Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #2. Darrell Schweitzer
the quality of the Holmes mysteries. His company is called Imagination Theatre. Visit their website, HTTP://WWW.JIMFRENCHPRODUCTIONS.COM/, and they will tell you that it is “American radio’s premiere drama series, now heard coast to coast on well over a hundred radio stations in North America and by satellite on XM Radio.”
Out of Seattle, their weekly broadcasts “feature mystery, suspense, fantasy and adventure, produced by Jim French Productions before live audiences on a state-of-the-art recording stage.”
The Holmes stories that French has written were authorized by the estate of Dame Jean Conan Doyle, and a BBC host called the show, “One of the four best radio dramas in the English language.” To bring them to life, the website tells us, French studied the master’s original stories and delved into Victorian history. A visit to the website also offers glimpses of other intriguing mysteries and dramas available from Imagination Theatre: in addition to the Sherlock Holmes stories, there are the adventures of “a former Chicago cop turned hard-luck private detective named Harry Nile.” French created the character thirty years ago for a one-time-only broadcast, but audience response was enthusiastic, “and so began 26 years of episodes featuring Phil Harper as Harry, later to be joined by Pat French as his admiring and quirky associate, Murphy. Harry Nile has developed a large, devoted following, maybe because he’s had a hard life—kicked off the Chicago police force, hounded by a dirty cop who was on the take, battling his own gambling addiction, even losing his bride of one year in a gun battle.”
Also available on audio tape or CD are other tales of Raffles, which are “based on stories written by E.W. Hornung, the brother-in-law of Holmes’s creator Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” Raffles is “that fabulous rogue of Victorian society A.J. Raffles” (played by actor John Armstrong). Some of the stories available are “The Ides of March,” “A Costume Piece,” and a completely original play by M. J. Elliott “A Gift From the Gods.”
There are other delights to be found as well, such as Act One Audio from Topics Entertainment, a collection from the Movies for Your Mind series of Jim French mysteries, suspense dramas, Sci-Fi, and fantasy radio shows which first aired over KVI in Seattle in a series called Crisis.
So brew yourself a cup of tea (or indulge in something stronger—say, a decent glass of Port), put your feet up, fire up the CD player, and settle in to enjoy a jolly good adventure, courtesy of Jim French and friends!
THE ADVENTURE OF THE HANOVERIAN VAMPIRES, by Darrell Schweitzer
I found it. It was mine, a pretty, shiny thing, which I found amusing to swat about on the ground for several minutes, watching the evening sunlight gleam off the polished surface. Then, of course, I lost interest and left it where it lay. But it was still mine. So when one of the “street arabs”—verminous boys—snatched it up, I yowled in protest and gave the villain a fine raking on the calf.
He yowled right back and kicked me away. I landed nimbly and hissed, ready for another round of combat.
“What have you got there, Billy?” came another voice.
“I dunno, Mr. ’Olmes.”
“I’ll give you a shilling for it.”
The transaction was done, though the shiny object was still mine.
But now I was content, for the trouser leg I rubbed against belonged to the most perceptive of all human beings, the Great Detective himself, and the result of that encounter is the only Sherlock Holmes adventure ever narrated by a cat.
It is not possible for me to give you my name, for the true names of cats are never revealed outside our secretive tribe, and not even Sherlock Holmes may deduce them; whether the street arabs or Dr. Watson called me Fluffy or Mouser or something far less complimentary is, frankly, beneath notice. Suffice it to say that Holmes and I had a certain understanding by which we recognized and respected one another. You won’t read of any of this in the chronicles penned by the doltish Watson, an altogether inferior lump of clay, who once owned a bulldog pup, probably without appreciating the crucial distinction that one owns a dog but entertains a cat. A dog is a useful object, even as, I suppose, Watson at times was useful.
But he tried to shoo me away, hissing, “Scat!” and other ridiculous imprecations, before Holmes drew his attention to the object in hand.
“It is the clue we have been seeking,” said he. “Come Watson, we have much to do this night. It would be well if you brought your revolver.”
* * * *
Moments later, all three of us were clattering along the rapidly darkening streets of London in a Hansom. At first the driver, like the boorish Watson, objected to my presence, but Holmes gave the driver an extra coin. Watson, dog-like, acquiesced. Holmes would have found it useless to explain to him that cats partake of the most ancient mysteries of the dark, and so have a proper place in any night of intrigue and adventure.
It was indeed such a night.
As we wove through the narrow, filthy streets of the East End, past increasingly disreputable denizens, Holmes held up the shiny thing—which I now conceded I had loaned to Mr. Holmes.
“Deduce, Watson.”
I assume this was a game for Holmes, like swatting a ball of string.
“It is a very thin locket,” said Watson, “for I see that a spring-lock opens it—”
“Look out, Watson!” cried Holmes, for Watson had unthinkingly sprung open the locket, allowing a scrap of paper to flutter out. Deftly, Holmes snatched the paper out of the air.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“Momentarily, Watson. First, the locket.”
“It and its chain are gold-plated.”
“Not silver, Watson. Perhaps you will see the significance of that.”
“Obviously not.” Watson continued. “On one side, is a female portrait—not an attractive one, I dare say—”
“I shall entirely trust your judgment in that department, Watson. Pray, continue.”
“She wears a royal crown. The inscription is in German, and it reads: VICTORIA KAISERIN GROSS BRITANNIEN—Good God, Holmes!”
“Yes, Watson, it is the emblem of the current Hanoverian pretender, whose plottings against our king and country never cease, even after the failure—so ably chronicled by another writer—of the desperate scheme to place St. Paul’s Cathedral on rollers and wheel it into the Thames, back in the days of James the Fourth.”
“God save His Majesty, King James the Sixth, and all the House of Stuart!”
“A sentiment I echo, Watson, but we must hurry on and save the patriotism for our leisure. As you see, we are running out of time.”
I placed my paws on the high dashboard of the Hansom for a better view. We were near the London docks. A fog had settled in among the poorly-lit streets. The air was thick with strange smells. Many of the passers-by were foreigners of the most unsavory sort.
“Recall, Watson,” said Holmes, “that the notorious Dr. Moriarty, before he turned to crime, wrote, in addition to a curious monograph about an asteroid, a treatise on the possibility of an infinity of alternative worlds existing side by side, which may perhaps be realized by the use of certain potent objects—he actually used the word ‘numinous’—which suggest all manner of fantastic combinations, such as, for example, one in which Bonnie Prince Charlie was defeated at Culloden and England today is ruled by this same unhandsome Victoria of the House of Hanover—”
“Good God, Holmes!”
“You could as well imagine a world in which you, Watson, are Grand Panjandrum of Nabobistan, complete with harem. You would enjoy that, would you not?”
“I wouldn’t be with you, Holmes,” he said with some regret.
For an instant I almost admired Watson, though I knew his was mere dog-like loyalty.
“But