The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Страница 3

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However, in the course of "The Gloria Scott" Holmes refers to events aboard the ship having taken place thirty years earlier in 1855, which would place the story in 1885. This has to be wrong, because Holmes and Watson met in 1881 by which time Holmes had been in practice for four years. Clearly there is some deliberate shifting of dates in this story, perhaps through Holmes's faulty record keeping (always possible, as he was not a great record-keeper of things he regarded as unimportant), or Watson's erroneous transcription of the

case or, we should not forget, through Watson trying to hide the time of Holmes's university years.

In fact my own research has revealed two episodes that happened to Holmes while at university that have previously gone unrecorded. They reveal that Holmes's years at university were not without incident and it is not surprising that it has been difficult to tie him down, since he spent time at two universities. I am grateful to Peter Tremayne and Derek Wilson for their help in bringing the record of the episodes into their final form from scraps of evidence left by Watson. I have deliberately set the stories in reverse order of internal events because of the relative discovery of the episodes by Watson. The first happened during the period of Holmes's apparent death, whilst Watson learned of the second after Holmes's return. Here then, for the first time ever, are the earliest records of Sherlock Holmes.

The Bothersome Business of the Dutch Nativity – Derek Wilson

The death of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, affected me more than a little and had I not had the demands of a growing medical practice and the care of a loving wife the loss which I, and indeed the nation, had suffered must have seriously undermined my constitution. For a long time I could scarcely bear it when my affairs took me to places where some of Holmes's greatest triumphs had been enacted or where together we had faced dangerous villains or petty scoundrels. As for Baker Street, I avoided it completely; always ordering cab drivers to proceed by some roundabout route when conveying me through that part of London.

Yet time, as has often been observed, is a healer. I shared that experience common to all bereaved people: the transformation of memories from dreams almost too painful to be endured into visitations of consolation. Increasingly I found myself turning over the leaves of my journals and the printed accounts of Sherlock Holmes's cases which I had been privileged to record. Much of the material I had garnered about my friend consisted of tantalizing scraps – hints about his earlier life and oblique references to cases of which I knew nothing. As the months passed more and more of my leisure time was spent in trying to arrange my memorabilia in some logical order so that I might obtain a grasp of the sweep of Holmes's life. I lost no opportunity of asking others who had known my friend for any details that might have eluded me and it was in this way that what I call the Bothersome Business of the Dutch Nativity came to my attention.

In the spring of 1893, my wife and I were invited to Oxford to spend a few days with the Hungerfords. Adrian Hungerford was a fellow of Grenville college and he and Augusta were distant relatives of Mary's. Despite Mary's insistence that I should enjoy meeting her cousins it was with no very great enthusiasm that I accompanied her from Paddington station on the short journey to England's most ancient centre of learning. As usual my beloved helpmeet was right. The Hungerfords were an intelligent and relaxed couple of middle years who gave us a welcome as warm as it was genuine.

It was on the second evening of our stay that Adrian Hungerford invited me to dine with him at his college. I enjoyed an excellent meal on the high table in Grenville's ancient hall over which I was able, with some effort, to hold up my end of an erudite conversation with the master and the dean. After dinner I retired with the dozen or so fellows to the senior combination room where, over the ritual of claret, port and cigars, discussion, somewhat to my relief, ran into less scholarly channels.

"Am I not right in thinking, Dr Watson, that you were at some time associated with that detective fellow… what was his name… Hutchings?" The speaker was a shrivelled little man enveloped in a rather gangrenous master's gown who had been earlier introduced to me as Blessingham.

"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes," Hungerford corrected before I had a chance to reply. "Watson helped him with several of his cases, isn't that so, John?" He turned to me with an apologetic smile. "You must forgive our isolationism, old man. We spend most of our time here behind a raised drawbridge protected from the more sensational doings of the outside world."

"Helped with several cases, did you say?" Blessingham, who was obviously hard of hearing, cupped a hand to his ear and leaned closer. "Well, you weren't here for his first case, were you?" He reached for the claret decanter, drained it into his glass and brandished it in the direction of a steward who hurried forward with a replacement.

"You refer, Sir, to the Gloria Scott, I assume," I said.

"Gloria who? Never heard of the woman."The old man gulped his wine. "No I mean the nonsense about that painting."

I was suddenly aware that other conversations had stopped and that all eyes had turned towards Blessingham. Several of them registered alarm.

Rather hastily the dean said, "Our guest doesn't want to hear about that lamentable incident."

By this time my curiosity was, of course, thoroughly aroused. "On the countrary," I said. "I am always eager to hear anything about my late friend."

The master made a flapping gesture with his hand. "It was nothing and best forgotten. Holmes was only with us for a short time."

"Holmes was here?" I asked with genuine surprise. "At Grenville? I had no idea…"

"Yes, 1872, I think… or was it '73? I know it was around the same time that Sternforth was up. He's making quite a

name for himself in Parliament now. Have you heard from him recently, Grenson?" Skilfully, the master turned the talk to other matters.

It can be imagined that this unlocking and hasty refastening of a hitherto unknown part of Holmes's early life stirred

considerable excitement within me. It was with difficulty that

I contained all the questions I was longing to ask about it. Not until the following afternoon did I have the opportunity to

interrogate Hungerford on the matter. Mary and I were taking a stroll through Christchurch Meadows with our host and hostess and I contrived to urge Hungerford to a slightly faster pace so that we might walk on ahead.

"What was that talk last night about Sherlock Holmes and a painting?" I enquired. "It seemed to embarrass some of your colleagues."

"A number of the older fellows are certainly still troubled by the episode even after all these years," Hungerford mused, directing his gaze along the river. "I must say that surprises me rather."

"But what was it about?" I almost shouted in my exasperation. "Old Blessingham called it Holmes's first case yet I have never heard of it."

Hungerford smiled at my impatience. "Well, Holmes was obviously an honourable man. The people over at New College enjoined him to secrecy on the matter and he faithfully kept silence."

"But surely there's no need to maintain the mystery any longer," I urged.

"I suppose not. It was really nothing more than a storm in an academic teacup; and yet in a closed little world like ours such incidents do tend to assume greater importance than they merit."

"Look, Hungerford," I said, "you can tell me the story. We doctors are able to keep confidences, you know."

Thus prompted my distant cousin related the story which, with a few emendations and name changes (made to honour my side of the bargain) and with additional details furnished later by Holmes himself, I can now set before the public.

It all began, as far as Holmes was concerned, at Paddington station. It was the autumn of 1873 and he had just enrolled at Grenville College after a year or two at Trinity in Dublin. On this particular late afternoon he was returning to Oxford after a day spent in the British Museum Reading Room. He had selected an empty, first-class smoking compartment and was looking forward to a quiet journey in the company of a recent dissertation on alkali poisons derived from plants in the Americas. The train made its first clanking convulsion preparatory to departure when a distraught figure appeared on the platform and grabbed the door handle. With a sigh of resignation Holmes leaped to his feet and helped a young man with a flapping topcoat into the compartment.

As Holmes slammed the door and the train gathered speed the stranger collapsed onto the seat opposite, spreading a pile of books and papers and other belongings out beside him. "Thank you, sir, thank you," he panted.

"Not at all. I perceive that you have had a particularly harassing afternoon." Holmes surveyed a young man in his late twenties of startlingly pale appearance. Even though flushed with exertion, his cheeks were as though drawn in pastels. His hair was the colour of white sand and the eyes that peered through thick-lensed spectacles were of the lightest blue. "It is always aggravating to mistake the time of one's train and then to have one's cab stuck in traffic – quite wretched."

The other man leaned forward, mouth open in astonishment. "You cannot possibly… Are you some kind of spirit who consorts with mediums?"

Now it was Holmes who was momentarily nonplussed. "Do you mean am I a medium who consorts with spirits?"