A Study in Sherlock

there to see it for himself. If he’d killed the husband only to watch another man usurp his place, it would explain everything. What’s more, it could very well have been MacTaggart who put a word in the maid’s ear after William proposed. Who better?”

“Who, indeed,” Whitman agreed. “He could hardly speak against William Scott himself. The widow wouldn’t have listened. Was he a persuasive man? Could he have managed that?”

“MacTaggart? Not persuasive, precisely. But his reputation for rectitude and honesty was well known. The maid would have taken to heart any such concern on his part. And he could have thought himself safe in blaming William, because he’d already declared that no poison had been found in the victim’s body. Well, of course it hadn’t—he himself had seen to that. Fortunately for William, that was also what led to the verdict of not proven. MacTaggart was jealous of William. The man he claimed was his dearest friend.” Conan Doyle surged to his feet. “And now he wants Holmes silenced. Because Holmes could raise questions about the case.”

“Legally it makes sense. If he had brought suit against you, we would have had to know his name. By attacking your creation, he could remain anonymous.”

“By God, I’ll have his liver for this.”

He was already on his way to the door. Turning, he said to his solicitor, “My fame counts for something. Thanks to Holmes, although sometimes it galls me to say it. I’m about to ask the Home Office to exhume William Scott’s body. He hanged himself in the stairwell of his home. But did he? Was this suicide MacTaggart’s final act of revenge against William?”

“The Home Office—” John Whitman began.

“I know. They have no authority in Scotland. But you see, William Scott went to live in Northumberland after the trial. Driven out of Edinburgh by the verdict of not proven. And so he died in England. I’ll give you any odds you like that it was murder. The trial was not punishment enough. MacTaggart wanted poor William hounded to his grave. And I call myself a writer of detective fiction. It happened under my nose, and I didn’t see it.”

“You did,” Whitman pointed out. “You let Holmes solve it for you. Still, if MacTaggart is convicted in England for William Scott’s murder, that won’t clear Scott’s name.”

“Indeed it will. I’ll see to that. Perhaps not in a Scottish court, but in the court of public opinion.”

“What will you do about the story now?”

“Destroy it. Write something else. If I’m to be involved in William’s redemption, I want Holmes out of it. I don’t want that case clouding what I’m about to do.”

“Is that fair to Holmes?” Whitman asked. “I’ve yet to read the story, but I can see it was brilliant detection. As well as true.”

“You will never read it,” Conan Doyle replied grimly. “As you said, I created Holmes. I tried once to destroy him and failed. But I can take this case away from him. I can do that.”

And he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

“Charles Todd” is the mother and son team of Charles and Caroline Todd. They are the authors of thirteen Ian Rutledge novels, two Bess Crawford novels, The Murder Stone, and many short stories. Their latest Rutledge is A Lonely Death (Morrow, January 2011) and the new Bess Crawford title is A Bitter Truth (Morrow, August 2011). “Charles Todd” is a New York Times bestselling author, and they have received nominations for the Edgar, Anthony, John Creasey, and Indie Awards, and won the Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine–Barry Award. They live on the East Coast of the United States.

Caroline’s fourth-grade teacher promised to read to her class the last twenty minutes of each day if they were good and worked hard. Fortunately, the teacher loved Sherlock Holmes and didn’t think him too mature for nine-year-olds. Caroline admits to owing her not only for the multiplication tables and long division but for opening a new world of adventure and mystery that was just as valuable. As an “innocent young lad,” Charles met Sherlock Holmes through Dr. Watson as read to him before bedtime by his mother. He went off to sleep dreaming of redheaded speckled-banded stick figures from Bohemia.

Although the events recorded in this story are not dated, it clearly takes place after 1905, when King Edward was on the throne and Sir Arthur had accepted a knighthood. From 1903 to 1927, tales of Holmes continued to appear sporadically in The Strand Magazine, under the steady editorial hand of Herbert Greenhough Smith.

THE IMITATOR

Jan Burke

A summer storm caused us to cancel our plans to ride to the river and spend a lazy day fishing. By one o’clock, we had tired of billiards, cards, and chess. We had adjourned to the upstairs library, where I got no further in a letter to my sister than “Dear Sarah, …”

For his part, Slye stood at one of the long windows, staring out toward the woods beyond the back lawn. The rain had let up, but the day was still misty, so I doubted he could see much.

Not much that was actually there, in any case.

I had been more anxious about him a few hours earlier. The first thunderclap had me watching him with concern. He noted my scrutiny with a wry smile, and turned his back to me. I kept watching. Although I saw a certain rigidity in his spine and shoulders, he did not seem unsettled to the degree I might once have expected, and I began to cherish hope that he might, after all, be able to return to the city at some point in time. Seven months had passed from the time of the incident that had encouraged his family to urge him to retire to the country. He had asked me to come with him, an invitation I had happily accepted.

Some men returned from the Great War whole of body and mind. Slye and I, while thankful (on our good days) to have survived, were not undamaged. My scars were plainly visible, but his had not made themselves known—to others, at least—until nearly a year after we had returned. Slye would, I thought, soon fit back into society. The methods espoused by Dr. Rivers of England for the treatment of what some call “shell shock” were doing him a great deal of good.

I had just decided not to interrupt Slye’s brooding silence when his excellent butler, Digby, quietly entered the room.

“Excuse me, sir. The younger Mr. Hanslow—Mr. Aloysius Hanslow—”

Digby got no further—Wishy Hanslow dodged past him, disheveled and a little damp.

Hanslow wore his usual outfit—clothing of another decade, another continent, another man. Slye had once explained to me that long before Hanslow became a devoted reader of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books, Wishy had found an 1891 copy of the Strand among the stacks of periodicals his father hoarded— which perhaps had planted the seed that later blossomed into his present mania for all things Sherlockian. Hanslow had been particularly taken with one of Sidney Paget’s drawings from “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,” and two years ago his tailor and hatter had been charged with re-creating Sherlock Holmes’s long coat and deerstalker. Judging by the condition of these articles of clothing, Hanslow seemed not to have seen the drawings in which Holmes carried an umbrella.

“No need to announce me, Digby!” Hanslow said now. “No need! All family here!”

“Indeed?” Digby said in an arctic tone.

“Of course! I think of Bunny as a brother!”

“Now, Wishy,” Slye said, as Digby frowned, “stop trying to irritate Digby. You and I are friends, and as such, far more likely to get along than I do with my brothers.” He turned to Digby. “Thank you, Digby.”

“Sir, he would not let me take his hat and coat,” Digby said, looking anxiously at the carpet.

“No, I don’t suppose he would,” Slye said. “But we’ll be leaving soon, I’m sure, so no need to worry.”

“Don’t know why you keep him around,” Wishy said as soon as the butler left. “If I had to look at that mug of