Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stepped from the crease at Marylebone Cricket Club, his bat cradled beneath his right arm. He had enjoyed the afternoon’s out-of-season practice, and felt that he had acquitted himself well, all things considered. He was by no means good enough for England, a fact that troubled him only a little, but he could hit hard, and his slow bowls were capable of disconcerting batsmen far more capable than he.
Conan Doyle had also largely forgotten the shock caused some years earlier by the apparent somnambulistic use of his left hand to write a scrap of Holmesian manuscript. For many months after, he had approached the cricket field with a sense of trepidation, fearing that, at some inopportune moment, his left hand, as though possessed, might attempt to take control of his bat, like some horror out of a story by Hauff or Marsh. Thankfully, he had been spared any such embarrassment, but he still occasionally cast his left hand a suspicious glance when his batting went awry.
He changed, made his farewells, and prepared to return to his hotel for he had work to do. Initially he had returned with a hint of resignation and a mild sense of annoyance to writing about Sherlock Holmes, but “The Adventure of the Empty House” had turned out better than anticipated: in fact, he had already begun to regard it as one of the best of the Holmes stories, and the joy and acclaim that greeted its appearance in the Strand, combined with the honor of a knighthood the previous year, had reinvigorated Conan Doyle. Only the continued ill health of his beloved Touie still troubled him. She remained at Undershaw, their Surrey residence, to which he would travel the following day in order to spend the weekend with her and the children. He had found another specialist to consult about her condition, but secretly he held out little hope. The tuberculosis was killing her, and he could do nothing to save her.
Conan Doyle had just turned onto Wellington Place when a small, thin man approached him. He had the look of a clerk, but was well dressed, and his shoes shone in the sunlight. Conan Doyle liked to see a man taking care of his shoes.
“Sir Arthur?” inquired the man.
Conan Doyle nodded, but didn’t break his stride. He had never quite grown used to the fame brought upon him by Holmes, and had learned at an early stage of his literary career never to stop walking. Once you stopped, you were done for.
“Yes?”
“My name is Headley,” said the man. “I’m a librarian.”
“A noble profession,” said Conan Doyle heartily, quickening his pace. Good God, a librarian. If this chap had his way, they might be here all day.
“I have some, er, colleagues who are most anxious to make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Headley.
“Can’t dawdle, I’m afraid,” said Conan Doyle. “Very busy. If you drop a line to the Strand, I’m sure they’ll see what they can do.”
He made a sharp turn to the left, wrong-footing Mr. Headley, and quickly crossed the road to Cochrane Street, trying to give the impression of a man with life or death business to contract. He was almost at the corner when two figures stepped into his path, one of them wearing a deerstalker hat, the other a bowler.
“Oh Lord,” said Conan Doyle. It was worse than he thought. The librarian had brought along a pair of idiots who fancied themselves as Holmes and Watson. Such men were the bane of his life. Most, though, had the common decency not to accost him on the street.
“Ha ha,” he said, without mirth. “Very good, gentlemen, very good.”
He tried to sidestep them, but the one dressed as Holmes was too quick for him, and blocked his way.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” said Conan Doyle. “I’ll call a policeman.”
“We really do need to talk, Sir Arthur,” said Holmes—or “Holmes,” as Conan Doyle instinctively branded him in his mind. One had to nip these things in the bud. It was why quotation marks had been invented.
“We really do not,” said Conan Doyle. “Out of my way.”
He brandished his walking stick at his tormentor in a vaguely threatening manner.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes—” said “Holmes.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Conan Doyle.
“And this is Doctor Watson.”
“No, it’s not. Look, I’m warning you, you’ll feel my stick.”
“How is your left hand, Sir Arthur?”
Conan Doyle froze.
“What did you say?”
“I asked after your left hand. I see no traces of ink upon it. You have not found yourself writing with it again, then?”
“How could you know of that?” asked Conan Doyle, for he had told no one about that unfortunate experience in August 1893.
“Because I was at Benekey’s. You put me there, along with Moriarty.” “Holmes”—or now, perhaps, Holmes—stretched out a hand.
“I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Sir Arthur. Without you, I wouldn’t exist.”