At last, to my relief, even Van Beers, a person of rigid calm and impassivity, broke into a guffaw.
‘and four ways to varnish Cremona fiddles!’
Louder, almost raucous guffaws followed. Holmes sat completely still, a slight puzzlement on his brow.
I ploughed on. ‘I quote my comrade-in-arms, ‘I make a point of never having any prejudices and of following docilely wherever fact may lead me’. Those familiar with our chronicles may recall I described my friend at work in A Study In Scarlet, published nine years ago, where Holmes whipped out his fine linen tape measure and his magnifying glass, trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and even lying flat upon his stomach. It is often said of Charles Darwin he is different in degree from every other Naturalist. I suggest my great friend Sherlock Holmes is equally different in degree and kind from any other fathomer. The impression left is ineffaceable. The spotted sleuth-hound is as nothing to him. Sherlock Holmes has an unrivalled power of disguise. With nose wax, twisted lips, padded cheeks, the artful use of eye-shadow, within the hour he is the Norwegian explorer Sigerson, or an out-of-work groom - or an old crone. Grease paint is as familiar to him as eggs for breakfast. At will he alters his expression, his gestures, his walk, his manner, his very breathing, his soul. I shall not forget him as a simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman in a broad black hat and baggy trousers, the expression of peering and benevolent curiosity on his mien, or as a decrepit Italian priest when we tried to shake the vile ex-Professor James Moriarty off our tracks in Florence. Famed actors from the Apollo and the Duke of York’s Theatre come to Baker Street, pleading with Holmes to teach them skills of an order far beyond the green-rooms of their trade.’
By now I was in full gallop like a well-backed race-horse on the stretch.
‘I should add, as my good friend Holmes may not, that on innumerable occasions we have faced frightful danger. For this he has become a Chevalier of the French Legion of Honour. Many have been the times that had he been an officer in the British Army he would have won the Victoria Cross. On more than one of those occasions - I think particularly of The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge - I would have rather been up The Grim on the North-West Frontier with the Berkshires, or even at the fatal battle of Maiwand where the heavy bullet of a Jezzail musket fired by a murderous Ghazi grazed my subclavian artery and shattered the bone.’
With long, white, nervous fingers, Holmes began to drum a tattoo on his knees.
I rushed on. ‘Holmes is the application of scientific method. His deductive powers are so startling the uninitiated run away in fright. They declare him an elemental spirit on a different psychic plane, or at the very least a necromancer. Enemies swear he communicates with the fearsome voodoo spirit of fertility and war. On exit from the flat on Baker Street I have watched dark-skinned gutter children whisper ‘Colonel Samedi!’ and take to urgent flight. When closely questioned they aver he is a man who never lived but will never die.’
At this, like a ventriloquist, Holmes whispered from the side of his mouth, still staring at the floor, ‘Cut to the chase, Watson! Cut to the chase!’
‘To quote the artist confronted by the work of a great master,’ I hurried on, ’he is an eagle; I am only a skylark tossing off little songs into the glowering clouds’. Holmes has been called the Master of Disguises, and with every reason. Even I have been fooled. Many a time he has affected disguises from his extensive collection of hats, particularly those with significant brims. And then there are the coats. Take, for example, in Holmes’ cupboard, the shiny, seedy coat he wore when solving the matter of The Illustrious Client. He possesses two Jaeger Coats, an old Ulster, a Great Coat, a long Covert Coat, a Chesterfield Coat, a fur coat which unfortunately moths have attacked in our attic, a Chinese fur coat which has so far escaped the moths, and a waterproof coat... though his preference is for the long grey travelling-cloak in concert with a close-fitting cloth cap. But, to-day, in recognition of this most gracious invitation, whereas I came in my glossy topper and Ulster ...’
I paused for dramatic effect.
‘... Holmes chose to wear the Poshteen Long Coat, last worn by Colonel Francis Younghusband on the notorious trek to Lhasa, which Holmes purchased for no small sum from Perceval Landon.’
To my relief, given I had flung an arm into the air as if ‘from Perceval Landon’ was a most remarkable thing, the audience clapped briefly and sharply.
I rippled on at a breathless trot.
‘Holmes readily tells a man’s trade by inspection of a corpse’s knees, his fingers or a shoulder. How easily he interprets the hand of a miner, the lines etched in that blue trade-mark which handling coal leaves on the skin. Upon the instant of our entry into this building, Holmes remarked on the balsamic odour of the Eastern tobacco hanging faintly in the air. Who else can identify at a sniff, touch or glance a hundred and forty forms of tobacco ash, on which Holmes has produced a monograph titled Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos with coloured plates? Or his ability to recognise the 42 different impressions left by motorcar tyres? Why, he could follow Dudeney in the Lanchester to the farthest corners of the Globe. To keep this faculty in perfect shape, he practices on honeys. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, complains she has no further larder space from yards of jars produced by bees across the globe - from Tasmanian Leatherwood to Mrs. Peacock’s Rotherfield Honey Batch L22.’
At this came a second warning whisper from Holmes’ direction. ‘My blushes, Watson,’ he murmured in a deprecating and firm tone.
But to no avail. Ahead was Beecher’s Brook and I was in full canter. Nerves which had forced my face into an involuntary, spasmodic grin now caused me drop my notes. Helpless in the palm of the muse of inexperienced speakers, the Belle Dame sans Merci, I stumbled toward the abyss: ‘Then there was The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle where from observing an ordinary black hat Holmes...’
At this, Holmes rose sharply to a crouching position. Like a baleful puppet on a ventriloquist’s lap, his head snapped sideways. With a malevolent hiss he commanded, ‘Watson! Come to an end, I insist!’
He stayed suspended, menacingly, like a fakir between Earth and Sky. Startled, I backed down towards my seat, my own posterior hovering at a precise level with Holmes’ some inches in the air, my eyes locked on my audience in desperate appeal.
I stuttered, ‘Like the famous Cardinal Newman my Tractarian mother so admired, after whom I am named, Sherlock Holmes possesses a clearness of intellectual perception, a disdain for conventionalities, and, as you note, a temper imperious and wilful. This is the first time he offers an analysis of his art in public and, I hope, he will allow himself to respond to any questions and interrogations you might have. Not for him the fanciful weaving of ingenious theories miscalled ‘intuition’ nor the blind acceptance of circumstantial evidence untested by the searching light of cross-examination. I leave you with this thought, there is not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest Peeler who wouldn’t be glad to shake the hand of Sherlock Holmes and accept a hint or two as to a solution.’
At which final gasp I fell back thankfully into my chair. The slight smattering of applause rang sweetly in my ears. Siviter was at once on his feet, hands together as though at the Mikado’s Court, smiling and bobbing in my direction.
‘Thank you very much, Dr. Watson, for that very full introduction, might I say, in view of your affection for racing, straight from the horse’s mouth. As to your role as a peg, I am certain you are right. To listen to you makes us realise you must lavish a hundred little touches of true knowledge and genuine picturesqueness on the page.’