The Astounding Murder at Cloverwood House by Daniel D. Victor

Author:Daniel D. Victor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, William Gillette, actor, Bruce-Partington, Arthur Conan Doyle, murder, mystery, seance, spiritualism, railway races, spy, American Literati, Sherlock Holmes play, automaton, inventions, inventor, mechanical man, German agent, tuberculosis, insurance, suicide, submersible, submarine
ISBN: 9781787055742
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2020-07-06T00:00:00+00:00

2 There is a macabre footnote to that future London production to which William Gillette refers. William Terriss, the popular English actor who would portray the role originally played by Gillette, was murdered at the stage door of the Adelphi Theater prior to his performance on 16 December 1897. He was stabbed to death by a disgruntled fellow-actor who was later ruled insane. (JHW)

Part Two

The Spiritualists

8. What the Spirits Had to Say

I would consider it more than unfortunate for me—should I find myself doomed, after death, to a continued consciousness of the behavior of mankind on this planet . . . .

William Gillette

Last Will and Testament

January 27, 1937

i

On the morning following Monday’s interrogation of Reginald Baxter, the case took an unexpected turn. Billy arrived with a note from my literary agent. Arthur Conan Doyle requested a meeting with me that afternoon at his favourite public house, The Northumberland Arms, our usual gathering place when he was in London.

I could not imagine the purpose of Conan Doyle’s request. With The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes having been published more than a year earlier, I had no reason to expect any pressing matters concerning our business relationship. Furthermore, I knew that Conan Doyle was in the midst of preparing for a November trip to Egypt, whilst also contributing to the design of Undershaw, his new home in Surrey—its bucolic location intended to provide clean and healthy air for his wife who suffered from tuberculosis.

Not that I required an excuse to meet with the man that Tuesday afternoon. I confess to feeling a singular excitement whenever I see Arthur Conan Doyle—not only because such meetings frequently herald some measure of my literary achievement, but also because they offer me the opportunity to converse with a writer of unquestionable literary talent.

It is no secret that I have always valued association with the world of belles-lettres. I suppose it is due to my lingering concern that sketches like my own, which portray true crime and murder, may seem unimportant to the literary elite. The literati, I am afraid, prefer works that depict the intricacies of complex psychology or the ramifications of unrestrained passion or the implications of controversial thought, not the comings and goings of common criminals.

As a result, I, a mere reporter of the exploits—however singular and exciting—of the private investigator called Sherlock Holmes, relish the company of a sophisticated writer like Conan Doyle. After all, who else could produce a historical novel on the grand scale of The White Company, the kind of nuanced composition to which any hopeful author would aspire?

Holmes was sitting in his armchair smoking his black clay pipe as I prepared to leave for The Northumberland. Even with the windows open, blue smoke from his favourite shag filled the sitting room; and I was pleased to exchange the close atmosphere inside our lodgings with the fresh air that enveloped me during my walk. The weather had turned warm again, but the tankard of ale I envisioned at the end of my journey provided all the incentive I required to face the heat.

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