Sherlock Holmes' adventures continue in seven surprising cases. Holmes and Watson investigate an alleged haunting at the Diogenes Club, vandalism at a prominent art gallery, the case of a frightened amnesiac, the takeover of 221B by vicious criminals, the sequel to "The Engineer's Thumb," the defiling of Holmes' Stradivarius violin, and a Christmas story featuring a graveyard with angry insults carved into the headstones. The game is afoot!
Sherlock Holmes' adventures continue in seven surprising cases. Holmes and Watson investigate an alleged haunting at the Diogenes Club, vandalism at a prominent art gallery, the case of a frightened amnesiac, the takeover of 221B by vicious criminals, the sequel to "The Engineer's Thumb," the defiling of Holmes' Stradivarius violin, and a Christmas story featuring a graveyard with angry insults carved into the headstones. The game is afoot!
Readers who follow the exploits of Sherlock Holmes and myself will be familiar with the Diogenes Club, that remarkable gathering place for those antisocial men who wish to read quietly in a comfortable chair without having to deal with those most frustrating of creatures: their fellow human beings. Holmesâ brother Mycroft is a fixture of that peculiar assemblage of the resolutely unclubbable. Members of the Diogenes Club are strictly forbidden from speaking, and an atmosphere of absolute silence is rigidly imposed within its walls, except in the Strangerâs Room. While the majority of men, including myself, might find the values of this club to be utterly alien to their own tastes, the world is composed of every conceivable sort of person, and the members of the Diogenes Club continue to bother no one and insist that no one bother them.
The rigidly enforced peace of the Diogenes Club was shattered one overcast winterâs day when Holmes received a telegram from Mycroft at breakfast. He read it, raised an eyebrow, and wordlessly handed it to me. It read:
SHERLOCKâ
PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE LETTERS FROM MY FELLOW MEMBERS OF THE DIOGENES CLUB. BURN THEM UNREAD.
âMYCROFT
âWhy on earth would Mycroft want you to destroy letters from his fellows at the Diogenes Club?â I wondered. âAnd how could you possibly know that the letters were from members of the Club without reading them first? Surely you donât know the names of every man who belongs to that bizarre organization?â
âAs for your second question, the correspondence of men writing from the Diogenes Club is immediately distinguishable by the clubâs stationary, which is thicker than the standard envelopes and writing paper, and possesses a distinctive watermark. Itâs true that I only know a handful of the Diogenes Clubâs membersâ names, and at the moment I have no idea why Mycroft would be so anxious for me to avoid reading their correspondence. But if I may point out an important point, Watson, you are missing a much more important question.â
âAnd that would be?â
âWhy would members of the Diogenes Club be writing to me in the first place? One of Mycroftâs fellows might conceivably choose to consult me about something, but more than one? Surely it is too much to believe that multiple members of that group would simultaneously feel compelled to write to me with different problems? Therefore, they must all be writing about the same issue. Now, there is no link between the club members other than the club itself. They come from all walks of life, and they mostly have no contact whatsoever outside the walls of the Diogenes Club. It follows, then, that there is some problem threatening the sanctity of the Diogenes Club. The members are not in the habit of consulting each other, so multiple members are sending letters of their own initiative, rather than one letter representing the entire group. We can further deduce that the problem is one that involves some crime or mysterious circumstance.  If it were some simple matter such as an overly talkative member, they could simply take the normal steps to remove the offender. But if there is a problem that would require my involvement, why would Mycroft request that I stay out of the matter? Normally, Mycroft would jump at the chance at letting me handle such a situation, because his deep-seated indolence would make him resent any call for him to investigate himself. I can only assume that Mycroft considers the problem at hand to be a situation that is unworthy of my modest powers, and that he feels so strongly about the matter that he decided to send me a telegram that would reach me before the morning post.â
Holmesâ theories were verified less than an hour later, when he received no fewer than nine envelopes which bore the watermark of the Diogenes Club stationery. After rifling through the sealed stack, he declared, âClearly, Watson, the members of the Diogenes Club are under a great deal of distress.â
I knew he was expecting me to respond with an incredulous âHow could you possibly know that, Holmes?â Perhaps it was a sudden impulse of recalcitrance, but I refused to provide him with the prompting question he obviously desired. After a few silent moments, Holmes looked up at me with an expression that was both slightly chiding and a gentle plea, and my resolve shattered. Reluctantly, I asked the question I had refrained from posing mere moments earlier.
âQuite simple, my dear fellow. Smell the sealed adhesive on these six envelopes.â
I did so. âBrandy. Whiskey. Whiskey again. Beer. More whiskey. Gin.â
âPrecisely, Watson. The men who composed these letters have been drinking profusely. But the members of the Diogenes Club never drink to excess, at least inside the walls of the building. Overconsumption of alcohol leads to loosened tongues, which leads to conversation, which is exactly what members come to the Diogenes Club to avoid. If six members required several strong drinks to write a letter to me, then something particularly upsetting happened there, something disturbing enough to make previously restrained men succumb to the comforts of the bottle. And I notice some important points on these two that do not smell of alcohol. The penmanship on both envelopes clearly shows the untidiness of a distraught mind. The stamps are askew. The ink has splattered a bit on both of these envelopes, clearly the pens were being held by people in a state of nervous agitation. Of course, the similar ink blots on the other six envelopes further prove that the men who wrote these letters drank to excess.â
âYes, but what is the cause of their distress?â
âThat I cannot tell without opening the letters, Watson. And as curious as I am to figure out what is going on, my dear brother has specifically requested that I burn these envelopes unopened, and I would not dream of jeopardizing my relationship with my sibling over something so trifling as curiosity over the contents of some envelopes.â
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered with a telegram. Holmes tore it open, laughed, and tossed it to me.
SHERLOCKâ
ON SECOND THOUGHT, DONâT BURN THE LETTERS. BRING THEM TO ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THEM.
âMYCROFT
âMycroft certainly enjoys giving you orders,â I mused.
âHe has no doubt realized what can be deduced from this morningâs correspondence, but for once Mycroft is a step behind me. He cannot determine who is behind whatever event is shaking up the Diogenes Club without seeing these envelopes, so I must bring them to him. It should only take Mycroft a few seconds to make the same deduction I did about the identity of the party behind whatever is bothering the members of the club. Let us meet Mycroft at his rooms, Watson, and see what has caused this wave of unrest.â
It was not until we were shaking hands with Mycroft in his sitting-room that I realized that Sherlock had failed to explain exactly what in the unopened correspondence he had received was so revelatory. I had no time to ask, however, since Mycroft took control of the conversation before I could speak.
âI heard from my sources that you led the police to make an arrest in the Gunton case,â Mycroft told his brother.
âThatâs correct.â
âDid you make the connection to the Barnett garroting from three years ago?â
âI wasnât aware of that case.  Remember, I was pretending to be dead at that time. I was on the other end of the world and I was unable to follow the local crime news.â
âOf course, of course. You need to have a word with your Scotland Yard friends. I suspect that Malvern may have been involved in both crimes. The signature is identical.â
âI shall inform Lestrade to look into that immediately. But you didnât summon me here to talk about the Gunton case. What exactly is happening at the Diogenes Club, dear brother?â
Mycroft groaned and leaned back in his chair. âItâs a terrible inconvenience. The calm and quiet of my sanctuary has been shattered. Many members of the club are convinced that there is⌠a poltergeist disrupting the building.â
âExcuse me?â Holmes responded as if he hadnât understood a word Mycroft had said.
âA poltergeist or some such rot. The outlandish belief that some malevolent supernatural being is haunting the Diogenes Club, wreaking havoc and upsetting the members.â
âSurely a collection of grown men could not possibly give any credence to such a ridiculous supposition,â I scoffed.
Mycroft frowned at me. âYou forget, doctor, that the membership of the Diogenes Club is not based upon being skeptical or level-headed. The sole criterions are to dislike unnecessary conversation and to be able to refrain from speaking. Many of the men who populate our membership may well be superstitious and possess a belief in ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night. I wouldnât know. Iâve never shared two words with the vast majority of our membership, so I have no idea what sort of men they are. Frankly, until now, Iâve never really cared about their personal thoughts or beliefs, and I hoped that they never extended any curiosity towards mine. Now, I am reluctantly forced to conclude that I am surrounded by hysterics.â
Holmes pressed the tips of his fingers together and frowned. âSurely there must be some sort of reasons for this widespread delusion.â
âOf course. Itâs nothing more than a series of practical jokes. Mean-spirited ones, but all easily explainable. Windowpanes, bottles, glasses, vases⌠anything thatâs fragile is shattering without apparent cause. The past week, members have been reading their newspapers, only have them catch fire while they were reading them. Members are being pelted with rotten food or splashed with icy cold water while they doze off in their chairs.â
âThereâs absolutely nothing mysterious about that,â Holmes scoffed. The broken glass and china? A simple catapult would explain that. The newspapers? A magnifying glass focusing the rays of a light sources. The rotten food? All that would take is an arm with good aim, or perhaps the catapult again.â
âWhat about the ice water?â I asked.
âAny mechanic or engineer could design a simple device shaped like a pistol that sprays a stream of water when you pull the trigger. Or possibly a smaller version of a syringe used to spray pesticide on plants.â
âOf course, Sherlock. As expected, your train of thought is following mine precisely. Nothing that occurred cannot be explained by pranks known by any mischievous schoolboy. The mysterious disembodied voices that have been plaguing several members of the club at inopportune timesââ
âVentriloquism.â
âObviously. But a number of club membersâ and some members of the staffâ insist that theyâve actually seen the poltergeist.â
âReally? What does it look like?â
âEyewitness descriptions disagree, which is not surprising. They all agree that the supposed poltergeist can fly, and that an unearthly glow emanates from it. But after that point, the witnessesâ testimony differs. Some people claim that it has a massive tail, others say three heads, others say enormous wings, or bright red eyes. No two descriptions match.â
âHow long has the poltergeist been active?â
âJust under a week. But the damage it has done to the club is incalculable.â
I seized this opportunity to reenter the conversation. âYou mean the physical harm caused by the destruction?â
âNo, Watson! The noise! Because due to all of the disruption, all of the chaos, the unthinkable has happened. Members of the club are actually⌠talking to each other. The Strangerâs Room is filled to bursting with club members chatting, sharing their experiences being pestered by the poltergeist and their personal theories about its origins and what itâs trying to accomplish with its hijinks. And the members of the club of carrying on their conversations elsewhere! They are interacting with each other socially and even forming the beginnings of friendships!â
I attempted to keep my voice level. âAnd how does that pose a danger to the Diogenes Club?â
From the look on his face, Mycroftâs evaluation of my mental powers had never been lower. âIt means the end of all we stand for! If a majority of the members of the club petition to amend the rules so they can spend time together, they will destroy the spirit and purpose of the Diogenes Club. The Diogenes Club as we know it will cease to exist! It will become a place of socializing, just like any other club in London!â
I realized that it would not be a wise decision to voice the thoughts that were currently running through my mind, and I worried that my facial expression would produce a similar effect to the one that I sought to avoid, so I rose with a quiet âexcuse meâ and crossed over to the window. Mycroftâs well-known aversion towards moving longer distances than necessary played a pivotal role in his selection of the building across the street from his personal rooms as the site of the Diogenes Club. As I looked through the window and stared at the building across the street, I mentally noted how undistinctive it was, noting that there was no sign identifying its purpose. Had I not known what was inside its walls, I would have walked past the building without a second thought, and had anybody asked me to take a guess as the structureâs use, I would have been left at a complete loss.
I was brought out of my meditations by the sound of shattering glass, followed by the sight of a man falling out of a top-story window of the Diogenes Club. As he fell, I saw a small object with an eerie green glow flying out the window, zigzagging through the air, and zooming away out of my line of sight.
Immediate action was clearly necessary. âHolmes! Mycroft!â I rapidly explained the situation as I bolted out of Mycroftâs flat and sprinted down the stairs. Holmes was right behind me. Though I couldnât see him, I knew that if he did choose to follow us, Mycroft would be proceeding at a much slower pace.
I had neither enough time nor enough breath to tell Holmes what I had seen. Within moments, I was examining the man who had just defenestrated from the club. Fortunately, the building was not particularly tall, and the man had struck a fairly leafy tree on the way down, which had destroyed several branches, but had also slowed his rate of falling enough so as to substantially reduce the risk of fatal damage. After a basic check of his limbs, it was clear that both of his legs and his right arm were broken, though mercifully there did not seem to be any damage to his head.
The poor man was clearly suffering from shock. I gently leaned over him until I could make direct eye contact with him. âSir, if you can hear me, you have sustained some serious injuries, but at the moment I do not believe that they will be life-threatening, nor will they be permanently debilitating.â The injured man did not reply, but his eyes latched onto my gaze, so I concluded that he could hear me. âCan you tell me what happened to you? Why did you fall out the window? Did you jump or were you pushed?â That was probably more questions than I ought to have asked, but I was rather shaken from what I had just seen, and my bedside manner probably needed a little refinement.
The injured man blinked a few times and then sighed very softly. I crouched over him for a little over half a minute, until finally he spoke.
âTheâŚÂ polt⌠er⌠geistâŚâ After these two words, his voice trailed away and his eyes broke contact with mine.
âWill he be all right?â Holmes abruptly reminded me of his presence, causing me to start involuntarily.
âHeâs passed out, but heâll live and most likely recover after a lengthy period of convalescence.â
âI have summoned an ambulance, but it will be some time before it arrives. How are you feeling? Will you need a drop of brandy in order to recover yourself?â
My first instinct was to happily accept, but I immediately remembered that I still had a patient that needed my attention, and when the ambulance arrived I wanted to explain the injured manâs condition without liquor on my breath. After I politely declined, Holmes took a moment to direct the gathering crowd to stand back further. Having finished, he leaned over to me and asked, âAs you were running out of Mycroftâs rooms, you mumbled something about a green glow. Would you mind explaining what you meant, please?â
I nodded, and rapidly informed Holmes of the flying object with the unearthly aura that sailed out the window and into the street. âIâve no idea what it was, Holmes. Iâm quite certain that it wasnât really a poltergeist or any other paranormal creature, but for the life of me I couldnât possibly tell you what it really was.â
I was grateful to observe that there was no incredulity or judgment in Holmesâ face. He listened my eyewitness account, nodded, thanked me, and immediately left the scene, returning a little under five minutes later.
âWhere did you go?â I asked.
âI summoned some much-needed assistance. Have you determined this injured manâs identity?â
With a bit of self-reproach, I confessed that I hadnât checked his wallet or searched for any other form of identification.
âI can save you the trouble,â Mycroftâs voice boomed from behind me. âHis name is Rufus Darbington, and he is one of the men who sent you a letter.â Mycroft turned to Holmes. âBefore this happened, you were about to show me the correspondence you received today. May I please see it now?â
Holmes swiftly withdrew the stack of envelopes from his pocket and passed it to his brother. Mycroft grunted something that I could only assume was an expression of thanks, and he rifled through the sealed correspondence, squinted at the writing on each one, and sniffed each envelope in turn.
âDarbingtonâs is the one that smells of gin,â Mycroft proclaimed. âHe is very fond of some bizarre concoction known as a martini. He has been drinking a great many of them the last few days.â
âNow that you have had a few seconds to examine the evidence, no doubt you have arrived at the same deductions that I have,â Holmes commented.
âOf course. I suspected him from the beginning, of course, but his letter confirms it.â
I felt the need to re-insert myself into this conversation. âExcuse me please, but what are you two talking about?â
âWe will explain everything in a moment, Watson. The ambulance is arriving. As soon as this man is safely on the way to hospital, the three of us willâ Mycroft, should we meet inside the Strangerâs Room or your own flat?â
âMy flat, I think. We can be assured of utter privacy and no ears to the keyholes there.â
The moment the three of us were securely ensconced in Mycroftâs comfortable chairs, Holmes began explaining everything to me.
âI realize that you did not get a chance to examine the letters I received this morning, but I believe that I described them sufficiently enough for you to figure out which was the notable one, even if you could not possibly know who is the person who is currently our most prominent person of interest.â
âAnd you havenât even opened the letters yet!â
âTrue, and itâs certainly possible that there may be useful information inside of them. But use your powers of memory, Watson. Describe what you know of the letters.â
I cast my mind back. âNine letters. Six of them smell of various kinds of alcohol. I believe that at least one smelled of whiskeyââ
âFor the moment, the types of alcohol consumed by those who licked the envelopes are irrelevant. What else?â
âTwo more did not smell of alcohol, but the writing was sloppy and the stamps askew. The liquor-scented ones were messy as well.â
âPrecisely! Which leads to which important point?â
âSix plus two is eight. What of the ninth envelope?â
âCapital, dear fellow, capital! Of the nine envelopes sent to me today, only one was addressed in neat handwriting and did not smell of alcohol. I hasten to add that several of the envelopes that smelled of liquor also had messy handwriting on them. Clearly, the men who wrote the letters were distraught. It showed in their shaking hands in their excessive consumption of spirits. But one man sent me a letter that did not betray any signs of distress. What does that mean to you?â
I took a breath and pondered my answer for a moment. âIt means that the person who wrote the ninth letter was not upset like his colleagues were. It might be concluded that he is simply a preternaturally calm and unflappable person, or at least does a better job of disguising his distress from the world. But it might also imply a more sinister motive. This man may not be visibly nervous because he knows for a fact that he has nothing to be worried about, which would only be the case ifâŚâ I realized that I was pausing for dramatic effect, and silently I chastised myself for doing so. âMaybe, he knows the true facts behind the appearance of this supposed poltergeist. Perhaps heâs the hoaxer who has been playing the unexpected pranks. I do not know for certain, but I perhaps the whole reason for writing a letter was to deflect suspicion. This was a miscalculation, because you and your brother were wary immediately.â
Holmes laughed and his eyes twinkled with delight. âDonât forget to include yourself along with Mycroft and myself. It fooled none of us.â
âI do have one more question, Holmes.â
âAnd that, no doubt, is âWhose name is on the suspicious envelope?ââ With a smile, Holmes once again removed the stack of correspondence from his pocket and handed me the top envelope.
Reading aloud, I declared, âIan Dynell.â
âWhat do you know of him, Mycroft? I realize that the nature of the Diogenes Club makes it unlikely that you would ever have a lengthy conversationâ or even a short oneâ with him, but surely you would have done some research regarding his background before admitting him to membership?â
âI know precious little of Mr. Dynell, other than the fact that he is a solicitorâs clerk, heâs married with four energetic children, that his wife is very fond of talking, and they live with his wifeâs extremely opinionated mother.â
âThat explains why he might seek out the solace of the Diogenes Club.â
âIndeed. I was surprised that he could afford the membership fees, as the well-worn state of his suit made it clear that he was a man of limited income.â
âHow long has he been a member?â
âA little under a month. Only a few weeks, in fact. Heâs the most recently inducted member of the club.â
I could not help myself from asking a question, even though I was certain that I already knew the answer. âIs there any sort of initiation ceremony for new members?â
Mycroft stared at me as if Iâd asked him to knit a sweater for an elephant. âOf course not! In fact, one of the questions we ask prospective members is what theyâd like us to serve at their welcoming banquet. If they fail to recoil in horror at the prospect of an evening of socializing, or if they donât ask if they can eat their banquet dinner alone or something like that, we know at once that they are not Diogenes Club material, and we deny their application for membership at once.â
All I could manage was a very small nod.
âPerhaps we can speak to Mr. Dynell now,â Holmes said. âDo you know where he would be right now?â
âThereâs a chance that heâs at the Diogenes Club right now. Heâs been in the habit of eating an early lunch at the club most weekday afternoons, and then returning at some point in the evening.â
âThen may I suggest that the three of cross the street to question him? Normally I would not wish to disturb you, dear brother, but your presence will assure our entry.â
As we entered the club, I noticed that there was no sign of the police, and mentioned the fact.
âThereâs no reason why they should be here,â Mycroft replied. âNone of the members want the authorities tramping about our sanctuary and asking impertinent questions. Besides, the members are well trained in scrupulously ignoring their fellows. I wouldnât be surprised if everybody simply failed to notice Darbington falling out the window. Now, remember the rules of the club. No more talking from this point on, please. If you absolutely must communicate, use these pads of paper and pencils.â Mycroft took those items from a pair of baskets on a nearby table and then handed them to us.
Holmes immediately began scribbling. âShall we investigate the dining room?â
Mycroft did not bother writing a reply. He simply nodded and gestured towards a pair of large oak doors. As we passed through them, we saw a couple of elderly gentlemen sitting at a table and drinking. Both looked like theyâd already imbibed well past the point of propriety, especially it being so early in the day. Mycroft wrinkled his nose, as if it was positively abhorrent to him to see two club members sitting in such close proximity to each other, even if they were not speaking a single word.
Holmesâ pencil flew across his pad of paper and showed it to us. âThese are Grove and Quarles, I presume?â
Mycroft nodded.
âHow did you know their names?â I wrote.
Holmes replied by scrawling, âThe men are clearly unnerved and using alcohol to steady their nerves. Clearly the type of men who would write to me to investigate a supposed poltergeist at their club. The ink stains on their right hands matching the ink on the letters further supports my conclusions. You will note that Grove is drinking brandy and Quarles is gulping down beer. I matched them to the names on the alcoholic odors on the envelopes. Simplicity itself.â
Mycroft pointed a large finger at a table in the corner. No one was seated at it, but there was a glass of water and a large bowl of some lumpy beef soup upon it on it. The bowl was only half full, and a great deal of the muddy-looking brown broth had spilled over all the floor-length white tablecloth. Holmes crossed over, examined the aforementioned items, as well as the saltcellar, the napkin, fork, and spoon on the table, and frowned.
âWhatâs missing, Watson?â he wrote.
âThe man eating this food?â I scribbled back.
âTrue, but what else?â
After two more seconds, I had it. âWhereâs the knife?â I wrote.
Holmes nodded and looked thoughtfully at the table, and then lifted up the long white tablecloth that reached the floor. Underneath it was a very dead body with a table knife sticking in its throat. I took a moment to confirm that life was extinct, then got up to look at what Holmes was writing to Mycroft.
âDynell?â
Mycroft nodded.
âWe shall have to summon the police now.â Holmes scribbled.
âNonsense. Itâs clear who did this. You just need to find the proof, and the police should be satisfied. They wonât ask the club members any impertinent questions then.â
âI just need to find the proof?â
âWell you donât expect me to investigate, do you?â
I joined the silent conversation, writing, âHow can you possibly know who did this?â
âLook at whatâs next to the body.â
As soon as I read Holmesâ note, I noticed a large, bloodstained white napkin lying on the ground beside the corpse.
âThe sort of cloth worn by a waiter over his arm while serving. Dynell was stabbed by his own waiter while he ate, and the waiter used the cloth to protect himself from being spattered with blood.â
âYou canât be sure of that. There are a hundredââ
Holmes didnât let me finish writing. âA quick investigation will prove it.â
Grove and Quarles were still drinking silently. âShouldnât we question them? They could be witnesses?â
Mycroft dismissed my idea. âUseless.  Diogenes Club members take no notice of each other, alive or dead. When Major Strausser had his fatal heart attack last fall in a library armchair, it was five days before the smell alerted his fellow clubmen to the fact.â
I was finding not being able to use my voice to be increasingly frustrating. âCan I please start talking now? Iâm running out of paper and the lead is wearing out on my pencil.â
âCertainly not.â Mycroft wrote that two-word note with such authority that I didnât have it in me to question it.
Holmes crossed the room and opened a door, causing the sound of kitchen noises and the odors of cooking to fill the air. He motioned to the two of us, and we followed him inside. A chef was calmly chopping vegetables.
Holmes scribbled another note and passed it to Mycroft, who nodded. Holmes then showed it to me, so I could see that it read, âWhere are the waiters?â Holmes then showed the note to the chef.
The chef wiped his brow with the back of his hand and glared at Holmes. âListen, gov. I know the rule about not talking in the club, but this is my kitchen and I set the rules. I canât write little notes when Iâm filleting fish, can I? If you have a question for me, you can use your bloody voice.â
âVery well,â Holmes pocketed his notepad and pencil. âWhat is the name of your waiter, how long has he been working here, and where is he now?â
âHis nameâs Canterville, heâs been here for about a week because heâs filling in for our regular waiter whoâs been ill, and he stepped out for a smoke.â
âHow long ago has it been since youâve seen him?â
The chefâs forehead creased. âQuite some time, come to think of it. At least ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.â
âHe wonât be coming back.â Holmes turned to Mycroft. âThereâs nothing for it now. I suggest that you bite the bullet and summon the police.â
Mycroft made a sour face and took a spoonful of Lancashire hotpot from a casserole dish, presumably in order to comfort himself. âVery well. I shall not call for your friends Lestrade or Gregson, though. I happen to know an inspector who I can trust to be completely discreet and keep inconvenient questions to a minimum.â
âIt does not matter to me who you tell at Scotland Yard, Mycroft, only that you begin the search for this waiter. This supposed poltergeist is no simple prank. It is part of a far more dangerous and sinister plan.â
I need not explain the events of the next hour. When the inspector Mycroft referred to earlier arrived, I was struck by the fact that I had never before met an officer of the law so disinclined to assert his authority. The man was completely obsequious to Mycroft, and accepted Mycroftâs suggestions as to how to track the missing man down without question.
After the inspector left, the three of us settled in the Strangerâs Room. I initiated the conversation by asking, âWhat do you intend to do to catch that waiter Canterville?â
âWe have already done everything we ought to do, Watson. The official police are far more suited to a major manhunt than a private detective. They have the funds, the time, and the inclination to catch a killer who is almost certainly not named Canterville.â
âWhat makes you so sure that itâs an alias?â I asked.
âPerhaps you havenât read it, but there is a popular novella by Oscar Wilde titled The Canterville Ghost. I dare say that when our perpetrator applied for the job as a waiter, he consciously or unconsciously used a reference to a paranormal tale when planning a plot about a fake poltergeist.â
âBut what was the purpose of the whole charade? Simply to annoy the members of the Diogenes Club?â
âOh, no, Watson, Iâm convinced it was far more sinister than that. I must admit that I have only a fair guess at what the culpritâs endgame was, though I can take some solace in the fact that brother Mycroft clearly has a better idea of the motive, judging from his posture.â
Mycroft grunted in reply, then gave a tiny nod.
âThink less about the actionâ creating a fake poltergeistâ and focus more on the consequences of the action, Watson.â
âMany members of the Diogenes Club were scared.â
âTrue, but that was not the main desired consequence, Watson. The ultimate goal was more than merely spooking the gullible. Consider what happened.â
I pondered for a moment. âThe Diogenes Club ceased to be a sanctuary for men seeking peace and quiet.â
âPrecisely dear fellow! Exactly!â Holmes beamed. âSo what does that mean?â
âThat members would be less likely to visit the club.â
âMagnificent! And the desired result of that would be?â
I hesitated. âFewer members would lead to reduced payment of dues. That would lead to financial problems for the club, which could conceivably lead to the eventual closure of the club and the sale of the building. Could this whole charade have been driven by someoneâs desire to purchase the property?â
Holmes folded his fingers together. âAn intriguing theory, Watson, but given the fact that the members pay annual dues, it would be months and months before the club would be short on funds.â
âIn any case, some of the clubâs members are sufficiently wealthy and dependent on the Diogenes Club as a refuge that they would gladly donate the necessary funds to keep it afloat in times of financial need,â Mycroft added.
At that moment, the dour concierge of the club entered the room, placed a salver with a pile of glowing matter and a note on the table next to Holmes, and shuffled away. I thought that he was far too dedicated to the clubâs theme of silence. It was only later that I learned that he was a lifelong mute.
âAha! My resourceful band of street urchins have managed to track down the object in question.â Holmes held up the salver. âBehold the remains of the Diogenes Club poltergeist, Watson.â
âWhat is that?â
âA form of rubber balloon, decorated with bits of glue and rubber to give it the appearance of a ghoul, and then painted with phosphorescent paint. The device was blown up, then released, causing it to fly around the room, making a shrieking noise as air escaped. A nervous person like Darbington could be startled by it to the point that he may have accidentally fallen from a window in a panicked desire to escape from it. Our culprit never expected that to happen. No, Darbingtonâs injuries were not part of any plan. Neither was the balloon posing as a poltergeist planned to sail out of the broken window. Darbingtonâs fall was a doubly tragic accident, because not only was the poor man injured, but Canterville, the mastermind of this plan, realized that his confederate Dynell was shaken up by the injury. I am quite sure that Canterville paid for Dynellâs membership dues so that Dynell would serve as his assistant with the various pranks. Canterville himself took the role of a waiter so as to maintain an even lower profile. Perhaps his predecessor was paid off to feign sickness, perhaps he was mildly poisoned so as to give Canterville a chance to take over the job. Diogenes Club members make a point of ignoring each other. They even more studiously ignore waiters. Dynell was guilt-striken over Darbingtonâs injuries, doubtless wished to confess, and Canterville silenced him.â
Holmes coughed, then continued. âYou wondered, Watson, why I suspected a waiter. I was not inclined to write down my suspicions at that time, but I noticed numerous minute traces of phosphorescent paint on dozens of items in the dining room, such as eating utensils, saltcellars, candleholders, and napkin rings. I already suspected the use of a glowing device to simulate a poltergeist, and logically, a quantity of that paint would stick to the culpritâs fingers. Who else would touch all of those items but a waiter? That is how I knew who was behind these disruptions.â
Turning to his brother, Holmes asked, âSo, Mycroft, why exactly was our man Canterville trying to empty out the Diogenes Club of its members? Surely he was up to some skullduggery where it would be in his interests to have as few potential witnesses as possible. And nothing of note ever happens within these walls. I remembered a case where a man was drawn away from his place of business so a couple of scoundrels could dig in his basement to rob the bank next door. Could a similar principle be in play here? There is no bank next to the Diogenes Club. The only neighboring location of note is⌠your flat, dear brother.â
âPrecisely,â Mycroft replied. âIâm in the middle of some tricky negotiations with a representative of a foreign government. In a few days, he is coming to my rooms for a secret meeting. I recently received some intelligence telling me that a trained assassin might be trying to strike my guest. I believe that Canterville is that assassin, and he planned to empty out the Diogenes Club so he could prepare for a strike. He wouldnât know the exact time of the meeting, but he could set up his rifle in the largely deserted building, and be prepared to take out the ambassador.â Mycroft gave a little sniff that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. âLittle did he know that I have already taken precautions to protect my guest and myself. All of the windows and walls in my flat are bulletproof. This whole charade was laughably misguided from the beginning.â
There is little more to tell. Darbington made a full recovery, aside from a slight limp in his left leg. Members of the club managed to take up a collection for Dynellâs widow and children without saying a single word, and they easily raised enough to keep the Dynell family comfortable for several years. The man we knew as Canterville was captured and arrested the next morning, and Mycroftâs meeting passed without incident.
Within a month, everything returned to normal at the Diogenes Club. Mycroftâs fears that the members would begin forging amicable and talkative friendships proved unfounded. As the members who had been severely shaken by the antics of the âpoltergeistâ began to converse with each other, they overwhelmingly realized that they didnât really enjoy each otherâs company very much. The status quo of the Diogenes Club members ignoring each other was restored.
Holmes kept the âpoltergeistâ balloon, inflated it, and hung it in our rooms at Baker Street. âIt is a reminder, Watson, that the unscrupulous can manipulate others with the possibility of the paranormal. We must remember not to dismiss the supernatural out of hand, but to thoroughly investigate such claims in order to determine if there is a more prosaic explanation.â
In my experience as a high school teacher I have had the joys of reading and teaching many of the famous Sherlock Holmes stories written by the indomitable Arthur Conan Doyle. This volume published by MX Publishing and written by Chris Chan was my first venture into the world of adaptations and new stories based on Doyle's creation.
Many beloved literary characters have received this treatment from Holmes, to James Bond, to Hercule Poirot. Much like Chan says in the introduction to this volume, sometimes these characters are so cherished we desire more than what already exists in the canon. And so, I was interested in how a new writer would treat the complexities of Holmes, the charm of Watson, and the subtle plotting of Doyle himself.
What interested me the most with this volume was actually Chan's focus on Mycroft, Holmes' brother. Ever elusive in Doyle's stories, it was interesting to meet this character in a new light as well as witness Holmes' sheer admiration of him. There was something wonderfully human about this that I enjoyed greatly.
The stories themselves bounced between typical yet humorous pastiches of Holmes and Watson, and brief stories, somewhat quickly resolved and lacking in memorability. But this is not to say Chan's characterisation was off the mark. In fact, his Holmes is very reminiscent of the man we have come to love through Doyle's original stories and several TV and film adaptations since. The story with the old lady and the ice-pick (I'll say no more) was a superb rendering of Holmes' genius and humanity.
Watson, however, was a little more annoying than charming in this collection. I felt Chan's portrayal made Watson less critical and respectful of Holmes and more pandering and, if anything, like a little lost puppy when he didn't get Holmes' approval. While this relationship is famous for its back and forth, I feel Chan did not capture the independence and wisdom we know Watson possesses.
Thus, it goes without saying that these stories do not match up to the originals but I do not imagine this is MX Publishing's goal. Instead, what you do get is a collection that any lover of the canon can enjoy, as long as you are willing to appreciate that the writer is working both with what exists and also their own desire for what they want Holmes and Watson to be.