Sherlock Holmes and the Discarded Cigarette (2 page)

Chapter 4

 

Then not waiting for any acknowledgment of my request or for my friend's approval I made my way to large parlor windows which faced onto Baker Street, raised each one up in turn and as I did, saw the warm blue gray cigarette and cigar smoke from the room escape out into the cold afternoon and smelled the rain dampened fresh air coming in.

While I was busy doing that Holmes started going about his parlor putting out the still lit and smoldering cigarettes and cigars. “Assist me in bringing this scientific experiment to an end Watson so that when Mrs. Hudson arrives with the afternoon tea there will be some place where we can sit and eat.”

So between the two of us we extinguished and collected all the tobacco products and their containers, just as we were finding one convenient place to store them until after tea there was a knock at the door indicating that the meal had arrived. As she entered carrying the tray in bearing food and drink Mrs. Hudson gave the state of the room in general and Holmes both a disapproving a look.

Realizing he may have strained their relationship a little more than usual Holmes apologetically said to Mrs. Hudson “I apologize for the state of my rooms. After Doctor Watson and I have finished eating we will leave you to attend to the dishes while we both will attend” Holmes said with a general wave of his hand “to the rest.”

With a slight hint of acknowledgment Mrs. Hudson placed the tray on Holmes dining table as she turned to leave the room muttered “Thank you Mr. Holmes.” During tea I related what had been happening in my sedentary life, I told him of my comings and goings with my practice in the hospital and my day surgery and out of respect to Holmes bachelor status giving only the briefest description of my married life.

After I had finished Holmes replied “I wish Watson that I could enliven our conversation with tales of master criminals and well planned crimes, but alas I have only been called upon by the Metropolitan Police to solve how some petty criminal managed a minor break and entry, hardly worthy of an entry in your journal.” I must explain here that I consider myself to be both a friend of Holmes as well as his chronicler (his “Boswell”).

Most of Holmes' stories are told as narratives, his solutions to actual crimes. In some later stories, Holmes criticizes me for my writings, usually because I relate them as exciting stories rather than as objective and detailed reports focusing on what Holmes regards as the pure “science” of Holmes' craft.

Well, I thought to myself my time with Holmes will be quiet and unexciting and that I would be counting the days until my wife's return. “I believe” my friend said he put his napkin down, rose from the dining table and walked towards the still open parlor windows “It's as if Watson all the criminals of London have taken a vacation from crime and gone abroad to the continent for the sun.”

Chapter 5

 

After his rooms had been made respectable and the dishes from the tea removed Holmes said that he had an appointment with the Metropolitan Police about a possible forged oil painting “And they asked me if I could apply my limited knowledge of art to assist them to prove if it was or wasn't” was how Holmes finished.

“And you Watson?” He asked as he made his way towards where his over coat and top hat were hanging I told him I was going to spend the rest of the day here in his rooms updating my notes. “Ah yes your journal” he quipped hoping that I wasn't writing as we were talking.

While he was putting on his outer ware to go out and as I was reaching into my left breast pocket for the pouch containing tobacco for my pipe I suddenly remembered the two lecture tickets that had been given to me a previous morning by one of my patients because finding himself in hospital he was now unable to attend.

As I pulled them out from my vest pocket I queried my friend as I saw him heading for the front door “Holmes, did we have any plans for tomorrow evening?” Stopping momentarily he turned in my direction and replied “Other than spending an evening scouring the papers for some hint of a crime that may have been committed; no I don't believe we have any. Why do you ask?”

While looking at the tickets I answered “Well I was given a pair of tickets by a patient of mine for a lecture that is to be given at the St. James's Theater in King Street tomorrow evening.” sensing that I now had aroused his curiosity Holmes asked with some interest “And who is the lecturer?” “An H.G. Wells” I answered “and he will be speaking about a new book he has just had published.”

Holmes pondered my reply for a moment “H.G. Wells let me think; yes I believe he is a novelist, journalist, sociologist, historian and a member of the Fabian Society if I am correct.”

I must pause here to acquaint the reader with the society to which Holmes had just mentioned. The Fabian Society is a British socialist intellectual movement, whose purpose is to advance the socialist cause by reformist, rather than revolutionary, means.

“An excellent suggestion” Holmes continued “what time does this lecture begin?” I turned the tickets over to see when the performance was scheduled to begin “8:00 o'clock it says” “ Then Watson I shall make the necessary arrangements with the hansom cab driver who will be taking me to my destination this evening to arrange that we have transportation waiting for us at 7:00 o'clock tomorrow evening giving us enough time to arrive at the theater.”

With that Holmes was dressed and out the door and onto his evening errand. Once the over powering smell of smoked cigarettes and cigars had finally left the room I pulled down each of the large parlor windows to keep the damp and cold outside, I stoked the coal fire in the hearth,

lit the coal oil lamp on the small table beside me and my pipe then comfortably settled in the large green leather chair next to the table to continue with my journal.

Chapter 6

 

I heard Holmes downstairs letting himself in the front door just as the mantle clock was chiming 10 p.m. As he was coming through the front door of his rooms I looked up from my writing and asked him with some interest if he had any luck with the forgery.

“Due to the obvious quality of the painting Watson, the Metropolitan Police and myself agree we lack the necessary artistic skills to discern if it is a forgery or not. To this end it is to being taken to the Belgravia Gallery tomorrow morning where their experts in forgery will ascertain if it is or is not. “

After removing and hanging up his over coat and top hat he sat down in his favorite chair for a minute to scan the evening newspapers looking over the top of the news paper he had in his hands Holmes asked in passing “speaking of tomorrow night's lecture do you know the title of this new novel written by Mr. H.G. Wells?”

“The Time Machine, I believe” I answered some what quietly while waiting for some sort of predictable and skeptical reaction from Holmes. Holmes thought for a moment, and then he said something very unpredictable “

“A machine that travels through time in the hands of a master criminal, Watson what an interesting if somewhat a disturbing thought. The nature and types of crime that could be committed are astounding. “ “Is there anything of interest in the news paper?” I asked him after a short time to get him away from thinking more about time machines in the hands of criminals.

He was aware that by anything of interest, I had meant anything of criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible war, and of an impending change of government; but these did not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed his restless meanderings.

The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” Holmes said in the querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. “Look out of these windows this evening Watson.” Holmes indicated to his windows facing onto Baker Street

“See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloudbank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim.”

“There have,” he said, “been numerous petty thefts.” Holmes snorted his contempt as he folded up the paper and dropped it by his side. “This great and somber stage is set for something more worthy than that,” said he. “It is fortunate for this community that I am not a criminal.” “It is, indeed!” said I heartily.

Chapter 7

 

As it had been arranged by Holmes the previous evening, precisely at 7:00 o'clock our transport was waiting in the street for us. As I climbed in, Holmes gave the driver our destination then climbed in beside me. With quick jerk of the horse's reins we were off traveling the nighttime gas lit still wet cobble stone streets of London.

After traveling across the city for some time we found ourselves on King Street and only a few of blocks away from our final destination. As our hansom slowly cab pulled up to the well gas lit front entrance of the theater both Holmes and I could tell by the number of people mingling about outside St. James's and waiting to enter that many others in London were as curious to find out about this new author as we were.

After Holmes paid the fare we left the cab and proceeded inside, we then made our way from the busy and bustling front entrance of the theater, checked our coats and hats, had our tickets verified by an usher then Holmes and I made our way through small and large groups of people engaged in conversation.

We crossed the ornately decorated and carpeted chandelier lit foyer and found our way into semi darkened theater where we looked for the row letter and seat numbers that had been stamped on our tickets. “Here we are Watson, row E seats 20 and 21 and it appears that our seats are located about mid way along the row.”

Finally making our way to our seats with out any one impeding our progress Holmes and I settled in to our respective seats and waited for the performance to begin. As we were sitting there together I soaked up the atmosphere and conversations that was going on all around me. Holmes was scanning the audience I assumed looking to locate some of the missing criminal element he had commented on earlier.

Before either of us had any time to really take in the people sitting beside us and in front of us the gas lights on the walls of the theater were being dimmed. At the same time two stage hands were crossing the large stage from right to left lighting in turn each of the lime lights that would illuminate the performer.

As the last of the theaters gas lights were being extinguished the level of conversation also seemed to be extinguished too. When the theater was quiet a tall distinguished looking gentleman in formal evening dress appeared from the right wing of the stage (obviously the master of ceremonies), when he reached the middle of the stage he stopped, turned and faced the audience.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a deep booming male voice that I'm sure could be heard all the way to the exits at the back of the theater “on behalf of the St. James Theater and our guest speaker I would like to thank you for coming to hear him this evening”.

There was a pause “Mr. H.G. Wells is known to many in London as a novelist, journalist, sociologist, and historian. Tonight he comes to us as a writer of a new form of prose, which he calls science fiction.”

The novel he will be reading excerpts from tonight is his first one to be written and published in this new style. Mr. Wells will read a few short passages from his novel then if there is time after he will take questions from the audience.

The master of ceremonies paused again for a moment the continued “Following this evening's performance Mr. Wells will be available in the St. James's Theater foyer for a short time after to sign copies of his new book if any one has already purchased one and wishes to have it autographed by the author

“And now ladies and gentlemen with out further delay I give you this evening's performer Mr. H.G. Wells.”

With that the applause from the audience started slowly then continued to build. As the applause continued the master of ceremonies returned to the right wing of the stage as he did he was passed by who everybody in the audience assumed to be H.G. Wells. Wells appearance was quite different; he was short, young looking (I would have placed his age at around 29), he had a full head of auburn hair, with a slightly drooping mustache of the same color and he had what some would call melancholy looking eyes.

Where the master of ceremonies had been formally attired Wells wore what might be considered an everyday tan colored woolen business suit with white shirt, collar and dark colored tie, to finish he was wearing what some might call “walking shoes”. In his left hand he was carrying a blue leather bound book, the book we assumed he was going to be reading from.

Wells now stood in the same place where the master of ceremonies had a few moments ago “Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” Wells started then realized with his voice he could not compete with the applause waited for it to die down and finish then continued “my name is Herbert George Wells and I will be reading some short passages from my new novel The Time Machine also known as The Chronic Argonauts.”

He opened up his book to the page that had been book marked looked down and began reading. At this point I will not bore the reader with the word for word context of all the passages that were read on the stage that evening, but there were three passages of particular interest that caught both Holmes and my attention.

This little affair,' said the Time Traveler, resting his elbows upon the table and pressing his hands together above the apparatus, ‘is only a model. It is my plan for a machine to travel through time.

You mean to say that machine (the model) has traveled into the future?' said Filby.

‘Into the future or the past - I don't, for certain, know which.' After an interval the Psychologist had an inspiration. ‘It must have gone into the past if it has gone anywhere,' he said. ‘Why?' said the Time Traveler.

‘Because I presume that it has not moved in space, and if it traveled into the future it would still be here all this time, since it must have traveled through this time.' ‘But,' I said, ‘If it traveled into the past it would have been visible when we came first into this room; and last Thursday when we were here; and the Thursday before that; and so forth!' (H.G. Wells the Time machine)