Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(5)
Mr. Headley, meanwhile, went about the business of the Caxton which, for the most part, consisted of making pots of tea, dusting, reading, and ensuring that any of the characters who wandered off—as some of them were inclined to do—returned before nightfall. Mr. Headley had once been forced to explain to an unimpressed policeman why an elderly gent in homemade armor seemed intent upon damaging a small ornamental windmill that stood at the heart of Glossom Green, and had no intention of having to go through all that again. It was difficult enough trying to understand how Don Quixote had ended up in the Caxton to begin with, given that his parent book had been written in Spanish. Mr. Headley suspected that it was something to do with the proximity of the first English translations of Cervantes’s work in 1612 and 1620 to their original publication in Spanish in 1605 and 1615. Then again, the Caxton might simply have got confused. It did that, sometimes.
So it came as some surprise to him when, one Wednesday morning, a small, flat parcel arrived at the Caxton, inexpertly wrapped in brown paper, and with its string poorly knotted. He opened it to find a copy of that month’s Strand containing “The Final Problem.”
“Now that can’t be right,” said Mr. Headley, aloud. He had already received his subscription copy, and had no use for a second. But the nature of the parcel, with its brown paper and string, gave him pause for thought. He examined the materials and concluded that, yes, they were the same as those used to deliver first editions to the Caxton for as long as anyone could remember. Never before, though, had they protected a journal or magazine.
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Headley.
He began to feel distinctly uneasy. He took a lamp and moved through the library, descending—or ascending; he was never sure which, for the Caxton’s architectural nature was as individual and peculiar as everything else about it—into its depths (or heights) where the new rooms typically started to form upon the arrival of a first edition. No signs of activity were apparent. Mr. Headley was relieved. It was all clearly some mistake on the part of the Strand, and the paper and string involved in the magazine’s delivery only coincidentally resembled those with which he was most familiar. He returned to his office, poured himself a mug of tea, and twisted up the newly arrived copy of the Strand for use in the fireplace. He then read a little of Samuel Richardson’s epistolary epic Clarissa, which he always found conducive to drowsiness, and settled down in his chair for a nap.
He slept for longer than intended, for when he woke it was already growing dark outside. He set kindling for the fire, but noticed that the twisted copy of the Strand was no longer in the storage basket and was instead lying on his desk, entirely intact and without crease.
“Ah,” said Mr. Headley. “Well.”
But he got no further in his ruminations, for the small brass bell above the office door trilled once. The Caxton Private Lending Library didn’t have a doorbell, and it had taken Mr. Headley a little time to get used to the fact that a door without a doorbell could still ring. The sound of the bell could mean only one thing: the library was about to welcome a new arrival.
Mr. Headley opened the door. Standing on the step was a tall, lean man, with a high brow and a long nose, dressed in a deerstalker hat and a caped coat. Behind him was an athletic-looking gent with a mustache, who seemed more confused than his companion. A slightly oversized bowler hat rested on his head.
“‘Holmes gave me a sketch of events,’” said Mr. Headley.
“I beg your pardon?” said the man in the bowler, now looking even more confused.
“Paget,” said Mr. Headley. “‘The Adventure of Silver Blaze,’ 1892.” For the two men could have stepped straight from that particular illustration.
“Still not following.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” said Mr. Headley.
“Yet here we are,” said the thinner of the two.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” said Mr. Headley.
“If so, it won’t be resolved by forcing us to stand out in the cold,” came the reply.
Mr. Headley’s shoulders slumped.
“Yes, you’re right. You’d better come in, then. Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson: welcome to the Caxton Private Lending Library and Book Depository.”
Mr. Headley lit the fire, and while doing so tried to give Holmes and Watson a brief introduction to the library. Initially there was often a certain amount of shock among new arrivals, who sometimes struggled to grasp the reality both of their own physicality and their fictional existence, as one should, in theory, have contradicted the other, but didn’t. Holmes and Watson seemed to have little trouble with the whole business, though. As we have already seen, Holmes had been made aware of the possibility of his own fictional nature thanks to the efforts of ex-Professor Moriarty, and had done his best to share something of this understanding with Watson before his untimely demise at the hands of his creator.
“By the way, is my archnemesis here?” asked Holmes.
“I’m not expecting him,” said Mr. Headley. “You know, he never seemed entirely real.”
“No, he didn’t, did he?” agreed Holmes.
“To be honest,” Mr. Headley went on, “and as you may have gathered, I wasn’t expecting you two gentlemen either. Characters usually only arrive when their authors die. I suspect it’s because they then become fixed objects, as it were. You two are the first to come here while their author is still alive and well. It’s most unusual.”