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Hello again! I see you’ve returned to observe the unraveling of yet another puzzle.
I regret I have nothing to present to you.
Life has been rather— slow, lately. Moreso than usual, I dare say. The Gables— the local school, if you recall— has resumed its schedule, so I lack even Sanjay’s attempts at staged crime scenes or Tilda’s quest for tadpoles to distract me.
If it sounds as if I am complaining, I am not. I enjoy the peaceful atmosphere, my study of the natural world, my bees, and of course, the sharing of it all with my Watson… though I do, on occasion, wish I could provide him with a good-old-fashioned mystery to solve. As it is, our most eventful occurrence this week was a broken E-string (I had a replacement in my top drawer… NOT in my bottom drawer, mind you! It was the violin’s highest string, not its lowest!) and a lone mystery: to determine who had deposited a piece of refuse upon our pristine shoreline. The culprit had been Stackhurst. The item in question was a page of the Times. The uncharacteristically stormy weather had tossed it hither and thither, and by the observation of his footprints (ample, despite the rocky terrain) it was clear he had lost his grip upon it with the rising winds and made several attempts to catch it before it ascended the cliffs and perched itself far out of reach.
I climbed the sheer expanse, memories of the Reichenbach Falls still lingering in my mind, and retrieved it. Some things, some feelings may be more accurate here, remain within my brain attic—the futile search for steady handgrips, the slide of uncertain footing. It is well that I do not forget this, as it has taken its toll upon Watson. For me to remain unscathed would be a deep injustice.
I returned to our humble cottage to take a moment to dispose of both the retrieved sheet of newsprint and my unpleasant memories.
You will be pleased to hear it had never occurred to me to do so via a chemical solution; I only mention this because I recall how you had subjected my old Morocco case to such scrutiny. It is still merely a receptacle for my spectacles. Goodness! That rhymes! No, I simply cheered myself by playing the violin for our resident mice. That lightened my spirit, and I went to see if Watson had awoken. Typically, we would stroll along the beach together before breakfast, but Watson had fallen victim to Stackhurst’s frequent habit of coming round in the evenings to chat, and he needed far more rest than I. As he was not up and about, I chose to procure some fresh honey for our toast, and headed to the hives.
“Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!!!” A small child of roughly ten years was charging up the hill toward the cottage. “Something terrible has happened! Mr Holmes!”
“What is it, Sanjay?”
“A murder!”
Despite his past hijinks, I could tell this was no childish prank. “Allow me to inform Watson, Sanjay, and we will be on our way. But first, take a deep breath and tell me all you know of the matter.”
Sanjay looked panic-stricken. “We had a break, on account of it being so very hot outside, and some of us went down the cliff path for a swim, and Mr Stackhurst was coming up, and he hollered for me to go and get you. He said there was a body on the beach! I asked who it was and he didn’t tell me. ‘Just go get Mr Holmes,’ he said. So I ran all the way here.”
There were no further details regarding the body.
As I had been outside operating my honey extractor, I was quite certain I had not seen Watson walk past, and I was thoroughly grateful for Stackhurst’s having conversed with us well into the wee hours of the morning. Martha was away visiting her sister. My dark thoughts regarding the identity of this mystery corpse turned, unfortunately, toward Tilda, who was strangely not accompanying Sanjay in the rush to my home. I was greatly relieved when I saw her bright auburn curls, so much like her aunt Miss Violet Hunter’s, appear over the crest of the hill.
“Mr Holmes!!! Mr Holmes!!! It’s Mr McPherson!!! He found him on the beach! I made Mr Stackhurst tell me, because I thought it might help you solve it faster if you knew who it was as soon as possible. He said he would be waiting for you, and he would stay with, um, the body.”
So many emotions in those young children’s eyes. I knew Sanjay in particular would want to know every step of the process, but he was terrified. No one that young should be witness to such a gruesome scene. Oh, how quickly a beautiful late summer’s day can turn tragic!
“Sanjay, I shall provide a full account, I promise, but a crime scene is no place for children,” I said, as sternly as possible. Thus relieved of the need to prove himself brave beyond his years, Sanjay nodded solemnly, showing traces of relief which only I could detect. “You can be of assistance, however!” I quickly added. “Please tell me. Do students generally accompany Mr McPherson during his morning swims before school begins?”
“Mr McPherson and I, and a lot of the class too, we do like to go swimming in the morning, but none of us could, because we had a test in maths with Mr Murdoch first thing, and if you’re late on test day, he won’t hand it to you, and you fail. No one was with him this time.”
“And I looked at the ocean from the top of the cliff, and at the beach. I didn't see anyone!” said Tilda. “Just two boats way out in the distance.”
“Thank you both so very much for your invaluable assistance!” said I.
“You’re welcome, Mr Holmes,” they both replied, nearly simultaneously.
I went to Watson’s room.
Yes, we do have separate rooms. Do not fret, dear Gameplayer. I know how your mind works, so I will give you this tempting morsel of factual information: We do not always choose to use both of them. Watson, however, tends to be far more comfortable sleeping alone on these hotter nights. On the colder ones… well… we have a mystery to solve, and it is not The Mystery of Sherlock Holmes’s Love Life! While I prefer to retain a certain sense of, shall we say propriety (for Watson’s sake moreso than my own), I must speak my truth whenever and however I can. Watson and I do love each other quite deeply. Let that never be misconstrued, so long as I have the ability to clarify. Perhaps, in your time, there will be better words for such relations, which remain intimate in all the ways we choose for them to be and none which we do not.
I, therefore, went directly to Watson’s room and stood over his bed, weighing the comfort of seeing him sleeping soundly against the urgency of the case. As ever, the case won. As it should. There would, I reminded myself, be many more years of watching Watson at rest; whereas my neighbors, on the whole, would tend to remain alive.
I did not have to wake him, for Watson still retained that soldier’s sense of danger. Or at least, the sense of my figure looming over his bedside, as I have done so many times before.
He opened his eyes and blinked slowly against the morning light.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“My dear Watson, I am afraid true retirement eludes me. There has been a murder at our very door. More precisely, at the base of those pristine white cliffs. I have yet to have the details, and Stackhurst is waiting for us. My good fellow… I had thought I would no longer have occasion to say this, but… the game is afoot!”
Mere seconds after I had mentioned the reason for my disturbing his rest, he was up and putting on his shirt. I grabbed my lens and Watson his medical kit, and we headed out the door.
I arrived at the cliff path which I had once descended to clear the beach of that dreadful fraudulent mermaid (as if a mermaid could have been anything but fraudulent) that fateful day when I prepared Watson’s picnic, and I will readily admit that I was relieved this path would not have its positive association tainted. McPherson must be at the end of the steeper path, far closer to the beach. Yes, he had clearly intended to go for a swim.
“How are your knees today, Watson?”
“Sufficient to the task, I believe.”
We had just begun our descent as Stackhurst rushed forward to meet us. “He’s over here!”
He led us to a deserted stretch of beach which contained a large tide pool, the perfect spot for a swim. McPherson had clearly been doing so while he was attacked, for he had made a quick attempt at dressing himself and did his best to seek help when he had met his unfortunate end. He had only managed a few steps before collapsing, and he was barely clinging to life when Stackhurst heard his cries of pain and hurried to offer assistance.
Never one to give up hope, Watson had rushed to examine him, and quickly informed us that although McPherson was in great pain and had lost consciousness, he remained very much alive. As Watson tended to the wounds as best he could, he informed his patient in soothing tones that he would pull through, although none of us were certain he could hear our reassurance.
“‘The lion’s mane.’ Are you certain that is what he said?”
“Positive, Holmes. I know it is strange, but I am absolutely certain.”
“Well then, we shall work with this.” I closed my eyes and rubbed at my temples with my left hand, trying to recall something tied to a lion which might make sense. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“Not at all.”
“To you, Watson?” I called out, for he was still tending to McPherson.
“No, Holmes.”
“Nor to me, aside from Hericium erinaceus, a mushroom which favors ash, beech, maple and oak tree wounds. It is not at all poisonous, however.”
“It is possible he was hallucinating, from the pain. I wish I knew the cause of the wounds, to better treat them.”
“Lion’s mane?” exclaimed Tilda, who had popped up from behind an outcropping of rocks. Unbeknownst to us, she and Sanjay had followed us to the scene, but had kept their distance. I should have known their curiosity would win out. “Wait! It’s in my book!”
Tilda ran off, leaving us all rather perplexed, and Sanjay followed her. I continued to investigate, discovering the disturbing series of lashes, as if made by fine wires, upon the man’s torso. Even Watson recoiled in disgust, saying he had never seen injuries such as this before.
“Page 74,” yelled Tilda, running toward us with Sanjay carrying the heavy tome. “The section on jellyfish!”
Sanjay found the page and turned it out to face me. “Behold!” he said, “The Lion’s Mane!”
~~~~~
“Will you be writing a story about this, Dr Watson?” asked Tilda.
Sanjay looked ready to burst. “A real Sherlock Holmes mystery! And I was there!”
“I’m afraid it is not much of a mystery,” Watson said. “You have solved it far too quickly!”
“Can I use the story, then?” asked Sanjay. “I love writing mysteries!” Then his enthusiasm suddenly dimmed. “But they wouldn’t ever publish it, would they? So it wouldn’t be a real Sherlock Holmes story.”
“Mystery writers do not need to be published to have it be a real story, Sanjay! And if it has Sherlock Holmes in it, then you have written a real Sherlock Holmes story.”
“No one will believe it was solved by two kids,” said Tilda.
“So, embellish it! Make it entertaining, with twists and turns and misleading bits, and maybe even some romance!” Watson winked.
I still bristle at the thought of it. There is no need for romance in a mystery! But write it, he did. Including the romance. He also added red herrings and two dead bodies as well— one of which was his hated maths professor who he took great care in showing to be quite evil by having him throw a dog through a window. I support his artistic decision to kill a maths professor, as I have had rather bad luck with them myself. I do not, however, agree with his choice to kill off the self-same dog, but did not offer up my criticism. Sanjay claimed that as it was not a real dog we shouldn’t be sad about it. Still, I couldn’t help but think of Toby meeting that fate, and from that point on I always made a great effort to check the surrounding area thoroughly before letting him swim in tidepools.
And Watson— always so very good with children— offered to have it edited and printed up properly by his publisher. Just like a “real” Sherlock Holmes story.
As to how it came to appear within the pages of the American publication, Liberty magazine…
Whether there was a miscommunication and they believed it was Watson’s work and he had simply been experimenting with changing narrative voice (I am told writers do get bored), or they were so keen for more stories (Watson being past his deadline) that Doyle decided it was expedient to deem Watson the author and close out the proofs of The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes— we may never know. It, of course, appeared in The Strand shortly thereafter, and it would have been unwise to cast any doubt upon Watson’s authorship by that point in time. Not to mention fiscally foolish.
Leave it to say with the boost in confidence Sanjay received (and with a share of the profits) I do believe he will write many stories in the future with his own name upon them. I can only hope that at least one of them will serve as a treatise upon the work, for surely the boy has it in him to make a fine detective someday.