A memoir of
John H. Watson, M.D.
The equinoctial gales of March had been assaulting our building at 221B Baker Street all day. Rain pounded relentlessly against the windows, and the wind shrieked like a woman whose soufflé has fallen in the chimney.
‘That is quite enough of that!’ Sherlock Holmes fairly barked. He strode to the fireplace and shouted into it. ‘Mrs. Hudson! Get out of our chimney! And take your soufflé with you!’
Our dear but increasingly eccentric landlady emerged from the fireplace. She went, grudgingly, and Holmes and I returned to our inactivity. We might well have stayed there until the crocuses bloomed had there not been a knock at our door. A case? I hoped. Anything would be a welcome diversion.
I opened the door to a boy in a dripping mackintosh.
‘Package for Mr Holmes!’ I gestured to Holmes, and the boy handed over to him a thick manila envelope.
‘Watson,’ Holmes said distractedly as he began to study the envelope. I gave the messenger sixpence, and he doffed his cap and made for the door.
‘Just a minute!’ Holmes exclaimed. The boy stood uneasily as Holmes studied him. ‘I perceive that you have a salami and cheddar sandwich in your coat.’
‘Blimey!’ the boy gasped.
‘I shall give you sixpence for it.’ The boy thrust the sandwich into Holmes’s hands. My friend nodded to me and I handed the boy another sixpence.
I observed a respectful silence as Holmes dispatched the sandwich. When he finished, I asked ‘I understand how you could deduce the presence of the boy’s lunch, but how the deuce did you know it was cheddar and salami?’
Holmes smiled tightly and held the envelope under his nose. 'The smell has permeated this envelope,’ he said. ‘I should be dull indeed if I could not identify the smell. Though in my youth I sometimes confused the aroma of cheddar with Red Leicester.’
We both had a hearty laugh at that, and Holmes loaded his pipe from the Iranian slipper where he stored his tobacco. He settled in his chair with the envelope, and I knew that it was my place to wait for his deductions.
The afternoon light was fading when Holmes suddenly sat bolt upright and exclaimed ‘Aha!’
‘Yes, Holmes?’ I responded, reaching for my pad and pencil.
‘I have decided on a course of action!’
‘Scintillating! What is it to be?’
Holmes held the envelope up and stared at it severely.
‘I shall open it see what is inside!’ Holmes took off his other slipper and reloaded his pipe.
When the contents of the other slipper were exhausted, Holmes stood erect and said to me ‘There is more here than meets the eye, Watson!’ With that he strode to the telephone and rang up the post office. Within ten minutes a telegraph messenger arrived just as Holmes finished dashing off a lengthy form. As I paid the messenger, Holmes was already at the telephone again.
‘Who are you calling?’ I asked.
‘I am telephoning my solicitor!...Yes, Barnacle? This is Sherlock Holmes. You will soon receive a telegram from me!
‘Now, Watson,’ he said, turning his attention to me, ‘what do you know about this literary agent of your, this Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle?’
‘Not a great deal, I suppose. He has been handling my writing for some years, as you well know.’
‘When and how did you come to meet this person?’
‘I—I can’t really recall where I know him from. Can’t remember thinking about it before. It seems as if I have always known the man.’
‘And yet you trust him?’
‘Why, of course! I have no reason not to trust him.’
Holmes actually sighed. ‘You are the model of the finest kind of Englishman, my friend. You are without guile yourself, so you never suspect it of others.’
‘What do you mean, Holmes?’
‘Yes, Holmes?’ I responded, reaching for my pad and pencil.
‘I have decided on a course of action!’
‘Scintillating! What is it to be?’
Holmes held the envelope up and stared at it severely.
‘I shall open it see what is inside!’ Holmes took off his other slipper and reloaded his pipe.
When the contents of the other slipper were exhausted, Holmes stood erect and said to me ‘There is more here than meets the eye, Watson!’ With that he strode to the telephone and rang up the post office. Within ten minutes a telegraph messenger arrived just as Holmes finished dashing off a lengthy form. As I paid the messenger, Holmes was already at the telephone again.
‘Who are you calling?’ I asked.
‘I am telephoning my solicitor!...Yes, Barnacle? This is Sherlock Holmes. You will soon receive a telegram from me!
‘Now, Watson,’ he said, turning his attention to me, ‘what do you know about this literary agent of your, this Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle?’
‘Not a great deal, I suppose. He has been handling my writing for some years, as you well know.’
‘When and how did you come to meet this person?’
‘I—I can’t really recall where I know him from. Can’t remember thinking about it before. It seems as if I have always known the man.’
‘And yet you trust him?’
‘Why, of course! I have no reason not to trust him.’
Holmes actually sighed. ‘You are the model of the finest kind of Englishman, my friend. You are without guile yourself, so you never suspect it of others.’
‘What do you mean, Holmes?’
‘I am afraid you have been duped, old man.’
Holmes picked up the envelope, pulled some papers from it and began to read.
‘In 1884, he received ₤30 for his short story “J. Habakuk Jephson’s Statement.” But in 1887 he placed your novel, A Study in Scarlet for which you were only paid ₤25! For The Sign of Four you received ₤100, and for “A Scandal in Bohemia” and “The Red-Headed League” you received only a total of ₤72, despite their incredible (and, frankly, inexplicable) popularity with the public. Meanwhile Haggard is getting ₤1500, Kipling ₤3000, and Doyle himself $7300! Does this suggest nothing to you?’
‘No…’ I replied uneasily.
‘Man, he is cheating you! He is pocketing fees which rightly belong to you!’
‘I find that impossible to believe. He is widely regarded as a square and honourable fellow.’
‘Oh, Watson! How often have I seen you over the years pinching pennies, trying to get by on your pension and royalties, while--’
‘No, Holmes, it won’t do. I cannot let you malign my agent and blame him. I have expenses you are not aware of, and it is they, not Dr Doyle, which have been responsible for my occasional poverty.’
Holmes fixed me with his incisive stare and awaited an elaboration.
‘Well…ahem…you see Holmes, while you are a master of deduction, I am something of a master of…uh…seduction.’ When he did not respond, I continued, ‘I have had an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents. As a result, I am—as is only decent and proper—paying for the upkeep of a number of children in various countries.
‘It is no more than any responsible Englishman would do.’
There have been many occasions when Holmes has surprised me, but now our roles were reversed.
Holmes continued to stare at me until finally he broke into a smile.
‘Good old Watson!’
Holmes picked up the envelope, pulled some papers from it and began to read.
‘In 1884, he received ₤30 for his short story “J. Habakuk Jephson’s Statement.” But in 1887 he placed your novel, A Study in Scarlet for which you were only paid ₤25! For The Sign of Four you received ₤100, and for “A Scandal in Bohemia” and “The Red-Headed League” you received only a total of ₤72, despite their incredible (and, frankly, inexplicable) popularity with the public. Meanwhile Haggard is getting ₤1500, Kipling ₤3000, and Doyle himself $7300! Does this suggest nothing to you?’
‘No…’ I replied uneasily.
‘Man, he is cheating you! He is pocketing fees which rightly belong to you!’
‘I find that impossible to believe. He is widely regarded as a square and honourable fellow.’
‘Oh, Watson! How often have I seen you over the years pinching pennies, trying to get by on your pension and royalties, while--’
‘No, Holmes, it won’t do. I cannot let you malign my agent and blame him. I have expenses you are not aware of, and it is they, not Dr Doyle, which have been responsible for my occasional poverty.’
Holmes fixed me with his incisive stare and awaited an elaboration.
‘Well…ahem…you see Holmes, while you are a master of deduction, I am something of a master of…uh…seduction.’ When he did not respond, I continued, ‘I have had an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents. As a result, I am—as is only decent and proper—paying for the upkeep of a number of children in various countries.
‘It is no more than any responsible Englishman would do.’
There have been many occasions when Holmes has surprised me, but now our roles were reversed.
Holmes continued to stare at me until finally he broke into a smile.
‘Good old Watson!’