A Study in Sherlock

“My client is not a mercenary man. He merely wishes to have the story withdrawn, so as to protect his own work. And a promise, of course, from your client, that he will never speak of this story again. Surely this is not a difficult decision. Sir Arthur is a very clever writer; he can easily invent another case in place of this one.”

“I should like to know the name of your client.”

“Ah. I’m afraid I can’t answer that. He has asked for anonymity. Adverse publicity will also do him considerable harm, you see. He has a right to see his work in print and successful. And judged on its own merit. How can that be, if there are comparisons with Holmes at every turn? That will be brought up, do you see, in every review, and speculation will grow over the way Holmes solved the murder. Sir Arthur is an author; he will surely appreciate the problem.”

“Sir Arthur has changed the facts in the case.”

“But not sufficiently, sad to say.”

It was clear that Baines had given all the information that he was willing to divulge.

Still, Whitman persisted. “Will he step out of the shadows, your client, if Sir Arthur agrees to the withdrawal of the story? After all, you have the advantage of us. We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

“I think he will not.”

“Then I shall have to consult my client to see how he feels about your demands.”

“Not demands. A request, merely. From one author to another.”

Whitman left shortly thereafter, unsatisfied. He sent word to his own client, and that afternoon Conan Doyle arrived at his chambers. After telling him what had transpired at Baines’s office, Whitman asked, “How do you feel about withdrawing your story?”

“This client forgets that Holmes is also my own livelihood. If someone else is writing a book on the events I used for Holmes’s case, then he should have contacted me personally and asked that I withdraw it until such time as his book is published. I’d have taken his request under consideration—even if I don’t feel I have stepped on his toes in any way. Call it professional courtesy.”

“But not knowing you personally, he couldn’t have counted on your good will. Or professional courtesy.”

“True.” Conan Doyle sighed. “I can see his dilemma. But I’m still angry over this suit.”

“Do you know of anyone who could have a reason either to write his own version of events or to question yours?”

“No one. In fact, yesterday afternoon I went to speak to a friend of mine. I asked if she could identify the forces set against me. She said the dead are no threat to me.”

“You visited a seer?” Whitman was taken aback.

“I thought it wise,” Conan Doyle replied defensively. “After all, if this person lives in the shadows, I have a right to seek him out in any way I can.”

“I must remind you that the seer’s advice is all very well and good—but a dead man cannot bring suit in an English courtroom. My suggestion, as your legal adviser, is to let this suit proceed and see then who comes out of those shadows.”

“At what expense to my story?”

“I don’t know. You must answer that. Is the story so important?”

“I think Holmes was particularly clever in this one. I should hate to lose it. And it isn’t the story of William—well, of that William. It was a starting point only. The rest is Holmes. I’ve had a very uneasy relationship with him, my creation or not, as you well know. But I cannot spite him.”

“What about the widow and her new husband? Your story isn’t complimentary toward them. After all, they were never tried—if your conclusions are correct, they may be at some risk, if the police see fit to reopen the case. And Canada is not that far away.”

“How would they have discovered what I was doing? And they would be foolish to raise objections. To do so would only draw attention to them.”

“Baines told me that his client had recently lost his wife. That could very well mean that this is the widow’s husband, returned to England or Scotland to live.”

“I can believe in a jealous author before—” Conan Doyle stopped in midsentence, and then asked, “His client’s wife died recently, you say?”

“Yes. It was the reason his client turned to writing—a way of managing his grief.”

Conan Doyle frowned. “MacTaggart.” He got up and began to pace the floor. “He has just lost his own wife. Confound it, I thought he was reliable. I hadn’t counted on grief turning his mind. It’s the only explanation for his behavior.”

Whitman answered carefully. “Where does his loyalty lie, I wonder? Either he betrayed you to someone—”

“It’s the only solution. Not the sweep. MacTaggart.”

“—or he himself has something to fear from your story. How would Holmes see this?”

Conan Doyle stopped his pacing, sat down, and stared at his solicitor. “In my story,” he said slowly, “Holmes faults the man who conducted the postmortem. He believed that he’d muddled the case.”

Whitman said nothing.

As he examined the past, Conan Doyle’s eyes went to the framed photograph of the king above Whitman’s head.