The result was a disaster for the Strand. Many readers immediately canceled their subscriptions in outrage, almost causing the collapse of the periodical, and for years after, staff would refer to Holmes’s death only as “a dreadful event.” Black armbands were allegedly worn by readers in mourning. Conan Doyle was shocked by the vehemence of the public’s reaction, but remained unrepentant.
It’s fair to say that Mr. Headley, who by that point had succeeded Mr. Torrans as the librarian upon the latter’s retirement, was just as shocked as anyone else. He was a regular subscriber to the Strand, and had followed the adventures of Holmes and Watson with both personal and professional interest: personal in the sense that he was an admiring, engrossed reader, and professional because he knew that, upon Conan Doyle’s death, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson would inevitably find their way to the Caxton. Still, he had been looking forward to many more years of their adventures, and so it was with no small amount of regret that he set aside the Strand after finishing “The Final Problem,” and wondered what could have possessed Conan Doyle to do such a thing to the character who had brought him both fame and fortune.
But Mr. Headley was no writer, and did not profess to understand the ways of a writer’s mind.
Let us step away from the Caxton for a moment, and consider the predicament of Arthur Conan Doyle in the year of publication for “The Final Problem.” In 1891, he had written to his mother, Mary Foley Doyle, confessing that “I think of slaying Holmes . . . and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things.” In Conan Doyle’s case, those “better things” were historical novels, which he believed more worthy of his time and talents than what he described as the “elementary” Holmes stories, the choice of that word lending an unpleasing ambiguity to Holmes’s own use of the term in the tales.
Here, then, was the apparent reason for killing off Holmes, but upon Conan Doyle’s death a peculiar piece of manuscript was delivered to the Caxton Private Lending Library, tucked into the 1894 first edition of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, the volume that concluded with “The Final Problem.” It was written in a hand similar to Conan Doyle’s own, although with discernible differences in capitalization, and with an extensive footnote relating to the etymology of the word professor that was untypical of the author.
Attached to the manuscript was a letter, clearly written by Conan Doyle, detailing how he woke one morning in April 1893 to find this fragment lying on his desk. According to the letter, he wondered if it might not be the product of some form of automatic writing, for he was fascinated by the possibility of the subconscious—or even some supernatural agency—taking control of the writer in order to produce work. Perhaps, he went on to speculate, he had arisen in the night in a semiconscious state and commenced writing, for aspects of the script resembled his own. Upon the discovery of the manuscript he examined his right hand and discerned no trace of ink upon it, but was astounded to glance at his left and find that both the fingers and the edge of his palm were smudged with black, a revelation which forced him to seek the comfort and security of the nearest chair.
Good Lord, he thought, what can this mean? And, worse, what consequences might it have for his batting? Could he somehow be transforming into an ambidexter or, God forbid, a favorer of the left hand: a sinister? Left-handed bowlers on the cricket field were one thing—they were largely harmless—but left-handed batsmen were a nuisance, necessitating the rearrangement of the field and causing all kinds of fuss, bother, and boredom. His mind reeled at the awful possibilities should his body somehow be rebelling against him. He would never be able to take the crease for Marylebone again!
Gradually Conan Doyle calmed himself, and fear gave way to fascination, although this lasted only for as long as it took him to read the manuscript itself. Detailed on its closely written pages was a conversation between Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty, who had apparently taken it upon themselves to meet at Benekey’s in High Holborn, a hostelry noted for the privacy offered by its booths and the quality of its wines. According to the manuscript, Moriarty had instigated the meeting by way of a note delivered to 221B Baker Street, and Holmes, intrigued, had consented to sit down with the master criminal.
In his letter, Conan Doyle explained what he found most troubling about the contents upon first perusal: he had only begun writing about Moriarty days earlier, and had barely mentioned him in the course of the as-yet-untitled story. Yet here was Moriarty, seated in Benekey’s, about to have the most extraordinary conversation with Sherlock Holmes.
Extract from the manuscript (Caxton CD/ MSH 94: MS)
Holmes regarded Moriarty intensely, his every nerve aquiver. Before him sat the most dangerous man in England, a calculating, cold-blooded, criminal mastermind. For the first time in many years, Holmes felt real fear, even with a revolver cocked in his lap and concealed by a napkin.