A Study in Sherlock

as he was expecting another client at eleven o’clock. He led Whitman down a passage where gilt-framed hunting prints were hung. The room at the end of the passage was spacious and occupied a corner of the building. A French Empire desk took pride of place, and behind it a large, florid man rose to hold out his hand.

“Good morning,” he said affably. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before this.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” Whitman replied. “I’ve come about the suit pending against Sherlock Holmes.”

Baines indicated a chair. “Ah, yes. Indeed.”

“I’m astonished, to put it mildly, that you would take on such a frivolous matter.”

“Hardly frivolous. My client had considered suing Sir Arthur, but the problem isn’t the author, the problem is his character. Mr. Holmes has taken on an unusual case and solved it with his usual skill. It is that skill which is the problem. My client feels that in solving the mystery at hand, he has put my client in jeopardy of his livelihood.”

“I must say, I don’t see how that’s possible. Mr. Holmes is a fictional character. Do you tell me that your client is also fictional?”

There was a flash of anger in Ronald Baines’s eyes. “I can assure you that he is quite real. As it happens, his wife died recently, and he has been occupying himself in writing a book concerning a certain murder case in Scotland many years ago. It is currently under consideration by a publishing house. If Mr. Holmes solves it before the manuscript has been sold, who will be interested in it? When Mr. Holmes has taken the wind out of its sails, so to speak.”

“I don’t see that there’s a problem. One is nonfiction, and the other fiction. How do they overlap?”

Baines said, “Mr. Holmes is a name most everyone in Britain recognizes. Indeed, he’s considered the premier consulting detective in the world; his popularity is undeniable. And he is about to steal my client’s livelihood.”

“I should like to know how your client discovered that such a story was being written by Sir Arthur. As far as I’m aware, only two people knew the contents of that particular case.”

“Let us say that a friend felt he should be made aware of Conan Doyle’s intentions.”

“And all your client wishes is to see the story withdrawn from publication? No monetary damages? No other requirements to be satisfied before the suit is withdrawn?”

“My client is not a mercenary man. He merely wishes to have the story withdrawn, so as to protect his own work. And a promise, of course, from your client, that he will never speak of this story again. Surely this is not a difficult decision. Sir Arthur is a very clever writer; he can easily invent another case in place of this one.”

“I should like to know the name of your client.”

“Ah. I’m afraid I can’t answer that. He has asked for anonymity. Adverse publicity will also do him considerable harm, you see. He has a right to see his work in print and successful. And judged on its own merit. How can that be, if there are comparisons with Holmes at every turn? That will be brought up, do you see, in every review, and speculation will grow over the way Holmes solved the murder. Sir Arthur is an author; he will surely appreciate the problem.”

“Sir Arthur has changed the facts in the case.”

“But not sufficiently, sad to say.”

It was clear that Baines had given all the information that he was willing to divulge.

Still, Whitman persisted. “Will he step out of the shadows, your client, if Sir Arthur agrees to the withdrawal of the story? After all, you have the advantage of us. We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

“I think he will not.”

“Then I shall have to consult my client to see how he feels about your demands.”

“Not demands. A request, merely. From one author to another.”

Whitman left shortly thereafter, unsatisfied. He sent word to his own client, and that afternoon Conan Doyle arrived at his chambers. After telling him what had transpired at Baines’s office, Whitman asked, “How do you feel about withdrawing your story?”

“This client forgets that Holmes is also my own livelihood. If someone else is writing a book on the events I used for Holmes’s case, then he should have contacted me personally and asked that I withdraw it until such time as his book is published. I’d have taken his request under consideration—even if I don’t feel I have stepped on his toes in any way. Call it professional courtesy.”

“But not knowing you personally, he couldn’t have counted on your good will. Or professional courtesy.”

“True.” Conan Doyle sighed. “I can see his dilemma. But I’m still angry over this suit.”

“Do you know of anyone who could have a reason either to write his own version of events or to question yours?”

“No one. In fact, yesterday afternoon I went to speak to a friend of mine. I asked if she could identify the forces set against me. She said the dead are no threat to me.”

“You visited a seer?” Whitman was taken aback.

“I thought it wise,” Conan Doyle replied defensively. “After all, if this person lives in the shadows, I have a right to seek him out in any way I can.”

“I must remind you that the seer’s advice is all very well and good—but a dead man cannot bring suit in an English courtroom. My suggestion, as your legal adviser, is to let this suit proceed and see then who comes out of those shadows.”

“At what expense to my story?”

“I don’t know. You must answer that. Is the story so important?”

“I think Holmes was particularly clever in this one. I should hate to lose it. And it isn’t the story of William— well, of that William. It was a starting point only. The rest is Holmes. I’ve had a very uneasy relationship with him, my creation or not, as you well know. But I cannot spite him.”

“What about the widow and her new husband? Your story isn’t complimentary toward them. After all, they were never tried—if your conclusions are correct, they may be at some risk, if the police see fit to reopen the case. And Canada is not that far away.”

“How would they have discovered what I was doing? And they would be foolish to raise objections. To do so would only draw attention to them.”

“Baines told me that his client had recently lost his wife. That could very well mean that this is the widow’s husband, returned to England or Scotland to live.”

“I can believe in a jealous author before—” Conan Doyle stopped in midsentence, and then asked, “His client’s wife died recently, you say?”

“Yes. It was the reason his client turned to writing—a way of managing his grief.”

Conan Doyle frowned. “MacTaggart.” He got up and began to pace the floor. “He has just lost his own wife. Confound it, I thought he was reliable. I hadn’t counted on grief turning his mind. It’s the only explanation for his behavior.”

Whitman answered carefully. “Where does his loyalty lie, I wonder? Either he betrayed you to someone —”

“It’s the only solution. Not the sweep. MacTaggart.”

“—or he himself has something to fear from your story. How would Holmes see this?”

Conan Doyle stopped his pacing, sat down, and stared at his solicitor. “In my story,” he said slowly, “Holmes faults the man who conducted the postmortem. He believed that he’d muddled the case.”

Whitman said nothing.

As he examined the past, Conan Doyle’s eyes went to the framed photograph of the king above Whitman’s head.

“Damn it. There’s no book being written, is there? Holmes saw it from the beginning! I took his remarks to Watson to mean that the man didn’t know enough about poisons. But it wasn’t that, was it? In the Scottish case, MacTaggart did the postmortem. And he shouldn’t have, don’t you see? At the time, I believed he was just the man to find out how Moira’s husband had died. Good God, we all knew that MacTaggart had been one of Moira MacGregor’s suitors before she was married. We never dreamed he still cared for her. I’d suspected William Scott had been infatuated with her. I wasn’t surprised when he was in and out of her house after her husband’s death, helping her with the funeral arrangements and the will. The family doctor and all that. MacTaggart was there nearly as often, and we put it down to kindness.”

“And no one wondered at this?”

“We never gave it a thought. He must have been the first to realize that Moira was favoring William. He was