Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10. Arthur Conan Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ tell me why that particular programme is of such importance to you.”

      “Ah! It is a matter of settling a bet,” said he, eagerly scanning the text of the document.

      My famous tenant had his vices, as is well known, but gambling was not one of them. “What sort of bet?” I inquired.

      “The sort that one does not care to lose,” he remarked.

      I was afraid he had, in a moment of weakness, made a rash wager. “What is at stake?” I asked, rather fearing the answer.

      “Dinner at the Savoy,” he replied carelessly.

      “Well, thank goodness for that!” I said, aware that perspiration had gathered on my brow. “I was afraid you had—”

      He looked at me quizzically, then burst out laughing. “My dear Mrs Hudson—you thought I had—oh, really, that is too amusing!”

      “Well,” said I huffily, “it may be amusing to you, Mr Holmes, but since I rely upon your monthly rent, I assure you—”

      “And you shall have it, and dinner at the Savoy as well!” he cried, pointing to the programme. The second half of the concert was devoted to the music of the American composer, Louis Moreau Gottschalk. His music was very popular in London at the moment, and I recognized the name. The list of pieces presented was printed in order, but the third line simply read, “To Be Determined.”

      “What does this have to do with—?” I began, but at that moment the door burst open and Dr Watson appeared, quite out of breath.

      “‘The Dying Poet!’” he exclaimed.

      Mr Holmes frowned at him. “My dear fellow,” he began, but Dr Watson cut him off.

      “The composition we heard last night was ‘The Dying Poet,’” he said, “not ‘The Dying Swan!’”

      “I still say you are wrong,” Holmes rejoined.

      “What does the programme say?” said Watson.

      Holmes tossed it aside. “It is of no help whatsoever.”

      “I have just come from the Royal Albert Hall,” Watson declared, “and they assured me that the piece Mr Balakirev played was indeed ‘The Dying Poet.’”

      Mr Holmes looked unconvinced.

      “If you don’t believe me, come along with me and hear it with your own ears,” Watson insisted.

      “That will not be necessary,” Holmes replied stiffly. “I can rely upon your word.”

      “What is this all about?” I said.

      “We attended a concert last night,” Watson replied, “the second half of which was devoted to the music of—”

      “Yes, yes, I know—Louis Gottschalk,” I interrupted. “What has a bet to do with all this?”

      “In the back of the hansom cab afterwards Holmes insisted that the third piece was called ‘The Dying Swan,’ whereas I thought I recognized it as ‘The Dying Poet.’ So we made a bet on the spot—whoever was wrong would pay for dinner at the Savoy.”

      Holmes turned to me. “Will you do the honour of accompanying us, Mrs Hudson?”

      I felt my face redden. “Why, Mr Holmes—”

      “Oh, do come along, Mrs Hudson,” Dr Watson said. “Otherwise I fear Holmes here will sulk the entire evening.”

      “If you insist,” said I.

      “Shall we say seven o’clock?” said Holmes.

      “Very well,” I replied. “And now I’d best be seeing about some eggs and sausage for your breakfast.”

      “Thank you, Mrs Hudson—I’m starving,” said Dr Watson.

      “And you, Mr Holmes?”

      “I’m not hungry,” he replied moodily.

      I chuckled. “I daresay that will change when you inhale the aroma of a chive omelet and some lamb sausage.”

      And with that, I hustled myself downstairs into the kitchen, where I prepared a rather splendid breakfast, if I do say so myself.

      It was not as splendid as the meal we dined on that night, however—oysters and game cock and blueberry pudding, with copious amounts of wine, ruby port and brandy for dessert. I woke up with quite the headache the next day, but it was worth it. Dr Watson told some stories of his combat days—we also found out how he came to know the music of Mr Gottschalk so well. It seems he had an encounter in medical school with a charming young lady from New Orleans, what the Americans might call a “Creole,” and she played the piano quite credibly. ‘The Dying Poet’ was one of her favorites, and he declared he must have heard it a dozen or more times during the period he knew her.

      None of this served to repair Mr Holmes’s bruised pride, however—it was some time before he went to another concert with the good doctor.

      And that is the story in its entirety, my dear Mr Clennam. I rather doubt it will appear in one of Dr Watson’s tales, but I can still see the look of satisfaction on the good doctor’s face. He had so few victories over Mr Holmes, that I have no doubt he especially savoured this one, trivial though it was. I personally think Mr Holmes was still rattled after his encounter with the Professor, hence his lapse of memory, but I did not say so at the time, preferring not to raise the spectre of his recently dead nemesis. You will perhaps agree with me that some things are better left unsaid.

      Yours very truly,

      Martha Hudson

      ELDRITCH, MY DEAR WATSON, by Darrell Schweitzer

      The H.P. Lovecraft—Sherlock Holmes Connection

“As for ‘Sherlock Holmes’—I used to be quite infatuated with him!” wrote the horror master H.P. Lovecraft in a letter to his friend Alfred Galpin in 1918, “I read every Sherlock Holmes story published and even organized a detective agency when I was thirteen, arrogating to myself the proud pseudonym of S.H. This P.D.A. [Providence Detective Agency—DS]—whose members ranged between nine and fourteen years in age, was a most wonderful thing—how many murders and robberies we unraveled! Our headquarters were in a deserted house just outside of the thickly settled area, and we enacted, and ‘solved,’ many a gruesome tragedy. I still remember our labours in producing artificial ‘bloodstains on the floor!!!’”1

      As S.T. Joshi remarks in his monumental biography of Lovecraft, I Am Providence, this letter gives us one of the most pleasing glimpses of the young author, before the nervous “collapse” of his later teens, playing detective with the neighborhood kids, perhaps with a little more brilliance and determination than most—it is clear that Lovecraft was the leader in all this—but nevertheless behaving very much like a normal boy for perhaps the first and only time in his life.

      * * * *

      Lovecraft went on in a letter to August СКАЧАТЬ