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This parody appeared in Truth in 1922. As far as I am aware it has not been republished since then.



Images reproduced with kind permission of The British Newspaper Archive (www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk)

I WAS sitting alone in the old familiar room in Baker Street. Outside, the November gale was blowing against the window pane, and was roaring in the chimney overhead. A bright fire burnt in the grate, while across the hearth there faced me that other armchair, now, alas! empty, from whose depths Sherlock Holmes had been wont till recently to pour forth his acute observations mingled with the acrid fumes of his tobacco. It was barely a week since I had attended that simple yet solemn ceremony at the crematorium, and even now the urn containing his ashes—all that was left of that magnificent personality—reposed upon the mantelpiece.

My mind wandered in the past among those dramas, many of which had begun or developed within that homely apartment, and somewhat morbidly I anticipated the lonely years which should lapse before I, too, was released to join my friend behind the veil.

I was awakened from these dismal reflections by the sound of a heavy foot upon the stair. How often, I thought, had these sounds prefaced the intervention of Sherlock Holmes across the path of some unsuspecting criminal! A knock at the door heralded the arrival of no less a person than Inspector Lestrade, that harbinger of crime, whose appearance was no less welcome because it was unexpected.

"Good evening, Doctor," he greeted me. "May I come in?"

I made him welcome, settled him in Holmes's chair, and having provided him with his favourite whisky and water, waited for him to reveal the object of his visit. Nor had I long to wait. After a preliminary sip at his glass he began:

"I have came here for inspiration, Doctor. Upon my soul I was half-way here before I remembered that inspiration was all that I could get now. I've as hard a nut to crack as ever I had."

" I fear," I replied, "that my help will be a poor substitute for -"

"Lor' bless you, Doctor, I don't expect to get inspiration from you; but I've had so many a hint given to me in this room that sitting here in this very chair I feel I must learn something."

"What is your case?". I asked him, somewhat hurt, I confess, by his last remark.

"A disappearance case. Well, I may as well tell you all about it. Talking it over may help to clear the air. John Shearman, a broker, with offices in Broad Street, left his house, The Acacias, Wellington Avenue, Streatham, at 8.50 a.m. on Saturday to catch the 9.2 to the City. Since then not a trace of him has been seen. Enquiries show that he never reached his office, which was closed in any case on Saturday. Mrs Shearman waited for him till 9 p.m., and then rang up Scotland Yard. That was Saturday; today is Wednesday. That's the case, and here is a photograph of the missing man." He handed me a cabinet-sized photograph.

"Did anyone see him enter the train?" I asked.

"Well, as to that, they didn't. But the station was crowded at that hour in the morning, so there's nothing in that."

"Is his business all right?"

"Oh, nothing wrong there, nor at home either. There's no apparent motive for his disappearance, nor anything which might indicate foul play."

"Well," I said, "my time is my own. I shall be happy to look into this little problem and to apply Holmes's methods to it. Still, of course, I can promise nothing."

"I never thought you could," replied Lestrade, with, I thought, unnecessary emphasis on the pronoun; "still, I decided to talk it over."

I poured him out more whisky, and, leaving the subject of his present case, we began to talk of past cases in which Holmes had assisted the official police, and then, drifting from subject to subject, such as the Polesworth murder, which was then attracting public attention, I asked him if Scotland Yard had ever called in Spiritism as an aid to detection. Lestrade positively roared with laughter at the idea; his attitude indeed somewhat piqued me, since to the man of thought the immense strides recently taken by the science of Spiritism has raised it far above the mockery of the vulgar.

"In America," I said, " they are more progressive. On several occasions their police have consulted mediums, and though up to the present no conclusive results have been obtained, they are sufficient to show that the same spirit of progress at Scotland Yard would not come amiss."

This annoyed Lestrade, always a hasty-tempered man, and we had some words on the subject, ending in Lestrade completely losing his temper and leaving, forgetting to take Shearman's photograph with him.

After he had closed the door he opened it again, and, putting his head into the room, sneeringly remarked:

"Why don't you consult the ghost of Mr. Holmes about my little case? Perhaps he might care to investigate it."

He then shut the door, and I heard him descend the stairs and pass out into the street.

For some minutes I was too upset for collected thought. Spiritism, like any other religion, is too sacred a subject to hear scoffed at without disquietude. As I grew calmer, however, I thought over Lestrade's last remark, and the more I thought the more the idea appealed to me. Why should I not approach the spirit of my dear friend and learn from him the solution of the problem, thus at one stroke discovering Shearman and converting Lestrade and the other pundits at Scotland Yard?

The more I thought about it the more the idea appealed to me. Deep study of the Beyond had taught me how keenly interested are those who have passed over in the most trivial incidents of this mortal life; and what better means had I of honouring the memory of Sherlock Holmes than by giving him the opportunity of visiting again the scenes of his old triumphs? Moreover, as Vice-President of the Spiritist Union, I was able to engage what I may call the machinery for my demonstration in a manner best suited to my purpose. I determined to consult Sherlock Holmes here in this room, so impregnated with his personality, where his very ashes were laid to rest.

Next morning I arranged for Madame Blonde, a trustworthy and favourite medium of mine, to come to Baker Street that same evening. I determined that no one else should attend the séance. I passed the day in a fever of impatience, but evening came at last, and after a simple supper I prepared the room for our séance. In the centre of the dining-table I placed the urn containing the ashes of my departed friend. I could not but feel that the most intimate way in which to place the problem before him would be to introduce the photograph into the urn, so that the ashes might lie in contact with it. I could not, however, bring myself to break the seals, and contented myself with placing the photograph underneath the vessel.

I had hardly completed my arrangements when Madame Blonde arrived. I may say that she is a large lady some fifty years of age, with a pale, flabby face, uninteresting, were it not for her china-blue eyes peering from between the many folds of her skin. No time was wasted in preliminaries, for I had already confided to Madame Blonde that I wished to communicate with my friend Sherlock Holmes. The lights were lowered and the séance began.

For twenty minutes or so nothing broke the silence but the moaning of the wind in the chimney and the deep, stertorous breathing of the medium. Then a sharp rap resounded upon the side of the urn, echoed by a gasp from Madame Blonde. And then—how can I describe the ecstasy with which I heard it?—the dear lost voice, a little husky, certainly, but to me unmistakable, exclaimed: "Good evening, my dear Watson."

"Good heavens, Holmes!" I ejaculated. "Is it indeed you?"

"Who else? And how is friend Gregson?"

"Lestrade, you mean," I suggested.

" And Lestrade, too, of course. How are they muddling along without me?"

"It is just that, my dear Holmes, which made me venture to consult you."

"Tut, tut, these police!" replied the voice, "I almost wish I could return. However, it is all for the best. I find my peculiar faculties of great assistance to the authorities over here. But, my dear Watson, we are merely gossiping. What is the problem which is worrying our friend Lestrade?"

The reader may imagine with what joy I heard once more the vigorous language of my departed friend, but, putting emotion on one side, I briefly related what details I knew of the strange disappearance of Mr. John Shearman.

Holmes's reply was scarcely what I expected. From the urn in the centre of the table his voice suddenly arose in song. Sherlock Holmes singing! Impossible! Yet there it was. It clearly came from the urn, nor had the singer's passage to the other side diminished its musical deficiencies. He appeared to be singing very much out of tune; indeed, it was some time before I recognised the air. When I did so, I was much astonished to find that Holmes was singing that beautiful and well-known hymn "Through the night of doubt and sorrow," but with this strange peculiarity—at the end of each verse, instead of the last line, he sang: "And do not forget the sponge." This, of course, entirely upset the beauty of the original, which was further marred by Holmes's adaptation of verse four, which ran as follows:

Use my methods, my dear Watson;
You have all the data there.
With the bathroom sponge go forward,
Truth will meet you in that lair.

At the conclusion of this singular hymn there was again a resounding rap upon the urn, and then silence, and after a little, with a long-drawn sigh, Madame Blonde awoke.

When Madame Blonde had gone, I sat down before the fire and tried to collect my thoughts and read the riddle. For answer there must be. All the initiated know that the spirits, for reasons of which we are not aware, have great difficulty in giving a connected answer to what lawyers call a leading question; in fact, such answers are invariably cryptic and apparently vague. It may also be said that the interpretation of them forms a considerable part of the science of Spiritism.

After puzzling over the problem for a few minutes, I went to the book-shelf and took down a copy of "Hymns Ancient and Modern" and quickly found the hymn. I jotted down any sequences of words which could have a bearing upon the matter.

"Brother clasps the hand of brother."

Had Shearman a brother? This must be looked into. Then the allusion to a sponge constantly repeated—the frequent repetition of the word "one" in the hymn—could this be the key? Then, again, the reference to a sponge. Up and down the columns I searched, from "Through" to "Amen," reading forward, backwards; first words of lines; all the common devices of cryptograms. The motto at the top:
"One Hope of your calling"
seemed to suggest immediate need of medical aid, but no further clue.

From this motto my eyes wandered almost idly to the number of the hymn, No. 274. An idea occurred to me, and, going to the cabinet standing against the wall by the window, in which Holmes had kept an indexed record of all his cases, I looked up No. 274.

"Case of Neville St. Clair, alias Boone, vol. ii., page 33," I read. Hastily securing volume two, and turning to page 33, "Eureka! " I almost shouted, for I had found the clue at last.

Those who have read my previous records of Sherlock Holmes will remember the strange case of Neville St. Clair which is recorded under the title of "The Man With the Twisted Lip." It will be recalled that Holmes discovered St. Clair (who had disappeared) in the person of the beggar arrested as his murderer. The disguise which had been assumed for the purpose of begging consisted of dirt and a piece of plaster, giving a permanent and sinister twist to St. Clair's lip. The vigorous use of a bath sponge in the hand of Holmes had removed both elements of disguise, and St. Clair was revealed.

Here, then, was the key to the present mystery. The hymn had been chosen because its number agreed with the St. Clair index number in Holmes's file. The alterations in the words of the hymn must be for my special guidance. The emphasis on the sponge was explained.

After due consideration, I arranged the message thus: " You will find the truth of your problem in the same lair where I exposed St. Clair with a bath sponge. Go to that place and expose Shearman in the same manner. Don't forget to use the sponge."

Now, St. Clair had been arrested in an opium den, "The Bar of Gold," in Upper Swandham Lane. Evidently it was there that I should find Shearman. It is true that the actual exposure had taken place at Bow Street Police Station, but as the police were not yet to be taken into my confidence, Bow Street was out of the picture, and the opium den itself must be the venue of my demonstration. With this small variation, Holmes's instructions were clear enough: "Go to the opium den in Upper Swandham Lane. There you will see a man with a twisted lip. Apply a bathroom sponge to his face, and your mystery is solved."

It was now long after midnight, and I retired to rest with the firm resolve to carry out these instructions during the following night.

In the morning it occurred to me that I had better disguise myself; first, because, though I had only once been to the "Bar of Gold" years before, there might still be someone who would recognise me; and, secondly, some of my friends in the police might be in the neighbourhood, and they were not to be called in till the case was complete. I accordingly purchased a small black beard, and in the evening, donning an old seedy suit, I set forth.

Holmes's records had furnished me with the password which had been in use long ago, and if it had been changed; as was extremely likely, residence abroad for many years would account for my anachronism.

Everything turned out as I expected. The Lascar at the door became very suspicious when I gave him the password, but my explanation, helped out by a sovereign (one of the few I had retained from pre-war days) convinced him that I was no impostor.

There is no heed to describe again the odious den in which I found myself, as I have already done full justice to it in my previous narrative. When my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness I settled down on one of the lounges and, pretending to be absorbed in the pipe which had been thrust into my hands, I looked about me in every direction.

I was early on the scene, and though the place was almost empty, fresh arrivals kept dropping in. I could see no one resembling Shearman, whose photograph was in my pocket, nor any one with a twisted lip. I contented myself, therefore, with watching the fresh arrivals.

I had been thus occupied for about half an hour or so, pretending to smoke and go to sleep, when two men entered the den, one tall, the other short and thickset. The tall man being nearest me hid the face of the shorter until they both subsided on separate lounges opposite me. As they did so I was electrified to see that the smaller man had a hideously twisted lip.

Hardly daring to believe my good fortune, I gave them both time to settle down to their opium, and then, staggering to my feet, I approached them, at the same time taking the bathroom sponge from my pocket and holding it concealed behind me. I passed behind the lounge on which the short man was reclining, and, making a sudden swoop, rubbed the sponge three times across his face with the utmost vigour, just as I had seen Holmes do it years before that early morning in the cell at Bow Street.

The result was intensely dramatic, though somewhat different from what I had expected. The tall man, who had watched my operations with some interest, observing the result, sprang to his feet, exclaiming, "Hell!" and dived out of the apartment; and there, struggling to his feet, from the lounge before me, was the form of—Lestrade.

His face was perfectly livid with fury. Seizing me by the arm and keeping me between his face and the rest of the room, he dragged me through a small door which I had not previously noticed, shut it and locked it, and then swinging me round, exclaimed:

"Now then, what's your little game? Confederate of Bustler Bill's, eh? Oh, I see. Disguised, too: let's have a look at you."

With that he seized my false beard and tore it from my face.

"Good God!" he went on. "It's Dr. Watson! What the devil's the meaning of it?"

I was still too bewildered to collect my thoughts. I could only repeat his own question.

"What does it mean, eh? Here have I been following the Bustler about like his shadow for the last two days over the Tolesworth murder, get him in here to make him talk, and then you come along and blow the gaff."

"But the disguise?" I cried. "The twisted lip."

"Damn the disguise!" he replied. "You ought to know all about that. Picked the idea up from a case Mr. Holmes was in. But I want to know what your little game is, Dr. Watson."

I found it a little difficult to explain my position. When I had done so to the best of my ability, Lestrade did not appear much appeased.

"Spiritualism, indeed ! Pity your spirits didn't tell you Shearman turned up the same night I was with you. Postcard lost in the post."

"Any failure I may have had," I replied, "rests, first, at your door for not telling me Shearman had returned; and, secondly, at mine for misreading Holmes's message, which was exactly correct."

"How do you make that out?" Lestrade grinned.

"Holmes's instructions were as I told you:

"Use my methods, my dear Watson;
You have all the data there.
With the bathroom sponge go forward,
Truth will meet you in that lair.

"I followed these instructions and found the truth of Shearman's disappearance by discovering you. What more can you want to convince you?"

He made no reply.

Truth, 25 December 1922

Found at www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk