Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [28]
Holmes smiled, and bowed his head in acknowledgment of my words. “Your comments had at least the charm of honesty, Watson.”
“But what prompts this recollection, Holmes?” I asked. My friend was not, as a rule, given to thoughts of the past, and I suspected that some event had given rise to his question. In answer he made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the many newspapers littering the floor of our Baker Street rooms.
“As you know, Watson, I make it a habit to familiarize myself with the contents of the many newspapers with which our metropolis is blessed; it is astonishing how even the smallest event may prove to have a bearing on some matter with which I come into professional contact. And yet it seems that every time I open a newspaper I find myself reading of yet another person who has followed where I have led.”
“Imitation is, as they say, the sincerest form of flattery.”
“In which case I am flattered indeed, Watson, for my imitators are numerous. When our association began there were, as I recall, no other consulting detectives, or at least none who called themselves such; yet even the most cursory glance at the papers now shows that I have, however unwittingly, been what our North American friends might call a trailblazer. Here” — and his long white arm stretched out to extricate a paper from out of the mass which surrounded him — “is an account of how Max Carrados helped Inspector Beedel of the Yard solve what the newspapers are, rather sensationally, calling ‘The Holloway Flat Tragedy’; and here is a letter praising the assistance given by Dyer’s Detective Agency in Lynch Court, Fleet Street. These are by no means isolated instances; and it is not only the newspapers which record the exploits of these detectives. The newsagent boasts an array of magazines in which one can read of their adventures; a turn of events for which you must assume some responsibility.”
“How so?” I exclaimed.
“Your records of my doings have, I am afraid, given the public an appetite for tales of this sort, so much so that every detective worthy of the name must, it seems, have his Boswell — or Watson — to record his adventures. The doings of Mr. Martin Hewitt appear with almost monotonous regularity, and I can scarcely glance at a magazine without being informed that I will find therein breathless accounts of the cases of Paul Beck or Eugene Valmont or a certain Miss Myrl, who appears to be trying to advance the cause of women’s suffrage through somewhat novel means. I understand there is a gentleman who sits in an A. B. C. teashop and solves crimes without benefit of sight, or the need of abandoning his afternoon’s refreshment, while Mr. Flaxman Low purports to help those whose cases appear to be beyond the understanding of mere mortals; truly the refuge of the desperate, although from what I gather the man is not quite the charlatan he might seem.” Holmes chuckled, and threw down his paper. “If this continues apace, I may find myself contemplating retirement, or at least a change of profession.”
“But surely,” I replied, “your reputation is such that you need have no fear of such a fate just yet! Why, every post sees applications for your assistance, and Inspector Hopkins is as assiduous a visitor as always. I do not think that Sherlock Holmes will be retiring from public view at any point in the immediate future.”
“No; I may fairly claim that the demands upon my time are as frequent as they have ever been, although I confess that many of the cases which are brought to my attention could be as easily solved by a constable still wet behind the ears as by a trained professional. Yet there still remain those cases which promise something of the outré and which the official force would be hard-pressed to solve.