The Martha Hudson dinner had been set for the sixth of January. To followers of the Master, Sherlock Holmes, this date is as important a day as the year offers, for on January 6, Holmes’s birthday, his followers from all corners of the globe gather to celebrate his genius. On this date in 1983, I was invited to the Hudson dinner in Arlington, Massachusetts.
At the time, I was living in rather cramped quarters in Cambridge, and a free dinner meant much more to me than intellectual stimulation. I hadn’t read many detective stories and knew little about them. However, I’d naturally heard about Holmes and thought the night might prove interesting.
It was bitter cold and snowing-the wet, slushy snow of the city-when I left my apartment wrapped in an old army coat. The suit I had borrowed for the affair was ill-fitting, and I waited in great discomfort for the bus out of Harvard Square. The ride to Arlington took nearly forty-five minutes, and I kept asking myself as I shivered if all this was worth a free meal.
For the past several months, I had been trying and failing to make my living as a songwriter in the Boston area. I had finally taken a clerical job to pay the bills, but after less than a month had given that up. I turned to giving piano lessons and within a few weeks had several pupils, their combined fees totaling about sixty dollars per week.
I met Mr. Kevin James in November during one of my pupils’ recitals. He’d been dragged along by the child’s mother, together with a host of other poor souls, and had stood silently near the back door. As soon as the recital began, he slipped out, and I joined him.
“Enjoying yourself?” I asked.
He leaned languidly against the doorpost. “You go to these affairs often?”
“Naturally. I’m the instructor.”
“How do you stand it?”
I shrugged. “Comes with the job. Normally they serve punch later.” I tapped the pocket of my well-worn coat. “Punch with a punch.”
He grinned. “Don’t mind if I do.”
We became friends, and he had me to his house for dinner two or three times. One night we’d been speaking of detective stories, and he asked me to join him at the Martha Hudson dinner. I was happy to accept.
The dinner was held at a rambling structure in Arlington Heights known, for some obscure reason, as “The Ranch.” The crowd was not exactly what I had expected, consisting mostly of people my own age. They all appeared rather more well-to-do than I, however, which was not surprising.
As drinks were served, we all congregated in the large drawing room, the principal furnishings of which were the bookshelves that lined three of the walls, the huge oil portrait of, I later learned, the Master, and a long table upon which had been set bound copies of some reference works, a violin, a pipe, and a cap. Our host, Mr. Hugo Arrowroot, proposed a toast to Martha Hudson, then to Holmes, after which things assumed a more informal air. We ate a fine dinner of which coq au vin was the main course and, over brandy, fell into a heated discussion concerning the actual existence of fictional characters.
“It all began, I imagine,” said Kevin, “with Dante, when he included in his fictional Divine Comedy portraits of his enemies. I would suppose it’s even an older practice than that.”
“Much older,” offered another of the guests, a hirsute Harvard student. “All the Greek playwrights did it in their comedies. Aristophanes got in a lot of trouble because of it.”
“Not surprising,” Kevin continued, “and we’re all familiar with historical works that are, finally, more fictitious than the most imaginative novel.” Several students chuckled.
Kevin was smoking a briar, sitting on the edge of the table, fingering the open pages of one of the reference works. “But consider this angle. Suppose there was a man whose life was as interesting as could be hoped, and he had a companion who was given to writing. Could that companion refrain from biography? A Boswell to Johnson relationship? I doubt it. But again, suppose that the principal involved eschewed this kind of aggrandizing publicity, for any number of reasons, and forbade his companion to publish. What could they do? One solution would be to publish the biography as a fictional account, using fictional names but actual events.
“I contend that in this theory lies the root of truth in our more celebrated detective heroes.” He paused and relit his pipe.
“You’re not saying that you think Holmes actually existed?” I said.
“Precisely, John, precisely.”
Arrowroot spoke up. “It’s not a new theory at all. As far back as 1900, readers were proposing it. Holmes was still alive at that time, remember.”
“But a man of his supposed stature?” I protested. “I should think that, even fictionalized, he’d be immediately recognizable to the public.”
“James Bond isn’t,” Kevin said.
“James Bond! Come on.”
They shrugged at one another. “It’s been established that he’s alive and working right now. Of course, though it hurts to admit it, Fleming was better at peripherals than Conan Doyle.”
“Peripherals?” I asked.
“You know, names of minor characters, addresses, that sort of thing. Fleming never used real names or addresses, at least so far as we know. And while, of course, Holmes was not named Holmes and didn’t live at 221B Baker Street -actually we think he lived in Bond Street near Selfridges-Conan Doyle couldn’t help but leave a few characters untouched. He was probably leaving us clues. He had such a fine sense of play. But Hugo, here, is really the expert.” He turned to Arrowroot. “Perhaps you’d like to take it from here.”
“All right,” he said, “but I’m sure we’d all be more comfortable sitting down.”
We went out to the hall and brought in more chairs. The novices among us, of whom there were about five including myself, joked about this preposterous theory. When we’d gotten arranged and the brandy had been passed again, Arrowroot, from a large chair near the fireplace, began:
“The characters that Conan Doyle-or should I say Watson?-left intact for us were Martha Hudson and Irene Adler. You’re all familiar with Martha Hudson; at least you should be after this evening. She worked for the man who was Holmes until he died in Sussex Downs, after which she came back to London and worked for Lord Peter Thatcher, of the Bank of London, until 1938. She never divulged Holmes’s true identity, except of course to Thatcher as a reference. In all probability, Thatcher himself knew long before. In any event, when Thatcher died in the bombings of London, the secret of Holmes’s identity was lost forever, since Mrs. Hudson died shortly after she began her retirement, and certainly Conan Doyle never told.
“There was also, as I’ve said, Irene Adler, ‘the only woman,’ according to Holmes. She was, indeed, a famous Continental singer in the late 1800s, who disappeared between the years 1892 and 1894. And mark this: those are the very years that Holmes disappeared after following Moriarty to the Reichenbach Falls.” He paused for a moment.
“I’ve read somewhere,” ventured another guest, “that letters addressed to 221B Baker Street get answered, though.”
Kevin snickered. “Poppycock. A bank clerk answers those letters. They’re not even worth considering.”
“Kevin’s right,” Arrowroot continued. “Those ‘public’ incidentals mean nothing. The man who was Holmes would have never allowed use of so blatant a giveaway. He might just as well have let Conan Doyle use his proper name as his proper address. No, he saw Conan Doyle’s clues, and obviously enjoyed them, as he tolerated them. So the path to the truth follows these clues, not the obvious fictions of names and addresses. And there are a few others. Mycroft, for example.”
We all looked questioningly at him.
“Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother, the most brilliant man in England. His last name was not Holmes, of course, but we believe his first name was actually Mycroft. He ran the British government single-handedly, especially during World War I. As head of the Secret Service, among other things, he was known as ‘M,’ a title which I’m sure is familiar to all of you. His initial became the title for the head of British Intelligence. That, by the way, is perhaps Fleming’s only slip in the matter of peripherals.
“We also believe that Holmes’s code name during World War I was actually Altamont, that he raised bees, injected himself with cocaine, smoked a pipe, and played the violin. What we don’t believe is that he actually wrote down a few of his own adventures-that again was Conan Doyle with his sense of play. In all, you see”-he spread his hands out before him-“there is quite a good case.”
“But nothing really conclusive,” I said.
“Ever the cynic.” Kevin smiled. “Well, no, nothing really, finally conclusive. No sworn affidavit. But there is one other major bit of evidence that Hugo has overlooked.” He looked to Arrowroot. “The articles?”
Our host chuckled. “Oh, yes, of course.” He looked at his guests. “If you read the Holmes stories, you will note from time to time that Watson talks of articles-‘little monographs, ’ he calls them-that Holmes has written about any number of subjects, ranging from beekeeping to medicine to musical criticism. Probably the most famous is his treatise on tobaccos and their ashes. All of these articles appeared in periodicals of the times, and all anonymously. So… nothing conclusive, but it is an interesting array of facts, isn’t it?” He stood up. “I invite you all to look through the reference books I have here, and please, help yourselves to the brandy.”
Everyone stood up and gravitated toward the center table. General murmuring once again filled the room. After a few moments, I found myself again with Kevin.
“Very interesting theory,” I said.
“You seemed a bit skeptical,” he answered lightly, “but it does sound strange on the first hearing, especially if, as you’ve said, you’ve never read Conan Doyle.”
“Is Holmes really that good?”
He smiled. “He is the Master-of deduction, of disguise, of detection.”
I thought for a moment. “Presumably, such a man-a man skilled in the art of detection-would have no trouble escaping detection himself.”
“Quite so,” Kevin said, “which is why those who have sought to authenticate the Holmes legend have had such a time of it.”
I finished my drink and looked at my watch. Quarter past eleven, and I had students in the morning. I asked Kevin if he were going home by way of Cambridge, and would he mind giving a skeptical friend a lift. We said our good-byes and thanked Arrowroot, then stepped out into the bitter Boston night.
I didn’t have occasion to think again of that night until nearly five months later.
On January 8, 1983, I received the happy news that four of my songs had been accepted for a television premiere and, with the arrival of a royalty advance, I found myself, at least by my earlier standards, a rich man.
Accordingly, I bid a hasty farewell to my students and to the Boston winter and booked passage on a steamer to Morocco, where I passed the winter and early spring. By mid-April I was anxious to get back to writing, yet in no particular hurry to return to the U.S. One of my songs was having some popular success, and my agent had written several times, asking me to send him a tape as soon as possible. During the three months in Morocco, I had had a fine time but hadn’t written a note, so I decided to settle somewhere for the summer and to devote the time to work.
On April 19, I flew from Casablanca to Lyon, France, where a woman I knew had been spending the winter. After looking for several days, we came across an ad in the International Herald Tribune that looked ideal: a summer home, surrounded by oaks and vineyards, with a brook and arbor, near Valence, which is about halfway between Lyon and Marseilles.
I took the train the next day and walked out to the address, a little more than a mile from town. It was an old white adobe house, not too large, and extremely well kept. The owner was a Madame Giraud-Neuilly, a woman nearing seventy whose family, she said, had lived in the house for nearly a century. We spent the afternoon talking and drinking beer. I found her delightful.
Every one of my friends had warned me to beware of the French-that they were a haughty lot, supercilious, and unfriendly. But if Madame Giraud-Neuilly were any example, my friends had been wrong. I spoke French passably well, and that certainly didn’t hurt our relationship. At about 5:00, her husband, Jacques Neuilly, came home, and they invited me to stay for dinner. He showed me the wine cellar, which they hadn’t used since le père had died in the ’30s, saying I was welcome to use it for storage if I cared to clean it up. We worked out the details after dinner, and by the time I returned to Lyon the next day, I had a house. Ten days later I moved in.
Since the house was furnished, getting settled took no time at all. I spent the first month working the kinks out of my piano playing and writing daily. I took the five songs with which I’d been happiest, taped them, and sent them to New York; then I decided to take a few days off to celebrate and explore. I started with the cellar, hoping to find some old wine.
The cellar hadn’t been used for fifty years, and it looked it. Boxes were lying everywhere, covered with cobwebs. The casks lining the right wall were thick with dust. I turned one of the spigots, and it broke off. I was about to go back upstairs when I noticed something in the far corner reflecting the light from my lantern. I picked my way back and found that I’d been lucky-it was a half case of unopened wine. In the other half of the case lay a sheaf of papers, yellow and brittle, bound by twine. I lifted the whole box and brought it upstairs.
The wine was unlabeled, and I assumed that it was homemade. The sediment was thick on the bottom, and I hadn’t been careful enough in moving it. Since I had to let the wine sit for some time before decanting it, I picked up the sheaf of papers, got myself a beer, and went out to the arbor, thinking only to pass the time until the wine settled.
The papers were written in a thick Continental hand, in French, of course. After I got used to the style, I became engrossed. I read on, forgetting about the wine, until it got dark, then moved inside and finished the manuscript sitting at the kitchen table. At first I thought it a rather poor attempt at a novel, but as I read on, it appeared to be more and more genuine-a personal account of Madame Giraud-Neuilly’s father during World War I. But something else was even more interesting to me: if this were a genuine manuscript, it was proof of Arrowroot’s theory, for the Auguste Lupa of the manuscript could be none other than Holmes’s son.
The next day, I wrote to Madame Giraud-Neuilly, asking her if she could tell me anything about her father’s exploits during the war, specifically any undercover operations he might have been involved in. I then set myself to the arduous task of translating.
Within two weeks, I had my landlady’s reply. Yes, her father had been active in the war as some kind of agent. She didn’t know too much about it, though, and suggested that I question her half brother, Jean Chessal, who was living in Valence. He was a retired soldier, pushing eighty, and very reluctant to discuss anything with a nosy American. Finally, though, I persuaded him to take the manuscript. A few days later, I went to pick it up.
“Have you read it?” I asked.
“I said I would.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What do you think? Is it true?”
He squinted at me through his thick glasses and scratched at his head, as if trying to understand the question.
“How would I know? I wasn’t there.”
“But your mother…”
“My mother was Tania Chessal before she married Jules. What does that prove?”
But of course it proved quite a lot.
I returned home to find a letter from Kevin James. I had written to him asking him to send any information he had regarding Holmes’s progeny. The letter was mostly tongue-in-cheek, but it did present several facts about Holmes’s relationships, none of which were inconsistent with anything in the manuscript. I’d been slightly bothered by the initials S. H. on Lupa’s watch, but Kevin assured me that individuals who used aliases often kept their own initials.
I became angry with myself. After some weeks of translating, I’d become convinced of the manuscript’s authenticity, with no more proof than its evident age and its conformance to Hugo Arrowroot’s pet theory. There was only one thing to do to finally satisfy myself. Accordingly, I spent most of the next few months tracking down and interviewing anyone who might have known or worked with the man who had been Auguste Lupa for the year he lived and worked in Valence during World War I. Those interviews laid to rest my every doubt.
In translating, I have tried to use contemporary Americanisms wherever possible, though in places where the meaning is clear from context, I have retained the French.
Finally, I apologize for the prose style in this prologue. I am not a prose writer by trade, and if I had not come to believe in the importance of this manuscript, I would certainly have left it where I found it, gathering dust in a wine cellar.