by Vonda N. McIntyre
This story copyright 1997 by Vonda N. McIntyre. This copy was created for Jean Hardy's personal use. All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.
Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.
* * *
Holmes laughed like a Bedlam escapee.
Considerably startled by his outburst, I lowered my Times, where I had been engrossed in an article about a new geometrical pattern discovered in the fields of Surrey. I had not yet decided whether to bring it to Holmes's attention.
'What amuses you so, Holmes?'
No interesting case had challenged Holmes of late, and I wondered, fearfully, if boredom had led him to take up, once again, the habit of cocaine.
Holmes's laughter died, and an expression of thoughtful distress replaced the levity. His eyes revealed none of the languorous excitement of the drug.
'I am amused by the delusions of our species, Watson,' Holmes said. 'Amusing on the surface, but, on reflection, distressing.'
I waited for his explanation.
'Can you not discern the reason for my amusement, Watson-- and my distress? I should think it perfectly obvious.'
I considered. Should he encounter an article written particularly for its humorous content, he would pass straight over it, finding it as useless to him as the orbits of the planets. The description of some brutal crime surely would not amuse him. A trace of Moriarty would raise him to anger or plunge him into despair.
'Ah,' I said, certain I had divined the truth. 'You have read an account of a crime, I beg your pardon, the resolution of a crime, and you have seen the failings in the analysis. But,' I pointed out, somewhat disturbed by my friend's indifference to the deeper ramifications, 'that would indicate the arrest of an innocent victim, Holmes. Surely you should have some other reaction than laughter.'
'Surely I should,' Holmes said, 'if that were the explanation. It is not.' He shook the paper. 'Here is a comment by Conan Doyle on Houdini's recent performance.'
'Quite impressive it was, too,' I said. 'Thrilling, I would say. Did Sir Arthur find the performance compelling?'
'Conan Doyle,' Holmes said with saturnine animosity, 'attributes Houdini's achievements to,' Holmes sneered, ''mediumistic powers.''
'His achievements do strain credulity,' I said mildly.
'Pah!' Holmes said. 'That is the point, Watson, the entire and complete point!Would you pay good money to see him fail to escape from a sealed coffin?'
'I suppose that I would not,' I admitted.
'Were Houdini to tell you his methods, you would reply, 'But that is so simple! Anyone could achieve the same effect-- using your methods!''
As Holmes often heard the same remark after explaining his methods, I began to understand his outburst.
'I would say nothing of the sort,' I said. 'I should say, instead, that he had brought the technique of
stage magicianship to as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.'
Holmes recognized my comment with a brief smile, for I had often said as much to him about his practice of detection.
'But it is true, Watson,' Holmes said, serious once more. 'Anyone could achieve the same effect--were they willing to dedicate their lives to developing the methods, to studying the methods, to perfecting the methods! Then it is 'so simple.''
When Holmes deigned to lead an amazed observer through his deductive reasoning, the observer's reaction was invariably the same: His methods were 'perfectly obvious'; anyone, including the observer, could duplicate them with ease.
'Conan Doyle claims friendship with Houdini,' Holmes said in disgust, 'and yet he insults his friend. He dismisses Houdini's hard work and ingenuity. Despite Houdini's denials, Conan Doyle attributes Houdini's success to the supernatural. As if Houdini himself had very little to do with it! What a great fool, this Conan Doyle.'
'Easy on,' I said. 'Sir Arthur is an intelligent man, a brave man. An inspired man! His imagination is every bit as exalted as that of Wells! His Professor Challenger stories compare favorably to War of the Worlds-- '
'I never read fiction,' Holmes said. 'A failing for which you berate me continually. If I did read fiction,
I would not doubly waste my time with the scientific romances you find so compelling. Nor am I interested in the mad fantasies of a spiritualist.' Holmes scowled through a dense cloud of pipe smoke. 'The man photographs fairies in his garden.'
'You are too much the materialist, Holmes,' I said. 'With my own eyes I saw amazing things, unbelievable things, in Afghanistan -- '
'Ancient sleight of hand. Snake charming. The rope trick!' He laughed again, though without the hysterical overtones of his previous outburst. 'Ah, Watson, I envy you your innocence.'
I was about to object to his implications when he stayed my comment by holding up one hand.
'Mrs. Hudson is here-- '
'-- with our tea,' I said. 'Hardly deserves the word 'deduction,' as her footsteps are plainly audible, and it is, after all, tea-time-- '
'-- to announce a client.'
Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, knocked and opened the door. 'Gentleman to see you, Mr. Holmes,' she said. 'Shall I set an extra cup?'
The figure of a man loomed behind her in the shadows.
'Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,' Holmes said. 'That would be most kind.'
Mrs. Hudson placed a calling card on the tray by the doorway. Holmes rose to his feet, but did not trouble to read the card. As our visitor entered I rose as well, and made to greet him, but Holmes spoke first.
'I observe, Dr. Conan Doyle,' Holmes said coolly, 'that you were called abruptly into the fields, and have spent the morning investigating the mystery of the damaged crops. Investigating without success, I might add. Has a new field theorem appeared?'
Conan Doyle laughed heartily, his voice booming from his powerful chest.
'So you've introduced me already, John!' he said to me. 'You were looking out the window when my carriage arrived, I've no doubt.' He smiled at Holmes. 'Not such a clever deduction, Mr. Holmes.' He wrinkled his noble brow and said to me, 'But how did you know I've just come to town, and how did you know of my involvement with the field theorems?'
'I'm afraid I had no idea you were our visitor, Sir Arthur,' I said. 'I did not even know we had a visitor until Holmes surmised your approach.'
Sir Arthur chuckled. 'I understand,' he said. 'Bad manners, revealing the tricks of the trade. Even those as simple as prior knowledge.'
Holmes concealed his annoyance; I doubt anyone who knew him less well than I would have noticed it. He gazed steadily at Sir Arthur. We seldom had visitors taller than Holmes, but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle exceeds six feet by four inches. Unlike my friend Holmes, who remained slender, indeed gaunt, even during his occasional periods of slothful depression, Sir Arthur dominated the room with his hearty presence.
'How did you know about our visitor, Holmes?' I asked, trying to salvage the introductions.
'I heard Sir Arthur's carriage arrive,' he said dismissively, 'as you would have done had you been paying attention.'
Though somewhat put off by his attitude, I continued. 'And Sir Arthur's outing? His identity?'
'My face is hardly unknown,' Sir Arthur said. 'Why, my likeness was in the Times only last week, accompanying a review-- '
