Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(9)

“The game is afoot, Watson!” shouted a cheery voice from nearby. “The game is afoot!”

“God give me strength,” said Mr. Headley.

“Your friend,” said the ticket clerk. “Does he think he’s, you know . . . ?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Headley. “In a way.”

“Harmless, is he?”

“I believe so.”

“He won’t go bothering the other passengers, will he?”

“Not unless they’ve committed a crime,” replied Mr. Headley.

The ticket clerk looked as though he were seriously considering summoning some stout chaps in white coats to manage the situation, but Mr. Headley grabbed the tickets before he could act and hustled his charges in the direction of the carriage. They took their seats, and it was with some relief that Mr. Headley felt the train lurch and move off without anyone appearing to haul them away.



Many years later, when he had retired from the Caxton in favor of Mr. Gedeon, the new librarian, Mr. Headley would recall that journey as one of the happiest of his life, despite his nervousness at the impending encounter with Conan Doyle. As he watched Holmes and Watson from his seat by the door—Holmes on the right, leaning forward animatedly, the index finger of his right hand tapping the palm of his left when he wished to emphasize a point, Watson to the left, cigar in hand, one leg folded over the other—Mr. Headley felt as though he were part of one of Paget’s illustrations for the Strand, so that he might have stepped from his own life into the pages of one of Conan Doyle’s adventures. All readers lose themselves in great books, and what could be more wonderful for a reader than to find himself in the company of characters that he has long loved, their lives colliding with his own, and all being altered by the encounter? Mr. Headley’s heart beat in time with the rhythm of the rails, and the morning sun shone its blessings upon him.



Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stepped from the crease at Marylebone Cricket Club, his bat cradled beneath his right arm. He had enjoyed the afternoon’s out-of-season practice, and felt that he had acquitted himself well, all things considered. He was by no means good enough for England, a fact that troubled him only a little, but he could hit hard, and his slow bowls were capable of disconcerting batsmen far more capable than he.

Conan Doyle had also largely forgotten the shock caused some years earlier by the apparent somnambulistic use of his left hand to write a scrap of Holmesian manuscript. For many months after, he had approached the cricket field with a sense of trepidation, fearing that, at some inopportune moment, his left hand, as though possessed, might attempt to take control of his bat, like some horror out of a story by Hauff or Marsh. Thankfully, he had been spared any such embarrassment, but he still occasionally cast his left hand a suspicious glance when his batting went awry.

He changed, made his farewells, and prepared to return to his hotel for he had work to do. Initially he had returned with a hint of resignation and a mild sense of annoyance to writing about Sherlock Holmes, but “The Adventure of the Empty House” had turned out better than anticipated: in fact, he had already begun to regard it as one of the best of the Holmes stories, and the joy and acclaim that greeted its appearance in the Strand, combined with the honor of a knighthood the previous year, had reinvigorated Conan Doyle. Only the continued ill health of his beloved Touie still troubled him. She remained at Undershaw, their Surrey residence, to which he would travel the following day in order to spend the weekend with her and the children. He had found another specialist to consult about her condition, but secretly he held out little hope. The tuberculosis was killing her, and he could do nothing to save her.

Conan Doyle had just turned onto Wellington Place when a small, thin man approached him. He had the look of a clerk, but was well dressed, and his shoes shone in the sunlight. Conan Doyle liked to see a man taking care of his shoes.

“Sir Arthur?” inquired the man.

Conan Doyle nodded, but didn’t break his stride. He had never quite grown used to the fame brought upon him by Holmes, and had learned at an early stage of his literary career never to stop walking. Once you stopped, you were done for.

“Yes?”

“My name is Headley,” said the man. “I’m a librarian.”

“A noble profession,” said Conan Doyle heartily, quickening his pace. Good God, a librarian. If this chap had his way, they might be here all day.

“I have some, er, colleagues who are most anxious to make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Headley.

“Can’t dawdle, I’m afraid,” said Conan Doyle. “Very busy. If you drop a line to the Strand, I’m sure they’ll see what they can do.”

He made a sharp turn to the left, wrong-footing Mr. Headley, and quickly crossed the road to Cochrane Street, trying to give the impression of a man with life or death business to contract. He was almost at the corner when two figures stepped into his path, one of them wearing a deerstalker hat, the other a bowler.

“Oh Lord,” said Conan Doyle. It was worse than he thought. The librarian had brought along a pair of idiots who fancied themselves as Holmes and Watson. Such men were the bane of his life. Most, though, had the common decency not to accost him on the street.

“Ha ha,” he said, without mirth. “Very good, gentlemen, very good.”

He tried to sidestep them, but the one dressed as Holmes was too quick for him, and blocked his way.