The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (2 page)

IT
has been a very long time since
I
retired from my medical practice, as well as my writing stories
about the exploits of my good friend Sherlock Holmes. I am sure it may surprise
most of you to learn that, indeed, Sherlock Holmes and I are very much alive
and well, living quiet lives, he on his Sussex bee farm and I in a small house
in the Kensington district, not far from Hyde Park. It would be difficult to
explain our longevity, but a hint at the reason for this is given in the very
last story of this volume of work.

Only last year I
received a telephone call from the Baker Street Associates concerning a long
lost edition of Holmes stories that I had written, a copy of which they had
discovered in some obscure book shop in New South Wales, Australia.

I had, after the
publication of my original fifty-six stories and four novels, decided to
produce one more collection of Sherlock Holmes adventures. This book was called
THE NEW ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. Unfortunately the book was released in
1914, on the eve of World War I. The number of copies produced was minimal and,
with the war close at hand, there seemed little interest in the exploits of my
redoubtable friend. Another unfortunate incident occurred when, during those
first months of the war, paper became in short supply, most of it going to the
war effort. Because of this, I quickly withdrew the book from circulation and
never had occasion to return to it. Very few books were sold during those
troubled times and what few copies of my book were printed ended up on the
remainder shelves until the book was completely forgotten. Now, all these years
later, there is renewed interest in these long lost exploits of my good friend
and, thanks to the efforts of the Baker Street Associates and their close work
with me, the book will once again be published. Because of the extensive period
of time between the original publication of this book and the present edition,
I have chosen to change the title to THE LOST ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Times have
drastically changed since those quieter days of Victorian England into which I
was born and lived my younger years. But I am proud to say that both Holmes and
I have had the good fortune to live through the Second Great War, the coming of
radio, the cinema, television and the exploration of space. All these things
were only dreamt of in my time.

Now, with the
stark reality of this world knocking on our door, I feel it best to return to
an earlier time when all things moved slowly and people took the time to
understand the intricate ways of life. With the publication, once again of this
long-lost book, I am proud to loosely paraphrase the American author Vincent
Starrett: “It shall always be Sherlock Holmes and Victorian England.”

Written this day,

25 JULY 88

by Dr. John Watson

Return to table of
contents

The Lost

Adventures of

SHERLOCK HOLMES

I

NOTWITHSTANDING the large success of my
medical practice of late, my losses have been great these last few years.

Anna, my second
wife, had been killed in a four-wheeler accident only a short time ago. This
heavy grief also rekindled that which I had felt at the death of my first wife,
Mary. May they rest in peace. In addition, there was the loss of my
companionship with Sherlock Holmes, who had long since retired to his Sussex
bee farm.

Without
realization on my behalf, I had filled the void accorded by these losses by
allowing my practice to grow to the point of nearly consuming my own health.
Fatigue, indeed near exhaustion, had crept into my daily routine of treating
the many patients who relied on me for their cures.

The circumstance
of which I laboriously speak occurred through the early part of 1909. Spring
had finally come, and it was shortly after a bout of soulful longings for
happier times that I received a note from Holmes pleading with me to suspend my
practice for a few weeks and come visit him for a time.

Here was my
chance to recuperate from the weariness that plagued me, and to indulge in
pleasant reminiscences with my old friend.

Without
hesitation, I informed my secretary to put all patients on notice that I would
be unavailable for a fortnight. I glanced at the note again. Holmes would have
a dogcart awaiting me at the railroad station, therefore I must take the 11:05
A.M.
eastborn train this very day to the station
in Paddlewaite, near the Sussex downs.

I laughed, for
Holmes, my dear friend Holmes, still had not lost his very presumptuous nature!

There were
times, not a few I might add, that the irony of Holmes’ retirement to a bee
farm in Sussex struck me with an unrelenting fervor; a fervor that caused me to
vacillate between bewilderment at his seeming complete change in character and
an uncanny urge for heartfelt laughter at the unlikely nature of that change.

I have, in the
past, accurately portrayed Holmes’ dislike of country life, even extending to
a
reluctance to expend time in vacationing for
any great length at a seaside resort. The visit to the country or the seaside
was acceptable to my friend only if it were in the interest of excitement
caused by some rare intrigue. Therefore, the metamorphosis of Holmes into
a
country gentleman interested in pursuing the
complexities of nature, rather than the complexities of his fellow man,
continued to leave me questioning just how keen my observations of his mental
peculiarities had been. These musings I now put aside in preparation for my
stay with Holmes.

I soon found
myself disembarking from the train and quickly alighting on the dogcart Holmes’
manservant had brought to the station especially for me. It was not long before
we moved slowly down a winding road surrounded by lush vegetation, soon to be
deposited before the modest home of my dear friend, where, excitedly, I stepped
up to the door and knocked. In a moment it opened and there, a smile crossing
his countenance, his favorite pipe firmly between his lips, stood my oldest and
dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes.

“Watson, my dear
man, I’m gratified that you accepted my invitation!”

In a rare
gesture, even for Holmes, he placed his arm around my shoulders and ushered me
into his home. I took note that he looked older since last I saw him, but as he
spoke to me, I realized, from the keenness of his voice and the sparkle in his
eyes, that he would never really grow old.

“My home is now
your home, Watson, for the duration of your stay. And, of course, for any other
time you wish to visit. But you must relax, my friend, and forget your cares.
You have been pushing yourself much too hard.”

“How do you know
that, Holmes?” I exclaimed, always astonished by his keen observations.

“When have you
ever stuffed your stethoscope into your coat pocket where I can now see it
protruding? You have always placed it inside your derby when in a hurry. And
you are one of the tidiest men I know, yet your shirt shows signs of chemical
staining and your collar is creased, indicating that you have been working
yourself so hard you have forgotten just those things that have always shown
you as possessing the habit of cleanliness. No, Watson, you have not been
yourself of late. Come, sit down and forget your worries, for you are on
vacation and on vacation you shall be!”

Beyond these
quick observations, Holmes never asked me what had caused my state of exhaustion
for he knew, and rightly so, that time here in the country with my old friend
would put things aright. I soon found myself deep in conversation with Holmes,
talking of our many past exploits. In a while we lapsed into the comfortable
silence that can only exist between friends such as Holmes and myself.

After a while he
picked up his beloved violin and began to play some haunting melody, his long
thin fingers caressing the instrument.

“Beautiful,
quite beautiful, Holmes,” I intoned.

“Thank you,
Watson,” he said, pausing and staring at me for a moment.

“You look
uncommonly wistful, dear chap. Are you still thinking of the old days?”

“Yes, Holmes, I
am.”

“I must admit
that I am also. Yes, those were exciting times, Watson, but it is comforting to
think that now we will not be disturbed by a jangling doorbell, followed
shortly by some poor devil in trouble. Nowadays my greatest excitements are
connected with the segregation of the Queen Bee, and the nighttime proclivities
of Charles Augustus, my tomcat.”

We laughed
heartily, the solemn mood of remembrance having been broken.

“I still find it
hard to think of you in retirement, Holmes. Do you ever consider returning to
active practice?”

“Oh, I consider
it occasionally, and then reject the idea. A man should work only up to the
peak of his ability. I’ve passed mine.”

“Nonsense,” I
declared, astonished at his attitude, “you’re just as alert as ever you were!”

“Mentally,
perhaps, but not physically.”

I could see
Holmes retreating into himself then, as his thoughts turned elsewhere. I knew
these signs, for they were an indication of boredom. The same kind of boredom
that had, in the past, inevitably sent him hurrying to his syringe and his
comforting seven percent solution. Although Holmes no longer relied on that
dreadful substance for relief, I was determined to prevent a sense of boredom
from setting in, at least as long as I were here on holiday.

I had not
mentioned to Holmes that I had met a strikingly beautiful young lady on the
train who had engaged me in casual conversation. It was this conversation,
combined with Holmes’ approaching withdrawal that prompted me to bring up the
young lady in his presence.

“Holmes, would
you consider handling a small problem which I am about to tell you?”

“If it’s a
personal problem that affects you, Watson, you know I’ll do anything I can.”

“It’s not my
problem, Holmes, it’s the problem of a charming young lady I met on the train.
In conversation she revealed that you knew her mother quite well, and—”

Holmes stared at
me, a look of bewilderment crossing his face.

“Her mother?”

I was about to
reveal everything that was said to me, when suddenly there was a knock on the
door.

“Come in,” responded
Holmes, irritated by the interruption.

When the door
opened, there stood a small man in an ill-fitting servant’s uniform, his hair
dishevelled and pulled back in an attempt at neatness. In his hand he held a
piece of paper.

“Yes, Deevers,
what is it?”

“I’m sorry to
disturb you, Mr. Holmes, but your man said I might come in. My master, Mr.
Litton-Stanley, instructed me to deliver this note. He also instructed me to
wait for a reply.”

Holmes took the
note and, reading it, fell into a state of anger.

“What confounded
impudence! You tell your master there is no answer to this letter!”

“But he told me
I must get a reply, sir.”

“You may tell
Mr. Litton-Stanley that I will instruct my solicitors to reply to his message
in due course!”

“Very good, sir,”
replied the little man who promptly left, agitated by my friend’s angered
words.

“What is it,
Holmes?” I questioned, filled with curiosity over this small incident that so
upset Holmes.

“Read it for
yourself,” he said, thrusting the note at me. I took it and read aloud.

“Keep your
filthy bees where they belong. One of my guests was stung yesterday.
If
this happens again, I will have the police run you out of this place!”

“Good Lord,” I
exclaimed, “what an offensive letter!”

“The man himself
is even more offensive,” returned Holmes, “He’s a retired manufacturer who
thinks that his immense wealth entitles him to domineer the local residents!”

Holmes took the
note back, and tossed it on a nearby table. I watched as he paced back and
forth for a moment, then he went to his familiar Persian slipper, took some
tobacco and stuffed it into his pipe. He had calmed down somewhat as he lit the
pipe, then turned and faced me.

“Well, Watson,
you can see how that man seems to get at my nature. But let us not spoil a nice
sunny afternoon by continued discussion of him. Please go on with the story of
the young lady you met on the train.”

“The poor woman
seemed in dreadful trouble. I do wish you would help her.”

I gained his
full attention now, the signs of withdrawal Holmes had shown earlier had
completely vanished.

“You say that
she told you her mother knew me?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her
name?”

“Norton. Irene
Norton.”

“Norton,” he
said, quizzically, “I don’t seem to recall—but of course! Where is the girl,
Watson?”

“She’s staying
at the Red Lion, in the village.”

“Then ring her
on the telephone, and ask her to come over here as fast as she can. Of course I’ll
help her!”

Before my eyes I
watched Holmes come to life, his eyes sparkling as of old, his frame tense with
expectation. This was the Holmes of the inquisitive mind, of the expert logic
that I had known to solve so many a mystery in those pleasant and intriguing days
in Baker Street.

“I’m delighted
Holmes. But what made you change your mind so suddenly about taking on a case?
I thought you were finally and irrevocably retired.”

“Is your memory
so short, Watson, that you can’t remember Irene Adler? Surely you haven’t
forgotten that, in the case you call A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA, I was completely
fooled by her!”

“By Jove, that’s
right! You always referred to her as ‘THE WOMAN.’ But how does this young lady,
Irene Norton, fit into the picture?”

“Think, Watson,
think! Irene Adler married a barrister named Jeffrey Norton! Ah, I see you are
beginning to understand. Tell Miss Norton to come at once. She is the daughter
of ‘THE WOMAN’!”

It was but a
short while later that Irene Norton arrived from the village. Holmes gestured for
her to be seated. He stood there a moment staring at this lovely woman, then
quietly seated himself across from her, while I sat well enough away that I
might take any necessary notes without intruding on their conversation. There
was an awkward moment, as I remembered the incomplete glimpse of Irene Adler I’d
had through a window some twenty years ago. I was now able to place the
familiarity of Miss Norton’s features, as I compared them to my memory of those
exquisite features of her mother. Both mother and daughter were breathtaking
and I observed that Holmes also was taken by this young lady.

“Mr. Holmes,” she
said, smiling, “I’ve heard so much about you from mother. She says you are the
most clever man in England.”

“Your mother
flatters me, my dear child. Did she ever tell you of the circumstances under
which we met?”

“No, Mr. Holmes,
though she did tell me you were a witness when she and my father were married.”

“True, though
the occasion was rather a little unusual.” Holmes leaned forward, pulling his
watch chain out and extending it towards Miss Norton.

“This golden
sovereign I wear on my watch chain is a small memento of that day. I also have
a rather charming photograph of your mother.”

“Forgive me for
interrupting,” I ventured, “but it might be wise to tell Mr. Holmes about your
troubles, my dear.”

“Quite right,
Watson. Reminiscences can wait until we have dealt with your problem, Miss
Norton. Just what is troubling you, my dear?”

“Mr. Holmes, I’m
being blackmailed! By a neighbor of yours, a Mr. Litton-Stanley. Do you know
him?”

Holmes and I
looked at each other and I spotted a smile of chagrined amusement on his face.