Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Look, I don’t even know what the binomial theorem is, never mind what it might resemble with a European vogue—a description that makes no sense at all, by the way, when you think about it. Surely it’s either the binomial theorem or it isn’t, even if it’s described in a French accent.”

  “But on the strength of it you won a chair at one of our smaller universities!” Holmes protested.

  “If I did, then name the university,” said Moriarty.

  Holmes shifted in his chair. He was clearly struggling. “The identity of the institution doesn’t immediately spring to mind,” he admitted.

  “That’s because I was never chair of anything,” said Moriarty. “I’m not even very good at basic addition. I struggle to pay the milkman.”

  Holmes frowned. “That can’t be right.”

  “My point exactly. Maybe that’s how I became an ex-professor, although even that doesn’t sound plausible, given that I can’t remember how I was supposed to have become a professor in the first place, especially in a subject about which I know absolutely nothing. Which brings me to the next matter: how did you come to be so expert in all that stuff about poisons and types of dirt and whatnot? Did you take a course?”

  Holmes considered the question.

  “I don’t profess to be an expert in every field,” he replied. “I have little interest in literature, philosophy, or astronomy, and a negligible regard for the political sphere. I remain confident in the fields of chemistry and the anatomical sciences, and, as you have pointed out, can hold my own in geology and botany, with particular reference to poisons.”

  “That’s all well and good,” said Moriarty. “The question remains: how did you come by this knowledge?”

  “I own a lot of books,” said Holmes, awkwardly. He thought that he could almost hear a slight question mark at the end of his answer, which caused him to wince involuntarily.

  “Have you read them all, then?”

  “Must have done, I suppose.”

  “Either you did or you didn’t. You have to recall reading them.”

  “Er, not so much.”

  “You don’t just pick up that kind of knowledge off the street. There are people who’ve studied dirt for decades who don’t know as much about it as you seem to.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “That you don’t actually know anything about dirt and poisons at all.”

  “But I must, if I can solve crimes based entirely on this expertise.”

  “Oh, somebody knows about this stuff—or gives a good impression of it—but it’s not you. It’s like me being a criminal mastermind. Last night, I decided that I was going to try to commit a perfectly simple crime: jeweler’s shop, window, brick. I walk to jeweler’s, break window with brick, run away with jewels, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “And what happened?” asked Holmes.

  “I couldn’t do it. I stood there, brick in hand, but I couldn’t throw it. Instead I went home and constructed an elaborate plan for tunneling into the jeweler’s involving six dwarfs, a bald man with a stoop, and an airship.”

  “What has an airship got to do with digging a tunnel?” asked Holmes.

  “Exactly!” Moriarty exclaimed. “More importantly, why do I need six dwarfs, never mind the bald man with the stoop? I can’t think of any situation in life where the necessity of acquiring six men of diminished stature might arise, or none that I care to bring up in public.”

  “On close examination, it does seem to be excessively complicating what would otherwise be a fairly simple act of theft.”

  “But I was completely unable just to break the window and steal the jewels,” said Moriarty. “It wasn’t possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not written that way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not the way I was written. I’m written as a criminal mastermind who comes up with baroque, fiendish plots. It’s against my nature even to walk down the street in a straight line. Believe me, I’ve tried. I have to duck and dive so much that I get dizzy.”

  Holmes sat back, stunned, almost dropping the revolver from his hand at the realization of his own true nature. Suddenly, it all made sense: his absence of anything resembling a past; his lack of a close familial bond with his brother, Mycroft; the sometimes extraordinary deductive leaps that he made, which baffled even himself.

  “I’m a literary invention,” he said.

  “Precisely,” said Moriarty. “Don’t get me wrong: you’re a good one—certainly better than I am—but you’re still a character.”

  “So I’m not real?”

  “I didn’t say that. I think you have a kind of reality, but you didn’t start out that way.”

  “But what of my fate?” said Holmes. “What of free will? If all this is true, then my destiny lies in the hands of another. My actions are predetermined by an outside agency.”

  “No,” said Moriarty, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation if that were the case. My guess is that you’re becoming more real with every word that the author writes, and a little of that has rubbed off on me.”

  “But what are we going to do about it?” asked Holmes.

  “It’s not entirely in our hands,” said Moriarty.

  And with that he looked up from the page.

  And that was where the manuscript ended, with a fictional character engaged in a virtual staring contest with his creator. In his letter, Conan Doyle described letting the papers fall to the floor, and in that moment Sherlock Holmes’s fate was sealed.

  Holmes was a dead man.

  Thus began the extraordinary sequence of events that would come to imperil the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository. Conan Doyle completed “The Last Problem,” consigning Holmes to the Reichenbach Falls and leaving only his trusty Alpinestock and silver cigarette case as a sign that he had ever been there at all. The public seethed and mourned, and Conan Doyle set out to immerse himself in the historical fictions that he believed would truly make his reputation.

  Mr. Headley, meanwhile, went about the business of the Caxton which, for the most part, consisted of making pots of tea, dusting, reading, and ensuring that any of the characters who wandered off—as some of them were inclined to do—returned before nightfall. Mr. Headley had once been forced to explain to an unimpressed policeman why an elderly gent in homemade armor seemed intent upon damaging a small ornamental windmill that stood at the heart of Glossom Green, and had no intention of having to go through all that again. It was difficult enough trying to understand how Don Quixote had ended up in the Caxton to begin with, given that his parent book had been written in Spanish. Mr. Headley suspected that it was something to do with the proximity of the first English translations of Cervantes’s work in 1612 and 1620 to their original publication in Spanish in 1605 and 1615. Then again, the Caxton might simply have got confused. It did that, sometimes.

  So it came as some surprise to him when, one Wednesday morning, a small, flat parcel arrived at the Caxton, inexpertly wrapped in brown paper, and with its string poorly knotted. He opened it to find a copy of that month’s Strand containing “The Final Problem.”

  “Now that can’t be right,” said Mr. Headley, aloud. He had already received his subscription copy, and had no use for a second. But the nature of the parcel, with its brown paper and string, gave him pause for thought. He examined the materials and concluded that, yes, they were the same as those used to deliver first editions to the Caxton for as long as anyone could remember. Never before, though, had they protected a journal or magazine.

  “Oh dear,” said Mr. Headley.

  He began to feel distinctly uneasy. He took a lamp and moved through the library, descending—or ascending; he was never sure which, for the Caxton’s architectural nature was as individual and peculiar as everything else about it—into its depths (or heights) where the new rooms typically started to form upon the arrival of a first edition. No signs of activity were apparent. M
r. Headley was relieved. It was all clearly some mistake on the part of the Strand, and the paper and string involved in the magazine’s delivery only coincidentally resembled those with which he was most familiar. He returned to his office, poured himself a mug of tea, and twisted up the newly arrived copy of the Strand for use in the fireplace. He then read a little of Samuel Richardson’s epistolary epic Clarissa, which he always found conducive to drowsiness, and settled down in his chair for a nap.

  He slept for longer than intended, for when he woke it was already growing dark outside. He set kindling for the fire, but noticed that the twisted copy of the Strand was no longer in the storage basket and was instead lying on his desk, entirely intact and without crease.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Headley. “Well.”

  But he got no further in his ruminations, for the small brass bell above the office door trilled once. The Caxton Private Lending Library didn’t have a doorbell, and it had taken Mr. Headley a little time to get used to the fact that a door without a doorbell could still ring. The sound of the bell could mean only one thing: the library was about to welcome a new arrival.

  Mr. Headley opened the door. Standing on the step was a tall, lean man, with a high brow and a long nose, dressed in a deerstalker hat and a caped coat. Behind him was an athletic-looking gent with a mustache, who seemed more confused than his companion. A slightly oversized bowler hat rested on his head.

  “‘Holmes gave me a sketch of events,’” said Mr. Headley.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the man in the bowler, now looking even more confused.

  “Paget,” said Mr. Headley. “‘The Adventure of Silver Blaze,’ 1892.” For the two men could have stepped straight from that particular illustration.

  “Still not following.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” said Mr. Headley.

  “Yet here we are,” said the thinner of the two.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” said Mr. Headley.

  “If so, it won’t be resolved by forcing us to stand out in the cold,” came the reply.

  Mr. Headley’s shoulders slumped.

  “Yes, you’re right. You’d better come in, then. Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson: welcome to the Caxton Private Lending Library and Book Depository.”

  Mr. Headley lit the fire, and while doing so tried to give Holmes and Watson a brief introduction to the library. Initially there was often a certain amount of shock among new arrivals, who sometimes struggled to grasp the reality both of their own physicality and their fictional existence, as one should, in theory, have contradicted the other, but didn’t. Holmes and Watson seemed to have little trouble with the whole business, though. As we have already seen, Holmes had been made aware of the possibility of his own fictional nature thanks to the efforts of ex-Professor Moriarty, and had done his best to share something of this understanding with Watson before his untimely demise at the hands of his creator.

  “By the way, is my archnemesis here?” asked Holmes.

  “I’m not expecting him,” said Mr. Headley. “You know, he never seemed entirely real.”

  “No, he didn’t, did he?” agreed Holmes.

  “To be honest,” Mr. Headley went on, “and as you may have gathered, I wasn’t expecting you two gentlemen either. Characters usually only arrive when their authors die. I suspect it’s because they then become fixed objects, as it were. You two are the first to come here while their author is still alive and well. It’s most unusual.”

  Mr. Headley wished that there was someone he could call, but old Torrans was long dead, and the Caxton operated without the assistance of lawyers, bankers, or the institutions of government, or at least not with the active involvement of any of the above. Bills were paid, leases occasionally secured, and rates duly handed over to the authorities, but it was all done without Mr. Headley having to lift a finger. The workings of the Caxton were so deeply ingrained in British society that everyone had simply ceased to notice them.

  Mr. Headley poured the two guests some more tea, and offered them biscuits. He then returned to the bowels—or attic—of the library, and found that it had begun to create suitable living quarters for Holmes and Watson based on Paget’s illustrations, and Watson’s descriptions, of the rooms at 221B Baker Street. Mr. Headley was immensely relieved, as otherwise he might have been forced to make up beds for them in his office, and he wasn’t sure how well Holmes might have taken to such sleeping arrangements.

  Shortly after midnight, the library finished its work on 221B, complete with a lively Victorian streetscape beyond the windows. The Caxton occupied an indeterminate space between reality and fiction, and the library was not above permitting characters access to their own larger fictional universes, should they choose to step outside their rooms for a time. Many, though, preferred either to nap—sometimes for decades—or take the occasional constitutional around Glossom village and its environs, which at least had the merit of being somewhere new and different. The inhabitants of the village tended not to notice the characters unless, of course, they started tilting at windmills, talking about witches in a Scottish accent, or inquiring about the possibility of making a suitable marriage to entirely respectable single, or even married, gentlemen.

  Once Holmes and Watson were ensconced in their quarters, Mr. Headley returned to his office, poured himself a large brandy, and detailed the events of the day in the Caxton’s records, so that future librarians might be made aware of what he had gone through. He then retired to his bed, and dreamed that he was holding on by his fingertips to the edge of a precipice while the Reichenbach Falls tumbled thunderously beneath him.

  After this mild hiccup, the life of the library proceeded largely without incident over the following years, although the activities of Holmes and Watson were not entirely unproblematic for Mr. Headley. They were fond of making forays into Glossom and beyond, offering to assist bemused officers of the law with investigations into missing kittens, damaged milk churns, and the possible theft of a bag of penny buns from the noon train to Penbury. Their characters having ingrained themselves in the literary affections of the public, Holmes and Watson were treated as genial eccentrics. They were not alone in dressing up as the great detective and his amanuensis, for it was a popular activity among gentlemen of varying degrees of sanity, but they were unique in actually being Holmes and Watson, although obviously nobody realized that at the time.

  There was also the small matter of the opium that found its way into the library on a regular basis. Mr. Headley couldn’t pin down the source of the drug, and could only conclude that the library itself was providing it, but it worried him nonetheless. God forbid that some olfactorily gifted policeman might smell traces of the narcotic on Holmes, and contrive to follow him back to the Caxton. Mr. Headley wasn’t sure what the punishment might be for running a narcotics operation, and had no desire to find out, so he begged Holmes to be discreet about his intake, and to reserve it for the peace and quiet of his own rooms.

  Otherwise, Mr. Headley was rather delighted to have as residents of the library two characters of whom he was so enamored, and spent many happy evenings in their company, listening as they discussed the details of cases about which he had read, or testing Holmes’s knowledge of obscure poisons and types of tobacco. Mr. Headley also continued to subscribe to the Strand, for he generally found its contents most delightful, and had no animosity toward it for publishing Holmes’s last adventure since he was privileged to have the man himself beneath his roof. He tended to be a month or two behind in his Strand reading, though, for his preference remained books.

  Then, in August 1901, this placid existence was disturbed by a most extraordinary development. Mr. Headley had taken himself away to Cleckheaton to visit his sister Dolly, and upon his return found Holmes and Watson in a terrible state. Holmes was brandishing the latest copy of the Strand and demanding loudly, “What’s this? What’s this?”

  Mr. Headley pleaded, first for calm, and then for the offending jour
nal, which was duly handed over to him. Mr. Headley sat and, once he had recovered from his surprise, read the first installment of The Hound of the Baskervilles.

  “It doesn’t mention my previous demise,” said Holmes. “There’s not a word about it. I mean, I fell over a waterfall, and I’m not even wet!”

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” said Mr. Headley. “From my reading, it seems to be set prior to the events at the Reichenbach Falls, as otherwise Conan Doyle would surely have been forced to explain your reappearance. Don’t you have any memory of this case, Holmes—or you, Doctor Watson, of recording its details?”

  Both Holmes and Watson told him that the only details of the Hound of which they were aware were those they had read, but then admitted that they were no longer entirely certain whether those memories were the result of reading the first installment, or if their own personalities were being altered to accommodate the new story. Mr. Headley counseled caution, and advised Holmes and Watson not to overreact until they learned more about the tale. Mr. Headley made some discreet inquiries of the Strand, but the magazine’s proprietors were tight-lipped about the return of Holmes to their pages, grateful only for the spike in subscriptions brought by his reappearance, and Mr. Headley’s efforts were all for naught.

  So he, along with Holmes, Watson, and the British reading public, was forced to wait for the arrival of each new monthly instalment of the story in order to try to discern Conan Doyle’s intentions for his creations. As time went on, though, it became clear that the story was indeed historical in nature, preceding the events of “The Final Problem.” As an experiment, Mr. Headley withheld the conclusion from Holmes, and then questioned him about its contents. Holmes was able to describe in detail how Rodger Baskerville had embezzled money in South America, taken the name Vandeleur, and opened a school in Yorkshire that closed following its descent into infamy, all of which was revealed in the final part of the story that Holmes had yet to read. From this they were able to establish that Conan Doyle, by revisiting his characters, was effectively creating new memories for Holmes and Watson which, although mildly troubling for them, was not a disaster.