My Sherlock Holmes Read online

  I took the precaution of warning them that, disparate souls as they were, they might not like each other. I was little prepared for the result of my warning. The historic meeting took place at what Dodgson referred to as his “house,” a suite of ten rooms in stairway seven of Tom Quad at Christ Church College. Its previous occupant had been Lord Bute. While Dodgson proudly made mention of his abode’s noble pedigree, he was quick to point out that neither the rank nor the title had been transferred to him.

  “There is no way I could be mistaken for a member of the peerage,” he said with a certain degree of rue, brightly adding, “but at least it gives me the opportunity to bask in the company of similarly afflicted souls, such as yourselves.”

  The three of us sat at a large roomy table in his study, a chamber that always comforted and delighted all who had the good fortune to enjoy its hospitality. It was rumored that such occasions tended to be infrequent except for a rare invitation to a favored student, the visit of some noteworthy individual to the grounds of Christ Church or children under the age of ten.

  Reverend Dodgson’s willingness to meet with Mr. Holmes surprised me. The don possessed an extremely shy nature. Some even said he was a recluse who rarely ventured forth, except to deliver a lecture, a very occasional sermon, or to go for one of his brisk walks. I thought this to be an exaggeration.

  Dodgson prepared the tea in a precise, if not eccentric, manner. As was his long-standing custom, he held the pot firmly and paced back and forth while tilting the pot first to the left and then to the right. I had time to admire the three-globed chandelier overhead, which illuminated the room with a brilliance and a warmth that, I fancied, were exceeded only by the humble genius’s warmth and demeanor. I looked beyond Mr. Holmes toward the great window and its view of St. Aldate’s, framed by solid curtains. On the sill was a great pile of books and monographs. To the right of the window was the noted famous Dodgson bookcase, neatly laden with all sorts of arcane treasures. To my right was the deep fireplace with its ample mantel on which rested a few ornate jars and vases. Reverend Dodgson ceased his determined parading when exactly ten minutes had elapsed and he joined us at the table.

  Dodgson held up the ornate teapot and asked, “Shall I be mother?”

  Holmes and I nodded, and Dr. Dodgson poured tea for each of us.

  We sipped of the bracing, steeped elixir and smiled at each other. After a discreet pause, Professor Dodgson asked, “And what do you do, Holmes?”

  Mr. Holmes seemed surprised by the good professor’s apparent ignorance of his exploits.

  “I play the violin,” replied Mr. Holmes, “and as an avocation I fight the forces of evil.”

  “Quite a responsibility,” said Dodgson.

  “I suppose,” said Mr. Holmes.

  “After all, Bach’s airs should not be fiddled with by just anyone; else Bach’s heirs will be most vexed.”

  Mr. Holmes smiled a tight smile. Dodgson, on the other hand, warmly recommended the raspberry jam. Mr. Holmes dutifully spread the fragrant fruit compound across his biscuit.

  “And,” continued Dodgson, “Just how do you wage war against evil?”

  “I assist my patrons, according to their needs and according to my own curiosity. I find innocent people who have been abducted. I apprehend perpetrators of fiendish crimes and see to it that they are sent to gaol where they belong.”

  “Ahh,” said Dodgson, “you are a magician.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Holmes. “My weapon is not magic but pure logic.”

  “People vanish and you make them materialize. You seek other people and make them vanish.”

  “You have a refreshing, and most unusual definition of magic,” snapped Mr. Holmes.

  “Just how are you faring in your war against evil?”

  “I have had my share of triumphs,” replied Mr. Holmes.

  “What joy,” said Dodgson. “Please allow me to thank you on behalf of Christendom. I know I shall sleep better tonight.”

  Mr. Holmes leaned forward and tapped his finger upon the table. “If you only knew how bitter the battle and resourceful the enemy, you would never dare close your eyes to sleep again, sir!”

  “I do have some notion of the battle, sir; but if it weren’t for sleep and the visitation of dreams, we would be bereft of ideas. More tea?”

  “No, thank you,” said Mr. Holmes. “I read your defense of Euclid. It seemed to be a most appropriate use of your special talent.

  “Thank you.”

  “And are you still writing those little entertainments for the kiddies?”

  “Yes,” said Dodgson, “we mustn’t all be scaring the children. Now, must we?”

  “Why should children be spared knowledge of reality?” asked Mr. Holmes. “How does that prepare them for the responsibilities of maturity?”

  “I have noticed that the people who so assuredly use the word ‘maturity’ are better at pronouncing it than exemplifying it. What do you think?”

  “I think,” said Mr. Holmes, daubing at his lips with the linen napkin and rising from his chair, “that I have urgent business elsewhere.”

  I was stunned.

  Mr. Holmes fixed his intense eyes on me and softly said, “Well, young man, are you returning to London with me or shall you waste the afternoon by drinking tea and pretending to find virtue in the idle science of pure mathematics?”

  I looked at Mr. Holmes and then at Dodgson. Each was staring at me, waiting to see whose company I would prefer for that afternoon and, it might be, forever after. Each, in his own way, has been a benefactor. Each in his own way has been a teacher. They were treating me like the stray dog that I am—a dog that must show love and obedience to one or another master.

  Mr. Holmes’s lip actually began to curl, not as I was prepared to expect, in contempt, but in laughter. And Dodgson, dear, sweet, shy, humble Dodgson permitted himself the barest outline of a smile.

  “Well done, Reverend,” said Mr. Holmes.

  “The stage lost a fine actor, Mr. Holmes,” said Dodgson, “when you chose to fight the forces of evil. Of course, there are those who choose to think of the stage, itself, as evil; but we can discount those poor, misguided wretches.”

  My shocked mien apparently changed to bafflement.

  “Good God, my young friend,” said Holmes. “How could you possibly believe that two such Englishmen as Reverend Dodgson and I could not find, each in the other, a worthwhile and appropriate companion? I must admit it was quite flattering to be thought of as the good don’s peer.”

  “I meant no harm,” I offered.

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Holmes. “And to be perfectly frank, your little foray into matchmaking pleased Reverend Dodgson and I no end, and so we decided to perform this little dramatic sketch as a thank-you.”

  I was scarcely in the mood to say “you’re welcome,” although to have two such esteemed and accomplished fellows stage a little performance especially for me did charm me in some uncharted and probably dangerous area of my psyche.

  “And,” added Mr. Holmes, “we derived a special pleasure from your desire to introduce us because Reverend Dodgson is one of the small band of people who have come together at my urging to help you make your way in the world.”

  My face reddened. I am grateful for the kindness shown to me by Mr. Holmes and, as I learned on that day Professor Dodgson, and those others whose identities were unknown to me. But I do not like the cloak of deception that forever covers me. I do not like knowing of my fraud.

  Sensing my thoughts, Holmes said, “Be of good cheer, young fellow. All of us harbor secrets, some nastier than yours.”

  “We all are sinners,” agreed Dodgson. “In my prayers, I constantly ask God to give me a new life.”

  “You?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Does he?” asked Mr. Holmes.

  “In his own mysterious manner,” Dodgson sighed, “I suppose that he does. Each sunrise is an opportunity to find and walk on the righteous pa
th with His blessing. But by the time the sun has set, we have already contrived to grasp the temptations that we had hoped to renounce.”

  “You lead an exemplary life, sir,” I interjected.

  “Only in deed,” he said. “Only in deed.”

  “My good Reverend,” said Mr. Holmes, “you are hobbled by your knowledge of God’s word. We, on the other hand, are saved by our comparative ignorance. I do know, however, about the God of justice and he will not find you wanting.”

  Dodgson sighed again, and said, “And I in turn hope that when I arrive at the Pearly Gates for judgment, you will be there to plead my case.”

  “If it’s not too much of a bother,” said Mr. Holmes, “I prefer not to precede you on such a journey.”

  Dodgson refilled our teacups and said, “Actually one reason I encouraged our young friend to arrange this meeting is because of a little problem I have. I might be in need of your services, Holmes.”

  The great detective wiped his lips with a napkin and casually reached into his pocket for his pipe.

  “Please don’t smoke,” said Dodgson curtly. “You know I hate smoking.”

  “Quite right,” said Mr. Holmes, and replaced the faithful stained calabash. “Please tell me more.”

  “I,” Dodgson began, “have been—” And here he paused—not for dramatic effect but as a victim of the stammer that had plagued him all of his life.

  We looked at him expectantly. Finally the words came.

  “Stung! I have been—stung. I need you to use those magical powers about which we had such a good laugh to make my good name reappear.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Holmes, “I am hardly the scourge of gossip-mongers.”

  “Nor do I ask your help in such a pursuit. Let me just state it flat out. Four of my diaries are missing. They cover the years 1858 to 1862. They are private musings, my daily thoughts. By reviewing the entries I am helped in striving for redemption. I fear that someone has stolen them for the purpose of profiting from the dissemination of those matters in my life which I prefer to keep hidden. I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t bear the thought of the whole world sharing my secrets.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Holmes. “I shall have to ask you a few questions.”

  “I had better excuse myself,” I said.

  “No,” snapped Mr. Holmes.

  Both Dodgson and I looked at him in bewilderment.

  “Mr. Wiggins shall stay with us and hear your entire discourse on these troubling events,” said Mr. Holmes. “I have need of his assistance and he is someone we both can trust. Are we agreed?”

  Dodgson nodded and so did 1.

  “Now then,” said Mr. Holmes, “tell me about these diaries and the circumstances surrounding their disappearance.”

  “It has been my custom to maintain a diary in which I record thoughts, feelings, ideas, beliefs, activities, and other such items of personal interest that I may wish to consult at some future date. It is not uncommon to maintain such a document. It is my companion, confessor, mirror and yardstick. Others may use a diary to engage in small talk with themselves, or to express what if spoken would have them expelled from polite society. I, too, use my diaries for certain practical matters—to make note of the publication and date of notices about my works, to log the names of visitors or people to whom I’ve journeyed and the particulars of the pastime, to note payments for expenses I have incurred, and so on. But I also evaluate my efforts to serve God’s purpose. In that regard, my diary is a document of my frailties and temptations—and, yes, my prayers.”

  “If they were unearthed,” Mr. Holmes said carefully, “would they contain any entries that would get you in trouble with the law?”

  “Some fates are worse than ‘trouble with the law,’” said Dodgson.

  “Perhaps, and we’ll get to those considerations in due time,” said Mr. Holmes. “But let us proceed deliberately. If the perpetrator of this assault on your property were brought to trial, could his barrister harm you by reading excerpts from your diary?”

  Dodgson blanched. “Is that sort of thing done?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Holmes. “The clear logic of the law holds that stealing is stealing. And punishment is meted out to the evil who prey upon the innocent. But when you have law, you have lawyers—creatures no doubt not contemplated when the Almighty was devising His plan to which you had just referred. Lawyers earn their keep by introducing as evidence any froufrou that would distract a judge and jury from the contemplation of the demands of justice. In a court of law, there certainly could be a solemn recitation of your words as an attempt to deflect wrath away from the filthy thieves and toward you. It’s not right, but there you are.”

  “I’d be mortified. I’d be ruined. Perhaps you should not perform this favor.”

  “Consider the consequences,” said Mr. Holmes, “if no effort is made to retrieve the precious journals.”

  Dodgson looked into the fireplace and seemed to be peering into his own personal hell.

  “Isn’t this a pretty puzzle,” he said. “I can embark on the rescue of my own rightful property and thereby create the legal contraption that will ruin me; or I can let sleeping dogs lie with the grim knowledge that they will awaken some day and cruelly rip whatever remains of my reputation to shreds. One path leads to ruin whereas the other path leads to ruin.”

  “It’s a shame,” I cut in, “that you didn’t burn the diaries.”

  Dodgson’s gray eyes flickered with anger and sorrow. Mr. Holmes shot me a sharper look. Apparently I was to be seen and not heard.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I thought I was part of this.”

  “And, indeed you are,” said Holmes. “Be assured that I will advise you of the moment when your talents are to be of use. Until then, please reward us with your patience—and your silence.”

  I could not help but marvel at the splendid company in which I found myself. In the old days someone simply would have told me to shut me mush.

  “How could I burn them?” asked Dodgson. “They are my life, my solace and perhaps even my instrument of salvation.”

  “There is a third possibility,” Mr. Holmes said. “Although I assist the police, I am not, nor would I care to be, an agent of the law. This allows me to provide discretion when appropriate. I would be proud to do that for you.”

  Dodgson flashed a pathetic smile, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I would be most grateful if you were to continue in this matter.”

  “I do not care to know the particulars of your diaries. And I am sure Mr. Wiggins shares my feelings.”

  I soberly nodded in agreement, hoping that my face did not betray my rampant curiosity.

  “However,” Mr. Holmes continued, “we do need to know what the diaries look like.”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” said Dodgson, and he rose from the table. He walked purposefully over to the bookcase, reached to the topmost shelf his hand could extend, and secured a black leather-bound volume of a size and thickness that made it identical to the remaining books on that very shelf as well as those on the shelf below.

  “My mind has always been awash with ideas for stories and songs and poems and games and mathematical problems,” said Dodgson, as he returned to the table. “And I suppose I wanted some convenient repository for the fragmentary ideas that I was too busy to get to. And perhaps I was a bit full of myself, thinking that the stray musings of a young man were worth logging. Anyway I started this one while I was staying at the Residence of Ripon Cathedral, where my father served as canon.”

  He opened the diary and read aloud, “One January 1855. Tried a little Mathematics unsuccessfully. Sketched a design for illumination in the title page of Mary’s Book of Sacred Poetry. Handbells in the evening. A tedious performance.”

  He snapped the book shut, and sonorously proclaimed, “Thus wrote Dodgson.”

  “That hardly seems the stuff of scandal,” said Mr. Holmes.

  “No,” said Dodgson, “and to an
swer your previous question, nothing of a criminal nature appears in my journals. I have performed no acts forbidden by law or by our Creator. That is not testament to my rectitude or discipline but rather my abject fear of breaking the commandments of God.”

  “We know that,” said Mr. Holmes.

  “Nevertheless, people gossip about me,” said Dodgson. “They tsk-tsk at the thought of the hospitality I extend my child friends. They whisper about the married women who have journeyed here for picnics and dinners and such. They depict me as a naive old man with puzzles in his pocket and a hopelessly childish sense of the world. Good grief, Holmes! My parents brought eleven children into this world. There was no shelter for naivete in my father’s house. It was too small.

  “Others paint me as a cunning rascal who enjoys the blessings of marriage without the sanction of marriage. My targets are said to be my female friends whose ages range from five to forty. I do love female company but I have not compromised anyone.

  “I believe that to despise fame is to despise merit; but there is another side to the coin. People who do not know me feel they have license to concoct and spread stories about me. My good sister, Mary Lutwidge Collingwood, even posted me a letter about all of this gossip. I told her, ‘You need not be shocked at my being spoken against. Anybody who is spoken about at all is sure to be spoken against by somebody; and any action, however innocent in itself, is liable, and not at all unlikely, to be blamed by somebody. If you limit your actions in life to things that nobody can possibly find fault with, you will not do much.’”

  “A noble sentiment, indeed,” said Mr. Holmes.

  “Gossip is transient,” said Dodgson. “But the written word remains. And the words I have written into my diaries about my reflections must not remain. My diaries describe not only what I did and said but what I thought and dreamed and of course what I prayed. I do believe that my candor on these pages helped spare me from actually taking the path that I saw in my visions. That and keeping very busy.”