The Secret Notebook of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  The Case of the Yellow Book

  The Case of the Royal Lineage

  The Case of the Pea-Souper

  The Malady of Sherlock Holmes

  The Biter Bit

  The Case of the Mysterious Voices

  Sherlock Holmes and the Burglar

  The Case of the Severed Hand

  A Case of Stage-Fright

  The Case of the Missing Elephant

  A Bottle of Distilled Water

  The Case of the Incriminating Footprint

  The Case of the Disappearing Irregular

  The Master of Deduction

  The Mystery of Mornington Crescent

  The Case of the Secret Code

  The Case of the Auburn Hair

  The Return of Moriarty

  The Case of the Vanishing Blueprint

  The Case of the Red Neckerchief

  The Case of the Delicate Matter

  The Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra

  The Case of the Whispering Policemen

  The Case of the Diogenes Club

  The Case of the Lost Stradivarius

  The Case of the Social Network

  The Case of the Gory Corpse

  The Case of the Olympic Athlete

  The Case of the Christmas Cracker

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Bonus chapter: Chapter 1 of A Jar of Thursday

  About the Author

  Books by Liz Hedgecock

  Copyright and Dedication

  Foreword

  Professor J. Parker Holcroft

  Department of Criminology,

  University of Westmorland

  The Secret Notebook of Sherlock Holmes is an important addition to our canon of Sherlock Holmes case literature. At first I was certain that the newly-discovered notebook, in which Dr Watson records several hitherto-unknown early cases, was a fake. However, having read the volume from cover to cover, and subjected it to a battery of tests, I am confident that the Notebook is indeed the genuine article.

  The circumstances of the Notebook’s discovery are well-known. Students of criminology will have viewed the BBC News coverage and the Antiques Roadshow special, in addition to reading my definitive monograph on the subject. For the less well-informed reader, the Notebook was found on Tuesday 16th February 2016 at 221B Baker Street, the former residence of Sherlock Holmes. The rooms are preserved as a museum to the master detective, and as far as possible Holmes’s relics have been retained there.

  Sherlock Holmes himself would have noted some peculiarities about Tuesday 16th February. It was a particularly wet and miserable day, falling within the English schools’ half-term holiday. These factors led to high visitor numbers at 221B Baker Street, with a greater than usual number of bored school-age children. One of these, a Miss Jessica Farley, took it upon herself first to open and then to rummage in Sherlock Holmes’s sock drawer, while her parents examined a display of pipes and other smoking paraphernalia in the sitting room. By Miss Farley’s own account, the Notebook was ‘shoved right to the back, under the drawer lining’. Miss Farley’s parents were drawn back to the room by their daughter’s giggles as she perused the book. Fortunately for all concerned, and for the future of Sherlock Holmes scholarship, a museum attendant hurried to the book’s rescue before it was torn in two by a most unseemly tug-of-war.

  When I was informed of the find, I was convinced that the Notebook was a forgery planted by an audacious visitor. I ordered that the book should undergo testing, expecting it to be unmasked within days. This proved not to be the case.

  The notebook appears genuine; a standard red leather notebook of a type available during the period when Dr Watson would have kept his journal, and carbon dating confirmed this. The ink used throughout the notebook is Stephens’ indelible blue-black writing fluid. This matches with other notebooks in the possession of the Department of Criminology containing Watson’s case notes and rough drafts. Finally, experts at the University of Westmorland conducted a graphological and linguistic analysis of the text. Dr Watson’s handwriting is not as fully formed as in the later notebooks in our archives, but it is still recognisably his. The style also differs from the prose of Dr Watson’s Strand Magazine articles. However, this is usual in a private notebook, and where all other indicators declare the Notebook’s authenticity, it would be churlish to refute it on the basis of some minor stylistic inconsistencies.

  The differences between the Notebook and Watson’s later writings may also explain why its existence has only just come to light. Watson is far less reverential towards his friend in the Notebook than in his other writings. Perhaps more importantly, Holmes does not solve all the cases in the Notebook. The insight this provides into the development of Holmes’s skills is invaluable, for these early cases are Holmes’s training-ground.

  The majority of the cases recorded in the Notebook fall into the period before Holmes’s prime, which is considered to begin in 1886, and among these are several less prestigious cases which Holmes took on before his reputation was established. These suggest that late-Victorian London may have been less sinister and criminal than is commonly thought, since many of them arise from misinterpretation rather than evil intent.

  The most convincing hypothesis proposed to date for the Notebook’s disappearance is that Holmes himself concealed it in his sock drawer. If this is correct, it suggests that Holmes had a hitherto unsuspected interest in safeguarding his public image. This raises another question; why did Holmes keep the Notebook, rather than destroying it? There are many possible answers: a sentimental attachment to Watson’s writing; a desire to preserve the complete record of his case histories; or perhaps to retain the memory of his less successful days, as a check and balance to the image of ‘the great detective’.

  To conclude, The Secret Notebook of Sherlock Holmes raises many questions which we cannot yet answer. This edition has been rushed out to meet public demand, following the news of the discovery. However, I am at present preparing an annotated facsimile edition of the Notebook which will, I hope, lift the veil of mystery currently draped over this extraordinary book.

  The Case of the Yellow Book

  I watched as Sherlock Holmes, eyes narrowed, released a drop from his pipette into a flask of colourless liquid. There was a fizz, a puff of smoke, and the flask’s contents turned electric blue.

  ‘Amazing, Holmes!’ I cried. ‘What does it do?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ Holmes smiled. ‘But it is rather attractive, don’t you think?’

  I coughed as a pungent smell wafted towards me. ‘The aroma, less so.’ The front door bell jangled heartily and I flapped at the air in front of me. ‘Sometimes, Holmes, your timing is as off as your experiments.’

  Billy the page appeared moments later, smirking. ‘Pleased to announce Mr … er…’

  ‘Wilde. Oscar Wilde.’ The owner of the name stepped forward with a flourish of his bowler hat. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, wearing rather a loud checked suit. ‘Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘You do indeed,’ Holmes said, looking him up and down.

  ‘I see that you are sizing me up,’ the young man observed with a smile. ‘Indeed, people who judge by appearances are the only sensible ones — no! That wasn’t it!’ He frowned. ‘I may as well come to the point. My notebook, full of epigrams which I have polished to a high shine, has been stolen!’

  ‘Your notebook?’ I asked, mystified.

  ‘Yes. I am a writer … a poet at present, and a student, but one day I hope to write plays, novels…’ He waved his hands in the air as if conducting an orchestra, then froze. ‘But without my book, I am lost!’

  ‘Hmm.’ Holmes steepled his fingers and closed his eyes. ‘When did you last see the book?’

  ‘Two days ago. I took it out to make a note about a swallow and a jewel. I made a regrettable blot in the second line which I would give my eye-teeth to see again!’ Wilde’s expression of woe would have been almost comical if it had not been obvious how deeply he was affected.

  ‘I hope that will not be necessary,’ said Holmes. ‘Where do you usually keep the book?’

  ‘Next to my heart, in the inside pocket of my jacket.’

  ‘Of course. And did you replace the book there when you made the note?’

  Wilde’s brow furrowed with the effort of recall. ‘No… I left it on the table next to me, in my rooms at Magdalen. I sensed that inspiration would strike again, and I did not want to waste time. Oh!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘What a fool I was!’

  ‘Mr Wilde, please try not to worry. I am sure that we can recover your book.’ Holmes regarded the young man over his steepled fingers. ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘It is of an ordinary size, but its binding is a vivid dandelion yellow. Even the humblest flowers may have their own beauty.’ Wilde’s hand automatically went to his pocket, and he winced.

  ‘And what have your activities been between the last time you saw the book and the moment when you missed it?’

  ‘Let me see … I made the note and put the book down. Ah, and then my aunt arrived unexpectedly!’ Wilde grinned. ‘She likes to surprise me and take me out to tea. She worries that I don ’t get enough to eat at college.’

  Holmes’s face brightened. ‘Indeed! And where did you go for your tea?’

  ‘To a tearoom near the co
llege with a wonderful Madeira cake. I have already enquired for my book there, to no avail.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I walked Aunt Mabel to the station to catch the London train. We had to rush rather as she had a ticket for the opera.’ Wilde smiled fondly. ‘She’s a wonderful woman, Aunt Mabel. Formidable. Seventy-two and sharp as a hatpin.’

  ‘Does she encourage you in your literary career, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Wilde crossed one leg over the other, revealing a sock patterned entirely at odds with his suit. ‘Aunt Mabel only reads popular novels. I presented her with a volume of my poetry once, and she looked over her lorgnette at me — oh, with such an expression on her face!’ Wilde chuckled.

  ‘Mm.’ Holmes pondered. ‘I would like to have a conversation with your aunt, Mr Wilde.’

  Wilde’s mouth dropped open. ‘You cannot believe that Aunt Mabel is the thief!’

  ‘No, no, not at all. But a theory is forming in my mind. What happened after you saw your aunt off at the station?’

  ‘I strolled by the river for perhaps half an hour, and then walked back to my rooms and read. I only missed the notebook yesterday morning, when I woke with a beautiful thought — alas, it is gone now. I have retraced my steps a hundred times, and asked at the porter’s lodge and the station, but no book has been found.’

  ‘There was no sign that anyone had forced their way into your room?’

  Wilde laughed without merriment. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then I would definitely like to speak with your aunt. Does she live in London?’

  ‘No, in Brighton. I believe she is going back by the train today; she said she would stay with an old schoolfriend for a day or two, and the Sunday service is frightful.’ Oscar Wilde’s face brightened as he checked his watch. ‘Indeed, you might catch her at the station. She usually catches the fast train at ten to four.’

  Holmes leapt up. ‘Let us go!’ Wilde sprang after him, and I followed at a pace only marginally more sedate. I had no idea what Holmes’s theory was, or how he had arrived at it, but I trusted him completely; and it appeared that Oscar Wilde did too.

  We jumped into a cab and reached Victoria Station in less than fifteen minutes, shaken but undamaged. ‘Half-past three! Where are we likely to find your aunt, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘In the tea-room, consuming a cup of Earl Grey tea and a slice of Dundee cake,’ Wilde replied immediately. ‘The game is afoot, Mr Holmes!’ He raced off with Holmes and me in his wake. ‘There she is!’ He indicated a well-dressed elderly lady with an enormous black handbag on the chair beside her. Protruding from the handbag was a yellow-jacketed book.

  ‘Aunt Mabel! I — oh!’ Wilde stopped dead as he spied the book.

  ‘Oscar!’ Aunt Mabel put her cup down. ‘Is something wrong? You look haunted, dear boy!’

  ‘I believe I can explain,’ said Holmes, stepping forward. ‘Excuse me, dear lady, but your nephew Mr Wilde discovered that you had mistaken his book for your yellow-back novel. He hurried here to return your book, but in his haste he has forgotten it. I will purchase another copy from the bookstall, for you to read on the train home.’

  Aunt Mabel fixed Holmes with a steely stare. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that would be extremely kind of you, Mr…’

  ‘Holmes. Mr Sherlock Holmes.’ The great detective had blushed to the roots of his hair, and was shifting from foot to foot like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s office.

  ‘Indeed. I was reading The Last of the Mortimers, by Mrs Oliphant.’

  ‘An excellent choice,’ said Holmes, and ran away to the bookstall.

  ‘May I have my book, Aunt Mabel?’ asked Wilde, eyeing his notebook as a blackbird eyes her eggs when a fox is near.

  ‘Of course, dear boy.’ Aunt Mabel presented it back to him like a prize. ‘I did think that the narrative had taken a most unexpected turn.’

  ‘There are some rather fine passages,’ said Wilde. He tucked the book into his pocket and patted it, then kissed his aunt’s hand. ‘Goodbye, Aunt Mabel.’

  ‘Goodbye, dear boy.’ Aunt Mabel took her novel from Holmes and swept off to the train platform, where the guard raised his hat to her.

  ‘Well, Mr Wilde, that was elementary,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Really, Holmes?’ I said.

  Holmes laughed. ‘Yes! The colour of the notebook was the first significant point. Mr Wilde, when you told me your aunt read novels, used a lorgnette, and travelled by train, everything fell into place. Clearly she had taken your yellow notebook instead of her own yellowback novel, bought at the station bookstall for the journey. I must say in earnest, though, that at the beginning of your case I had not deduced that the answer would lie in a handbag at Victoria Station.’

  ‘A handbag?’ said Oscar Wilde. ‘A handbag!’ He beamed, reached into his jacket pocket, and scribbled a new note in his yellow book.

  The Case of the Royal Lineage

  ‘Well, Mrs Hudson did us proud,’ I remarked, brushing crumbs from my waistcoat. ‘That was a breakfast of champions.’

  ‘It was, rather.’ Holmes put his knife and fork together. ‘I feel a brisk walk is in order.’

  There was a loud bang on the front door. ‘I fancy we may need to postpone the walk,’ said Holmes. ‘That is the sort of knock which means business. Now, is there any egg yolk on my tie?’

  Billy appeared at the dining-room door. ‘Mr Lumsden,’ he announced, and made himself scarce.

  Mr Lumsden was a horsy-looking, weatherbeaten man of perhaps forty. ‘Mr Holmes, I’m very glad you’re in,’ he said, striding across the room and gripping Holmes’s hand. ‘I do believe you’re the only man who can help.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ said Holmes, smugly. ‘What sort of matter is it?’

  ‘A most delicate one,’ the man said, lowering his voice. ‘The Queen’s Pomeranian is in heat again!’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed, and sidled towards the poker in case the man turned violent.

  Mr Lumsden laughed and held up his hands. ‘I must apologise,’ he said. ‘I should have introduced myself more fully. I am Queen Victoria’s veterinary surgeon.’

  ‘But what does this have to do with me?’ Holmes enquired.

  ‘Well, initially I approached Inspector Lestrade about the case, but he said that it would be a waste of police time…’ Mr Lumsden’s voice faltered as he caught the full force of Holmes’s thunderous glare. ‘Look, Gena’s had three litters of puppies now, and we don’t know who the father is! It’s completely messing up our breeding programme!’

  ‘Ah!’ Holmes settled back in his chair with an enigmatic smile. ‘I presume the dog is under close watch?’

  ‘Of course; she is occupied most of the day with walks and play-time.’

  ‘And at night?’

  ‘She is in the kennel with the other dogs.’

  ‘Would I be right in thinking that you suspect some sort of night-time skulduggery?’

  Mr Lumsden’s face brightened. ‘That’s exactly it!’

  Holmes inclined his head. ‘Very well,’ he intoned. ‘We will convene at the kennels this evening and await developments.’

  ***

  ‘Give me some of that brandy, Watson, I’m frozen to the bone.’ I passed Holmes my flask, and we watched the morning mist rise over the estate.

  ‘We were so sure,’ muttered Holmes. ‘But the dog did nothing in the night-time!’ He took another pull at the flask. ‘She was probably exhausted from biting me.’ Holmes and Gena, it was fair to say, had not taken to each other.

  ‘Perhaps we will pick up another lead,’ I said. Holmes scowled.

  We kept a close eye on the kennel, observing the kennel maids as they brought the dogs’ breakfast. Still nothing untoward happened. Then whistling cut through the barking, and a young man in livery appeared. ‘Walkies!’ he cried. One of the kennel maids appeared, towed by three dogs including Gena, a yapping white fluff-ball who was trying to nip the others. The kennel maid handed Gena’s lead to the footman.

  ‘Here we go!’ whispered Holmes.

  ‘It won’t be a long walk,’ I said. ‘That dog’s hardly got any legs.’

  We tailed the footman as he strolled towards the gate, still whistling. When he reached the gate he bent and retrieved a long coat and a basket from under the hedge. He donned the coat, bundled the dog into the basket, and turned left out of the gate. Holmes and I followed, keeping well back. Then the footman hailed an omnibus and climbed to the top deck.