A Study in Sherlock

Caroline’s fourth-grade teacher promised to read to her class the last twenty minutes of each day if they were good and worked hard. Fortunately, the teacher loved Sherlock Holmes and didn’t think him too mature for nine-year-olds. Caroline admits to owing her not only for the multiplication tables and long division but for opening a new world of adventure and mystery that was just as valuable. As an “innocent young lad,” Charles met Sherlock Holmes through Dr. Watson as read to him before bedtime by his mother. He went off to sleep dreaming of redheaded speckled-banded stick figures from Bohemia.

Although the events recorded in this story are not dated, it clearly takes place after 1905, when King Edward was on the throne and Sir Arthur had accepted a knighthood. From 1903 to 1927, tales of Holmes continued to appear sporadically in The Strand Magazine, under the steady editorial hand of Herbert Greenhough Smith.

THE IMITATOR

Jan Burke

A summer storm caused us to cancel our plans to ride to the river and spend a lazy day fishing. By one o’clock, we had tired of billiards, cards, and chess. We had adjourned to the upstairs library, where I got no further in a letter to my sister than “Dear Sarah, …”

For his part, Slye stood at one of the long windows, staring out toward the woods beyond the back lawn. The rain had let up, but the day was still misty, so I doubted he could see much.

Not much that was actually there, in any case.

I had been more anxious about him a few hours earlier. The first thunderclap had me watching him with concern. He noted my scrutiny with a wry smile, and turned his back to me. I kept watching. Although I saw a certain rigidity in his spine and shoulders, he did not seem unsettled to the degree I might once have expected, and I began to cherish hope that he might, after all, be able to return to the city at some point in time. Seven months had passed from the time of the incident that had encouraged his family to urge him to retire to the country. He had asked me to come with him, an invitation I had happily accepted.

Some men returned from the Great War whole of body and mind. Slye and I, while thankful (on our good days) to have survived, were not undamaged. My scars were plainly visible, but his had not made themselves known—to others, at least—until nearly a year after we had returned. Slye would, I thought, soon fit back into society. The methods espoused by Dr. Rivers of England for the treatment of what some call “shell shock” were doing him a great deal of good.

I had just decided not to interrupt Slye’s brooding silence when his excellent butler, Digby, quietly entered the room.

“Excuse me, sir. The younger Mr. Hanslow—Mr. Aloysius Hanslow—”

Digby got no further—Wishy Hanslow dodged past him, disheveled and a little damp.

Hanslow wore his usual outfit—clothing of another decade, another continent, another man. Slye had once explained to me that long before Hanslow became a devoted reader of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books, Wishy had found an 1891 copy of the Strand among the stacks of periodicals his father hoarded—which perhaps had planted the seed that later blossomed into his present mania for all things Sherlockian. Hanslow had been particularly taken with one of Sidney Paget’s drawings from “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,” and two years ago his tailor and hatter had been charged with re-creating Sherlock Holmes’s long coat and deerstalker. Judging by the condition of these articles of clothing, Hanslow seemed not to have seen the drawings in which Holmes carried an umbrella.

“No need to announce me, Digby!” Hanslow said now. “No need! All family here!”

“Indeed?” Digby said in an arctic tone.

“Of course! I think of Bunny as a brother!”

“Now, Wishy,” Slye said, as Digby frowned, “stop trying to irritate Digby. You and I are friends, and as such, far more likely to get along than I do with my brothers.” He turned to Digby. “Thank you, Digby.”

“Sir, he would not let me take his hat and coat,” Digby said, looking anxiously at the carpet.

“No, I don’t suppose he would,” Slye said. “But we’ll be leaving soon, I’m sure, so no need to worry.”

“Don’t know why you keep him around,” Wishy said as soon as the butler left. “If I had to look at that mug of his seven days a week, I’d be a nerve case, too. Sure that’s not your problem?”

I couldn’t help but stiffen. Slye observed this, smiled at me, then said, “Do you suppose Wishy is on to something, Max?”

Hanslow turned, only just then noticing my presence. He winced and moved his gaze to a point somewhere over my left shoulder. “Oh, didn’t realize you were in the room, Dr. Tyndale.” He didn’t sound pleased. The feeling was mutual.

“No, Wishy isn’t on to anything,” I said, answering Slye. “What would you do without Digby?”

“True,” Slye said. “He is indispensable to what passes for my happiness. Now, Wishy, what brings you out on this dreary day?”