The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Marvin Kaye Read Free Book Online Page B

the woman put on her shawl, which was covered with cat hair, and gathered a shopping bag marked with the emblem of Hamley’s toy emporium, containing, I saw as I held the door for her, a doll and a set of tin soldiers. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Since I so rarely travel to London these days,” she said, smiling at her purchases, “I feel obliged to bring home somethingfor Mary and Kingsley to show my expedition has not been unfruitful.”
    We stood listening to her dainty tread fade down the steps. Then the detective collapsed into his chair, his features unfathomable. A minute passed before he spoke:
    â€œWell, Watson, as I have said to you in the past, the fair sex is your department. What is your assessment?”
    â€œTo be blunt, Holmes, if we are to credit what Mrs. Doyle tells us, her husband is suffering from acute . . . frustration. The overindulgence in sport, the banjo playing, the literary feuding, for a healthy male in his prime—”
    â€œEnough, Watson,” said Holmes. “Like you, I have concluded that the man is in dire danger of violating his marital vows. The real issue for me, my dear fellow, is your role here. It has never been my policy to pry into your affairs, but just how well do you know your literary agent?”
    â€œNot well, Holmes, though our relations have always been cordial and correct. As fellow medical men we have traded a tale or two of the dissecting room, and Doyle did present me with an inscribed copy of his story collection
Round the Red Lamp
, but there all confidences end. I am grateful that he continues in his capacity as my agent, despite his rising fame as an author, though again it has been some while since I have put any work his way.”
    After believing Holmes had fallen to his death in ‘91 in the grasp of his archfoe Professor Moriarty, I was too grief-stricken to publish any adventures beyond that of “The Final Problem.” My friend’s abrupt resurrection three years later provided an additional jolt which reinforced my silence.
    â€œTell me, Watson. I confess I am ignorant of literary practices,” said Sherlock Holmes, “but why on earth have you not submitted your fanciful melodramas directly to
The Strand
magazine?”
    â€œWell, Holmes, if you can keep a secret, this chap Doyle has done more than act as middle-man. He has touched up my prose here and there, checked details, consistency of names and dates, that sort of thing. After all, he’s a professional, I a mere amateur.”
    I was not about to admit that in many instances my agent had been a virtual co-author. Indeed, to safeguard my posthumous reputation, the extent of Doyle’s hand in my own writings must forever remain in mystery.
    â€œDo you, then, have any objections to my assuming Mrs. Doyle’s case?”
    â€œNone at all, Holmes.”
    â€œI am sure Mulliner could handle this affair ably enough in my stead.”
    â€œNo, Holmes. A lady’s honour is at stake. She trusts only you. If a scandal ensues from your investigation, I am prepared to risk the loss of her husband’s services—of which I may have no real need in future anyway.”
    â€œGood old Watson! How fortunate for your wives to have a man of your loyalty.”
    â€œThank you, Holmes.”
    For a few moments we sat in a silence that was almost comfortable.
    â€œThe old queen cannot live forever,” my friend resumed. “Her son, the heir, has already set the moral tone for the new century that looms. With her will pass an age that for all its cant and hypocrisy still upholds the gentlemanly virtues. I suspect, dear fellow, that you and I shall find ourselves increasingly out of step with the laxer times ahead. In the meanwhile, let us put Mrs. Doyle out of her suspense, then join her in a cup of tea.”
    L ater that month the newspapers heralded Arthur Conan Doyle’s return from South Africa, on holiday from his exertions