The Literary Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Volume One by Daniel D Victor

Author:Daniel D Victor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock, Holmes, mystery, short stories, classic, literature, murder mystery, HMS Victoria, Guy de Maupassant, Robert Louis Stevenson, Étretat, cat, jewellery, thief, necklace, bowler, burglary, America, Robinson Crusoe, theatre, Edgar Allan Poe, Henry James, Jeremy Aspen, Southwark, Camperdown, Tripoli
ISBN: 9781787054646
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2019-08-20T00:00:00+00:00

The Adventure of the Aspen Papers

Nine-tenths of the artist’s interest in [bare facts]

is that of what he shall add to them

or how he shall turn them.

—Henry James, The Art of the Novel

I

Mrs Hudson recognised a man of noble bearing when she saw one. Those were the visitors she most often reserved for herself to introduce, leaving to the boy in livery the task of announcing the guests she deemed less important. As a consequence, when she appeared at the door of our sitting room one morning in late October of 1887, both Sherlock Holmes and I looked up with great expectation. Sensing the drama her presence created, she smoothed down her skirt, cleared her throat, and proclaimed, “Mr Henry James.”

It was not that I thought she had actually recognised the cerebral American author of Roderick Hudson and The Portrait of a Lady. Rather, it was the man himself who presented quite the authoritative figure. He appeared to be in his forties, with piercing light-grey eyes, a high forehead, and thin dark hair at his ears that accented a balding pate. Combined with his short, grizzled beard and sensitive mouth, his features conveyed a sense of dignity, perspicacity, and intelligence. What is more, having recently moved to London from the States, he was attired in a smart, three-piece English suit, a gold chain stretched taut across his waistcoat. Taken as a whole, his was an image destined to command respect from anyone, even those like Mrs Hudson, who had never heard of him—let alone his reputation. Quietly, she closed the door and exited.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” said our visitor to my friend, somehow aware of which of us to address.

Holmes bowed slightly, introduced me, and indicated that James take a seat.

No sooner had we settled ourselves than he addressed us. “Gentlemen, I come to you—I come to you—with a problem.”

Let me say from the start that for so accomplished a writer, Henry James had the startling tendency to hesitate and repeat—almost to stutter—when he spoke. And yet his manner of speech seemed less a bumbling with words, than the rehearsing of finely-tuned sentences. To spare the reader superfluous repetition, however, I have taken the liberty to minimise this characteristic throughout the narrative that follows.

In point of fact, James’s voice was rich and melodious, almost mesmerizing; and I was pleased to observe that Sherlock Holmes was immediately engaged. As I have reported elsewhere, the previous spring had been a difficult time for my friend. He had been worn down by the months he had devoted to resolving the matter of the Netherland-Sumatra Company, not to mention the unpleasant business near Reigate in Surrey where ironically he had gone to regain his strength. To see him devote his complete attention to Henry James was most reassuring indeed.

I hoped it would be equally reassuring to James; for as he sat drumming his fingers on the velvet arm of the chair, he certainly looked in need of some sort of aid.

“You don’t mind if I smoke,” said Holmes.

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