that the police had discovered the method of killing the husband. Suspicion was one thing. However, the postmortem had shown no particular cause of death—a healthy man of thirty-seven seldom drops dead without some underlying condition, but there was nothing. And you must know there is no universal test for poison. Those that the coroner did make, given the unusual circumstances, were negative, and at the time of death, no suspicion fell on William or anyone else. Still, with the widow’s finger now pointing at him, the police were willing to reconsider the matter.”
“I can see why this case interested you.”
“Indeed. William’s counsel argued that William had not gained in any way from the man’s death, that his proposal was the result of propinquity, not premeditation. The eventual verdict was not proven, and William was set free. Meanwhile, the widow finally made her choice, and it wasn’t William. Even more painful was the fact that she chose a friend of his. Still, the damage to his reputation had been done, and William never practiced medicine again.”
“But of course, Holmes didn’t leave it there.”
Conan Doyle came back to his chair and sat down. “No, no, how could he? The fact is, he discovered that William—he’s called Hamilton in the story—had been the victim of a clever plot. This trial took place in an English courtroom, you understand, where of course poor William was found guilty. The truth was, the now-wealthy widow and the friend she later married had devised a plan to rid themselves of her husband. First she had let William believe that she could care for him. Second, she had used a poison, so as to point directly to William, the medical man. The only problem was that in their ignorance of such matters, the plotters chose a West African poison so obscure it couldn’t be traced. Rather than one that William might have selected from his medical bag, you see. But there was other evidence, manufactured but sound enough for conviction.”
“Why West Africa?”
“I was there for a time, you know. And in my story, so was the man the widow eventually marries. At any rate, this conniving widow had encouraged Holmes’s client, William, from the start, leading him to believe she cared for him. The poor man had no chance against such a devious pair. Yet it looked very dark for him, the date of execution having been set. Just the sort of hopeless case that would appeal to Holmes. There’s the matter of obscure poisons as well. Holmes has always prided himself on his knowledge of that subject. And William’s plea to Holmes to look into his plight interested Dr. Watson as well, of course, since there was a physician involved. ‘First do no harm,’ the oath admonishes. What’s more, Watson had served in India and had some little understanding of the unique properties of many plants that we in England aren’t acquainted with.”
Intrigued, John Whitman asked, “And how did Holmes solve this case?”
“The final clue comes when Holmes bluffs the widow by telling her that since she is wealthier than her new husband, she should beware. And he shows her an empty envelope that Mycroft has given him from Foreign Office correspondence, posted from Africa but with the address removed—Holmes knows something about inks, as you recall—and replaced with that of her husband’s place of business. And Holmes wonders aloud if the man has sent for more of the same poison. The letter here is missing, you understand, but she believes Holmes when he tells her that this envelope was found in the dustbin at her London house. She dissolves into tears and confesses—she thinks to save her own life—how her new husband came up with and carried out this wicked scheme.”
“Have you considered—there may be more truth in your work of fiction than someone could safely ignore? And not necessarily in Scotland.”
“Yes, that’s always possible. But the question remains: how did anyone come to know that I was writing such a story, and what’s more, that it was finished? This happened in Edinburgh more than a quarter of a century ago. And William is dead. Did I tell you that? He took his own life in a bout of severe depression some years after the trial. That’s why I felt safe in using the facts of the case in my story.”
“Then I find it interesting that someone has chosen to sue Sherlock Holmes and not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Well, I’m glad you find it interesting,” Conan Doyle snapped irritably. “How do they expect to bring Holmes into a courtroom, I ask you!”
“Perhaps it has nothing to do with Holmes or a suit against him. Perhaps someone wishes to see you settle this case out of court. For instance, with an offer of money.”
“I shall do no such thing. And what about this short story? Am I to allow my editor to publish it? Or am I to abandon it like an unwanted child? Smith will not be happy with me, I can tell you, if I withdraw it. He has already scheduled its publication, and is poised to announce a new Holmes to readers in the next issue of
“That will have to be dealt with. At the moment, I think we should have a conversation with the solicitor representing your adversary.”
“To call him an adversary is to give him status. Moriarty was an adversary. Irene Adler was an adversary. Whoever is plaguing me with this suit is nothing of the sort.”
Whitman smiled. “Yes, I take your point. Who is the solicitor?”
“A man called Baines. He has chambers in London on Ironmonger Lane. Rather an unprepossessing address. As you would expect of someone willing to be involved in such a frivolous business.”
“I’ll call on him tomorrow. Meanwhile, I advise you to think no more about it.”
But Conan Doyle wasn’t satisfied. “I should like to know how the manuscript fell into the hands of these people.”
“Have you had anyone in to work on drains? To look for dry rot or worm in the attics? Anyone who could have had access to your study?”
“By God. There was a chimney sweep last week.”
“The same one you have employed before this?”
“How should I know? Their faces are always black with soot. But there was no reason—until now, at any rate—to suspect he was anything other than what he claimed to be. I don’t deal with such matters, but I saw him walking to the service door as I left one morning.”
“Ah. Was the manuscript accessible? Could he have read it?”
“I suppose he could. But if he had no idea I was writing such a story—and no one did—how could he have known to look for it?”
“Perhaps any story would have done. You are a famous author, after all. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility that you’d be currently at work on a Holmes case.”
Conan Doyle hesitated. “I did inquire of a friend in Edinburgh to discover what had become of the principals in the real case. I was told the clever widow and her new husband left for Canada shortly after William’s suicide. But Fergus MacTaggart is utterly trustworthy. He and William and I were close at one time. MacTaggart remained William’s friend when everyone else turned his back.”
“Everyone appears to be trustworthy, until we’ve been shown otherwise.”
“Yes, well, it’s easier to write about devious people than it is to search for them in one’s own life.”
With that he left. Whitman looked down at his notes. Would Conan Doyle’s editor wish to publish a short story that was the center of controversy? If it increased circulation, probably. But if it led to questions about the story itself, would Herbert Smith shy away from it? And was that the reason behind this suit? Holmes had a brilliant track record as a consulting detective. Had he stumbled on a truth that someone wished to keep out of the public eye?
That seemed to be the crux of the case. A settlement that included an agreement to withdraw the story from publication would prove the point.
But the question was, who would benefit from withdrawing the story? That remained to be seen.
The next morning Whitman went to call on Ronald Baines.
His chambers were in the first floor of Number 12 Ironmonger Lane. The door was paneled mahogany, with a brass plate affixed to it. Whitman opened it to find a well-furnished waiting room. A clerk came in as soon as Whitman was about to take a seat.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the man asked, peering at Whitman over the top of his glasses.
Whitman identified himself and the reason for his visit.
The clerk said, “I’ll see if Mr. Baines is free.” He went away and Whitman took a chair by the window, watching clouds scuttle across the city, promising a change in the fine weather London had been enjoying.
The clerk finally reappeared and informed Whitman that Mr. Baines would see him, but only for ten minutes,
