chapter 1
SEPTEMBER 19, 1894, 11:00 p.m.
WHAT A DAMNABLE NUISANCE ALL THIS HOLMES POPPY-cock has turned out to be. That such a cipher of a man, a walking talking calculating machine who displays no more humanity than a hobbyhorse, should inspire such passion in the bosom of the reading public is a greater mystery to me than any I ever dreamt up for him to solve.
Even as I write this entry, again, this evening at the Garrick Club—my farewell dinner—the subject of Sherlock's untimely death dominated conversation with the boorish, opinionated insistence of an American running for political office. Conceived at a moment when my only concern was putting food on my family's table, this Holm-unculus, this cerebral marionette has assumed a place in their lives more real to some of my readers than their own friends and relations. Shocking: but then if predictability in all God's creations was what the Man Upstairs was after He would have called it quits after putting up the Himalayas.
How naive of me to imagine that giving old Holmesy the heave-ho off Reichenbach Falls would put an end to the ballyhoo and let me get on with my serious work. Nearly a year now since Sheer-luck took the plunge, and the public outrage at his demise shows no signs of slacking off. Indeed, there've been a few occasions where I've felt legitimate concern for my physical wellbeing. That sturdy red-faced woman brandishing an umbrella on a country road near Leeds. A scarecrow of a man with genuine derangement in his eye trailing my carriage around town. The trembling, hollow-eyed boy who approached me in Grosvenor Square with such a stammering surplus of contained violence it seemed likely his head would detonate before spitting out a sentence. Madness!
What drives me to wit's end is the possibility that, as a result of the fanatical devotion engendered by my Baker Street Frankenstein, the rest of my books, the work into which I've poured heart and soul, may never receive the fair hearing every author hopes for in the court of public opinion. Still, I console myself with the thought that if it weren't for Mr. H. the only shelves my so-called personal writing might be lining are at the bottom of my steamer trunk.
But as to the Burning Question put to me so energetically last night, and likewise at every instance where I see fit to present myself publicly (including, appalling circumstance— mouth wedged open, throat exposed, sharp instruments in the hand of my inquisitor—my recent trip to the dentist!), the answer remains, steadfastly:
No, no, and no.
There will be no Resurrection. The man fell two thousand feet straight down into a crevasse. Dashed beyond repair, no reasonable hope for recovery. He is deader than Julius Caesar. Respect to the gods of logic must be paid.
I wonder how long I'll need to remind these people that, not only is he deceased, the man is a fictional character: He can't reply to their letters, he doesn't actually reside at 22IB Baker Street, and he can finally be of no help to them whatsoever in solving that lingering mystery which haunts their every waking moment— although my earnest advice to them remains that if Pussywillow has indeed gone missing they should look up a tree. If I had half a shilling for every time I've been asked if he... well, come to think of it, I suppose I do.
What awaits me with regard to the death of SH in America? I'm given to understand the passion for Holmes burns even hotter there, although my excitement at the prospect of setting foot on their shore should balance any inconvenience stirred up by Sherlock's leap into the void. The United States and the Americans have captivated my imagination since I was a child; their rambunctious precocity, the driving will that serve as whip hand to the blinding progress of that new republic should act as a strong and revivifying tonic to me.
Five months abroad: My dear wife not nearly as strong as she would like me to believe, but so determined to see me make the career advancement this journey represents. So be it: The frustration of my inability to ease her discomfort is bringing peace to neither of us. This damned disease will run its inevitable course regardless of my efforts, and the distance between us grows regardless of my whereabouts: The more I move out into the world the further she withdraws from it. For now the energy she spends trying to reassure me will be better spent marshaling her own resources. It is her battle to fight, finally, alone.
No regrets, then. The coming days will pass quickly in that way they always do; I shall conduct my tour of America and be home among my loved ones soon enough. Young brother Innes will make a splendid traveling companion: Two years in the Royal Fusiliers have done wonders for the boy. It occurred to me tonight, watching him leap to my defense at the Garrick, that Innes puts me very much in mind of the hotheaded young snapper I was myself ten years ago, when I briefly traveled in the company of a man the memory of whom remains to this day more vivid and beyond compare than any other I have known in this life.
Our train leaves for Southampton at first light; setting sail at noon tomorrow. Looking forward to a peaceful and uninterrupted week of luxurious relaxation.
Until then, Diary...
'Innes, give those bags to the porter, that's what the man's here for; smartly, move along....'
'We've still plenty of time, Arthur,' said Innes, lifting a valise.
'No, not the valise; it's got my correspondence, don't let that one out of your sight....'
'I know perfectly well which one is which....'
An elderly porter wrestled their first steamer trunk onto his trolley.
'There's a carriage waiting for us, porter—careful with that footlocker, it's crowded with books.' Then, taking Innes aside: 'Give the fellow half a crown, not a penny more; these pensioners always make a big show out of struggling with the bags when the truth is they're as fit as a circus strong man— now where the devil is Larry?''
'The train's only just arrived, Arthur,' said Innes.
'And he was supposed to be waiting for us here on the platform; drat the man, why send him down a day early if he can't manage to find—'
'Halloo! Halloo, sir! Here we are!'
Larry waving, moving toward them from the station entrance.
Doyle glanced at his watch, grumbling, 'We arrived ten minutes ago. On time. Ships have been known to sail off and leave people.'
'There's an hour to go yet, Arthur. Look, you can see the ship from here. I honestly think you can relax....' Innes pointed toward the Royal Pier, where the massive double red stacks of the steamship Elbe stood plain against the gray, low-hanging sky.
'I'll relax when we're on board, in our cabin, luggage secured in the hold, and not a moment before,' said Doyle, checking tickets and passports for the third time since leaving the train.
'You really are an anxious traveler, aren't you?' said Innes with the smirk reserved for his older brother's more obviously ridiculous behavior.
'Go ahead and laugh; one day you'll miss your train or your ship, and then we'll see if you think I'm quite so amusing; there's a list of potential mishaps that could keep us from our destination that's as long as a lamplighter's candlestick. Arriving somewhere on time is not a matter of good fortune: it is a sheer act of will. Any attitude to the contrary extends an open invitation to the universe to heap disaster upon you indiscriminately, not that it ever needs to be invited....'
'Here we are, sir!'
''Good Christ, Larry, where have you been? We arrived ages ago.'
