture to say.”

His face went blank, and he studied me without any trace of expression for a long minute. I squelched a self-conscious smile. At last he spoke.

“I did ask for it, did I not? Are you familiar with the work of Dr. Sigmund Freud?”

“Yes, although I find the work of the next, as it were, generation more helpful. Freud is overly obsessed with exceptional behavior: an aid to your line of work, perhaps, but not as useful for a generalist.”

There was a sudden commotion in the flower bed. Two orange cats shot out and raced along the lawn and disappeared through the opening in the garden wall. His eyes followed them, and he sat squinting into the low sun.

“Twenty years ago,” he murmured. “Even ten. But here? Now?” He shook his head and focused again on me.

“What will you read at University?”

I smiled. I couldn't help it; I knew just how he was going to react, and I smiled, anticipating his dismay.

“Theology.”

His reaction was as violent as I had known it would be, but if I was sure of anything in my life, it was that. We took a walk through the gloaming to the cliffs, and I had my look at the sea while he wrestled with the idea, and by the time we returned he had decided that it was no worse than anything else, though he considered it a waste, and said so. I did not respond.

The automobile arrived shortly thereafter, and Mrs. Hudson came out to pay for it. Holmes explained our agreement, to her amusement, and she promised to make a note of it.

“I have an experiment to finish tonight, so you must pardon me,” he said, though it did not take many visits before I knew that he disliked saying goodbye. I put out my hand and nearly snatched it back when he raised it to his lips rather than shaking it as he had before. He held on to it, brushed it with his cool lips, and let it go.

“Please come to see us anytime you wish. We are on the telephone, by the way. Ask the exchange for Mrs. Hudson, though; the good ladies sometimes decide to protect me by pretending ignorance, but they will usually permit calls to go through to her.” With a nod he began to turn away, but I interrupted his exit.

“Mr. Holmes,” I said, feeling myself go pink, “may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, Miss Russell.”

“How does
The Valley of Fear
end?” I blurted out.

“The what?” He sounded astonished.

“
Valley of Fear
. In
The Strand
. I hate these serials, and next month is the end of it, but I just wondered if you could tell me, well, how it turned out.”

“This is one of Watson's tales, I take it?”

“Of course. It's the case of Birlstone and the Scowrers and John McMurdo and Professor Moriarty and—”

“Yes, I believe I can identify the case, although I have often wondered why, if Conan Doyle so likes pseudonyms, he couldn't have given them to Watson and myself as well.”

“So how did it end?”

“I haven't the faintest notion. You would have to ask Watson.”

“But surely you know how the case ended,” I said, amazed.

“The case, certainly. But what Watson has made of it, I couldn't begin to guess, except that there is bound to be gore and passion and secret handshakes. Oh, and some sort of love interest. I deduce, Miss Russell; Watson transforms. Good day.” He went back into the cottage.

Mrs. Hudson, who had stood listening to the exchange, did not comment, but pressed a package into my hands, “for the trip back,” although from the weight of it the eating would take longer than the driving, even if I were to find the interior space for it. However, if I could get it past my aunt's eyes it would make a welcome supplement to my rations. I thanked her warmly.

“Thank you for coming here, dear child,” she said. “There's more life in him than I've seen for a good many months. Please come again, and soon?”

I promised, and climbed into the car. The driver spun off in a rattle of gravel, and so began my long association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

V
incent Starrett may not have invented the fictional biography, but he was one of the first to chronicle the life of Holmes as if he were a historical figure. His
The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
is a staple of that ever-expanding subgenre. “The Adventure of the Unique
Hamlet
” combines a thoroughly grounded understanding of its subject, sly humor, and a send-up of that “gentle madness” he shared with so many (this editor included): bibliomania. This particular story is now in the public domain.

“Holmes,” said I, one morning as I stood in our bay window, looking idly into the street, “surely here comes a madman. Someone has incautiously left the door open and the poor fellow has slipped out. What a pity!”

It was a glorious morning in the spring, with a fresh breeze and inviting sunlight, but as it was rather early few persons were astir. Birds twittered under the neighboring eaves, and from the far end of the thoroughfare came faintly the droning cry of an umbrella repair man; a lean cat slunk across the cobbles and disappeared into a courtway; but for the most part, the street was deserted save for the eccentric individual who had called forth my exclamation.

My friend rose lazily from the wicker rocker in which he had been lounging and came to my side, standing with long legs spread and hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. He smiled as he saw the singular personage coming along. A personage indeed he seemed to be, despite his odd actions, for he was tall and portly, with elderly whiskers of the brand known as mutton-chop, and he seemed eminently respectable. He was loping curiously, like a tired hound, lifting his knees high as he ran, and a heavy double watch chain of gold bounced against and rebounded from the plump line of his figured waistcoat. With one hand he clutched despairingly at his silk two-gallon hat, while with the other he essayed weird gestures in the air with an emotion bordering upon distraction. We could almost see the spasmodic workings of his countenance.

“What under heaven can ail him?” I cried. “See how he glances at the houses as he passes.”

“He is looking at the numbers,” responded Sherlock Holmes, with dancing eyes, “and I fancy it is ours that will bring him the greatest happiness. His profession, of course, is obvious.”

“A banker, I imagine, or at least a person of affluence,” I hazarded, wondering what curious bit of minutiae had betrayed the man's business to my remarkable companion, in a single glance.

“Affluent, yes,” said Holmes, with a mischievous grin, “but not exactly a banker, Watson. Notice the sagging pockets, despite the excellence of his clothing, and the rather exaggerated madness of his eye. He is a collector, or I am very much mistaken.”

“My dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “At his age and in his station! And why should he be seeking us? When we settled that last bill—”

“Of books,” said my friend, severely. “He is a professional book collector. His line is Caxtons, Elzevirs, Gutenberg Bibles, folios; not the sordid reminders of unpaid grocery accounts and tobacconists' debits. See, he is turning in here, as I expected, and in a moment he will stand upon our hearthrug and tell us the harrowing tale of an unique volume and its extraordinary disappearance.”

His eyes gleamed and he rubbed his hands together in profound satisfaction. I could not but hope that Holmes's conjecture was correct, for he had had little to occupy his mind for some weeks, and I lived in constant fear that he would seek that stimulation his active brain required in the long-tabooed cocaine bottle.

As Holmes finished speaking, the man's ring at the doorbell echoed through the apartment; hurried feet sounded upon the stairs, while the wailing voice of Mrs. Hudson, raised in agonized protest, could only have been occasioned by frustration of her coveted privilege of bearing his card to us. Then the door burst violently inward and the object of our analysis staggered to the center of the room, and, without announcing his intention by word or sign, pitched head-foremost onto our center rug. There he lay, a magnificent ruin, with his head on the fringed border and his feet in the coal scuttle; and sealed within his lifeless lips the amazing story he had come to tell—for that it was amazing we could not doubt, in the light of our client's extraordinary behavior.

Holmes quickly ran for the brandy bottle, while I knelt beside the stricken mountain of flesh and loosened the wilted neckband. He was not dead, and when we had forced the nozzle of the flask between his teeth he sat up in groggy fashion, passing a dazed hand across his eyes. Then he scrambled to his feet with an embarrassed apology for his weakness, and fell into the chair that Holmes held invitingly toward him.

“That is right, Mr. Harrington Edwards,” said my companion, soothingly. “Be quite calm, my dear sir, and when you have recovered your composure you will find us ready to listen to your story.”

“You know me, then?” cried our sudden visitor, with pride in his voice and surprised eyebrows lifted.

“I had never heard of you until this moment, but if you wish to conceal your identity it would be well for you to leave your bookplates at home.” As Holmes spoke, he handed the other a little package of folded paper slips, which he had picked from the floor. “They fell from your hat when you had the misfortune to tumble,” he added, with a whimsical smile.

“Yes, yes,” cried the collector, a deep blush spreading over his features. “I remember now; my hat was a little large and I folded a number of them and placed them beneath the sweatband. I had forgotten.”

“Rather shabby usage for a handsome etched plate,” smiled my companion, “but that is your affair. And now, sir, if you are quite at ease, let us hear what it is that has brought you, a collector of books, from Poke Stogis Manor—the name is on the plate—to the office of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting expert in crime. Surely nothing but the theft of Mahomet's own copy of the Koran can have affected you so amazingly.”

Mr. Harrington Edwards smiled feebly at the jest, then sighed. “Alas,” he murmured, “if that were all it were! But I shall begin at the beginning.

“You must know, then, that I am the greatest Shakespearean commentator in the world. My collection of
ana
is unrivaled, and much of the world's collection (and consequently its knowledge of the true Shakespeare) has emanated from my pen. One book I did not possess; it was unique, in the correct sense of that abused word; it was the greatest Shakespeare rarity in the world. Few knew that it existed, for its existence was kept a profound secret between a chosen few. Had it become known that this book was in England—any place, indeed—its owner would have been hounded to his grave by American millionaire collectors.

“It was in the possession of my friend—I tell you this in the strictest confidence, as between adviser and client—of my friend, Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman, whose place at Walton-on-Walton is next to my own. A scant two hundred yards separate our dwellings, and so intimate has been our friendship that a few years ago the fence between our estates was removed, and each roamed or loitered at will about the other's preserves.

“For some years, now, I have been at work on my greatest book—my
magnum opus
. It was to be also my last book, embodying the results of a lifetime of study and research. Sir, I know Elizabethan London better than any man alive, better than any man who ever lived, I sometimes think—” He burst suddenly into tears.