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BANTAM/IMAGIC
LIVING LITERATURE
SHERLOCK HOLMES
in "ANOTHER BOW"
Being an Unabridged Reprint
from the Unpublished Portfolio
of the late
JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.
INCLUDES:
--The first three chapters of Dr. Watson's lost manuscript
--the annotated Passenger List of the S. S. Destiny
--General information for passengers
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The manuscript of "Another Bow" came to us through channels as mysterious as any Holmes
ever
encountered. The pages, yellowed and dog-eared, were discovered in a safety-deposit box in
the vault of the National Newark and Essex Bank of New Jersey, where, presumably, Dr. Watson
had stored them for safekeeping. For decades, someone in Neward, under the name of J. H.
Watson, had paid the rental on the box. Suddenly the payments stopped. Bank officials opened
the vault, and the manuscript, sold at auction, began its circuitous route to our offices in
California. We blew the dust off the pages and checked their authenticity as thoroughly as
such things can be checked, including an unpleasant week with a cranky old paper and ink expert
in his musty San Francisco laboratory. Since we are a software company and since Holmes was
characterized by his chronicler, Watson, as "the most perfect reasoning machine that the world
has ever seen," we thought it appropriate that the manuscript be translated to the computer,
instead of the usual book form. Thus, "Another bow" has found its way to a medium, which
we
are convinced, would have been of invaluable service to the Master had he been fortunate enough
to practice his craft amidst the golden age of computers.
P. A. Golden, Editor
Bantam/Imagic
Los Gatos, California
May 19, 1984
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CHAPTER 1
A NOTE FROM THE PAST
"It can’t hurt now," Mr. Sherlock Holmes would often remark when, a case having been
long completed, I sought his permission to record his professional activities.
I can recall him wearing his purple dressing gown and sitting before the fire in our
lodgings in Baker Street, drawing a bow across the fiddle on his knees and smoking his
shag tobacco incessantly. His haggard and ascetic face was nearly invisible in the
pungent cloud, his eyes were closed, and his black clay pipe thrust forward from his
mouth like the bill of some strange bird. "You see, Watson, but you do not observe,"
he would correct me on one point or another, and I would marvel at the keenness of his
mind, and speculate on his place in history, knowing it was assured.
Which brings me to the heart of this matter. I have seldom drawn my narratives from
the brilliant twilight of my friend’s career, yet I do so in this case because it
possessed such vital importance. Not only did I require Holmes’ leave to record it, I
required that the world once again be at peace. I required the conviction that our
planet would still spin safely on its axis. For if my singular friend had not involved
himself, had he not applied his prodigious talents to the task, not bent his mighty
intellectual shoulders to the wheel, the existence of the world as we know it today
would have had no more reality than a fever dream.
It began innocently enough, in the latter days of June, that first summer following the
Great War. I awoke one morning to discover that the dreary rains had ceased, and the
sun was shining. At breakfast, Mrs. Watson suggested we take our holiday with her
widowed sister, who had secured for the season a home in Portofino. Having no taste
for Italy, and even less for my wife’s sister, I argued with some vehemence against
Violet’s plan. However, when she slid the ham and eggs from the pan, missing my plate
but not my lap, I took it as an indication that my darling was in one of her rather
stubborn moods--precisely her sister’s permanent state--and I brushed the food to the
floor and fled out the door to Queen Anne Street.
I wandered aimlessly. By noon it was quite hot, a breeze having lifted the veil of fog
from London, revealing a light blue sky with fleecy white clouds drifting out towards
the Channel. I thought enviously of Holmes living peacefully with Nature in his villa
on the southern slope of the Downs, with a marvellous view of the Channel, and of how
he revelled in the exquisite air whilst walking the pebbled beach. There, if one chose,
one could have a refreshing dip in the swimming-pools of curves and hollows that followed
the contours of the coast-line and were filled by the tides.
Although it was Holmes who had introduced me to the present Mrs. Watson, owing to
Violet’s moods and a strong possessiveness whose charm had worn during the seventeen
stormy years of our marriage, I had not seen my old comrade in a number of months.
After strolling to a tobacconist and purchasing an ounce of ‘ship's,’ I charged my pipe
and resumed my walk, wistfully remembering my decades of association with Holmes. Now
that the War was ended and the Allied and associated powers were negotiating the terms
of peace at Versailles, Londoners appeared cheerful as they hurried about their business,
as cheerful as Londoners are wont to appear. I was lost in my reminiscences when the
bells sounded in a church. I opened my pocket-watch, and so as not be late for my
luncheon with my literary agent, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I rode, reluctantly, in a cab
to Simpson’s.
Sir Arthur had served as senior physician in a field hospital during the second Boer
War. He had written a sterling defense of England’s conduct in that campaign, which
had been widely read. He had received his knighthood in 1902, and not long after, his
first wife had passed away. That was quite some time ago--roundabout the time of my
marriage to Violet--and although, along with his re-marriage, the intervening years had
been kind to him, the past six months had not. That cold and bitter east wind, which
Holmes had predicted upon the capture of the German spy Von Bork, had withered before
its blast Doyle’s beloved son, Kingsley, and Sir Arthur’s brother, Innes. Both men had
died as a result of that Hun-inspired atrocity.
In addition to his political writings, medical work, and literary agency, Sir Arthur
owned an establishment in Westminster, The Psychic Bookstore, where he pursued his
passion for mysterious phenomena by authoring, publishing, and selling tomes on the
subject. He had been working feverishly, adhering to the maxim that work is the best
antidote to sorrow, but his passion was bankrupting the poor fellow. He and Lady Doyle
regularly attended seances, claiming to have contacted through them the dear deceased
boy, Kingsley. I was skeptical of the subject of Sir Arthur’s obsession, and rather
agreed with Holmes’ verdict in the matter, that the world is big enough for us, and no
ghosts need apply. I had written Sir Arthur a note to this effect, and although I could
not concur with his logic--indeed, that is the very element which is absent in his
argument--the emotional content of his reply is etched in my memory:
My dearest Dr. Watson: In our agonized world, with the flower of our race dying in the
promise of their youth, with their wives and mothers having no conception whither their
loved ones have gone, I suddenly saw that this subject with which I had dallied was not
merely a study of a force outside science, but that it was a breaking down of the walls
between two worlds, a message from beyond, an undeniable call of hope and guidance to
humanity at the time of its deepest affliction.
Entering Simpson’s I spotted Sir Arthur at a small table in the front window. It was
precisely the table where Holmes and I solved many a knotty problem, particularly during
the case of ‘The Illustrious Client,’ a draft of which was piled unceremoniously on my
desk, crying for completion. I was to have finished it that very morning, and I cursed
my error in arguing with my wife. She had read the draft the previous evening, and had
accused me of making sport of her younger years.
Sir Arthur was sipping from a glass of whiskey and gazing sadly out the window. The
agony of which he had written in his letter was plainly marked on his face. His gaze
seemed hollow and distant, as though he were regarding the fog across a dark, deserted
moor, and not the gay, sunlit ribbon of humanity unravelling through the Strand. His
great drooping moustaches, grey now as a winter sky, hid a mouth whose corners were
turned south in a perpetual frown, a mouth that could speak only of sadness.
"Dear Watson," said he, bravely casting off his gloom rising, and extending his hand
when I approached the table. "It’s been too long."
We shook hands vigourously, and he clapped me upon the back. I was curious as to the
purpose of our meeting. He had been vague over the telephone, and he continued to keep
his intentions to himself. The waiter arrived. I requested a gin and tonic, and we
ordered our meal. With the noose of German U-boats finally loosened from England’s
shores, food rationing was but an unpleasant memory. The roast beef, Yorkshire pudding,
and peas were delicious; the claret a dry, quiet complement to our fare.
We made idle chatter, evading all talk of comrades and colleagues. At our advanced ages
it was no trivial matter to ask of old friends, as they might very well have moved from
their houses to their graves on rather short notice. I avoided asking after Lady Doyle,
for I had heard the death of her step-son had horribly stricken her. Sir Arthur, on his
part, did not inquire about Mrs. Watson, the gossips of London having spread the storm
warnings of my marriage from stern to bow.
At last the waiter cleared the table. Sir Arthur tossed me his cigar case, a gesture
that brought Holmes to mind, and passed me the gold end-cutter from his vest-pocket. As
we sipped the wine, and savoured the wonderfully slow-smoking Havanas, Sir Arthur
proceeded to disclose his reason for inviting me to luncheon.
"Watson," said he, clearing his throat, "you are familiar with the American actor
William Gillette?"
"Of course. I saw him in London. Believe it was in ’97 or ’98, in his play ‘Secret
Service.’ Marvellous actor. And his Sherlock Holmes was magnificent. The Holmes of my
stories is a wan and shadowy creature compared to the vivid, flesh-and-blood character
that Gillette has written and brought to the stage."
"You’re too modest. But allow me to continue. You recall the party Lady Doyle and I
gave last Christmas? When I introduced you to Waldorf Astor, and his wife, the woman
born in America, Nancy Witcher Astor?"
"Certainly. Astor is proprietor of The Observer. A fine paper. Topping. He served
as private secretary to Lloyd George. Was hell’s own amount of assistance to the Prime
Minister. Then he was something or other in the ministry of foods towards the
conclusion of the War. And from what I understand, come the November election, now that
Astor’s a viscount and required to abandon his seat in the Commons, his wife may very
well be the first woman every to sit in Parliament."
"Excellent, dear boy," replied sir Arthur, excitedly drawing his cigar from his mouth,
causing the long ash to topple on the tablecloth. A few of the grey flakes alighted in
his wine glass, floating like volcanic islands on the ruby surface. "Now," he
passionately continued, "you are undoubtedly acquainted with your American publisher,
Isidore Doubleman?"
"Really," said I, chuckling to mask my annoyance. "You must stop quizzing me like a
school boy. Please, come to the point."
"Yes, very well," he sighed, draining the wine from his glass. I thought it best not to
mention the ash. It did not appear to bother him. He said, "Mr. Gillette wishes to
revive his Holmes play. First in New York, then London. Your Mr. Doubleman has agreed
to finance the productions, if--and this is a rather large if--if he can persuade Holmes
to allow Doubleman & Company to publish his early monographs in a collection."
"Ah," said I, "Holmes’ writings on tobacco ash, the tracing of footsteps, the
influence
of a trade upon the hand, tattooing, cyphers, the human ear and I believe there were
several more."
"Mr. Doubleman has heard rumblings that Holmes is completing a master-work on the
science of deduction. He wishes to publish this as well. He feels that the play,
coming on the eve of these publications, will assist in the selling of the books." He
paused and re-filled his wine glass. "I don’t need to tell you, Watson, as the agent
in this affair, I stand to earn a tidy sum. Of course, you do as well. Not to mention
Holmes. My share will keep my Psychic Bookstore afloat."
I puffed on my cigar, feeling my mouth twist in a wry expression.
Sir Arthur responded heatedly, "As a public man of affairs I have never shown myself to
be wild or unreasonable! I hope my opinions in psychic matters have some weight when
compared to those of my opponents, whose contempt for the subject has not allowed them
to give calm consideration to the facts."
"I apologise. No offence intended. What part am I to play?"
"The Astors, now that the War has ended, are planning a cruise. It will originate in
New York, sail to London, and return to the States, where they’ll visit with the
American half of their family. Gillette and Doubleman are scheduled to be aboard. As
are the inventors Edison and Bell; some avant-garde sort from Paris; a Spanish painter
named Picasso; Miss Gertrude Stein, a critic or collector; the automobile-maker, Ford;
the Baron de Rothschild; and Colonel T. E. Lawrence."
"Lawrence of Arabia?" I exclaimed, profoundly interested.
Sir Arthur nodded. "He’s writing the memoirs of his campaign. General Phillip Ryan
and Lieutenant Cullum Jenkins will attend as well."
"The heroes of Belleau Wood," said I, impressed. "Brave chaps."
"Rather," replied he. "It should be quite pleasant. The Astors have engaged a band
of
jazzmen from new Orleans, and a grand chef. Many more distinguished guests will be
aboard. All to celebrate the peace."
"And you wish Holmes to be on hand to discuss your proposition?"
"Precisely. As well as you and Mrs. Watson."
I reflected for a moment. "My dear Violet mentioned something about taking her holiday
in Italy with her sister. I could join her later."
"Splendid," answered Sir Arthur. "But what of Holmes?"
I remembered my comrade as I had seen him last. He was gaunt, his hair a white mane,
his shoulders stooped with rheumatism. He followed his regimen of exercise, tending
his bees, reading, and writing. His years of excessive tobacco use had caused amblyopia,
a disease that dimmed his keen grey eyes and had forced him to employ a magnifying lens
whilst poring over his books and papers. He had relinquished cigars and cigarettes, but
had held fast to his beloved pipes and shag. He had remained good old Holmes, the most
singular man I have every known, but his powers had been lessened by life’s merciless
thief: Time.
"Well?" asked Sir Arthur, anxiously. "Would it persuade Holmes to know that the
violinist Leopold Auer will be aboard? He has re-located from St. Petersburg to New
York. I know Holmes greatly admires him."
"As did Tchaikovsky. I recall Holmes telling me that the composer had dedicated a
concerto to Auer. I believe it was after Holmes had lunched with Auer when he was
teaching in London." The idea of being re-united with Holmes was tempting, even though
it would concern money, not crime. "I trust Holmes will agree to sail. He once said to
me, ‘I fear that I am like one of those popular tenors, who, having outlived his time,
is still tempted to make repeated farewell bows to his indulgent audience.’ My friend
could never resist a stage. I’m certain he’ll come!"
"God bless you, Watson! I’m very grateful."
Sir Arthur settled the bill. Although his finances were in disarray, he was a proud man
and I did not offer my share, cringing as I remembered how my wife often referred to me
as frugal. Sir Arthur wrote some financial figures on a pad and asked that I show them
to Holmes. He stated that we were sailing on the S. S. Destiny, the day after next,
which necessitated that I visit Holmes straight away.
"I’ve had a letter from my friend Houdini," said Sir Arthur. "He assured me the
ship is
haunted."
I knew of his budding correspondence with the magician, and I wished Houdini, who always
seemed like a clear-thinking fellow, would set Sir Arthur aright in the amount of
trickery required to simulate mysticism. Ambling out onto the Strand, we shook hands,
and Sir Arthur removed a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper from his jacket pocket,
handed it to me, and said, "In my anxiety I nearly forgot this. It arrived at my office
from America. I’m skeptical of its importance. Clearly the work of some crack-pot."
The note was dated June 10, 1919, and had a return address on a Lyons Avenue, in Newark,
New Jersey.
Dear Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
My mother, Irene Adler, told me a month ago that if I ever needed help I should send a
note to you on this paper and you’d see that it got to my father. As I have only read
of him in the newspapers and in Dr. Watson’s stories, and he’s never contacted us, I’m
not counting on him, but mother and I are in real trouble and I beg you to pass this
note along. Mother has said that father has a keen yet suspicious mind, that he never
fails those in need, and that he will recognize the paper. Please help.
Jeffrey Adler
"See, Watson," chuckled Sir Arthur, "it’s nothing. In ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’
you
referred to the woman as the late Irene Adler. Besides, you were Holmes’ constant
companion. When would he have had a son?"
"Quite true," replied I, hoping not to alarm him with the facts. "May I keep the
note?
A souvenir."
"Certainly."
We each hailed a cab, and I promised to contact him as soon as I had Holmes’ answer.
Riding towards Queen Anne Street, I read and re-read the note. Was this thing possible?
What I had not told sir Arthur was that it had been Holmes himself who had informed me
of Irene Adler’s death. Perhaps he wanted it that way. To say that he was not fond of
the fair sex was to beg the limits of understatement. Particularly, Irene, who had
beaten him at his own game, and who, to Holmes, was always the woman, eclipsing all
others in his eyes. At the time, over thirty years ago, I had recently married poor,
frail Mary Morstan, dead now of a failed heart. My complete happiness and home-centred
interests had drifted Holmes and me apart. I knew little of his comings and goings,
only that he alternated between cocaine and ambition, occasionally rising out of his
drug-created dreams to take on a case. Reflecting on the matter caused me to sigh
wearily, realising that Jeffrey Adler might very well be the son of Sherlock Holmes.
Fortunately, when I arrived at home, Violet was not in the kitchen, so as I packed my
bag and leather briefcase, and informed her that I would join her in Portofino three
weeks hence, she was armed with neither a cooking utensil nor its contents. Actually,
when I mentioned that the matter with Holmes was urgent, she softened, and kissed me,
and even assisted in the folding of my shirts. In spite of the fact that we did not
socialise, my Violet kept a warm spot for Holmes in her heart, for he had saved her
from the clutches of her ruthless ex-fiancé, Baron Gruner. We kissed once more before
my departure. I noticed tears glistening on my beloved’s ivory cheeks, and despite all
the raging waters under the bridge of our marriage, I marveled at the depth of my love
for her.
I motored out towards the Downs, revelling in how the dusk bathed the rolling green
countryside with gold and crimson light. Drawing closer to Holmes’ seaside villa, I
inhaled the salt air, spied the chalk cliffs, and missed the turn-off for the secluded,
tree-shaded lane where he lived. I threw the gears into reverse, and presently, found
myself parking my automobile beyond the hedges of a stone house, crossing a slate path
which wound up a wide, sloped lawn, and knocking on the door of my dear old comrade, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, late of Baker Street.
CHAPTER 2
RETIREMENT DISTURBED
"Holmes, Holmes. Open up. It’s Watson."
Holmes drew back the door. I shouted my greeting, so glad was I to see him. As always,
his manner was reserved, and with hardly a word spoken, he rested his hand upon my
shoulder and we walked to the sitting-room. It was large and airy, and cheerfully
furnished. Beyond the windows, I watched the white-capped waters of the Channel washing
against the chalk cliffs, and felt the heat of the sunset pouring past the panes,
unfurling over the wood floors like a bolt of scarlet satin.
When we were seated in the comfortably sagging chairs, Holmes said, "Watson, how is
Doyle? And why is this matter so pressing?"
I gaped at him in astonishment. "How on earth did you know?"
"Elementary, my dear Watson," replied he, picking up his Persian slipper, from which he
removed fingerfuls of shag and proceeded to fill his calabash, the bowl of the huge
curved pipe golden brown from endless hours of smoking. "Your briefcase," said he,
"a
fine Spanish leather. You employ it only on literary matters. Ergo, your meeting with
Doyle. That the matter is urgent is clear. We are both aware that your Violet keeps
you on a rather short rein. For her to allow you out of the stable could only mean that
the matter is serious, not social."
Abashed at Holmes’ description of my marriage, I was nonetheless awed by his powers of
deduction. I hurriedly explained Sir Arthur’s situation and proposal, whilst Holmes,
ever the close and patient listener, blew great acrid clouds towards the beamed ceiling.
Finally, he said, "That’s all well and good. But Violet would not have permitted your
journey to the Downs for this alone. Come to the point, my boy."
I handed him the note. He read it, puffing madly on his calabash, the smoke rising as
though from a steam engine. Suddenly he dashed from the sitting-room, and I followed at
his heels until we traversed a hallway and reached his study. He removed a magnifying
lens from the awesome clutter on his desk and examined the pink-tinted paper. Then he
switched on a lamp and held the note to the light.
"Look Watson," said he.
I did so and saw a large E with a small g, a P, and a large G with a small t woven into
the texture of the paper.
"My God, Holmes!" exclaimed I. "Now I remember. It is the same paper from ‘A
Scandal.’
The Eg is for Egria, a German speaking country once in Bohemia. The P is for Papier.
The G and t stand for Gesellschaft, which is the German contraction for ‘Company.’ It
is the identical paper the Bohemian king sent you when Irene Adler was allegedly
blackmailing him."
"Precisely," mumbled Holmes, "and this Jeffrey Adler is supposed to be my
son."
Although the possibility was a simple question of biology, I had not the heart to ask
him if it were true. I remarked, "If Professor Moriarty were alive, one might think he
was behind such a letter."
"Yes, yes," answered Holmes impatiently, still studying the note. "Watson, be a
good
chap and help yourself to some of the cold beef and beer in the kitchen, then sleep in
the guest room. I want to consider this to-night. I’ll give you your answer about the
cruise in the morning."
I glumly went off to eat my supper. Long into the watches of the night, whilst
attempting sleep, I heard the mournful wailings of Holmes playing his violin, a signal
that his mind was feverishly at work.
Dawn came cold and foggy. When I had dressed I entered the sitting-room, where a
poisonous haze of shag smoke and an empty coffee pot informed me that Holmes had not
slept.
"Watson," said he. "I’ve arranged for a neighbour to tend my bees whilst we’re
away,
and I’ve packed this blasted trunk."
"Splendid," said I, and we hoisted the trunk, and left straight away for the docks.
CHAPTER 3
PASSENGERS OF THE DESTINY
At the dock, we met Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle. They were overjoyed to see Holmes,
though he remained as pensive as he had been on the trip from Sussex. Sir Arthur
introduced us to Houdini, and I was not much impressed. Yet seeing the Astors,
T. E. Lawrence, the Baron de Rothschild, and the world-renowned art critic, Renaldo
Berens ascending the gangplank was quite invigourating, and even Holmes brightened when
he was introduced to Thomas Alva Edison. As we boarded the Destiny, I spied a rather
elderly gentleman being wheeled round the bow in a wheelchair. He had a white curved
forehead, scant white hair, terribly hunched shoulders, and a scowling, protruding face
which slowly oscillated from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. He appeared
familiar though I could not place him. Perhaps I had seen his picture in the papers, or
had read a desciption of him elsewhere. I asked Holmes if he recognised the man.
My companion squinted towards the bow and replied, "I think not, Watson. But I didn’t
see him too clearly. My eyes are not what they were."
"Same with my memory," chuckled I, as a porter showed us to our stateroom, and I did not
give it another thought.
The dining-room was grand, as was our meal, numerous Creole dishes which I could not
pronounce yet managed to consume in extraordinary quantities. A band from New Orleans
played a rousing music I had never heard, and which my well-travelled friend Holmes
explained was known as Dixieland Jazz. I particularly enjoyed the tail-gate trombonist,
Kid Ory, and the cornetist, who the band referred to as Satchelmouth. Holmes and I were
seated with the Doyles; my distinguished, silver-haired publisher, Isidore Doubleman,
and his rather homely wife, Becky; General Phillip Ryan, a short handsome man of just
thirty-five, and his bride, Jenny, a slim, auburn beauty whom I overheard quoting
Scripture to her husband as he summoned the sommelier for his third bottle of wine; and
Lieutenant Cullum Jenkins, whom, I speculated, because of his gangly appearance and
hairless cheeks, was no more than nineteen years old. The General became rather nasty
to his wife, sneering that he had heard enough of her Bible-quoting dribble to last him
a lifetime. I was eager to discuss the War with these heroes of Belleau Wood, but would
not do so in the presence of the Doyles, and General Ryan appeared only in the mood to
drink himself senseless. Whilst dessert was being served, the General, quite drunk by
now, stood, called for silence, raised a glass of Bordeaux and another of brandy, and
shouted, "I like the wine of life with a little brandy in it!"
He downed both glasses in rapid succession, announced he needed some air, then stormed
drunkenly from the room. I noticed that Mrs. Ryan flashed a winning smile at young
Jenkins, and thought I detected her hand, hidden by the linen tablecloth, slide into the
Lieutenant’s lap. Discreetly, I mentioned this to Holmes.
"Very good, Watson," whispered he. "You are learning to observe."
CHAPTER 4
A HERO ON THE RAIL
Begin game.
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