A Study in Sherlock

Conan Doyle came back to his chair and sat down. “No, no, how could he? The fact is, he discovered that William—he’s called Hamilton in the story—had been the victim of a clever plot. This trial took place in an English courtroom, you understand, where of course poor William was found guilty. The truth was, the now-wealthy widow and the friend she later married had devised a plan to rid themselves of her husband. First she had let William believe that she could care for him. Second, she had used a poison, so as to point directly to William, the medical man. The only problem was that in their ignorance of such matters, the plotters chose a West African poison so obscure it couldn’t be traced. Rather than one that William might have selected from his medical bag, you see. But there was other evidence, manufactured but sound enough for conviction.”

“Why West Africa?”

“I was there for a time, you know. And in my story, so was the man the widow eventually marries. At any rate, this conniving widow had encouraged Holmes’s client, William, from the start, leading him to believe she cared for him. The poor man had no chance against such a devious pair. Yet it looked very dark for him, the date of execution having been set. Just the sort of hopeless case that would appeal to Holmes. There’s the matter of obscure poisons as well. Holmes has always prided himself on his knowledge of that subject. And William’s plea to Holmes to look into his plight interested Dr. Watson as well, of course, since there was a physician involved. ‘First do no harm,’ the oath admonishes. What’s more, Watson had served in India and had some little understanding of the unique properties of many plants that we in England aren’t acquainted with.”

Intrigued, John Whitman asked, “And how did Holmes solve this case?”

“The final clue comes when Holmes bluffs the widow by telling her that since she is wealthier than her new husband, she should beware. And he shows her an empty envelope that Mycroft has given him from Foreign Office correspondence, posted from Africa but with the address removed—Holmes knows something about inks, as you recall—and replaced with that of her husband’s place of business. And Holmes wonders aloud if the man has sent for more of the same poison. The letter here is missing, you understand, but she believes Holmes when he tells her that this envelope was found in the dustbin at her London house. She dissolves into tears and confesses—she thinks to save her own life—how her new husband came up with and carried out this wicked scheme.”

“Have you considered—there may be more truth in your work of fiction than someone could safely ignore? And not necessarily in Scotland.”

“Yes, that’s always possible. But the question remains: how did anyone come to know that I was writing such a story, and what’s more, that it was finished? This happened in Edinburgh more than a quarter of a century ago. And William is dead. Did I tell you that? He took his own life in a bout of severe depression some years after the trial. That’s why I felt safe in using the facts of the case in my story.”

“Then I find it interesting that someone has chosen to sue Sherlock Holmes and not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Well, I’m glad you find it interesting,” Conan Doyle snapped irritably. “How do they expect to bring Holmes into a courtroom, I ask you!”

“Perhaps it has nothing to do with Holmes or a suit against him. Perhaps someone wishes to see you settle this case out of court. For instance, with an offer of money.”

“I shall do no such thing. And what about this short story? Am I to allow my editor to publish it? Or am I to abandon it like an unwanted child? Smith will not be happy with me, I can tell you, if I withdraw it. He has already scheduled its publication, and is poised to announce a new Holmes to readers in the next issue of The Strand Magazine.”

“That will have to be dealt with. At the moment, I think we should have a conversation with the solicitor representing your adversary.”

“To call him an adversary is to give him status. Moriarty was an adversary. Irene Adler was an adversary. Whoever is plaguing me with this suit is nothing of the sort.”

Whitman smiled. “Yes, I take your point. Who is the solicitor?”

“A man called Baines. He has chambers in London on Ironmonger Lane. Rather an unprepossessing address. As you would expect of someone willing to be involved in such a frivolous business.”

“I’ll call on him tomorrow. Meanwhile, I advise you to think no more about it.”

But Conan Doyle wasn’t satisfied. “I should like to know how the manuscript fell into the hands of these people.”

“Have you had anyone in to work on drains? To look for dry rot or worm in the attics? Anyone who could have had access to your study?”

“By God. There was a chimney sweep last week.”

“The same one you have employed before this?”