Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine 11. Jack Grochot
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outings. The opening is a bit of a spoiler—someone is seen breaking into a house, locating a vial as African drums play on the soundtrack, and pouring some of its contents into a container, leaving little mystery for a newcomer as to the cause of the Tregennis’s sufferings. It’s not clear why writer Gary Hopkins made that choice, which reminds me of the 1983 Hound, where a scene of Laura Lyons being strangled midway through removes any doubt that the scourge of the Baskervilles is an ordinary man. Edward Hardwicke’s capable Watson pegs Mortimer a liar early on for claiming to have a blood disorder, which further vitiates the whodunit aspect of the story. Hopkins is more subtle elsewhere in tipping his hand; he shows Mortimer’s version of events, with his brother looking past him out the window into the bushes, but rather than show Mortimer’s false report of seeing something moving, he simply shows Mortimer narrating that part.
This is perhaps the most-familiar version for today’s Sherlockians, and it’s memorable for three things. Holmes’s time alone recuperating is linked to his drug use, and the cocaine addict buries a syringe in the sand to signify his having kicked the dangerous habit—this is done well in advance of the experiment, and is not, as would have been contrived, a reaction to it. The experiment sequences features a nightmarish vision for Holmes, complete with images of Eric Porter’s Moriarty, and a bleeding Holmes. But it’s Holmes’s recovery from the toxic smoke that caused the most comment—coming to his senses, Brett’s Holmes yells out, “John!” This was apparently an ad lib by Brett, who noted:
“Well, Holmes is semiconscious at the time, right? It really was the one time that he could call him John. I think in extremis he might have said ‘John.’ It gives another slant to it. I slipped in ‘John’ just to show that, underneath it all, there was just something more than what they say, that Holmes is all mind and no heart.”
Damien Thomas’s Mortimer is a bit too shifty-eyed from the outset, but Freda Downie’s Mrs. Porter—the Tregennis’s housekeeper, whose recollections of the fateful night—and the horror of her discovery the next morning—are presented, and especially Denis Quilley’s Sterndale are outstanding. (Gary Hopkins’s recollections of his experience writing the script can be viewed online in a video entitled The Case of the Youngest Pen.)
As always, the BBC radio Holmes, with the ever-brilliant Clive Merrison and Michael Williams, enables me to end on a high note. Bert Coules opens with a depiction of the stress Holmes was under before his forced break in Cornwall—wrapping up a three-month case against an unnamed gang, and collapsing as a result of combining malnutrition with illness and a resort to the needle. Mortimer, the vicar and Sterndale are all introduced well before the first poisoning. The horror is conveyed with the sound of laughter, increasing in volume before degenerating into wild, despairing shrieks. Holmes’s nightmare features the baying of the Hound of the Baskervilles, and manic laughter. The guest cast is solid, with Patrick Allen (Granada’s Colonel Moran) as Sterndale, and Coules adds a joke Holmes makes at Sterndale’s expense (when Watson wonders at his presence in England, Holmes speculates that, “perhaps he’s finally succeeded in killing all the lions on the continent.”). All in all, it is a perfect translation of the story to the form, and likely to remain as the gold standard for the foreseeable future.
Now, back to Sterndale himself as a viable suspect; a cynical reader of the story would note that he alone of the Tregennis clan (“upon my Cornish mother’s side I could call them cousins,” he tells Holmes) survives the action intact, and no other heir to the estate is identified in the text. Brenda is not around to confirm his account of their relationship, and Sterndale was much better placed than Mortimer to know of the effects of the Devil’s Foot root, and to use it. Perhaps some future adapter will choose to add this theory to the plot, even if just for Holmes to consider and discount it, as he reasonably would have.
Lenny Picker, who is always seen when he follows anyone (not that that is a regular occurrence), writes regularly for Publishers Weekly, and can be reached at [email protected].
ASK MRS WARREN, by Mrs Amalie Warren
I do confess to a touch of nerves as I atempt to fill in for my dear friend Martha Hudson, who is off in Yorkshire with her convalescent aunt. Housekeeping here in the B apartment of 221 Baker Street is never onerous, except for the daily test of the digestions of Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. I have endeavoured to vary their fare, and so far I have heard no complaints, but that may well be an example of their gentlemanliness.
The doctor showed me a stack of correspondence addressed to Mrs Hudson, and has encouraged me to reply to some of these letters. I have selected three.
* * * *
My Dear Mrs Hudson,
When, oh when, are you coming home again? I have been keeping busy helping Mr Holmes in a variety of problems which me and my “Irregular” cronies have helped with, but it just ain’t the same to knock at the door and not see your beaming smile—not that I don’t suspect you might wish I’d washed up better (at all!) before my arrival. Yet that has never stopped you from offering me a plate of biscuits and milk!
Billy
P S: The good doctor, with my hearty approval, has “cleaned up” my writing.
* * * *
Dear Billy,
I regret that Mrs Hudson is still unavailable, but if you’ll come tomorrow after the hour of noon, I promise you a plate of biscuits and a glass of milk (with a tot of gin in the latter).
Sincerely,
Mrs Amalie Warren
(filling in for Mrs H)
* * * *
My Dear Mrs Hudson,
I regret to report that every time I see a dramatic reenactment of one of Mr Holmes’s detectival doings, the only Scotland Yard inspector who is ever represented is Lestrade, who, though a fine professional, simply was not always “on hand.” Quite a few of these recountings really involved me, not Lestrade.
I do hope that you will set the record straight in an upcoming edition of your periodical publication.
Sincerely,
Inspector (retired) Tobias Gregson
* * * *
Dear Inspector Gregson,
Oh, dear! You have every right to feel disenfranchised! Dr Watson sends both his personal regards and regrets! Mrs Hudson is not available this month, but I shall see to it that your letter is indeed published in what Mr Kaye calls SHMM # 11!
With my sympathies!
Mrs Amalie Warren
* * * *
Dear Mrs Hudson,
I am a diligent devoteé of Dr Watson’s stories, but in none of them is there any mention of the man whose surname you bear. I presume that he is deceased, in which case I do tender my condolences. I do hope it is no intrusion to inquire about him: his name, occupation, and whatever personal details may be fit to be revealed?
Curious in Cheshire
* * * *
Dear Curious in Cheshire,
Though Mrs Hudson is, at present, out of town and therefore cannot reply to your understandable interest in this little mystery, I am an old friend of hers (now filling in for her at Baker Street) and can afford some of the particulars for which you ask.
Archibald G. Hudson—better known as “just plain Archie”—was himself a private sleuth of no little reputation, though he could not compare with Mr Holmes, but then, of course, who could? His one ungentlemanly act was to leave his bride Martha here in London while he followed an investigation to New York City. There all record of him vanishes, though I have heard rumours that he took up residency somewhere on West 35th Street in Manhattan.
Mrs Amalie Warren
* * * *
I have done a bit of browsing in my friend Martha’s preceding columns in this magazine, and note that on several occasions, she has set