As the train pulled away I saw Holmes nod and follow the man deep into the train.
"Do you think that there is a problem on the train, John?" Mary asked.
"Problems always seem to find their way to Holmes. Perhaps this one will not be without points of interest for him."
"Then, for Mr. Holmes, it appears that the game is once more afoot," she said.
A Scandal in Montreal by Edward D. Hoch
Edward D. Hoch's work has been named a winner of both the Edgar Award and the Anthony Award, and he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. He was known for his prodigious short story output, which, at the time of his death in 2008, numbered more than 900, many of which chronicled the adventures of Dr. Sam Hawthorne, Captain Leopold, or Nick Velvet. In addition to this story, which appeared in one of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine's annual Sherlock Holmes tribute issues, he has also written about a dozen other Holmes stories.
Once readers fall in love with a character, they can't help wanting to know what happens to that character next. Conan Doyle twice attempted to retire Sherlock Holmes, once, dramatically, at Reichenbach Falls, and then again in a more sedate fashion, when he imagined Holmes easing into a well-deserved retirement as a beekeeper in Sussex. Readers famously rebelled against the first retirement, and many still aren't satisfied with the second. Could a man as single-minded and dynamic as Sherlock Holmes ever really retire? Surely a case must come his way every now and then. And what about Irene Adler, the woman who outwitted Holmes, the only woman he regards as his equal, the woman, as he calls her. Surely their paths must cross again. What happens next? We always want to know. In this next tale we see some familiar characters many years later, when they're older and their troubles are those particular to the more mature crowd-errant offspring, nostalgia, regret. It's always strange when you haven't seen someone in many years and then you meet them again. Sometimes you've both changed completely, and other times you find that you're both just the same as you've always been.
1. The Crime
My old companion Sherlock Holmes had been in retirement for some years when I had reason to visit him at his little Sussex villa with its breathtaking view of the English Channel. It was August of 1911 and the air was so still I could make out a familiar humming. "Are the bees enough to keep you busy?" I asked as we settled down at a little table in his garden.
"More than enough, Watson," he assured me, pouring us a little wine. "And it is peaceful here. I see you have walked from the station."
"How so, Holmes?"
"You know my methods. Your face is red from the sun, and there is dust from the road on your shoes."
"You never change," I marveled. "Are you alone here or do you see your neighbors?"
"As little as possible. They are some distance away, but I know they look out their windows each morning for signs of a German invasion. I fear they have been taking Erskine Childers too seriously."
It was eight years since publication of The Riddle of the Sands, but people still read it. "Do you fear war, too?"
"Not for a few years. Then we shall see what happens. But tell me what brings you here on a lovely summer's day. It has been some time since you spent a weekend with me."
"A telegram was sent to you at our old Baker Street lodgings, all the way from Canada. Mrs. Hudson couldn't find your address, so she brought it to me."
"How is she these days?"
"Infirm, but in good spirits."
"I have a housekeeper here who tends to my needs. But she is off today. If you wish to stay for dinner I can offer you only a slice of beef and bread."
"There is no need, Holmes. I came only to deliver this telegram."
"Which could have been delivered more easily by the postal service."
"It seemed important," I told him, "and I have little enough to do in my own retirement. Not even bees!"
"Well then, let us see about this urgent message."
He opened the envelope and we read it together. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London. Dear Mr. Holmes, Excuse intrusion on your time, but am in urgent need of help. My son Ralph Norton gone from McGill University. Police suspect him of murder. Please come! I beg you!" It was signed simply, Irene.
"What is this, Holmes?" I asked. "Do you know the meaning of it?"
"All too well," he answered with a sigh.
"What Irene is this? Certainly not Irene Adler. She has been dead some twenty years."
"She was reported to have died, but I always doubted it. Irene was born in New Jersey, and after her marriage here to Godfrey Norton I suspected they might have fled to America to escape questions about the Bohemian affair. If this is truly from her, she would be fifty-three now, four years younger than me and not an old woman by any means. She might well have a son of university age."
"But what can you do from here, Holmes?"
"From here, nothing." He pondered the problem for several minutes, staring at her address at the bottom of the telegram. "I must respond to her at once," he decided. "This telegram was sent four days ago, on the twelfth."
"What will you tell her?"
"She begs my help, Watson. How can I refuse her?"
"You mean you would travel to Canada?" I asked in astonishment.
"I would, and I shall be immensely grateful if you are able to accompany me."
Within a week's time we were at sea, approaching the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. I wondered how Holmes ever persuaded me to accompany him on such a lengthy journey, and yet I knew the answer. I had to be present when he met Irene Adler one more time. I had to see her for myself, after all these years.
Our ship docked at one of the quays adjacent to the center of Montreal and we took a carriage to our hotel. I was surprised at the number of motor cars in the streets, and astounded at the sumptuous mansions in the city's center-the sort of homes that would be far removed from London back home. Our driver informed us that these were the homes of the city's financial and industrial magnates, an area known as the Golden Square Mile.
We checked into a small hotel across the street from the site of a new Ritz-Carlton Hotel under construction. It was on Rue Sherbrooke Ouest, close to the university, and after a telephone call to her Irene said she would join us at the hotel. I could see that Holmes was a bit fidgety at the prospect of the meeting. "I trust I will be able to help the woman with her problem," he confided. "I have never forgotten her, over all these years."
Presently the desk clerk telephoned to say that Mrs. Irene Norton was downstairs. Holmes and I went down to find her waiting in a secluded corner of the lobby, seated alone on a sofa wearing a long skirt and flowered blouse and hat. I recognized her at once from the photograph Holmes kept of her. She was still as slim and dainty as she had been on the opera stage, with a face as lovely as ever. Only a few gray hairs hinted at the passing years. "Good day, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said by way of greeting, almost duplicating her words when once she had followed him disguised as a boy. "And Dr. Watson. I must say, both of you have changed very little since our London days."
"You are most kind, madam," Holmes said with a little bow. "I am sorry we cannot be meeting under more pleasant circumstances."
She bid us be seated with her on the sofa. "These have been terrible weeks for me. I was at my wit's end when I telegraphed you, not even knowing if you were still available as a private consultant."