Collaboration

by Lesley Johnson
a.k.a. 'the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant'

"A non-case that even a dyed-in-the-wool romantic like Watson would have been hard put to whip into a thrilling narrative."

I have mentioned before that it was only when I first met Dr. Watson, one September day at Holmes' cottage in Sussex, that I began to understand the depth and extent of the friendship between the two men. However, there were further aspects of their long years of partnership and collaboration that I was still to learn, at my own expense, some time later.

I spent the Christmas of 1919 at Holmes' cottage. My unusual apprenticeship had brought me into this sanctuary of warmth, welcome and acceptance that my own family could not provide. I spent as much of the holidays at the cottage as good manners would allow. Uncle John came down from London to round out our party, and on Christmas morning there was an exchange of small gifts.

After the litter of wrappings and ribbons had been removed Uncle John cleared his throat and reached over to place a parcel in my lap, with some air of significance in his manner.

"Mary dear, I have written a small piece that I would like to submit for your approval. You may consider it simply as a present to yourself; however, I am hoping that, if you give your consent, I may submit it to my literary agent Conan Doyle in the new year. It has been quite some time since I chronicled anything of our friend's work, but I believe there is a veritable mine of new material in the cases in which you have been involved."

I looked up into his earnest and eager face and smiled weakly, knowing what Holmes' feelings on the subject were. "Why, Uncle John, I had no idea you were still writing..."

"Oh, I only took up my pen again some weeks ago, Mary. But I would be very appreciative if you would do me the honour of reading it."

I looked over at Holmes to try to gauge his reaction, but he merely smiled over at us both in a vague manner as if were not quite attending to our conversation. I had no option but to untie the ribbon that held the paper around the manuscript.

Uncle John watched me with a look of anticipation, and seemed to be prepared to sit across from me while I read, but Holmes stood and suggested that Watson accompany him for a breath of fresh air and leave me with it.

The title was amusing enough, 'The Case of the Purloined Hams,' but as I read on I became more and more uncomfortable with the florid, melodramatic and high-pitched style of his writing. He had taken my simple, straightforward and rather pedestrian petty crime and written it up as if it were a case of thrilling intrigue and national significance. The penultimate paragraph read as follows:

'Miss Russell moved with the light swift footsteps of an agile gazelle up the craggy hillside and secreted herself in a stony depression, from whence she could survey the whole area. She resembled nothing so much as a proud and beautiful lioness, wary and watchful for either prey or foe - which indeed was the role about to be played by the unfortunate Mr. Sylvester in this unfinished drama. The blackguard appeared at last. His discovery of the smashed door lock was evidenced by his cry of shock and dread, which mounted even to the sharp ears of his hidden adversary, and then by his attitude of throwing his hands in the air and falling forward though the door in his haste to learn if his treasure were discovered. With the patience of experience beyond her years, Miss Russell waited as he reappeared and threw himself headlong up the slope. His lean, dark face was contorted with the most evil expression of greed and outrage, but Miss Russell did not quail at its horrid aspect...'

I had to stop reading. My head was spinning from the roller coaster of overblown similes and metaphors. My god, what could I do? It was horrid. At just that moment the two men returned from their walk, their conversation filling the hall. Just as the door opened I hurriedly stuffed the manuscript under a stack of papers on the table and moved away from it. I felt my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Holmes went to the cabinet and fetched the brandy and glasses, finishing the point they had been discussing in their conversation. I was too distracted to attend to what he was saying, but some part of my brain seemed to hear him say, "No, my dear Watson, I cannot agree with you. Jolson is by far the superior minstrel singer to Eddie Cantor. His rendition of 'Rock-a-bye' is sublime."

"Very well Holmes, I bow to your superior musical knowledge."

Holmes handed round the glasses and as I took mine from him I tried to catch his eye, but he was oblivious. Uncle John strolled over to the hearth with his glass and launched into the dreaded topic.

"Well Mary, I can see that you are pleased with it! Come now, it doesn't take the masterly observational skills of our friend here to see that you are flattered. But tell me Mary, have I done justice to the case? Have I presented the facts of the investigation faithfully and recorded your analytical processes accurately? Holmes wished me to leave him out of the account - indeed he said you had left him nothing to do, and had solved the matter entirely on your own." He warmed to his subject, showing all the pride of the master chronicler he believed he was.

"I will say it was rather more difficult recreating the events, not having been right on the scene with you, shoulder to shoulder, as I was in so many of Holmes' cases."

"Well, ... Uncle John, it is very... striking - um, however did you learn the details?"

"Holmes told me the whole story. Rather more simply than I have portrayed it, but then, Holmes is no storyteller!" he chuckled jovially. "I had to fill in some details from my own experience and imagination but I believe they serve to bring forth the vital essence of the whole matter." He puffed out his chest and beamed at me. "I think the public will clamour for more after they see this!"

My whole soul was in my eyes as I looked beseechingly over at Holmes. I could not be the one to veto Uncle John's renewed ambition, but he had to be stopped. I knew Holmes' distaste for sensational publicity would be my best defence, but I needed his support and it was not there. In fact Holmes had listened to our exchange with a singular detachment; he sat in the chair by the window and was casually turning the pages of an old copy of what looked like the Strand magazine. Without looking up he commented, "Oh indeed. The public appetite for crime stories is always very great."

I gaped at him, " Wha-?" I tried to maintain a conversational tone, but my panic was rising. "... But... Holmes, have you read Uncle John's story?"

"No, but I'm sure it's up to his usual quality. Watson's readers always like the stuff." He kept his head down over his journal.

How could I convey to him the danger we were in? If Uncle John were not stopped the result, for all three of us, would be disaster. Holmes would have a fit, I would be mortified and Uncle John, well, at best he would only suffer the humiliation of having the piece rejected, at worst - it would be published! I grabbed at the only straw that I could think of at the moment.

"Uncle John, I don't think Oxford will allow it!"

His bushy eyebrows contracted. "Oxford? What do you mean, Mary?"

"Well, Oxford is quite strict on... um... undergraduates writing for... or appearing in… outside publications." I knew it sounded lame but it was all I had.

"But Mary, I'm sure that will be easily got around... after all, the piece is a credit to your talents. How could they object?"

"No, I'm sure they won't allow it, Uncle John. There was a student last year who..." A movement from Holmes' corner caught my eye. He had turned his chair to the window and his shoulders were shaking. Where was my help? I turned back to Uncle John. He regarded me with a serious expression. "Well, Uncle, I just think they might..."

Holmes stood and came over to us, still avoiding my eyes. "Let me see if there's anything objectionable in it. Perhaps some minor revision would allay your concerns." He instantly retrieved the manuscript from under the papers and began to flip through it.

"Yes, I can see that the dons might have some concern… But, hmmm, this is rather good: 'The instant Miss Russell entered the inn, she was tense and alert, her eyes shining, her face set, and her limbs quivering with eager activity. She was down onto the carpet examining the fibres through her magnifying lens, for all the world like some highly strung bloodhound sniffing at a scent. Then she was out to the kitchen, up the stairs, back down to the entranceway where she made a rapid cast around and ended by peering closely and intently into the potted palms, which seemed to give her some fresh cause for excitement for she looked into them with loud ejaculations of interest and delight.' That is good Watson, you've admirably captured her focus on the evidence."

"I never looked into the potted palms! I... I..." I was speechless.

Holmes walked over to the hearth and stood next to Watson, and the two old comrades regarded me with bland expressions of polite interest. Then Holmes reached into his pocket and took out the one thing I had never seen in his possession - a great curved meerschaum pipe. With the stem between his teeth, he struck a match and began puffing clouds of smoke out of the huge bowl. He shook out the match and drawled,

"Watson however did you arrive at the precise tone and descriptive language that would bring our young friend here to her present state of absolute and utter panic?"

"Why Holmes, it was the simplest thing in the world. In fact, it was..."

And, smiling, they both looked at me and spoke the final words together:

"Elementary, my dear Russell."