The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (33 page)

Holmes was pensive, fiddling with his chemicals at the deal-top table, stroking his violin aimlessly, checking the firearm in his shoulder holster to make sure it was loaded, asking me twice if I had examined mine, talking idly about the theatre and concerts, and, ultimately, about what Smisky might be intending and how. The minutes until seven o'clock ticked away.

When the timepiece on the mantel struck six-thirty, we donned our jackets, ventured casually out the door past Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen - “Enjoy your night out,” she called to us - and stepped onto the pavement to flag down a hansom at the corner.

“Where to?” the driver sputtered, and Holmes gave him a light-hearted answer: “Simpson's in the Strand beckons us for a delightful meal.” I boarded the vehicle first, and Holmes, ever vigilant, glanced in all directions before following me up into the seat. The horse moved forward and trotted through Cavendish Square, then beyond Regent Street near the intersection of Oxford Street, where Holmes raised up and surveyed the avenue behind us to determine if we were being stalked. “It looks clear, save for one cab about fifty yards to the rear,” he observed, almost under his breath.

When we reached the Strand, my careful friend told the driver to pull to the curb around a bend in the road. “We'll walk the rest of the way,” he apprised the driver. “Here is an extra two shillings if you continue on to Simpson's and stop in front for a minute until the cab behind us passes you by.”

“Will do, guv'nor, whatever you say. Appreciate the tip,” the driver concurred.

We strolled briskly toward the restaurant past the familiar shops and hotels until we were within sight of our destination. I checked my pocket watch and noted to Holmes that the time was six-fifty. “Avert the front door, Watson - we'll go in through the back and into the kitchen,” Holmes advised. “Keep your eyes peeled, Watson. Remember, he's the stout fellow with a handlebar moustache.”

“I would never forget that face, be certain,” I assured my companion.

We emerged from the busy kitchen and into the crowded dining area, where an astonished
maître-de
, Oswald, excitedly encountered us. “Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I never expected an entrance like this!” he cried. “Nonetheless, your table is ready.”

We trailed after him to a setting in the centre of the room, seated ourselves, and scoured the faces of the patrons to see if the assassin had already arrived. There was no sign of Smisky, so we asked the waiter to bring us two glasses of dry sherry. It was seven o'clock.

Our drinks were served and Holmes proposed a toast. “May the dinner be succulent, uneventful, and safe,” he prayed, “and may Joe Smisky be all bravado with no nerve.”

Suddenly, two men with hoods covering their heads, their handguns thrust outward, appeared inside the front door, the weapons scanning the dining area as if searching for a target. One by one, the clientele noticed the intruders. The sounds of a vibrant atmosphere became eerily silent. One of the hooded figures trained his revolver on our table and a voice cracked the motionless air. “Holmes, you monster! Prepare to meet your Maker!”

With that, four other men at a scattering of tables flashed weapons that were aimed at the two assailants. One of those men spoke authoritatively and loudly. “Drop the guns or we'll fire. I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and you are both under arrest for attempted murder.”

“Murder it will be, then!” the second hooded man bawled, squeezing off two rounds in the direction of the lawmen, missing them and sending the bullets over the scalps of the diners into the wall. The four officers cut him down with a volley of shots as the hooded man closest to Holmes wheeled and tried to escape. He was accosted by two more members of Lestrade's squad and engaged them in battle, killing one before the other policeman emptied his revolver into the belligerent's chest and abdomen.

The odour of sulfur penetrated the dining room, and the customers, especially the ladies, shrieked in horror before the pandemonium dissipated.

The officials removed the hoods from the heads of the deceased assassins and Holmes informed Lestrade that their names were Smisky and Kiefer.

“When I received your message this morning,” Lestrade remarked, “I thought it was another of your wild goose chases. But I couldn't be certain, so I came, anticipating nothing of this sort.”

“You should know better by now, Lestrade, that when I humble myself to ask for your assistance, I am certain,” Holmes scolded. “This outcome was predictable. I told you as much.”

The next morning, after reading the account of the gunplay in the
Times,
Holmes saw a separate article, a small item, about the death of an ex-convict, Gunther Williams, also known as Hobo Willie. The newspaper said the police reported he was gunned down by an unknown attacker in an alley behind the Southpointe Cafe in Pope's Court.

The writer speculated that the killing was an act of revenge perpetrated by an enemy who also had been an inmate at Dartmoor Penitentiary. “Leave it to the naive press, Watson, to jump to such a conclusion without having the data to support it,” Holmes groused. “I shall make a contribution to the orphanage in Gunther's honour.”

The Saviour of Cripplegate Square

by Bert Coules

This play was commissioned by the BBC as the fifth episode in the first series of
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
, sixteen pastiche mysteries based on some of the throwaway references to other cases which Conan Doyle scattered throughout the Canon. The shows followed the earlier dramatisations of all fifty-six short stories and four novels, the first time it had ever been done in any medium. Clive Merrison repeated his Holmes in the sequels, with Andrew Sachs taking over as Watson after the untimely death of Michael Williams.

If you have the original broadcast, either on CD or as a download, and try following the script as you listen along, you'll notice a few minor differences. Things almost always get changed during the recording: cuts for time, clarifications of plot points, smoothing out of lines that have proved unexpectedly tricky to say, and so on
.

Readers unaccustomed to radio scripts are sometimes surprised by the presence of detailed directions for movement and business, especially if they've imagined the studio sessions as a group of performers sitting round a table and acting to a single microphone. In fact the process is a very physical one: there are sets with practical doors, windows, staircases, and furniture which the cast can roam around, and most directors choreograph a scene in much the same way as they would for a stage, film or TV production. Action, even something as simple as crossing a room to open a door, is valuable for preventing a static feel, and even a gesture or the position of the head changes the voice and makes for aural variety as well as dramatic realism.

INT and EXT in the scene headings stand for Interior and Exterior, distinctions achieved not only by the addition of appropriate background effects but also by recording in different acoustics: purpose-built radio drama studios are divided into areas with contrasting wall, floor and ceiling treatments which radically affect the sound.

A note on dates: In general, I was careful not to be too specific about the dating of any of the
Further Adventures
. Not only was I well aware that we had a loyal audience of extremely knowledgeable Holmesians eager to pounce happily (and good-naturedly) on any inadvertent inconsistencies with the canon - Conan Doyle is himself often vague or completely silent on the subject of dates - so I was following in the best possible footsteps. But having said that, this particular story's mood of reminiscence and revelation seems to sit nicely with the time of Holmes's reappearance from his wanderings and Watson's return to the old Baker Street rooms, twin events which in this instance Sir Arthur pins down exactly; so 1894 let it be.

The case at the heart of the story though took place long before. It happened shortly after Holmes's arrival in London following his years at university, when, as it says in the script, he would have been in his early twenties. And I'm happy to leave things at that.

Finally, a playscript isn't as easy to read as a story: the experience can feel disjointed as the eye and the brain moves from scene heading to character name to dialogue and directions. Any initial awkwardness usually disappears as the pages succeed each other and, with luck, as the world of the drama begins to form in the reader's imagination. I hope this happens for you, and you find yourself transported back to a stormy Victorian night with the rain beating against the windows, the wind howling in the chimney, the fire crackling in the grate and Sherlock Holmes in the mood to tell a dark tale of his earliest days as a detective.

This script is protected by copyright. For permission to reproduce it in any way or to perform it in any medium, please apply to the author's agent. Contact details can be found at
www.bertcoules.co.uk
.

THE CAST

in order of speaking

SMITH
– Nathaniel Collington Smith, librarian at the British Museum. Mildly eccentric, soft-spoken, widely experienced and very wise in an unconventional sort of way: a mentor to the young Sherlock Holmes. Sixties or older.

WATSON
– Doctor John Watson.

HOLMES
– Sherlock Holmes.

JENNY
– Jenny Snell, a working class cleaner and general household servant. Early teens.

GUTTRIDGE
– A working class East Ender. Forties.

LANDLADY
– Ruler of a rough working class pub in the East End of London.

WOMAN
– A young working class mother. East End Londoner.

MRS. GUTTRIDGE
– An East Ender from the upper ranges of the working class. Forties or older.

DOCTOR
– Working in one of the most desperate and poor areas of the East End.

MAN
– An East End local.

Plus a noisy bunch of
REGULARS
in the Landlady's pub

TEASER. INT. THE READING ROOM, THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

Huge, echoey. Very quiet atmosphere, occasional distant footsteps, the odd cough and similar. After a few moments, close and quiet:

SMITH: Look around you, my young friend. A library is a perfect reflection of the ideal world. Every single volume in my care has its allotted place in the great scheme of things. Move one, even by an infinitesimal degree, and you diminish its value.

What use is information if one cannot instantly obtain it, or see precisely how it fits into the universe as a whole? Nothing exists in isolation. It is the relationships
between
facts which give them their meaning. These connections may be subtle, they may be hidden, they may be... unexpected. But if you are to master the world of knowledge, it is these links which you must seek out and understand. However well concealed, the truth is always there to be... detected.

At least, that is my view - and I should like to think that you agree with me... Mr. Holmes.

Music: the opening sig.

Opening announcements.

The music fades into:

SCENE 1. INT. THE SITTING ROOM, 221b BAKER STREET.

It is the winter of
1894.

An almighty thunderclap right overhead. Rain lashes, wind howls. Watson is off at a window, looking out.

WATSON: What a filthy night.

He pulls the heavy curtains shut. The sound of the wind and rain becomes more muted.

(
Approaching
) God only knows what's going on under cover of that.

We become aware of the open fire crackling away.

HOLMES: Crime, you mean?

WATSON: (
Sitting
) Of course. (
He flexes his injured shoulder
) Damn weather.

HOLMES: Not much, I'd wager. How's the old war wound?

WATSON: Making its presence felt. What do you mean, not much?

HOLMES: It's fog that's the criminal's friend. On a night like this, most self-respecting villains are safely tucked up with a drink and a good smoke.

WATSON: Both of which they probably stole from some honest, hard-working citizen.

HOLMES: No doubt.

WATSON: Brandy?

HOLMES: Thank you.

The brandy is close at hand. Watson pours two glasses.

As he does so, Holmes idly picks up his violin and prepares to play, quietly checking the tuning. He breaks off.

You don't mind?

WATSON: Of course not. Take my mind off my damn shoulder.

HOLMES: I'll do my best.

A moment as he composes himself.

Then he begins to play: a slow plaintive melody:
The Shepherd's Lament
from Wagner's
Tristan and Isolde
. After a few bars he breaks off.

WATSON: Don't stop.

HOLMES: Not too depressing for a cold winter's night?

WATSON: I wouldn't have called it depressing. Plaintive, yes.

HOLMES: Plaintive. The very word.

He starts again. As he plays:

A dying man lies alone, helplessly waiting for the woman he loves. For her sake, he's turned his back on everything: his friends, his country, his hopes for the future. And now he waits for her... and she does not appear.

WATSON: What's it from?

HOLMES:
Tristan and Isolde
. A hymn to love and death.

He stops playing.

WATSON: He had a pretty bleak view of love, your Wagner.

HOLMES: It's a bleak emotion.

WATSON: Oh, come on.

HOLMES: The Elizabethans had the right idea. To them, love was a disease. If you caught it, you were doomed.

WATSON: I'll stick to my definition, thank you. Here.

He passes Holmes his brandy.

HOLMES: Thank you. Love is a positive force for good? Love brings out the best in man?

WATSON: I think so.

HOLMES: You should have met Tobias and Emily Guttridge.

WATSON: Who the devil were they?

HOLMES: The Guttridges of Cripplegate Square. They caught the disease.

WATSON: You mean they were in love.

HOLMES: It goes somewhat further than that.

WATSON: One of your cases?

HOLMES: Yes, before you and I met.

WATSON: Is it a... good story?

HOLMES: (
A smile
) Come on, Watson. If you want to hear it, say so.

WATSON: (
A smile
) Of course I want to hear it.

HOLMES: A dark tale for a dark night. Very well, Doctor. Keep the brandy to hand, light up a cigar and let me shatter your illusions about love.

Music: the
Tristan
tune, this time as heard in the actual opera - the haunting, atmospheric sound of a solo flute.

The music takes us into Holmes's tale. It runs under:

SCENE 2. INT. THE READING ROOM, THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

Nathaniel Collington Smith is checking a pile of books. Holmes is in his early twenties.

SMITH:
The Annals of Crime
.
Police Review
.
Criminals and Their Characteristics
.
A Survey of Delinquent Behaviour
. Your books, Mr. Holmes.

HOLMES: Thank you, Mr. Smith.

Smith slides the books across a counter.

The music disappears as we cut back to:

SCENE 3. INT. THE SITTING ROOM AT 221b, BAKER STREET.

HOLMES: I don't believe I've ever mentioned Collington Smith.

WATSON: Never.

HOLMES: Nathaniel Collington Smith. He worked in the library at the British Museum. When I came down from university I spent a good deal of time there reading up on various subjects.

WATSON: Like the history of crime?

HOLMES: It's an essential study for a detective. If they'd put in a book collection down at Scotland Yard, their success rate would soar.

WATSON: Only if you persuaded them actually to read the books.

HOLMES: Smith could have persuaded them. He had that rare combination: he not only possessed knowledge, he was able to enthuse others with the thirst for it.

Cut to:

SCENE 4. INT. THE READING ROOM, THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

SMITH: If I might make a small comment...

HOLMES: Of course.

SMITH:
Criminals and Their Characteristics
. It is perhaps a trifle... unsound.

HOLMES: You've read it?

SMITH: Oh dear me no. Librarians don't read books, Mr. Holmes. They simply know about them.

HOLMES: (
Chuckles. Then:
) Unsound?

SMITH: That is the general opinion. Sloppily argued from some highly dubious data.

HOLMES: Then please take it back.

SMITH: Why?

HOLMES: I've no wish to clutter my mind with useless information.

SMITH: My dear sir. Your mind may not have elastic walls but it does at least possess both an entrance and an exit. Read the book. Decide for yourself what to retain. One can learn from the unsound as well as the sound, you know. Surely they taught you that, up at the university?

HOLMES: Mr. Smith, anyone foolish enough to have voiced that sentiment would have been rapidly removed from the building and confined as a lunatic.

SMITH: Really? Fascinating. What a good job I never went there.

HOLMES: (
A vocal smile
)

Cut to:

SCENE 5. INT. THE SITTING ROOM, 221b BAKER STREET.

HOLMES: He was a remarkable man.

WATSON: He sounds it.

HOLMES: I learned a good deal in that reading room, and by no means all of it from the books.

Cut to:

SCENE 6. INT. A GALLERY, THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

No-one is around.

Holmes and Smith approach, deep in conversation.

SMITH: This is the finest place in the capital to study one's fellow man. In the course of a single morning here you can observe more characteristics than in a week outside. Only the other day - (
I noticed a man...
)

Holmes interrupts, stopping their progress.

HOLMES: What was that?

SMITH: I heard nothing.

HOLMES: I was sure... Yes. Listen.

They listen.

For the first time, we hear:

JENNY: (
Off, muffled
) (
Crying
)

SMITH: That's a woman crying.

HOLMES: I thought I was right. Probably one of the cleaning staff. I'm sorry, you were saying?

SMITH: Mr. Holmes, you disappoint me.

HOLMES: In what way?

SMITH: I believe it's emanating from that store-room. (
Moving off
) Come with me.

Cut to:

SCENE 7. INT. A SMALL STORE ROOM, THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

The door opens.

JENNY: (
Stifles her tears
)

SMITH: My dear child, what are you doing in here?