Articles in Torr No 22, Spring 2003
Articles in Torr No 21, Autumn 2002
Articles in Torr No 20, Spring 2002
Articles in Torr No 19, Autumn 2001
Articles in Torr No 18, spring 2001
Articles in Torr No 22, Spring 2003
Fears regarding the somewhat inclement weather proved groundless, as members of the Poor Folk and their guests gathered at The Twisted Oak tavern just outside Exeter for their pre-croquet match luncheon. The members quickly settled in a bright and cosy conservator attached to the pub, where the inevitable social banter and a fine roast luncheon from the Servery ensured a relaxing and enjoyable start to the day's proceedings. From The Twisted Oak, a sated and jolly party set off for the Pinces Gardens' croquet lawns.
Our host and instructor for the match was Henry Drew, Secretary to the Exeter Croquet Club and a Poor Folk member. On arrival, another club member, Ann, welcomed us. She had kindly volunteered to help with the afternoon's proceedings. Member's expertise ranged from those who occasionally played to those who had never held a mallet, but all seemed to be looking forward to the games with equal enthusiasm. We stared out across the sunlit, close-cropped grass of the two, three-quarter size, adjoining lawns, admiring their flat and inviting surface. The only thing to be seen, standing proud, was a short post with coloured bands on it. The following gives a flavour of the occasion.
“What are the blue, red, black and yellow bands on the stick for ?”
“Order of play,” was the response, “Matches the ball colour, and I think the stick is called a Jack.”
“No, I think it's called a Peg.”
“Well, this colour's not on the list,” said someone else, holding up a dun coloured ball.
The wheeling out from the Club Hut of two small trolleys containing iron hoops and metal flags interrupted this light banter and the more knowledgeable players quickly set them out. We were to play what is known as `golf croquet,' which is just as well. Not only is the alternative, `association croquet,' more complex but it has a hard competitive edge to it. Rumour has it that Wimbledon was once primarily a croquet club until match violence caused a fall from grace. Handy weapons those mallets; good range, too. Once the `hefting and swinging' mallet-choosing ritual was complete, the games quickly got underway with the crisp sound of wood striking wood and calls of `which hoop' and `which way' sounding across the lawns. The games proceeded apace, interrupted by the occasional call of, “Henry!” as our guide and mentor was called upon to explain a move or provide a judicial review. One quickly learned that, when a player is lining up for that crucial stroke through the hoop, there are no words more guaranteed to put them off than “You can do it.” However, if the shot is successful, the joy is unbounded.
At a suitable interval, tea was taken, and what a marvellous spread it proved to be. Not only was it a visual delight, but each offering tasted as good, if not better, than it looked. There was fruitcake, lemon cake, drizzle cake, scones, thick buttered fruit loaf, ginger biscuits, ham sandwiches, smoked salmon sandwiches and more, all home made and washed down with lashings of tea. It reminded one of Mole's response to Rat's picnic list in Wind in the Willows - `O stop, stop. This is too much !' In fact it was scrumptious !! As is usual with Holmesian's enjoying themselves, the tea-time subjects under discussion were far ranging, once the eulogies over the quality of the spread were complete, that is. Some pondered upon the question as to why neither Holmes nor Watson, as far as is known, played croquet, yet it is a game that was played in the mid 1800's with the Association itself being founded in 1897. The very name, croquet, seems to conjure up the vision of a genteel game played on sunlit Victorian vicarage lawns and if there were ever to be a Holmesian national game, this is surely it.
The Final was between Shirley Purves and partner David Guest against Helena Lopez and partner Reggie Musgrave. Our chairman and our secretary proved their winning skills on the final leg after a close run series. Shirley and David won a £5 coin each, and a book on historic Exeter was awarded to Loveday Victoria for her baking skills. The afternoon had grown cool as all the croquet kit was put away and then, with cheery waves and farewells, the members dispersed after a satisfying and delightful day out, though definitely not for those on a diet.
R.R.W.Musgrave
It can now be revealed that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was born in 1897 in Croften, Yorkshire, and his brother, Mycroft, was born in near-by Pontefract in 1901 (younger brother, notice). Not only that, but he had two sisters, the elder, Annie, born in 1895, and the younger, Alice, born in 1900. No, this is not some flight of fancy, nor is it Watsonian camouflage of an order not heretofore suspected – it is true. These amazing facts have come to light because of our own Eric Monahan's interest in genealogy and his perusal of the of the 1901 Census which was released to public scrutiny last year.
These children were born to Richard and Martha Holmes, both originally from Castleford, but in 1901 the family lived at Number 17, Newport Street, Tanshelf in the West Riding of Yorkshire.
In the Census, Richard Holmes describes himself as a Coal Hewer. One cannot but wonder what sort of man he was that Sherlock Holmes should have had such an impact on his life and thereby those of his sons. His common surname would have drawn him to the adventures, of course, but to name his boys thus was a bold step. What, one also wonders, did his wife, Martha, feel about the matter.
How did the boys fare on their journey through life with such distinctive appellations? Sherlock's first day at school, for instance, must have been tricky. There is surely an opportunity for further research here, as it is difficult to believe that they did not draw comment in local publications at some time or other throughout their lives. A dedicated delve into the local record office would no doubt pay some interesting dividends; as may a walk around the local churchyards. The Great War, in particular, would have impacted upon their lives. If Sherlock Holmes followed his father's footsteps into mining, then it is possible he would have avoided conscription. He may have volunteered though; and I recall reading that miners were called upon to join the tunnelling companies whose task it was to place many thousands of pounds of high explosive beneath the German trenches. A miner, apparently, could be working at the coal-face one day and three days later be tunnelling under the enemy lines, not knowing one end of a rifle from the other. There is another rather poignant thought; if he were killed during the war, then there may be a memorial to Sherlock Holmes in one of the war cemeteries.
As a final comment, it can be pointed out that all of this family's Christian names featured in the canon. Richard (Brunton) - MUSG; Martha, Von Bork's house-keeper cum secret agent - LAST; Alice, Hatty Doran's maid and confidential secretary – NOBL and Annie (Morrison), mentioned in Cunningham's note to William Kirwin – REIG, pure fluke, of course.
I leave you with this thought-provoking item, dear reader, it certainly leaves us in some suspense regarding the release of the next Census in 2011; that at least should give researchers some inkling of the progress of this family through life.
E.P.M. & R.R.W.M.
`Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light, which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare.' – Dr. John H. Watson, The Sign of Four.
Ah, the streets of old London town. Did you know that the Strand was once laid with wood blocks? This is something which does not come across in contemporary photographs and is certainly something of which I was not aware until recently. The following is taken from a 1903 article by one George R. Sims, entitled London “Up”
The Strand is a favourite field of operations for the authorities and the private companies. If one part of it is down the other is up. When the up part is finished the down part is taken up again. The pulling up of the Strand we seem to have always with us. If by chance the entire road is in possession of wood blocks which will bear the traffic, that is the psychological moment seized upon by an electric light company, or a kindred spirit, to tear it up from end to end.
Sounds familiar – and you thought such chaos modern! Mr. Sims also paints a rather wonderful picture of the road-works at lunch-time.
Now and again you come upon a scene of London “Up” which is really picturesque – a scene which a painter might transfer to his canvas. It is dinner hour – when the men, some sitting in the night-watchman's hut, some making a shelter of an uptilted hand-cart, squat round the red coke fire and smoke their pipes and read last week's – sometimes last year's – news in the torn, greasy bits of newspaper in which some of their provender has been wrapped.
The adjuncts of the meal have generally in themselves a picturesque suggestion. There is the plain white basin tied up in a big red handkerchief; there is the queer-shaped metal bottle which contains tea – or is it beer? There are the big pocket knives which take the place of table cutlery; and often there is the little girl or the young woman who has come to see father or husband at dinner-time and has thoughtfully brought him “something hot.”
And of the night-watchman.
I have been privileged to spend some hours of the night with one of these lonely guardians, who spends the night by a cheerful coke fire smoking his black dhudeen [1] and gossiping occasionally with a loafer to whom the glow of the coke is welcome. This watchman in his Robinson Crusoey hut is envied by all small boys. These men are only on duty at night-times during the week, but on Sundays they have to put in a day as well. Then they have visitors. It is no uncommon sight to see the watchman's wife and daughter seated beside or near him on the Sunday morning, and I have heard of friends of the family dropping in to tea. But this is in the summer, when a turned-up wheelbarrow or inverted bucket is a pleasant enough resting place, seeing that the blue skies are overhead and the sunshine all around.
The night scene certainly conjures up an image of old London. One can almost hear the clop and thrum of that late-night cab, bearing Holmes and Watson back to Baker-street after some nocturnal prowl, and see the flash and gleam of coke-red reflected in the polished bodywork as it passes.
Articles from Torr No 21, Autumn 2002
Holmes was, of course, a man of the Metropolis, unhappy when he was forced to leave it; and in spite of his French grandmother, Bohemian soul and cosmopolitan connections, he was quintessentially English. Where more appropriate then to celebrate his memory than in London, or else in 'the smiling and beautiful [English] country-side'? The green grass and red earth of Devonshire are a perfect example of the latter, and where better in that jewel of rural England to hold the celebration than the "Nobody Inn" at Doddiscombsleigh?
Relative strangers to the locality may not make it a hobby of theirs to have an exact knowledge of Devonshire. The "Nobody Inn" is notoriously difficult to find for all except the most local of locals (presumably the explanation of its name?) That exercise can appear fit to defy the combined resources of the ordnance survey, the internet and global satellite positioning, and the confused traveller may feel that only a Sioux tracker born and bred on the Moor might manage it.
However, all in the fading twilight of a fine April evening we found ourselves in the right place, converging upon the "Inn" in eager anticipation. On our approach to the final bends, an oncoming motorist frantically signalled an obstruction ahead. Our hearts sinking at the prospect of labyrinthine diversions, we proceeded with cautious trepidation. The obstacle proved to be a solitary cow in the middle of the road, homeward plodding her weary way with a stolid determination which never wavered even when our car passed alongside with a few inches to spare. Having alerted a helpful resident to restore the errant animal to her owner, we rejoiced to see the inviting prospect of our destination come into view.
We were soon enfolded in the convivial low-beamed, mellow-lit, nooked-and-crannied atmosphere of the "Nobody Inn". Oak-aged and matured over centuries, it embodies the values of a bygone era; its warmly welcoming presence breathes a tranquil security far removed from the turbulent bustle of modern urban life. It was certainly there in Holmes' day, and indeed may have played host to the famous partnership on their forays into the Dartmoor region. (A free firkin of ale to whomsoever may prove such a connection?-Just a happy thought!) Glasses of wine inclusive in the attendance charge and a promising dinner menu awaited. The "Inn" is, I believe, renowned for the quality of its cuisine, and rose to our festive occasion with a bill of fare that would have delighted Mrs. Hudson-succulent sirloin, delectable duck, apple and berry pie with clotted cream, and more!
Twenty-four members of the Society were present, including a number who are also members of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London. As in previous years our Treasurer, Mr. Vosper Arthur, proposed the loyal toast in tribute to Queen Victoria and to the health of Her present Majesty, coupled this year with the memory of Her late Majesty the Queen Mother. Our Chairman Mr. David Guest then delivered his annual address. The theme of this year's Dinner commemorated the return of Sherlock Holmes to London after his peripatetic Reichenbach period, described in "The Adventure of the Empty House". The Chairman commented upon the suitability for this purpose of our present venue, indicating the common thread of domestic vacuity implicit in the titles "Empty House" and "Nobody Inn". Fortunately, just as on that momentous night in 1894 the House, far from Empty, contained the foremost consulting detective in the world and the best heavy game shot in the Eastern Empire, so on this night in 2002 the " Inn" held a jovial company of loyal devotees of the Canon, and the cream of its West Country students.
Sustained by the food and drink
conversation flowed in merry vein, until we ultimately emerged,
happy and replete, into the Stygian blackness of a country night,
having resumed old friendships, perhaps forged new ones, and
thoroughly enjoyed suitably nostalgic revels which had, albeit at
some distance in time and space, assisted Holmes' reappearance in
that seething milieu of misdeed and mayhem where interesting
little problems were once more so plentifully presented.
The Inn has had a curious role in the parish.
It did not formally become an Inn until 1838. However from the
early 1600's at least it was virtually the village's unofficial
Church House. It was originally called Pophill Howse (sic) but
details seem untraceable until 1752 when it is owned by Stephen
Diggines "the carpenter". Stephen and his son Stephen
did carpentry work for the church and his house continued to be a
centre for parish affairs and de facto inn and meeting place.
Pophill House did not become "The New Inn" until after
Stephen Jr. died in 1837. To today it has continued to be an Inn.
One change in 1952 was the change of name to The NoBody Inn
following the sudden death of, then innkeeper, Mr Lewis, whose
body was left in the mortuary whilst his burial service was
taking place, unknowingly, around an empty coffin. Since then the
Inn has changed hands four times, the present family having run
the Inn since 1970.
(From The Nobody Inn website. Ed.)
My bound Strand Magazines for July to December, 1892, carry an article entitled, A Day with Dr. Conan Doyle, by Harry How. The article follows an interview that took place at Doyle's home in South Norwood. There is much of interest, but two elements in particular stand out. One is a delightful pen picture of Doyle:
'He is just a happy, genial, homely man; tall, broad-shouldered, with a hand that grips you heartily, and, in its sincerity of welcome, hurts. He is brown and bronzed, for he enters liberally into all outdoor sports - football, tennis, bowls, and cricket. His average with the bat this season is twenty. He is a capital amateur photographer, too. But in exercise he most leans towards tricycling. He is never happier than when on his tandem with his wife, and starting on a thirty-mile spin ; never merrier than when he perches his little three-year-old Mary on the wheels, and rims her round the green lawn of his garden.'
However, it is the information on Mr. Joseph Bell, M.D., of Edinburgh's medical school that is of particular interest. Doyle's affection and gratitude for his former teacher are shown by the fact that a portrait of Bell hung at his South Norwood home.
Doyle relates how he was the clerk in Mr. Bell's ward and his duties included mustering the patients and showing them in to Bell who sat with his students gathered around him. Doyle describes Bell thus:
Case No. 1 would step up.
"I see," said Mr. Bell, "you're suffering from
drink. You even carry a flask in your inside breast pocket of
your coat.
'Another case would come forward.
"Cobbler, 1 see." Then he would turn to the students,
and point out to them that the inside of the knee of the man's
trousers was worn. That was where the man had rested the lapstone
- a peculiarity only found in cobblers.
And his description of Bell will
sound familiar:
'..sharp, piercing gray eyes, eagle nose, and striking features.
There he would sit in his chair with his fingers together.. . .
and just look at the man or woman before him.'
The most fascinating element of Mr. How's article, however, is the reply he received from Bell in response to a communication, and it is here reproduced in its entirety :
2, Melville-Crescent,
Edinburgh,
June 16, 1892.
Dear Sir,
You ask me about the kind of teaching to which Dr. Conan Doyle
has so kindly referred, when speaking of his ideal character,
"Sherlock Holmes." Dr. Conan Doyle has, by his
imaginative genius, made a great deal out of very little, and his
warm remembrance of one of his old teachers has coloured the
picture. In teaching the treatment of disease and accident, all
careful teachers have first to show the student how to recognise
accurately the case. The recognition depends in great measure on
the accurate and rapid appreciation of small points in which the
diseased differs from the healthy state. In fact, the student
must be taught to observe. To interest him in this type of work
we teachers find it useful to show the student how much a trained
use of the observation can discover in ordinary matters such as
the previous history, nationality, and occupation of a patient.
The patient, too, is likely to be impressed by your ability to cure him in the future if he sees you, at a glance, know much of his past. And the whole trick is much easier than it appears at first.
For instance, physiognomy helps you to nationality, accent to district, and, to an educated ear, almost to county. Nearly every handicraft writes its sign manual on the hands. The scars of the miner differ from those of the quarryman. The carpenter's callosities are not those of the mason. The shoemaker and the tailor are quite different. The soldier and the sailor differ in gait, though last month I had to tell a man who said he was a soldier that he had been a sailor in his boyhood. The subject is endless : the tattoo marks on the hand or arm will tell their own tale as to voyages ; the ornaments on the watch chain of the successful settler will tell you where he made his money. A New Zealand squatter will not wear a gold mohur, nor an engineer on an Indian railway a Maori stone. Carry the same idea of using one's senses accurately and constantly, and you will see that many a surgical case will bring his past history, national social, and medical, into the consulting room as he walks in. Dr. Doyle's genius and intense imagination has on this slender basis made his detective stories a distinctly new departure, but he owes much less than he thinks to yours truly Joseph Bell.
Mr. Joseph Bell was not only the
seminal Holmes, but it seems that he was a modest man as well.
Previous articles in Torr No 20, spring 2002
Dartmoor and the small fishing town of Whitstable in Kent are very different places, the former being the home of the formidable Hound of the Baskervilles and the latter famous for its rather less formidable oysters1. Nevertheless, a very definite Holmesian connection links the two places. For it was in Whitstable that Peter Cushing - the actor who fought the Hound of the Baskervilles twice on screen - lived for over 30 years.
The 'gentle man of horror' had played both Baron Frankenstein and Dr. Van Helsing for Hammer Studios before they cast him as Sherlock Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959). The finished film split opinion so severely that one commentator can call it 'the best Sherlock Holmes film ever made, and one of Hammer's finest movies'2, while another deems it 'very poor, humourless material'3. I'm rather fond of this film, especially its oft-criticized (but, in my opinion, superb) Technicolour photography; whatever one thinks, the best aspect of the film is undoubtedly the splendid and intelligent teaming of Peter Cushing and Andre Morrell as Holmes and Watson.
Unfortunately, I cannot comment with any authority on the 1968 BBC TV production of The Hound of the Baskervilles since I have never seen it - doubly regrettable as this was the first Hound to be filmed on location on Dartmoor! Here again there is disagreement over the results, with one source judging that 'it failed to grip as well as Hammer's Hound'4 and another that the production 'is by far the best television treatment of the book and may even be better than the 1939 Rathbone Hound'5. High praise indeed - but the fact tat the production team took the trouble to use the correct location of Dartmoor shows that this was a landmark dramatization.
In refusing to merely imitate Basil Rathbone's interpretation of the role, Cushing's performances as Sherlock Holmes set a new precedent which inevitably alienated some viewers. To a certain extent, he moved in the opposite direction to Rathbone's idealized knight errant, and uncovered Sherlock's darker side - occasionally impatient and angry. Most importantly of all though, he made sure of his Canon, thoroughly researching Holmes's mannerisms. Perhaps this was his greatest legacy as Sherlock Holmes, since a similarly careful attention to Canonical detail is evident amongst all of the great Sherlocks of recent years.
In 1959, the same year that Hammer's Hound was released, Peter and his wife Helen moved permanently to Whitstable, having been regular visitors for many years during holidays and weekends. They had fallen in love with the town and Peter once wrote, 'I prefer to call it a village, because it has that atmosphere which towns lack'6. When Helen died in 1971, Peter continued to live in Whitstable, becoming a familiar figure about the town on his bicycle. The affection and esteem in which he was held were demonstrated in 1994 when thousands of people lined the streets of Whitstable as his funeral cortĖge made its way through the town.
Today, Whitstable does not trumpet its association with Peter Cushing. Those who are looking for related merchandise will be disappointed, but there are a few spots that pleasantly, and discreetly, pay tribute to the actor. One of these is the Tudor Tea Rooms, a quiet traditional teashop where Peter frequently took his refreshment. Above Peter's table hangs a photograph of him around which is engraved the legend:
On the other side of the room stand three frames - another photograph, an announcement of his memorial service, and a handwritten poem by Peter celebrating his favourite teashop.
After his death Whitstable Museum held an exhibition entitled 'Peter Cushing: A Celebration'. A small part of this exhibition is still preserved - a number of wall displays illustrate his career and a cabinet contains a few of Peter's drawings and personal items. The museum still stocks the excellent brochure that accompanied the exhibition. Best of all is Cushing's View, a spot on the seafront where Peter donated a wooden bench. Although he did this in 1992, over 20 years after his wife's death, the plaque on the bench reads:
As Sir John Mills explained, "Even though his wife died years ago he always signed his letters, 'with love from Peter and Helen'." Sitting on the wooden bench at Cushing's View, looking out at the vast expanse of the sea and sky and breathing that crisp North Sea air, one realizes why Peter loved Whitstable so.
It is a shame that Peter Cushing's
performances as Sherlock Holmes are so difficult (and, in the
case of the 1968 BBC TV series, impossible) to find. I would,
however, recommend that you read his memoirs, charmingly
described by one reviewer as "two volumes of
characteristically modest autobiography, as slim and elegant as
the man himself."7
In the first of these books, Peter describes how, in 1939, he
decided to try his luck in Hollywood and became a fledgling
member of the 'British colony' of film actors: "That grand
old stalwart of the British Theatre, Empire and cricket, C.
Aubrey Smith, invited me to play in his Eleven, which included
Basil Rathbone, David Niven and William Pratt. (The movie moguls
thought this a rather ordinary name, so they changed it to the
more exotic-sounding Boris Karloff.) I was bowled out first ball,
and missed several easy catches when fielding at mid-on, being so
distracted by all those luminaries surrounding me. My services
were not called upon again, but I attended several matches as an
onlooker from the pavilion."8
Playing cricket with Boris Karloff and Basil Rathbone? It would seem that fate had already marked out Peter Cushing for the roles of the bad Baron and the Great Detective . . .
NOTES
1. Less formidable, certainly, but let us not forget that Holmes
babbled of the world being "overrun by oysters" in The
Dying Detective!
2. David Pirie, Time Out Film Guide
3. Michael Pointer, The Public Life of Sherlock Holmes, p.95
4. David Stuart Davies, Holmes of the Movies, p.126
5. Roger Johnson, The District Messenger, no. 212
6. Peter Cushing, Past Forgetting, p.72
7. Doctor Who Magazine, Peter Cushing tribute issue, p.7
8. Peter Cushing, An Autobiography, p.68
Previous articles in Torr No 19, Autumn 2001
by John Hall
In an article in a recent issue of Red Herrings (the journal of the Crime Writers' Association) Phil Rickman notes his sense of mild disappointment with the rather prosaic ending of The Hound of the Baskervilles, namely that the Hound is just that, a real dog. Rickman gives examples of other stories by other writers which blend 'crime' and 'ghost' themes successfully and asks if it would not have been better from the reader's point of view had the Hound really been an agent of Satan, or at least if the ending had been ambiguous, had hinted that some supernatural or diabolic explanation might have existed.
I think that the point here is that while the story could have had such an ambiguous, if not downright spooky, ending, it would not just have been a (self-evidently!) different story, it would also have run directly contrary to the rest of the Sherlockian canon. Conan Doyle (hereinafter 'ACD') had been at some pains to establish the character of Holmes as prosaic almost to the point of caricature, of inhumanity; Holmes's attitude to the 'other world' is neatly encapsulated in his opening remarks on the subject of the undead in 'The Sussex Vampire.' It would sit very oddly with this persona for Holmes to have to admit that the Hound were not of this world. (And doubly so when we recall that The Hound is very much more Watson's case - solid, down-to-earth, Watson - than ever it is Holmes's.)
Then, too, does The Hound actually need another strand? Quite apart from the Gothic elements it already contains (compare the description of Baskerville Hall with that of Dracula's castle, to go no deeper) it is a very complex study in detection. It is almost fashionable to dismiss this aspect, to say in effect that 'the answer and the culprit are very obvious.' They probably are to those of us who have read every edition, seen every film, heard every radio version; but they are certainly not to anyone coming to the story fresh for the first time. The way in which ACD misdirects the reader's suspicions, to Barrymore, to Frankland, even to Dr. Mortimer himself, is nothing less than brilliant. I even recall that when I first read The Hound I actually suspected the escaped convict, Selden, even though it is quite clear that he was safely 'inside' when the first murder, that of Sir Charles, took place. Another, supernatural, suspect would surely be over the top? (By way of a slight digression, this quality of writing is, for me, a conclusive argument to counter those who would claim that a hand other than that of ACD penned The Hound.)
Standing back a little from this one story, it is interesting that ACD, that staunch proponent of Spiritualism, managed to keep Holmes's feet so firmly on the ground. Surely the world's most famous consulting detective would have made a natural vehicle for expounding ACD's own views, rather than the lesser-known Professor Challenger? Paul Chapman, to whom I put this question in the pub one time, suggests that ACD esteemed Challenger more highly than Holmes, and did not feel that Holmes was quite good enough, as it were, to put forward ACD's own deeply held beliefs. That is one possibility; I suspect that another might be that ACD - for all that he apparently looked down on Holmes - knew which side his bread was buttered (ACD was a professional writer, in it for the cash), and simply did not want to run the risk of alienating Holmes's fans by introducing a jarring or propagandist element.
As almost a last point, there is an ambiguous ending to The Hound anyway, for those who can spot it; not the nature of the Hound, but the ultimate fate of Stapleton. We have become accustomed to the image of the murderous scoundrel sinking slowly into the mire, as like as not with Holmes and Watson making desperate though vain efforts to save him; but that is nowhere in the original. (I am aware of at least one pastiche whose main premise is that Stapleton lived to fight another day, and there my well be more than one.)
And as a very last point, could ACD have left the nature of the Hound open to question and still resolved the case? After all, if the Hound were an agent of the Devil, sent to claim the souls of all the Baskervilles, then all Holmes's efforts to save Sir Henry would have been a colossal waste of time in the long run anyway!
ANOTHER ADVENTURE FOR THE (SOUTH) WEST COUNTRY SOCIETY
by Shirley Purves
Although we are the Society of the West Country, there is no
reason why we should not read and enjoy other adventures,
especially those set in the south of England and those with a
maritime background. The Hound, Silver Blaze and the Devil's
Foot are fine to research on our own doorstep, but we are
very remiss if we ignore the treasury of tales set not too far
away, awaiting our attention.
One of these is The Lion's Mane, which took place about
forty miles east of Portsmouth. The happenings in the latter have
been dated by Baring Gould as occurring in August 1909, after
Holmes retirement. He describes his new home in his own words:
One big question here is of
course, where actually is this idyllic place? There is no such
place as Fulworth, but it is possible to investigate several bays
and small towns along the coast which have been suggested as
likely candidates including Seaford and Burling Gap. As yet no
positive identification has been accepted as the one and only.
Briefly, the Lion's Mane seems at first glance to be a
simple straightforward tale of murder by means and persons
unknown. A young man, Fitzroy MacPherson, from a nearby tutorial
establishment, The Gables, run by Mr. Harold Stackhurst, dies
literally at Holmes' and Stackhurst's feet while they are out
walking on the cliffs. It was clear that MacPherson had climbed
the cliff path clad only in his Burberry, but:
"His back was covered with dark red lines as if he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge".
All is not straightforward and simple as appears at first sight..so do not be fooled. Along the way, one particular suspect come under police scrutiny but Holmes refuses to jump to the conclusions of the local constabulary, who to their credit are pleased to have his help. Inevitably there is a woman in the case, one of the most attractive in the whole canon. Her name is Maud Bellamy and she and the dead man were engaged, secretly, because of antagonism from both sides. The final scene is a triumph for Holmes' deductive and perceptive powers though he criticises himself for being so slow to reach the right conclusion.
This is a case where we learn quite a lot about Holmes himself as we see the case unfold. Details of his thinking and interests, personal items of his life, his philosophy and, quite by chance, his feeling to animals especially dogs emerge. For instance, we hear that he and Watson saw very little of each other for several years after the detective had:
"given myself up to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned."
His description of his Sussex home shows how deeply he appreciated the beauties of the English countryside. However, several critics have expressed amazement that a Londoner such as Holmes could throw his practice to the wind and seemingly bury himself alive in the country, with only his bees and housekeeper, Martha, (was she the Mrs. Hudson of Baker Street?) for company:..
"all Nature was newly washed and fresh. It was impossible to work on so delightful a day".
These words contrast strangely with his complete urbanity, evident in his earlier cases. There has been conjecture that he had already started helping the British Government in a way, which was to culminate in the unmasking of the German spy ring in "His Last Bow". This new role demanded that he keep a low profile and yet be free to travel where and whenever he is called upon.
As mentioned earlier Holmes is the writer here. The difference in his style from that of Watson is clear. For example, at no point in the narrative is the actual time of the walk, the death, or any other indication of the hour, mentioned, merely "before breakfast". Watson would certainly have been more exact in timing the events of the morning. But in the praise of Maud Bellamy, Holmes is as impressed by her and fulsome in his praise as ever Watson would have been:
"There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere?"
Perhaps he asked Watson for help when he came to write this phrase! Certainly the two men had to be in touch with each other from time to time, and it is almost as if this adventure has been written to fill in many gaps in our knowledge of Holmes' life. We just have to be clever enough to deduce them, to prepare us for the eventual denouement in "His Last Bow", when the two men work together again. There was some communication, even though Watson was ostensibly practising medicine in London while Holmes relaxed in Sussex.
These are just a few of the many
deductions that can be made from the text of the Lion's mane. I
have deliberately not revealed the final secret of MacPherson's
death. But aside from the story itself and its fascinating
conclusion, the adventure is worthy of reading and re-reading to
deduce many facets of Holmes life, both then and later. Do read
it, and find out for yourselves.
Previous articles from Torr 18:
THE TURN OF THE CENTURY
by Eric Monahan
Please don’t turn the page yet, because this is not another article on the Millennium Dome, or whether the new millennium begins in 2000 or 2001. I am speaking of the turn from the 19th to the 20th century, which would have been observed in 1900 by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.
This was not a particularly busy year for Holmes. While it is acknowledged that opinions on the chronology differ, 1900 probably saw him engaged on only four cases which were recorded by Watson: The Six Napoleons, The Priory School, Thor Bridge and, last but by no means least, The Hound of the Baskervilles.
But what were the events, at home and abroad, which would have engaged the two friends’ attention as they read their newspapers over the breakfast table? Thanks to the Daily Express we have a snapshot of one particular day, Tuesday, April 24th. On that day issue number 1 of that paper was published, and on the same day this year a facsimile of that issue was given with the current paper.
But what of "The War", news of which occupied most of the last three front-page columns? This was the (second) Boer War, and we may remember that Conan Doyle volunteered his medical services to the forces in South Africa. Under sub-headings such as "Attack near Bloemfontein" and "Roberts’s next move" are reports and rumours of the moves to raise the siege of Mafeking (Ladysmith had been relieved two months earlier), and an account from Lord Roberts of a patrol of 53 men being sent out after dark, "and only 18 returned". From the Sydney corespondent there is a report on the embarkation of The Imperial Bushmen for South Africa. They were no doubt greatly encouraged by being addressed by the Governor of New South Wales, who assured them that "an affectionate admiration was felt for them throughout the British Empire, from her Majesty the Queen down to the humblest boy in the streets of London."
Page 3 is given over to classified and display advertisements. Of more interest is the Publishers Column, in which Smith, Elder & Co., of 15, Waterloo Place, advise of a "New volume by Conan Doyle. Just published. With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo. 6s. ‘The Green Flag’, and other stories of War and Sport. By the author of ‘The White Company’, ‘Rodney Stone’, etc. ‘Daily Telegraph’ – ‘Few novelists of our time have told the story in such stirring language, and the battle picture is perfect of its kind. Altogether the volume is admirable.’ ("It appears, Watson, that your literary agent is favouring his own writings over your accounts of our exploits. I did warn you, you will remember, that you were laying too much emphasis on the romantic aspects instead of concentrating on the deductive reasoning.")
Holmes would not have lingered long over the personal, or "agony" column on page 4, as it had only four entries, all of which were disguised advertisements, such as this: "HARRY. – If you’ll buy me one of those lovely two and a half guineas Costumes at Dunn’s, 43, Newington causeway, S.E., I’ll come on Sunday. – GLADYS". ("Bleat, Watson –unmitigated bleat!")
On another page we learn that France is to build 100 submarines, 50 for sea-going and 50 for coast defence. (Who did get the Bruce-Partington plans?)
Finally, what about the following as an example of how wrong the "experts" can be:
"Wireless and Futureless – Lecturing before the Institution of Civil Engineers last night, Sir William Preece, the famous electrician of the General Post Office, crystalised (sic) in a sentence the latest development of electricity. ‘Wireless telegraphy’, he said, ‘has made but small progress, because there is no commercial business in it.’ "
