The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (36 page)

"You beat Euclid hollow," roared Lord John. "Don't you think so,

young fellah?"

"As far as I can remember," I answered, smiling ruefully, "Euclid only deduces things that everybody knew already, or ought to know, whereas Mr. Holmes makes the whole invisible effect appear under the full limelight of the cause."

"Very neatly put, I'm sure," added Dr. Watson. "But here, unless I am mistaken, we are at our journey's end."

At some distance behind us, peering over a clipped hedge, was Professor Challenger's so unhospitable notice-board. We were passing between the posts of a gate, and at the end of a drive hedged in with rhododendron bushes, the familiar brick house peered smilingly at us — that is, at least at two of us.

Entering the house, we were met by little Mrs. Challenger, as dainty as ever, though her eyes were red with recent crying, and her whole face bore the marks of the anxiety and sorrow she had undergone. She came up to Lord John and myself, while a look of gratitude and hope passed, for an instant, across her careworn features. ' "Oh. Lord John, and you, Mr. Malone!" she exclaimed in a voice bordering between tears and joy. "How kind of you to come to me in my distress! I would not have dared to trouble you myself, but 1 cannot express my relief at seeing you here."

"It's all right, my dear Mrs. Challenger," cheerfully replied Lord John Roxton. "Although Malone and I are little good, I'm afraid, we've brought you a rippin' friend in need, who'll find the professor in half the time it'd take me to stalk a buffalo ... May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and to Dr. Watson, his friend? . . . Gentlemen, Mrs. Challenger."

She shook hands gratefully with both of them, and was speaking some words of welcome to the latter, when I noticed that Holmes had disappeared. Dr. Watson immediately excused his friend's apparent impropriety, on the plea that he was already following some clue to the mystery. All three of us then followed her into the cozy boudoir where we had passed such memorable hours while the world was passing through the Poison Belt.

She had begun to relate her husband's strange disappearance, which had occurred on the preceding day. The professor had retired to his study after breakfast, as usual, and when Austin, as was his habit, knocked at the door to announce lunch, he had received no answer; the faithful chauffeur had finally entered the study, only to find himself in an empty room. His master had said nothing of leaving, or even of going out; indeed, nobody had left the house, through the door, at any rate. Having reached this point in her narrative, Mrs. Challenger broke down, and it was only by our combined efforts that she finally managed to recover her composure, though her eyes filled with tears.

Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Sherlock Holmes, keen and alert, burst into the room, walking straight up to Dr. Watson.

"Watson," he said in that calm and passionless voice of his, though it was easy to see he was tingling with excitement, "would you be so kind as to give me. some information concerning Zeeman's phenomenon? I have, myself, dabbled somewhat in science, but I am afraid I have no recollection of this apparently recently discovered notion, and I apply to you as to the scientist of our party."

"My dear Holmes," replied Watson, visibly disappointed, "I'm sure I utterly fail to see what Zeeman's phenomenon has to do with your case. Indeed, I am afraid it is somewhat outside the range of a mere physician. Nevertheless, I may tell you broadly what it is. Zeeman was the first to discover that all the colors and lines revealed by spectral analysis are actually deviated by some influences — amongst others, by a strong magnetic field."

"Then I have it!" exclaimed Holmes, himself moved to some display of excitement his voice no longer suppressed.

"What?" Mrs. Challenger cried out. "You mean you have found . . ." "Professor Challenger will be amongst us within a few minutes,"

he resumed, in tones once more void of any emotion. "Gentlemen, I request you to follow me into the scientist's study. Pray excuse us,

Madam." . . (

The four of us found ourselves in the familiar study, a loc amazement on the faces of all save Sherlock Holmes, who began in an even voice: "I must first of all confess that I was completely wrong about the results I told you of on the way here; I was completely misled by appearances, which only proves that one should never work on preconceived ideas. However, I am happy to say covered my mistake as soon as I entered this room."

"How on earth could the simple aspect of this room account tor such a change?" muttered Dr. Watson, turning his puzzled face

towards his friend.

"Look," replied Holmes, pointing first to the ceiling, and a mass of papers strewn about the scientist's desk. "The ceiling unquestionably bears footprints ... And these papers all contain diagrams and rough jottings, where the words Zeeman's phenomenon ever recur. Here — " he pointed towards a little case attached to t wa ll _ "is an electric switch commanding an electro-magnet in the laboratory (as the inscription says) : you may notice the current is now on. On further investigation, I ascertained that the current consumed since the Company's last visit (which happens to have been yesterday) is no less than 2000 Kwh. ... The missing link in this remarkable chain of evidence was given me just now by Watson's explanation of Zeeman's phenomenon — and now Professor lenger will instantly return."

All three of us were too dumfounded to understand; what Sherlock Holmes called a chain of evidence was an inextricable labyrinth to me, and I was just about to set a question, when I saw him jump forward, and calmly switch off the electric current. Immediately the silence seemed intensified; we gazed spellbound at one another, and suddenly a massive form was visible, apparently dropping out of nowhere, in the region of the ceiling.

Holmes was the first to act. He sprang forth, and clutched at the apparition, from which a bellowing yell issued at the same time. 1 came nearer in my turn, and was able to make out a black beard, a huge head, with a broad forehead and a dark plaster of black hair, then two clear gray eyes, with their insolent eyelids — and suddenly

I recognized the missing man. Holmes, lithe as a panther, caught him in his arms, and instantly set him on his feet.

"Hullo! What the devil do you mean? Now my young friend, what is all this?" How inexpressibly glad I was to hear the familiar voice!

"Why, Herr Professor!" cried out Lord John.

"Yes, himself," came Challenger's sonorous bass —and suddenly perceiving the two others, he went on: "And may I ask who these intruders are?"

"Dear Professor Challenger," I tried to calm him, "these gentlemen came here with Lord John and myself, and have just solved the mystery of your disappearance — "

"My disappearance?" he vigorously interrupted. "How can I have disappeared, when I was simply trying a little experiment on Zeeman's phenomenon? Pray answer that, sir — yes, you, I mean!" And he turned savagely towards Sherlock Holmes.

Our remarkable friend calmly met his gaze. "May I ask you what day you make it out to be, Professor Challenger?" he inquired.

"What day?" bellowed die irate scientist. "Tell you what day it is? Yes, sir, I can: it is the i3th of June, and it also happens to be"

— here he looked at his watch —"3:35 P.M."

"As a matter of fact," replied Holmes, "you happen to be wrong

— which is only natural after your adventure: it is not the I3tli but the 14th; you have been absent from our planet for something over twenty-seven hours."

"Extraordinary!" muttered Lord John Roxton.

"Incredible!" I could not help exclaiming.

"Would you mind explaining your meaning, which appears somewhat blurred to my feeble intellect?" asked Challenger, taking up his thundering irony.

"Nothing is easier," said Sherlock Holmes. "Yesterday morning, you came into your study, and started experimenting about Zeeman's phenomenon. You switched the current into a hyper-powerful electromagnet, evidently not thinking of the enormous amount of iron a human body of your dimensions must contain — or the tremendous effect the magnetic field might have upon the spectrum such a body would absorb. In short, Zeeman's phenomenon deviated that spectrum farther than could have been expected — and you followed

it, quite unconsciously, into space — or into ether. Those are the traces of your passage," he added, pointing to the footmarks on the ceiling. "It is quite simple, as you see, my dear Watson . . , And now, gentlemen, let us return to Mrs. Challenger."

Detective: SHERLOCK HOLMES Narrator: WATSON

THE END OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

by A. E. P.

So far in this Procession of Pastiches you have mis adventured with Sherloc{ Holmes the sleuth. Now we bring you The Great Man in an entirely different role —as the father of a three-year-old child-prodigy.

Sympathize with our harassed, heartsick^ hero — the sire of a satanically sapient sprout — a chip of the old blocJ^, in spades. It is a shocking spectacle, this deflation of a once dynamic demigod, this collapse of Colossus, this toppling of a Titan. For here we see Holmes a stricken, suffering shadow of himself, in dire dismay not of a modern and more murderous Monarty but of his own odious offspring.

Many hours of research have failed to reveal the identity of A. E. P. 1 who remains regretfully the anonymous Ananias of our anthology.

This unusual pastiche first appeared in "The Manchester Guardian" issue of July j, 7927 and on this side of the Atlantic in "The Living Age" issue of August 15, 7927. There is reason to believe that the original title was "Sherloc^ Holmes Finds Himself Out-Holmesed"

Other instances dealing with the scion of Sherloc\ include John Kendric\ Bangs's Raffles Holmes, who was the "son" of Sherloc\ and the "grandson" of Raffles (see page i<)i, with footnote) ; and Sherloc\ Holmes, Jr., the hero of a color-comic series that appeared in the Sunday supplements of many American newspapers between 1911 and 1914, drawn by no less a person than Sidney Smith, the creator of the famous "Gumps." There is also Frederic Arnold Kummer's and Basil Mitchell's Shirley

iMr. Starrett inquires: "Could A. E. P. possibly be Allan Edgar Poe?" A most ingenious theory!

Holmes, daughter of Sherloc^, assisted by Joan Watson, daughter of Dr. Watson, in THE ADVENTURE OF THE QUEEN BEE and "The Canterbury Cathedral Murder' (see page

[The following account of the real reason for Holmes's retirement was found among Dr. Watson's private papers after his death. It is not dated, but from internal evidence (noticeably the mention < ladies' hat pins) it may be placed about 1903-1905.]

IT WAS my intention to close these memoirs with the remarkable chain of circumstances resulting in the marriage of my friend Sherlock Holmes with Miss Falkland. For some time after that event my friend gave up professional work and went abroad with his wife. Our rooms in Baker Street were of course destroyed, and my practice occupied my full time, and certainly prospered all the better for receiving my undivided attention. From time to time, however, he would be recalled to my memory by some startling and unexplained case claiming my attention in the morning's paper; and in the "unforeseen circumstances" and "unexpected turn of events" or remarkable instances of fresh light being thrown on some obscure point would recognize my friend's unparalleled genius, though, with characteristic modesty, his name never appeared.

For instance, there was the remarkable case of the Hereditary Princess of Sthoit-Leinengen, which culminated in a royal divorce; and the still more recent affair of the Grand-Nurse-in-Waiting's tame monkey, which made such a stir and resulted in the suicide of a Russian Consul. It was when public excitement was at its height over the great Bribery Case in connection with the Pope's birthday celebrations, and suspicion had settled on a well-known workhouse official, that I again received intimation that Holmes was in England. I had just come in from a long round when the maidservant brought in a note whose appearance struck me at once as familiar. As I tore it open I mechanically noticed that it was written on cream-laid paper, with a printed address, and that the stamp was in the right-hand top corner of the envelope. This lapse into long-forgotten habit made me

think of Holmes, and I was not surprised to recognize his signature at the foot of the sheet.

"Dear Watson," it ran: "Can you come round to the old place at 3 P.M. to-morrow ? — Yours, S. H."

I hastily scribbled an acceptance, and the following day, having turned over my practice to my assistant and locked the dispensary door for fear of accidents, I hailed a "City Atlas" and soon found myself en route for Baker Street. (Holmes had taken rooms just above our former locality.)

The door was opened by a tired-looking maid. I entered, and encountered the gaze of a child about three years of age. He was wearing a miniature dressing gown, and had just been taking an impression of the cat's foot in a piece of dough.

Before I had time to speak he had crawled rapidly and noiselessly up the stairs and announced me: "Pa, there's a man to see you."

"Who is it?" answered Holmes's voice, and I was struck by the weariness of his tone.

"He's a doctor, poor, and he's got a wife, but she is away. He came up in the omnibus, it was very full, a lady got in too, but he didn't get up to let her have his seat, same as he ought to," said this remarkable child.

I entered in response to Holmes's invitation. The apartment was thick with tobacco smoke and Holmes was listlessly repairing a string in his violin. He held out his hand with something of his old heartiness, but there was a tired look in his eyes I did not like.

"Ah, Watson, I'm glad to see you again." Then, following the direction of my glance, "This is my son — Sherlock, come and say 'How do you do?' to the gentleman."

"He's quite well, he did have a cold, but that is quite well too, and he didn't put nothin' in the bag las' Sunday," finished this remarkable infant. I turned to Holmes in amazement. "But how on earth — "

"Oh, he knows," said my friend rather bitterly; "there isn't much he can't see. But it is your professional assistance I want you for now." Holmes was not the man to take such a step lightly, and my gravest fears were aroused. I glanced keenly at him. His eyes were closed, his temperature was normal, but the pulse was beating in quick irregular jerks, and symptoms pointed to a slight cerebral congestion;