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  Text originally published in 1940 under the same title.

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  Publisher’s Note

  Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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  221 B: STUDIES IN SHERLOCK HOLMES

  BY VARIOUS HANDS

  EDITED BY VINCENT STARRETT

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

  ILLUSTRATIONS 6

  EXPLANATION 7

  THE FIELD BAZAAR by A. CONAN DOYLE 10

  WAS SHERLOCK HOLMES AN AMERICAN? by CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 13

  NUMMI IN ARCA OR THE FISCAL HOLMES by R. K. LEAVITT 21

  ON THE EMOTIONAL GEOLOGY OF BAKER STREET by ELMER DAVIS 36

  DR. WATSON’S SECRET by JANE NIGHTWORK 43

  THE CARE AND FEEDING OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by EARLE F. WALBRIDGE 48

  THREE IDENTIFICATIONS: LAURISTON GARDENS, UPPER SWANDAM LANE, SAXE-COBURG SQUARE by H. W. BELL 52

  THE OTHER BOARDER by JAMES KEDDIE 58

  SHERLOCK HOLMES AND MUSIC by HARVEY OFFICER 60

  SUSSEX INTERVIEW by P. M. STONE 62

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNIQUE HAMLET by VINCENT STARRETT 72

  MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES AND DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON by RICHARD D. ALTICK 87

  SHERLOCK HOLMES IN PICTURES by FREDERIC DORR STEELE 100

  THE CREATOR OF HOLMES IN THE FLESH by HENRY JAMES FORMAN 107

  APPOINTMENT IN BAKER STREET by EDGAR W. SMITH 111

  A SHERLOCK HOLMES CROSS-WORD by F. V. MORLEY 177

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 181

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 182

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  “Lestrade and Holmes sprang upon him”

  The birthplace of Sherlock Holmes

  Holmes as a “plump and dapper blade”

  A two-minute sketch of Holmes by Steele

  Sidney Paget’s Holmes and Watson

  Watson as “Boobus Britannicus”

  The Baker Street house

  The Reichenbach Fall

  Bust of Holmes, by Wilkins

  A willowy Holmes, by Macauley

  William Gillette: sketch by Steele

  Arthur Wontner as Sherlock Holmes

  First appearance of Baker Street Irregulars

  A map of Baker Street

  Holmes and Colonel Moran

  EXPLANATION

  “LET US GET back to reality,” cried Balzac, impatiently, to a friend who was boring him with tidings of a sick sister. “Who is going to marry Eugénie Grandet?” And, dying, he murmured: “Bianchon would have saved me!”—referring to the great physician of Paris whom he had himself created.

  That is the way one feels about Sherlock Holmes. Let us be done with all this talk of—anything you may happen to dislike in the daily headlines. Let us talk rather of those things that are permanent and secure, of high matters about which there can be no gibbering division of opinion. Let us talk of the realities that do not change, of that higher realism which is the only true romance. Let us talk again of Sherlock Holmes. For the plain fact is, gentlemen, that the imperishable detective is still a more commanding figure in the world than most of the warriors and statesmen in whose present existence we are invited to believe.

  In time, no doubt, there will come a day when research students will seek to prove that Adolf Hitler (to take an obvious example) never lived. On that day, I think, a grateful nation will be wearing away the doorstep of a house in Baker Street, London—a house marked by a tablet certifying it to be the indubitable dwelling-place of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Already there are indications of this happy development. Did you know that for some years there has been a railway engine wearing the detective’s name? It runs in and out of the Baker Street Station, a pleasant reminder of the many railway journeys of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Already, at the Lyons Prefecture, there is a salon named for the indestructible fathomer; and at Constantinople, during 1920—according to the London Times—the Turks were certain that the great English detective was at work behind the scenes. It is asserted that, in Switzerland, no year goes by that does not bring to M. Chapuiset, editor of the Journal de Genève, requests for copies of that journal dated May 6, 1891; for it was in that issue, according to Watson in The Final Problem, that an account appeared—later, happily, proved false—of the death of Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach. Best of all, as more and more the interest of the world centers upon his exploits and every item of association becomes enchanting, the scholars who toil obscurely in the shadow of his reputation dig ever more deeply into available records, seeking new clues and inferences that may help to illustrate this remarkable personality.

  Hence, in part, the Baker Street Irregulars; and hence, perhaps, this book. Or, to put it all a little differently, a reprehensible number of us, nowadays, elect to remain—as far as possible—in the predicament of Walter de la Mare’s Jim Jay. This lad, it will be remembered, got stuck fast in yesterday. The difference between Jim Jay and those others of whom I am speaking is that we glory in it. It is comforting in these troubled times to recall the old Strand Magazine of the nineties—of the turn of the century—when, as Earle Walbridge puts it, Sherlock Holmes was adventuring, memoiring, hounding and returning. Recently we have passed through some of the most dramatic months, I suppose, of contemporary history. Stirred by a confusion of emotions, too tangled to untease, we hung above the radio waiting each fresh installment of the fantastic serial, and found it difficult to believe that this indeed was actuality. In one of the intervals of the tragic comedy there were, as I recall, two letters on my desk. In the first, Mr. Arthur Machen, writing from Old Amersham, in Bucks, asked me whether, in my opinion, the house in Baker Street was double or single, and how the lower rooms were occupied. Mrs. Hudson, he agreed, might use one as a “best parlour,” though he believed this to be unlikely. In the other, Mr. Cornélis Helling, writing from Amsterdam, sent me the first French printing of The Dancing Men, which he thought particularly notable for its half-tone illustration of Sherlock Holmes in his laboratory. With a sigh of relief and pleasure, I knew that I was back in the world of sanity again. There were still men who knew the difference between the false gods and the true, even in that bedeviled phantasmagoria of Europe. Perhaps this personal anecdote will suggest what I mean by the importance of being Jim Jay.

  The Baker Street Irregulars (as an organization outside the pages of Dr. Watson) were born in the Bowling Green department of the Saturday Review of Literature, conducted by Mr. Christopher Morley, some time (I should imagine) during the year 1933. Its first formal meeting was held in Chris Celia’s Restaurant, in New York City, on the evening of June 5, 1934, at which time, a high autumnal wind being out of season, every effort was made to create a favorite alternative atmosphere of thick yellow fog. Simultaneously, the first dinner of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London was going forward in Canuto’s Restaurant in Baker Street, and suitable greetings were exchanged between the celebrating groups. Some months later, the Hon
orable Secretary of the English organization, Mr. A. G. Macdonell, visited New York and was a guest of honor (with the late William Gillette) at the second meeting of the Irregulars, also at Celia’s, on December 7th, a happy occasion of both wind and fog. Although the original plan of the Irregulars was to foregather annually on the anniversary of Sherlock’s birth—worked out as falling on January 6—no meeting ever has been held upon that date. The dinner of December 7, 1934, indeed, is the last meeting of formal record, at this writing. To quote Mr. Morley, who holds the exalted office of Gasogene, the Baker Street Irregulars are “too wise to hold stated meetings, which would belie their name and take the fun out of their indoctrinated amateurishness.”

  The purpose of the society, obviously, is the study of the Sacred Writings. Like other learned and scientific societies, its members exchange notes of research and occasionally contribute “papers” to the general knowledge. It is extraordinary the number of problems that arise—and require elucidation—out of the confused Watsonian text. There is, for example, the problem of the brothers Moriarty, referred to in a footnote to Mr. Smith’s delightful repertory (q.v.). And there is the curious error in which Professor Lord of Oberlin caught the devoted Watson, some years ago. As this matter has not had the publicity it deserves, and the original paper is difficult to come by, I mention it again here....

  The scene is the dangerous adventure called by Watson—with his flair for titles—The Red Circle. Signora Lucca’s husband, old inhabitants will recall, is signaling her by means of successive light flashes from a darkened window—one flash for A, two flashes for B, and so on through the alphabet. The language used is Italian, we are informed, although Holmes and Watson, who are intercepting the message, do not at first suspect it. The first letter of the message is a single flash, A; the next is twenty flashes—“T,” says Sherlock Holmes. But, alas, the Italian alphabet has no letter K, Professor Lord points out, and so its twentieth letter is U. The full message as read by Holmes is “Attenta, pericolo!” Yet the omission of K must have misplaced every letter below it, and Holmes should have read, not “Attenta, pericolo!” but “Assemsa, oeqicnkn!” Or, if Signor Lucca, sending his warning, had—for the convenience of Holmes and Watson—used the English alphabet for an Italian message, his wife, who knew little English and who was expecting the message in Italian, would have read “Auueoua, qesicpmp!”

  Well, it is a sufficiently startling message, either way; and it is no slight testimony to the ability of Sherlock Holmes that he brought off the case with honors.

  And also, of course, there is the moot subject of the detective’s residence in the United States. Somewhere in America there are yet living, one fancies, men who, if they would, could tell a tale or two of Sherlock Holmes. Should this volume reach the eye of any such, let it be said that they will confer a favor on posterity by writing down their memories. It is possible that they do not realize how intimately they have been in touch with personal immortality; and so I shall give them a hint. “Altamont” was the name taken by Sherlock Holmes when he came to the United States; the year was 1912. He was in the service of his government, in those days before the Great War when every nation was overrun with secret agents. To gain the confidence of Germany’s master spy, it was necessary for Holmes to provide himself with an unsavory past. So to America he came. The record—it is very brief—is in His Last Bow.

  “It has cost me two years, Watson,” he told the doctor, on that historic second day of August, in 1914; “but they have not been devoid of excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was complex.”

  There is great need of further information concerning those two years of preparation for his war services; and such Buffalo and Chicago thugs, gangsters, hoodlums, and secret societarians as may remember an elderly tallish man named Altamont, much given to tobacco, should at once communicate with some one of the contributors to this volume. It may be added that those who come in person will be asked to leave their weapons outside the door.

  These instances perhaps will help to explain the nature of the problems for the solution of which the Baker Street Irregulars occasionally meet together. In this volume, this—if Mr. Morley may be permitted—“Handbook of 221B Culture,” a first selection of their memoirs and adventures is given permanence between a single set of covers.

  VINCENT STARRETT

  THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE FIELD BAZAAR{1} by A. CONAN DOYLE

  “I SHOULD CERTAINLY do it,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  I started at the interruption, for my companion had been eating his breakfast with his attention entirely centred upon the paper which was propped up by the coffee pot. Now I looked across at him to find his eyes fastened upon me with the half-amused, half-questioning expression which he usually assumed when he felt that he had made an intellectual point.

  “Do what?” I asked.

  He smiled as he took his slipper from the mantelpiece and drew from it enough shag tobacco to fill the old clay pipe with which he invariably rounded off his breakfast.

  “A most characteristic question of yours, Watson,” said he. “You will not, I am sure, be offended if I say that any reputation for sharpness which I may possess has been entirely gained by the admirable foil which you have made for me. Have I not heard of debutantes who have insisted upon plainness in their chaperones? There is a certain analogy.”

  Our long companionship in the Baker Street rooms had left us on those easy terms of intimacy when much may be said without offence. And yet I acknowledge that I was nettled at his remark.

  “I may be very obtuse,” said I, “but I confess that I am unable to see how you have managed to know that I was...I was...”

  “Asked to help in the Edinburgh University Bazaar.”

  “Precisely. The letter has only just come to hand, and I have not spoken to you since.”

  “In spite of that,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and putting his fingertips together, “I would even venture to suggest that the object of the bazaar is to enlarge the University cricket field.”

  I looked at him in such bewilderment that he vibrated with silent laughter.

  “The fact is, my dear Watson, that you are an excellent subject,” said he. “You are never blasé. You respond instantly to any external stimulus. Your mental processes may be slow but they are never obscure, and I found during breakfast that you were easier reading than the leader in the Times in front of me.”

  “I should be glad to know how you arrived at your conclusions,” said I.

  “I fear that my good nature in giving explanations has seriously compromised my reputation,” said Holmes. “But in this case the train of reasoning is based upon such obvious facts that no credit can be claimed for it. You entered the room with a thoughtful expression, the expression of a man who is debating some point in his mind. In your hand you held a solitary letter. Now last night you retired in the best of spirits, so it was clear that it was this letter in your hand which had caused the change in you.”

  “This is obvious.”

  “It is all obvious when it is explained to you. I naturally asked myself what the letter could contain which might have this effect upon you. As you walked you held the flap side of the envelope towards me, and I saw upon it the same shield-shaped device which I have observed upon your old college cricket cap. It was clear, then, that the request came from Edinburgh University—or from some club connected with the University. When you reached the table you laid down the letter beside your plate with the address uppermost, and you walked over to look at the framed photograph upon the left of the mantelpiece.”

  It amazed me to see the accuracy with which he had observed my movements. “What next?” I asked.

  “I began by glancin
g at the address, and I could tell, even at the distance of six feet, that it was an unofficial communication. This I gathered from the use of the word ‘Doctor’ upon the address, to which, as a Bachelor of Medicine, you have no legal claim. I knew that University officials are pedantic in their correct use of titles, and I was thus enabled to say with certainty that your letter was unofficial. When on your return to the table you turned over your letter and allowed me to perceive that the enclosure was a printed one, the idea of a bazaar first occurred to me. I had already weighed the possibility of its being a political communication, but this seemed improbable in the present stagnant conditions of politics.

  “When you returned to the table your face still retained its expression and it was evident that your examination of the photograph had not changed the current of your thoughts. In that case it must itself bear upon the subject in question. I turned my attention to the photograph, therefore, and saw at once that it consisted of yourself as a member of the Edinburgh University Eleven, with the pavilion and cricket-field in the background. My small experience of cricket clubs has taught me that next to churches and cavalry ensigns they are the most debt-laden things upon earth. When upon your return to the table I saw you take out your pencil and draw lines upon the envelope, I was convinced that you were endeavouring to realise some projected improvement which was to be brought about by a bazaar. Your face still showed some indecision, so that I was able to break in upon you with my advice that you should assist in so good an object.”

  I could not help smiling at the extreme simplicity of his explanation.

  “Of course, it was as easy as possible,” said I.

  My remark appeared to nettle him.

  “I may add,” said he, “that the particular help which you have been asked to give was that you should write in their album, and that you have already made up your mind that the present incident will be the subject of your article.”