Two chairs were being pulled nearer the fire-place from where first Siviter, then I, then Holmes would speak. Siviter and Van Beers (with whom we had exchanged the briefest of introductions) were talking on the other side of the fire-place in low, confidential tones. Van Beers sat sideways on a chauffeuse, the padded back and seat covered in black material with floral and chinoiserie decoration. In this remote room, on their territory, deep in England’s countryside, an air of hauteur had descended. I felt we were discounted, two competition wallahs or subalterns who took soup for luncheon.
I looked discreetly at Van Beers. There was a crispness in his clothes despite over-nighting in the tent in the gardens. His dark blue jacket was made of barathea with silk linings, the handkerchief poked from a sleeve rather than pocket, a characteristic I had only noted among the Imperial Yeomanry. Together with a slight cavalry stoop, he had a cold, bright eye for unhurriedly sizing up an enemy. This same cold, bright eye travelled over my face as though studying a reconnaissance map. There was little extraordinary or peculiar about him, save a pair of fine light cavalry whiskers and a slight stiffness in one leg, caused, he volunteered on first conversation, by a riding-strain; yet what a book it was this man’s power to make, whenever so disposed.
It was agreed Siviter would open the proceedings and I was then to introduce Holmes. A maid removed the flurry of Aberdeen terriers with affection and some difficulty. After a glance at his watch and a few further now almost conspiratorial words with Van Beers, Siviter turned about and gave a brief clap. Hands clasped in front of him, he offered a slight and near-formal bow and began his address.
‘Gentlemen, we are pleased and honoured to have you with us.’ He pointed at the china on the beaufet. ‘On the two sides of that pot, in crockery-literature, is written the Chinese precept ‘Ask no questions of a guest’ but perhaps we can make an exception to-day. Our principal speaker’s fame travels years and Continents before him and needs no reinforcement, but such introduction as he may care to allow will be performed by Dr. Watson.’
He nodded towards Van Beers. ‘I need not spend time in further introduction. Our other guest is well-known. We expect two more. They send their apologies for being delayed.’
Siviter turned and addressed me directly.
‘Dr. Watson, we know your chronicles are like exquisite and fragile vases, perfectly graceful and conscientious works of art.’
At these few but courtly words he sat down.
I rose to confront my demons. ‘Gentlemen, it is my privilege to present to you both myself and my comrade-in-arms. My raison d’etre is to record the singular gifts by which Sherlock Holmes is distinguished. I document for posterity the quick, subtle methods by which Holmes disentangles the most inextricable mysteries. He often says that while he remembers the action he forgets the actors. My humble role is to restore them to life by my chronicles. Dare I claim that without my notes the detail of events would slip away.’
Siviter murmured a polite ‘Hear Hear’.
I glanced at the notes in my shaking hand and continued: ‘My life and manifestos have become a useful row of pegs on which to hang the remarkable insights in detection Sherlock Holmes achieves. If I might add to our host’s kind accolade, the personality of Holmes has gained such universal hold upon hearts and minds, and retained that hold so tenaciously over more than twenty years, that his life, his habits and his characteristics have become an object of greater interest even above the adventures he and I have shared. There is a scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and Sherlock Holmes’ duty is to unravel and isolate it. No other profession has as supporters a more devoted clientèle, nor as antagonists more irreconcilable opponents. Before I met Holmes, I had no idea such individuals existed outside stories. The unofficial Consulting Detective is a quite separate category from an Inspector of the Yard. It is not the ordinary case which comes to our attention. Whatever is conceived and executed by the duller criminal feeds the mere groundlings of detection. They fall greedily on crocodile left-overs, not the fare of eagles. Holmes is called in by the Yard or Sûreté when all else has failed. The Law Society includes his cases in their curriculum of legal studies. He is the last Court of Appeal in doubtful cases, the elemental force in the Ultima Thule of crime. Many were the times we grappled with the emperor of crime, ex-Professor Moriarty of evil memory, a man of powerful intellect polluted by a wayward temperament, so endlessly bent on upsetting the tranquillity of the public mind. He was defeated in the end only by Holmes’ knowledge of baritsu.’
I darted a quick look at Holmes for signs of approval. He was studying the floor.
‘Holmes’ entry into obstinate cases is sought by Scotland Yard precisely as desperate farmers in the parched Sonora Desert call upon Pueblo Indians to dance for rain. He confronts problems nigh insoluble, of such intricacy as earlier detectives, however assiduous, never dreamt of, but when he started on his life’s work there was no work in print on such a system of deduction. Even Sir Isaac Newton declared ‘If I have seen a little further it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants,’ including Descartes and Copernicus, or as Nietsche wrote, ‘each giant calling to his brother through the desolate intervals of time’. A Swedish church, thinking he possesses second sight, implored him to discover Swedenborg’s missing skull. Such is his fame that in his absence in Tibet and the Sudan, a hundred bogus Sherlock Holmes of varying degrees of build, height, personation and ingenuity sprang into action. None having met him in the flesh, all tried to fit to their own shoulders the keen face and prescient smile of the Sherlock Holmes they pictured from my chronicles. Three tried to bribe me to vouch for their authenticity. One aspiring Holmes from Stepney Green came to my door sporting a monocle. Another wore on his chest a facsimile of Holmes’ award from the Nayeb-Saltaneh of Persia, the green ribbon of the Order of the Lion and the Sun. Each shrank away and made their exit when I said they must prove themselves a Holmes by taking on the nobblers, palmers, smashers, abbesses, rapacious ivory-traders, and dragsmen in the welter of filth which is Stepney and Whitechapel. Christian missionaries prefer to proselytise in Darkest Africa or innermost Tibet than these Stygian wastes closer to home.’
Onward I sped.
‘As you know, he works from 221b Baker Street, which I may immodestly call - by dint of Holmes’ fame - one of the three best known addresses in London, after His Majesty’s and the Duke of Wellington’s.’
I may have hoped for a second encouraging ‘hear hear’ but my audience sat discomfittingly quiet.
‘Holmes is a Renaissance Man, a commander of many an ‘-ology’. As author of the monograph Upon Tattoo Marks, his identification is unique outside the Tahitian islands - Berbers of Tamazgha, Māori of New Zealand, Hausa people of Northern Nigeria, the Atayal of Taiwan. He knows the methods of the Black Dragons in Brazil, Peru and America, the practice of Sapo Chino in Bolivia. He can imitate the call or song of almost every bird. He is expert on atonal theory. To my and guests’ delight, he replicated in our Baker Street home a whole evening of Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin at the Wigmore Hall, the musical equivalent of Picasso - formidable sounds, sharp hisses, explosions, claps of thunder. How well I know the Barcarolle from Offenbach’s Contes d’Hoffmann which Holmes strums so admirably on a solo violin. Some call it a dreary tune but it is one which, over time, I assure you I have grown to enjoy. Certainly it is popular on the dancing-floor. And how often he regales me with his disquisitions on Antonio Stradivari or the Arabian Kite...’