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    The Papers of Sherlock Holmes Volume I
    The Papers of Sherlock Holmes Volume I
    The Papers of Sherlock Holmes Volume I
    Ebook246 pages4 hours

    The Papers of Sherlock Holmes Volume I

    By David Marcum

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    Spanning events over thirty years, Volume I of The Papers of Sherlock Holmes relates narratives of Holmes and Watson's days in Baker Street, as well as particulars of Holmes's supposed retirement. Follow along as The Master and his Boswell travel from the streets of London to the Kent countryside, to Oxford and Sussex. Written in traditional canonical style, these stories provide fresh details of Holmes's world. Join us as we climb the seventeen steps to the Baker Street sitting room, where Holmes and Watson prepare to begin their next adventure. The game is afoot!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMX Publishing
    Release dateJul 26, 2013
    ISBN9781780924281
    The Papers of Sherlock Holmes Volume I
    Author

    David Marcum

    David Marcum and Steven Smith travel the world teaching people to utilize the corporate asset of ego and limit its liabilities. With decades of experience and degrees in management and psychology, they¹ve worked with organizations including Microsoft, Accenture, the U.S. Air Force, General Electric, Disney, and State Farm. Their work has been published in eighteen languages in more than forty countries.

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      The Papers of Sherlock Holmes Volume I - David Marcum

      www.staunch.com

      How This Book Came To Be . . . .

      There are two versions of how this book came to be written. The first version is that I, after having spent my thirties going back to school part-time in order to get a second college degree in Civil Engineering, became employed in said field in my early forties, only to be laid off during the recession of 2008. Having a lot of time on my hands, and a list of chores (sweetly labeled Suggestions by my wife) hanging over me, I thought What did Conan Doyle do when he was sitting around waiting for work? Why, he wrote some Sherlock Holmes! So, after a lifetime of collecting, reading, and studying literally thousands of narratives regarding my heroes, Holmes and Watson, in every conceivable form - novels, short stories, radio and television episodes, movies, comic books, scripts, and fan fiction, as edited by other people - I was able to fulfill a lifelong dream of adding my own efforts to the Great Watsonian Over-Soul. I sat down at the computer and let the stories flow. That’s one version of what happened.

      The other version is . . . I found one of Watson’s notebooks.

      It happened this way: During the time I was laid off, I went with my father to help clean out my aunt’s house. She suffers from Alzheimer’s and had been moved to a nursing home several years earlier. The place was a mess, and it had been an ongoing but irregular process to clean it.

      On our final trip up there, we loaded the last of what we wanted to save from the nearly empty house. My aunt had always been interested in genealogy and our family tree, and she had accumulated a vast amount of information, none of it too organized. My sister had acquired most of it, since it interested her too, and as far as I was concerned she could have it. As we finished cleaning the house, I saw one old pile of papers, photographs, and notebooks that had been missed during all the other trips. Grabbing them and throwing them into a box, we loaded up and departed. Several weeks later, while sorting through the piles, I happened to go through those papers in order to see if they should be passed on to my sister. One of the items was an old, somewhat stained, school composition book, filled with faded and rather cramped writing. My aunt had been a schoolteacher, and I assumed that this was simply some long-ago assignment from one of her students. I flipped through it quickly, just to make sure it was useless before tossing it.

      It was my subconscious that saved the book from the garbage. Years of searching for Sherlock Holmes stories has trained me to observe what others only see. I can scan numerous titles for words beginning with S and H, and often they seem to jump out at me, occasionally turning out to be something containing the words Sherlock Holmes. In this case, I saw on the rapidly flipping pages a few words that would probably not normally be included in an old student essay: The Adventure of . . . .

      As any Holmes student can tell you, that electrifying combination of words often leads to a Holmes story. But why were they in an old handwritten notebook? Had someone felt the need to copy one of the original stories as an assignment for one of my aunt’s classes? That seemed unlikely, and really a waste of time.

      I started reading. And then I went cold. I’ve played The Game for a long time, but I was finally holding the real deal in my hands: These were original Sherlock Holmes cases, handwritten by Watson.

      Of course, the next question was how did this notebook end up in my Aunt Wilma’s papers? Only after reading more of the volume was the question answered, and that answer electrified me even further.

      My great-grandmother on my father’s side was named Rebecca Watson Marcum, daughter of James Watson. I was amused in my twenties when I finally connected that I had Watson blood in me. Later, in my thirties, I was even more amused when I first heard an episode of the Sherlock Holmes radio show, The Case of the Very Best Butter (from The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Radio Show, April 18, 1948) in which Holmes tells Watson that he is distantly related to the Rathbone family. For you see, my mother’s maiden name is Rathbone. At the time I first heard The Very Best Butter, I just assumed that Holmes’s statement about his connection to the Rathbone family was a tip-of-the-hat to Basil Rathbone, who had played Holmes for so long on both radio and in the movies. Little did I know . . . .

      Further examination of the notebook from my aunt’s house revealed that it contained nine of Holmes’s investigations, each from different periods of his career. Six are more traditional narratives, and have been included in this volume. Volume II will contain the remaining three adventures. One of these was quite a bit longer than the others, and seemed to answer several questions about Holmes’s family.

      The two remaining stories involved a trip by Holmes and Watson to East Tennessee, where my family has lived for generations. It was on this trip that Holmes and Watson met my great-grandmother, Rebecca Watson Marcum, as well as her son (and my grandfather) Willie Marcum, and Willie’s small daughter (and my aunt) Wilma, thus setting into motion the circumstances leading to Watson’s notebook being found in my aunt’s possessions. Also during that time, Holmes and Watson met my maternal grandfather, Ray Rathbone, and became involved in a singular adventure that probably would have gone undetected except for Holmes and Watson’s presence. (More about that in Volume II.)

      As I mentioned, Watson’s old composition book was stained in places. I have had to make occasional guesses at a few of Watson’s intentions and abbreviations, and I have Americanized the British spellings. Anything that appears to diverge from Watson’s original narrative is my fault.

      I wish to dedicate this volume with love to both my wife Rebecca, who has always been more than patient regarding my fascination with the world of Holmes and Watson, a persistent form of my second - or never-ending first - childhood, and my son Dan, who is the neatest guy that I know, and who always knows a good story. Thank you both for everything!

      DAVID MARCUM

      May 4th, 2013

      (The 122nd Anniversary of the Reichenbach Incident)

      The Adventure of the Least Winning Woman

      Our roles appear to have reversed themselves, old friend, said Sherlock Holmes from his chair at the breakfast table. I continued to look out our window at the tide of human activity surging up Baker Street, one floor below me.

      How do you mean? I asked, looking to the left toward the Park.

      I heard Holmes push back his plate. I knew without looking that he had probably moved his breakfast around without consuming a significant amount. When we first met, he began, his voice slightly altered and muffled by the pipe hanging from his mouth. I heard a match scrape as he attempted to light it. Removing the pipe, he repeated, When we first met, I believe you remarked on occasion that I was often impatient while waiting for new clients to bring some sort of distraction.

      It was not just when we first met, I smiled, turning away from the window. It was that way for years. In fact, it was only after your return to London in ’94 that you seemed to have found the ability to enjoy the random quiet moment. Not, I added, that there have been many of those over the years.

      He nodded, the smoke from the fulminating pipe wreathing his smiling face. Yes, we have been rather busy, have we not? This quiet morning is somewhat unusual. Thus, my comment that our roles had been reversed.

      In what way? I asked, moving toward my chair by the fire. Laid by Mrs. Hudson shortly before breakfast, it was only now beginning to warm the room.

      I am sitting here, able to appreciate this rare moment of inactivity, Holmes said. This is exactly the type of morning which would have caused me a certain amount of agitation in my younger days. You, however, are showing significant signs of impatience and dissatisfaction.

      You have deduced this, of course, from the way that I gazed from the window? I asked.

      He stood. As you know, my conclusions are based on numerous details. But it is my belief that you, Watson, were standing at the window hoping to see a frantic client making his way toward our door.

      I had known Holmes too long to respond with surprise at his statement. However, I smiled and nodded to acknowledge that he was correct. I had been hoping for someone to arrive with a problem. So our roles are reversed, I said. You are able to repose, while it is I that seeks the stimulant of a new investigation.

      Holmes didn’t respond. He picked up the paper and curled into his chair across from mine by the fire. The morning sunlight was behind him, coming in the window over his chemical table. I saw him frown before I glanced away. Looking at the war news?

      Hmm? he said, glancing up and then returning to the newspaper. He continued to frown, and as my own thoughts turned toward what I had read earlier, I fell into a brown study.

      It was late November 1899, the Boer War a little over a month old, and the news from Africa was not good. The Boers had unexpectedly proven to be more effective than the British had first believed. It had been nearly twenty years since I had been wounded in Afghanistan, but I still recalled how I had felt when we, the supposedly superior force, had been routed at Maiwand on the twenty-seventh of July, 1880.

      After a few moments, I sighed and stood. Holmes looked up. Are you going out? he asked. I realized that I did not have a plan.

      I suppose I will take a walk. The weather, in spite of the cold, is too beautiful to waste by spending the morning sitting huddled around the fire.

      That is unfortunate, said Holmes, pulling a letter from the pocket of his dressing gown. If you go now, you will miss Mr. Johnson, who proposes to call in - He glanced at the wall clock. - twelve minutes.

      I stood looking at him for a moment as a small grin formed on his face and his eyes took on a merry glint. Then I snorted. Role reversal! I cried. It is no wonder you were so calm, I said, moving back toward my chair. When did you receive that letter?

      By yesterday’s last post, he replied. And a good thing, too. Otherwise, I might have been nearly as unsettled as you have been this morning. It really is quite unnerving, Watson. Then, he laughed. And I joined him.

      What is Mr. Johnson’s complaint? I asked as Holmes dropped the newspaper beside his chair.

      He does not say. He simply requests an appointment. However, as you can see, he said, tossing the note to me, he is in his mid-thirties, is married, and has one child. He is educated, frugal, works as a professional man, and feels that his family may be in danger as a result of whatever is troubling him. Holmes knew very well that I could not see everything that he had deduced from the letter, but we had known each other for far too long for me to ask him the basis of his conclusions. I knew that when we met Mr. Johnson and heard his story, Holmes’s deductions would be verified.

      I had just worked out that Mr. Johnson was educated, based on the wording of the note, and also that he was frugal. The paper, which was of good quality, was foxed with age, indicating that it had been saved until needed. I was examining the paper for other clues when I heard Mrs. Hudson’s tread on the stairs, along with those of another.

      The door opened to reveal our good landlady, followed by a short-bearded man in his mid-thirties, as Holmes had predicted. He was dressed in a dark suit and wore eyeglasses with wire frames. I quickly glanced at his nice but not overly expensive clothing and wedding ring. Beyond that, at this point, I could not confirm more of Holmes’s statements.

      Mr. Holmes? he said, correctly moving toward my friend with outstretched hand. I am D. Allen Johnson. Very pleased to meet you. He and Holmes shook hands, and then he pivoted toward me. And Dr. Watson. A pleasure to meet you as well.

      Holmes directed Johnson to the basket chair, between us and directly in front of the fire. Johnson sat on the front edge of the chair, hunched forward as if to absorb some of the heat. Holmes usually put clients in that chair, unless they were incapacitated for some reason. He found that he could study their faces in the sunlight shining from the window behind him, while his face remained in shadow. Occasionally he had been foiled, as when the woman from Margate apparently realized his intent and moved so as to avoid that chair. However, that in itself was significant to Holmes, and he realized from her actions that she had no powder on her nose, leading to the correct solution to the case.

      How can we help you, Mr. Johnson? Holmes asked. Your note, while somewhat informative, was rather vague on particulars.

      Johnson reached and touched his beard as he shifted in his chair. Then, as if realizing what he was doing, he consciously placed his hand on the armrest of the chair, and began to speak. Mr. Holmes, he said, I seem to have stumbled into something which has caused me to fear for my family’s safety.

      Your family . . . . Holmes prompted.

      My wife and young son, Johnson answered. Holmes glanced at me. I knew that the rest of Johnson’s story would confirm Holmes’s deductions. Holmes laid his pipe, which had gone out, on the table beside his chair, closed his eyes and tented his fingers. Johnson did not seem surprised. With a nod, Holmes indicated that Johnson should continue his narrative.

      "I have been working as an apprentice with a large engineering firm here in London for the last few months. I realize that I am rather old to be holding such a position, but I was forced to learn a new trade several years ago after my position with Her Majesty’s government was eliminated. At that time, I found employment for several years with Lloyd’s, but I found the work unsatisfying. I determined through much pondering that I wished to become an engineer, but first I needed to find someone willing to take me on as an apprentice.

      "Lloyd’s knew of my unhappiness and eventual intention to leave them. Gradually they began to decrease my responsibilities, as I’m sure they felt that it was not worth their time to continue to groom and train me for advancement when I intended to depart. Finally, dissatisfied with my few remaining duties, and convinced that they would be releasing me soon, I resolved to leave on my own terms while I still had a good reference.

      "I was not certain when I would obtain an apprenticeship, but I knew that I must support my wife and son. As a way to make ends meet, I took a job as a manager at a messenger service. My background and education were both great assets to the company, and I quickly became an important part of the organization.

      "The firm, located near the City, is owned by a Mrs. Trapp. She is a tall, stern woman, with a not-so-hidden pride in herself and her business. I gather that her husband started the firm and then proceeded to die almost immediately. Facing unexpected debts and loss of income, she had no choice but to continue the messenger business, with resulting singular success.

      "When I began working there, about a year ago, the business was then nearly fifteen years old. Mrs. Trapp had worked quite hard over the years, and the company had established an excellent reputation. At least, until recently. At the time I started there was only one other similar business in the area which provided any competition.

      As I mentioned, the business was rather prosperous, providing a good income for both Mrs. Trapp and her daughter, Jane, who started working there soon after I did. In fact, the income was so great that Mrs. Trapp began to travel, leaving the office in the care of Jane. However, Jane often left the day-to-day running of the place to me. Initially, Mrs. Trapp journeyed to various locations in England, but that soon palled, and she began to cross the Channel to France. She later started traveling to various casinos up and down the coast. It was at this point that the real problems began.

      "I do not want to give the impression that Mrs. Trapp was developing an unhealthy interest in gambling, although she did wager somewhat at some of the tables. I believe that she often simply traveled to these communities in order to see and be seen. She enjoyed the feeling of affluence that she was able to find in her travels. And I also do not want to make it seem that the messenger business was some sort of gold mine. It was not. However, it was a necessary service to many people, and it provided a comfortable income for Mrs. Trapp and her daughter.

      "About six months ago, Mrs. Trapp returned from one of her visits, this time to France, I believe. She seemed more cross than usual, but I simply put that down to a less than satisfactory trip. Soon after, she announced that she had hired a new employee. I was not aware that we needed anyone, but we were always willing to take on someone who seemed to have the required skills and work attitude, as our business had a frequent turn-over of employees, and it never hurt to have a good employee trained and ready to work.

      "I was greatly surprised when the new employee presented herself a day or two later. I had been expecting a lad or young man to work as a messenger. Instead, the new employee proved to be a woman of about my age, perhaps a little older. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I always strive to comport myself as a gentleman, and I dislike speaking ill of a lady, but you must understand my shock when I saw that our new employee was a woman of decidedly low character.

      Her name was given simply as ‘Margeaux’. She was - to put it rather bluntly - a squat, toad-like creature with tangled black hair and the not-so-subtle hint of a moustache on her lip. She looked and behaved something like gypsies in stories that I have read. She dressed in a shapeless shift, and spoke with some sort of accent, although I’m not exactly sure of what origin.

      Holmes opened his eyes and shifted in his chair. Margeaux, spelled in the French fashion, with an e-a-u-x at the end? Johnson looked surprised, and then acknowledged the fact. Holmes shut his eyes and waved for our visitor to continue with his narrative.

      "My surprise increased when I was told that Margeaux would be working in the office, in a managerial position being created especially for her by Mrs. Trapp. However, it was not my business, and Mrs. Trapp was entitled to run it however she felt. Her daughter, Jane, appeared to be as confused as I, but she offered no initial objections.

      "Within a week of her arrival, Margeaux announced that she had hired a half-dozen new messengers. These were lads of obvious ill breeding, little better than the pickpockets and thieves one encounters near the docks. I complained to Mrs. Trapp, telling her that the amount of work we had on hand did not justify hiring new employees, especially this type. I informed her that these associates of Margeaux’s were intimidating our regular employees, and that some of them were already threatening to quit. Mrs. Trapp was adamant, however, that the new employees could stay, indicating that Margeaux had arranged for work to be found which would fill the new

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