The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes (4 page)

“So, Holmes,” said I, “we are back to the original question.”

“Indeed we are.”

“Which is: this surgeon's case—why was it sent to you?”

“A provocative question.”

“Perhaps an explanatory letter was delayed.”

“You may well have hit upon the answer, Watson,” said Holmes. “Therefore, I suggest we give the sender a little time, let us say until—” he paused to reach for his well-worn
Bradshaw's
, that admirable guide to British rail movements “—until ten-thirty tomorrow morning. If an explanation is not then forthcoming, we shall repair to Paddington Station and board the Devonshire express.”

“For what reason, Holmes?”

“For two reasons. A short journey across the English countryside, with its changing colours at this time of year, should greatly refresh two stodgy Londoners.”

“And the other?”

The austere face broke into the most curious smile. “In all justice,” said my friend Holmes, “the Duke of Shires should have his property returned to him, should he not?” And he sprang to his feet and seized his violin.

“Wait, Holmes!” said I. “There is something in this you have not told me.”

“No, no, my dear Watson,” said he, drawing his bow briskly across the strings. “It is simply a feeling I have, that we are about to embark upon deep waters.”

E
dward D. Hoch holds a unique distinction that I doubt will ever be equaled: a short story of his appeared in every issue of
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
for thirty-five years. Six years after his passing in 2008, “The Adventure of the Dying Ship,” his last Holmes pastiche, appeared in the February 2014 issue, which traditionally celebrates Sherlock Holmes in complimentary copies handed out at the annual Baker Street Irregulars banquet in January (popularly considered the month of Holmes's birth). Holmes, Watson, and the
Titanic
: Who could ask for more? Reprinted by permission of Patricia Hoch.

I write of this late in life, because I feel some record must be left of the astounding events of April 1912. I am aware that prior attempts to record my adventures personally have suffered when compared to those of my old and good friend Watson, but following my retirement from active practice as a consulting detective late in 1904 I saw very little of him. There were occasional weekend visits when he was in the area of my little Sussex home overlooking the Channel, but for the most part we had retired to our separate lives. It was not until 1914, at the outbreak of the Great War, that we would come together for a final adventure.

But that was more than two years away when I decided, quite irrationally, to accept an invitation from the president of the White Star Line to be a guest on the maiden voyage of RMS
Titanic
across the Atlantic to New York. He was a man for whom I had performed a slight service some years back, not even worthy of mention in Watson's notes, and he hardly owed me compensation on such a grand scale. There were several reasons why I agreed to it, but perhaps the truth was that I had simply grown bored with retirement. Still in my mid-fifties and enjoying good health, I had quickly learned that even at the height of season, the physical demands of beekeeping were slight indeed. The winter months were spent in correspondence with fellow enthusiasts, and a review and classification of my past cases. What few needs I had were seen to by an elderly housekeeper.

My initial reaction upon receiving the invitation was to ignore it. I had never been much of a world traveler, except for my years in Tibet and the Middle East, but the offer to revisit America intrigued me for two reasons. It would enable me to visit places like the Great Alkali Plain of Utah and the coal-mining region of Pennsylvania, which had figured in some of my investigations. And I could meet with one or two American beekeepers with whom I'd struck up a correspondence. I agreed to the invitation on one condition—that I travel under an assumed name. For the voyage I became simply Mr. Smith, a name I shared with five other passengers and the ship's captain.

Early April had been a time of chilly temperatures and high winds. I was more than a little apprehensive as I departed from London on the first-class boat train to Southampton, arriving there at 11:30
A.M
. on Wednesday the 10th. Happily, my seat companion on the boat train proved to be a young American writer and journalist named Jacques Futrelle. He was a stocky man with a round, boyish face and dark hair that dipped down over his forehead on the right side. He wore pince-nez glasses and flowing bow tie, with white gloves that seemed formal for the occasion. Because of his name I took him to be French at first, but he quickly corrected my misapprehension. “I am a Georgian, sir, by way of Boston,” he told me, “which might explain my strange accent.”

“But surely your name—”

“My family is of French Huguenot stock. And you are—?”

“Smith,” I told him.

“Ah!” He indicated the attractive woman seated across the aisle from us. “This is my wife, May. She is also a writer.”

“A journalist like your husband?” I asked.

She gave me a winning smile. “We both write fiction. My first story appeared in
The Saturday Evening Post
some years back.” She added, “The maiden voyage of the
Titanic
might provide an article for your old employer, Jacques.”

He laughed. “I'm certain the
Boston American
will have any number of Hearst writers covering the voyage. They hardly need me, though I do owe them a debt of gratitude for publishing my early short stories while I worked there.”

“Might I be familiar with your books?” I asked. Retirement to Sussex had left me with a mixed blessing, time to read the sort of popular fiction which I'd always ignored in the past.

It was May Futrelle who answered for him. “His novel
The Diamond Master
was published three years ago. I think that is the best of his romances, though many people prefer his detective stories.”

The words stirred my memory. “Of course! Futrelle! You are the author of ‘The Problem of Cell 13.' I have read that gem of a story more than once.”

Futrelle smiled slightly. “Thank you. It has proven to be quite popular. My newspaper published it over six days and offered prizes for the correct solution.”

“Your detective is known as The Thinking Machine.”

The smile widened a bit. “Professor Augustus S.F.X. Van Dusen. I have published nearly fifty stories about the character in the past seven years, and I have another seven with me that I wrote on our journey. None has equaled the popularity of the first, however.”

Fifty stories! That was more than Watson had published about our exploits up to that time, but Futrelle was correct in saying the first of them had been the most popular. “Have you two ever collaborated?” I asked.

May Futrelle laughed. “We swore that we never would, but we did try it once, in a way. I wrote a story that seemed to be a fantasy, and Jacques wrote his own story in which The Thinking Machine provided a logical solution to mine.”

The talk shifted from his writing to their travels and I found him a most pleasant conversationalist. The time on the boat train passed quickly, and before long we were at the docks in Southampton. We parted then, promising to see each other on the voyage.

I stood on the dock for a moment, staring up at the great ship before me. Then I boarded the
Titanic
and was escorted to my cabin. It was suite B-57 on the starboard side of Bridge Deck B, reached by the impressive Grand Staircase or by a small elevator. Once in the cabin I found a comfortable bed with a brass and enamel head- and footboard. There was a wardrobe room next to the bed and a luxurious sitting area opposite it. An electric space heater provided warmth if needed. The suite's two windows were framed in gleaming brass. In the bath and WC there was a marble-topped sink. For just a moment I wished that my old friend Watson was there to see it.

I had been on board barely a half-hour when the ship cast off, exactly at noon. As the tugs maneuvered it away from the dock and moved downstream into the River Test, I left my stateroom on the bridge deck and went out to the railing, lighting a cigarette as I watched our progress past banks lined with well-wishers. Then we stopped, narrowly avoiding a collision with another ship. It was almost an hour before we were under way again, and the next twenty-four hours were frustrating ones. We steamed downstream to the English Channel, and then across to Cherbourg where 274 additional passengers boarded by tender. Then it was a night crossing to Queenstown, Ireland, where we anchored about two miles offshore while more passengers were brought out by tender.

When at last the anchor was raised for the final time, Captain Smith posted a notice that there were some 2,227 passengers and crew aboard, the exact number uncertain. This was about two-thirds the maximum capacity of 3,360 passengers and crew.

As I watched us pull out at 1:30
P.M
. on Thursday, April 11, I suddenly realized that an attractive red-haired young woman had joined me on deck.

“Is this your first trip across?” she asked.

“Across the Atlantic, yes,” I said to discourage any discussion of my past.

“I'm Margo Collier. It's my first, too.”

Women seldom have been an attraction to me, but there were exceptions. Looking into the deep, intelligent eyes of Margo Collier I knew she could have been one of them had I not been old enough to have sired her. “A pleasure to meet you,” I replied. “I am Mr. Smith.”

She blinked, or winked, at me. “Mr. John Smith, no doubt. Are you in first class?”

“I am. And you are an American, judging by the sound of your accent.”

“I thought you could tell from my red hair.”

I smiled. “Do all Americans have red hair?”

“The ones that are in trouble seem to. Sometimes I think it's my red hair that gets me into trouble.”

“What sort of trouble could one so young have gotten into?”

Her expression changed, and in an instant she was coldly serious. “There's a man on board who's been following me, Mr. Holmes.”

The sound of my own name startled me. “You know me, Miss Collier?”

“You were pointed out by one of the ship's officers. He was telling me about the famous people on board—John Jacob Astor, Benjamin Guggenheim, Sherlock Holmes, and many others.”

I laughed. “My life's work has hardly been comparable to theirs. But pray tell me of this man who follows you. We are, after all, on shipboard. Perhaps he only strolls the deck as you do yourself.”

She shook her head. “He was following me before I boarded the ship at Cherbourg.” She grew suddenly nervous. “I can say no more now. Could you meet me in the first-class lounge on A deck? I'll try to be in the writing room tomorrow morning at eleven.”

I bowed slightly. “I'll expect to see you then, Miss Collier.”

There was a chill in the air on Friday morning, though the weather was calm and clear. Captain Smith reported that the
Titanic
had covered 386 miles since leaving Queenstown harbour. I ate an early breakfast in the first-class dining saloon, and, after a stroll around the deck, spent some time in the ship's gymnasium on the boat deck. The idea of using a rowing machine on this great ocean liner appealed to me, though I'm certain Watson would have groused about it, reminding me of my age. Finally, shortly before eleven, I went down one flight of stairs to the writing room.

Margo Collier was seated alone at one of the tables, sipping a cup of tea. The reading and writing room adjoined the first-class lounge. It was a spacious, inviting area with groups of upholstered chairs and tables placed at comfortable intervals. I smiled as I seated myself opposite her. “Good morning, Miss Collier. Did you have a good night's sleep?”

“As well as could be expected,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying across the table. “The man who's been following me is in the lounge right now, standing by that leaded glass window.”