Foreword

by Dr. John H. Watson

It was in the spring of 1894 that I was shocked and amazed to discover that my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, had in fact survived his encounter at the terrible Reichenbach Falls with the late Professor Moriarty of evil fame and memory. It was only due to the reticent nature of Holmes himself that London, nay, England itself, did not immediately ring with the news of his return to Baker Street.

Rather than announce that he had resumed his practice with a triumphant fanfare, he allowed word to spread quietly. First, of course, it was the official force that knew of his reappearance. Our old friend, Inspector Lestrade, was very quick to let everyone know the truth regarding the arrest of Colonel Moran, who had attempted to assassinate Holmes from the window of an empty house facing Holmes’s Baker Street rooms. Within weeks, the volume of visitors climbing the seventeen steps to Holmes’s sitting room met, and then surpassed, the number that had previously journeyed there. Holmes occasionally stated with amusement that times were certainly different than when he and I had initially taken lodgings there, back when visitors had been much fewer and farther between.

Some weeks after Holmes’s return to London at the conclusion of his great hiatus, I sold my practice with no great regret and moved back to the Baker Street lodgings. Only much later did I learn the purchase was made by a young doctor named Verner, a distant relation of Holmes’s, who paid the highest price that I had ventured to ask. It was Holmes who really found the money.

There were several confusing days when my possessions were moved back into the house. Mrs. Hudson was quite patient, and - I think - glad of my return. The photographs of Beecher and General Gordon returned to their former resting places, books were replaced on shelves, and my desk between the sitting room windows was cleared of Holmes’s accumulated detritus for my own to replace it. This was not a new experience for us, as I had already moved back in once before after the death of my dear first wife, Constance, in late 1887. Somehow, now, in spite of the joy at discovering that my friend still lived, I could not escape the realization that I was returning to Baker Street yet again after the death of a spouse, this time my beloved Mary, gone for a year that very day.

I had fallen into a brown study as I unpacked a crate in my room upstairs when I was startled to hear Holmes’s voice. “Watson!” he called. “Watson!”

I made my way down the stairs and into the sitting room, where Holmes was standing by my desk, holding a pair of Strand magazines in his hand. I dreaded what he was about to say, having already heard some of his comments on the works that Conan Doyle and I had published during his missing years.

“What is this all about?” he asked, his expression confusing me, as it appeared to be more amused than angry. I had been prepared to explain, yet again, my presentation of his cases in a way that would be enjoyable, rather than as some dry treatise on criminal investigation. Yet, as I began to prepare another defense, I realized that he was holding up two newer issues of the periodical, which did not feature any of my work at all.

“Those are the two latest issues,” I replied, somewhat puzzled. “I do continue to read it, even if it does not feature anything that I have written.”

“And do you then have any knowledge of what these particular stories could be about?”

I noticed that he had a finger slipped between the pages of the top magazine, and as he let the pages fall open, I suddenly understood.

“Ah,” I said. “The Hewitt story. Then Mycroft did not tell you?”

“No,” he replied. “There have been a great many other things to discuss since my return. No doubt this has slipped his mind. I take it that you can inform me what this is all about?”

“Certainly,” I stated, moving toward my chair by the fire. “But how did you notice the stories in the first place? There was nothing immediately obvious on the cover to indicate any connection with events from your own past.”

“I simply picked up the top copy to see how the Strand has changed, if at all, from the time it started publication, shortly before the events at Reichenbach and my absence from England. As I flipped through it, I noticed several illustrations by your friend Paget. His style is somewhat unique, you will admit.

“Pausing to study them, in a story ostensibly about someone named ‘Martin Hewitt’, I was amazed to discover that, except for the change of name and a few other added spurious facts, the investigation described was one of my own early cases, when I lived in Montague Street, and written up by my old friend, Brett, the journalist.” He turned, stating, “Of course, my curiosity was also piqued by noticing and remembering the familiar and unusual words ‘Lenton Croft’ in the title of the piece.”

I nodded, and Holmes sat down in his chair, with the two magazines lying in his lap. “Late last year,” I explained, “during the time that Doyle and I decided to publish the narrative of your supposed ‘death’ in ‘The Final Problem’ - “, Holmes winced, and I continued, “ - Newnes at the Strand was frantic. He wanted more narratives of your investigations. However, I must admit that I did not feel the need to publish any more. After your disappearance, and then with Mary’s passing last year, my need to write had become more intense. However, when I had finally reached the point where I could tell of your final struggle with Professor Moriarty, and also answer his brother’s scurrilous charges against your memory, I felt that my work was done. Doyle agreed, having tired of being associated in the venture long before that point.

“Soon after that, Newnes was approached by your old friend, Brett, who had the idea that he could write up some of your earlier cases, when he had lived upstairs from you in the same house in Montague Street.”

“In 1876,” interrupted Holmes. “Brett was only there for about a year, while my time at No.24 Montague Street stretched for several years on either side of that. But I interrupt. My apologies. Please continue.”

“Not at all. Newnes was very happy to reach an agreement with Brett, who would provide the raw information for the narratives. Then, an author that Newnes knew, named Arthur Morrison, would take Brett’s rough notes and shape them into more cohesive narratives. As I understand it, Brett’s career in journalism had ended a few years ago, and he was not capable of revising the notes and presenting them to Newnes’s standards on his own.”

Holmes nodded. “I have not seen Brett in over three years, but I fear it was drink that eventually caused his decline. All the signs were there. Even when we lodged in the same building, and he occasionally participated in some of my investigations, he did not have the ambition to write them up at the time, or to use those events that literally fell into his lap in order to advance his career with the news organization where he was employed.”

He lifted the magazine in his hands and flipped to the first page of the story in question. “‘The Lenton Croft Robberies’,” he read. “And I suppose this husky smiling lad, this ‘Martin Hewitt’, drawn by Paget here, is supposed to represent me? How did that arrangement come to pass?”

“You must understand that I heard this second-hand from your brother,” I replied. “As you know, I had first received some encouragement from him to start publishing narratives of your cases in The Strand to begin with. When Newnes decided to publish some of your earlier cases late last year, he felt that he ought to check with Mycroft to see if the idea was acceptable. No doubt, he thought it a mere formality. However, he was incorrect, and Mycroft, for whatever reasons of his own, quickly threatened legal action if the publication of the stories were to occur.

“I understand that Newnes was not very happy, and Brett was outraged. Somehow, between them and Arthur Morrison, they worked out that they could still publish the stories if they changed your name, and make a few other minor alterations. This fellow Hewitt was formerly some sort of law clerk who went out on his own. He is described as being heavier than you are, and he has offices with a clerk in the Strand near Charing Cross. I personally believe that the heavy-set description, as well as the use of the initials ‘M.H.’ for the character’s name, are an indirect attack on Mycroft, who tried to stop their efforts.”

Holmes nodded, and flipped through the second magazine. “The Sammy Crockett affair,” he said. “Brett wasn’t even involved in these investigations. I must have told him about them at the time, and he remembered and wrote them up. I shall have to read these and see how accurate they are.” He set the magazines on his side table, pushing aside an empty tea cup as he did so. “Are these the only two that have been published?”

“As far as I know,” I replied. “The first was only a month or so ago. But I understood from my conversation about it with Mycroft that Brett and Morrison have a whole series of them worked up.”

Holmes nodded, more to himself than to me, and then he stood abruptly. Walking past me toward his bedroom, and shedding his dressing gown as he went, he stated, “I believe that I shall pay a visit to my old friend Brett, and see just how long he intends for this foolishness to continue.”

And in a moment, he was gone. I reached across for the magazines, and flipped through them for several moments before replacing them on Holmes’s table and returning to my unpacking chores upstairs.

It was only a couple of hours later when Holmes returned, a paper-wrapped bundle under his arms. I had been writing at my desk, but I turned when he entered. He moved toward the fire, for there was a chill that day in the late April air. I feared for a moment that he would toss the bundle into the flames, but as he passed my chair, he dropped it into the seat.

“This,” he said, “is an incomplete record of my work in 1876, should you care to read it.”

“Brett’s notes?” I asked.

“The original versions, before he changed my name in them to ‘Martin Hewitt’. I am curious as to how he came to choose that particular sobriquet. I am quite sure that you are correct about the initials ‘M.H.’ and their intended dig at Mycroft, no matter how subtle. But there are other things to consider as well. My name has two vowels in the first name, and two in the last name, as do the names ‘Martin’ and “Hewitt’. The letter ‘O’ is in my first and last name, while the letter ‘I’ is in both of the pseudonymous names. ‘I’ is the ninth letter of the alphabet, while ‘O’ is the fifteenth. If - “

I interrupted him before his pondering could lead to a monograph. “Does this mean that there will be no more Martin Hewitt stories in The Strand?”

“Hmm? No, I found that I didn’t have the heart to stop it entirely. Brett’s means are rather limited at the present, and likely to stay that way. He has four or five more of these,” he said, gesturing toward the tied and wrapped bundle on my chair, “in the hands of Newnes, ready for immediate publication, and probably a dozen-and-a-half more altered by Morrison for future use.

“Our visit was cordial, and we were able to catch up on what has happened in our lives since the old days. He has assured me that he will continue to mask the narratives so that my participation will remain unknown, and that he will not fabricate any new tales from whole cloth once he runs out of the limited material that he has.”

“And he simply gave you his original notes?” I asked.

“He seemed to think it fitting that, as they chronicled my early work, they should end up with me.” He sat down and reached for one of his pipes. I was thankful to see that it was not the cherry-wood. He looked up as he scraped the bowl. “Do you mind, Watson? After all, you are my biographer and Boswell.”

I laid my pen aside and stood from the desk. Moving toward my own chair, I replied, “Not at all. I am fascinated to learn more about your earlier cases, and how you developed your methods.” I lifted the package and sat down, holding it in my lap. “And of course, more about your days in Montague Street as well.”

“It was an interesting time,” Holmes said, between puffs as he lit the pipe. “I seem to recall mentioning something of it to you before, regarding the incident of ‘The Musgrave Ritual’, for instance.” He then proceeded to tell me some of his other adventures while living at No.24 Montague Street, in those days when he was still learning his craft. I always enjoyed hearing of those times, and as he spoke I made notes for my journals.

As he talked into the early evening, I would occasionally glance at the package of Brett’s writings, looking forward to later, when I could enjoy those tales as well.

J.H.W. June 1929