Danger and Delight in Dubuque

from the book, Among the Sherlockians

By John H. Watson, M. D.

As edited by Brad A. Keefauver

(From The Baker Street Chronicle, Volume 4, Number 6, November-December 1984)

Since taking up residence at Her Majesty's Home for Those Who Have Never Lived and So Shall Never Die, I had seen very little of my good friend Sherlock Holmes. Thus it was with the greatest surprise that I observed him motoring up the circular drive-way to the home one blazing hot August day. My life at the home was a simple one, and I had been spending my afternoon as I usually did, sitting on the balcony overlooking the drive to watch for any new arrivals of the fair sex, while trying to decipher the often cryptic notes I took during my younger days on Baker Street. Holmes's arrival was a welcome one, and I quickly made my way down to the lobby to met him.

"Ah, Watson," he exclaimed upon seeing him, "I'm glad to find you looking so well. The game is afoot, my friend; we haven't a moment to lose!"

His words were like a bugle's call to an old war-horse. My heart gave an unhealthy leap at their sound, causing one of the nurses who was drinking tea nearby to eye Me worriedly.

"I'll be packed in an instant, Holmes," I replied heartily, making sure the nurse overheard the undeniable vigor in my voice.

"No need, old fellow. I have all the clothes you'll need in the car. We'll both be working in disguise on this one. Ready for some quick travelling?"

I nodded, and before I had time to give the worries of my overconcerned nurse a second thought, Holmes had led me part-way around the world. We went by car, jet, and finally, an eight-seated airplane which brought us into the airport at the city of Dubuque in the United States. I had never been to the part of that country called Iowa before, and was eagerly wondering just what was in store for us. When we were finally alone in our hotel room at the Julien Motor Inn, I asked Holmes just what our purpose was in coming to such a distant, and much more temperate clime.

"My brother Mycroft asked m to take up this matter, and it is of such importance that I could not refuse him. You have heard, no doubt, of the writer, Michael Harrison?"

"Of course, Holmes, he's the one who wrote those books on what England was like during your career, not to mention a number of excellent biographies, some added adventures of Poe's Dupin, more than a few novels, a beer cookbook, and my favourite, Fanfare of Strumpets."

"One would think you are trying to live up to your growing reputation as a ladies' man, Watson," Holmes said with a smile, then continued his explanation. "Michael Harrison is here, in Dubuque. He is supposedly giving guest lectures at the University of Dubuque, but Mycroft's intelligence sources say that Harrison's presence here is connected somehow with a disappearance of dire proportion."

"English or American?"

"English, Watson, and a person of such importance that Mycroft has sworn me to silence as to that person's identity. I can't even tell you, dear fellow, but I'm sure you will be of help to me anyway, for tonight Michael Harrison gives the first of his lectures for what is called a 'Sherlockian Seminar,' at this hotel. I may have need of your literary background."

Intrigued by our still-mysterious mission, I was more than eager to follow Holmes's lead as we checked our disguises and left the room. After taking the elevator down to the lobby, we found ourselves a comfortable sofa on which to sit and watch for suspicious characters. This idea seemed a most appropriate one, as the lobby was soon deluged with a constant stream of the most notorious-looking characters I have ever seen in one building. I think that it was not until that afternoon that I ever truly appreciated Birdy Edwards's infiltration of the murderous Scowrers. I wished that I had only a small measure of his remarkable courage for our present undertaking. The strange habit many of the unsavory types had of wearing deerstalker caps indoors I was prepared for, having been forewarned that the hotel was housing the participants of a Sherlockian seminar. The danger to life and limb I suddenly suddenly found myself facing, however, was another matter entirely.

"Look," Holmes whispered to m with a nudge, "Sherlockian collectors."

"Those two words brought icy dread to my aging heart. As I had learned C, On previous occasions, the Sherlockian collector is one of the most dangerous classes of people on earth. Were they to discover that the true Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were so close to their clutching grasp, our lives would not be worth two shillings. They would undoubtedly have us stuffed and mounted in their studies before the weekend was out, and in pieces at that, if I am any judge of the competitive instincts of this breed of collector.

"John Bennett Shaw is here somewhere, of course," Holmes whispered to me. "I've heard that he has already pillaged the bookstores of this city, with a host of the less notorious bibliophiles following in his wake. And worse yet . . ."

Holmes gave a slight start, inconspicuously pointing a finger toward a keen-eyed fellow crossing the lobby toward the front desk.

"Black Peter Blau," he said in the most cautious of tones. "Forgive me, Watson, I had no idea I was placing you in this much danger."

For our own safety, we wandered into what appeared to be a small shop near the elevators. I was just about to sigh in relief when my eyes caught the nightmarish surroundings we were now in the center of. Paintings and posters, dozens of variously styled likenesses of Holmes and myself, filled the room. My eyes dodged the array of portraits and landed upon a table of books, only to discover that they were various editions of my own works, commentaries on those works by others, and published drafts of cases stolen from my tin dispatch box over the years. In my dazed state, I felt a tug my elbow, as Holmes pulled me out of the strange bazaar.

"I think we'd best replenish our strength with some supper before moving onward," he suggested, and we made our way to the hotel’s restaurant, which was welcomely empty.

A glass of beer, some beef, and fried potatoes were just the tonic I needed after our bizarre encounters of the afternoon. I had just relaxed enough to enjoy my after-dinner coffee, however, when I noticed Holmes glancing around the room with a curious expression. While we had been eating, Sherlockians had filled the room.

"They're stealing the drink special cards," he told me. "This group is capable of anything. I'm certain we're on the right track."

Looking at the drink specials notice on our own table, I noted that it had a small caricature of Holmes on it.

To think that these people could turn to crime for so little a reason astounded me. Holmes was right; someone in this group had to be responsible for the disappearance of our mysterious important person. We soon departed the restaurant to prepare for the next phase of our mission: infiltrating the Sherlockian seminar itself.

So it was that that evening we found ourselves once again amidst the Sherlockian horde, this time wisely avoiding the more dangerous collectors to sit the Sherlockian scholars and pasticheurs. There, in one of the Julien Motor Inn's banquet rooms, we were first to encounter Michael Harrison as he gave the first lecture of the seminar. If any apprehensions at being surrounded by Sherlockians remained within me, they quickly vanished as Michael Harrison spoke. His quiet, wonderfully non-American voice gently lifted my spirit and carried it back to that day when service was at its best (the waiters and cabman of today do not approach the courtesy of their forbears, especially at Simpson's) and when a gentleman with good intentions could go far. I have heard Sherlockians and others remark upon how my writings transport them to that simpler time of the hansom and the gaslamp, but it was not until listening to Mr. Harrison speak that I really knew how they felt.

This nostalgic interlude eventually came to a close, and John Bennett Shaw, a most enjoyable speaker for a man who is also a collector, spoke of Holmes's popularity today. Had he been a more emotional man, Sherlock Holmes would surely have blushed more than once during Shaw's talk, but as I occasionally looked over at him, I could detect no such redness beneath the make-up of his disguise. Shaw's talk was followed by a short, but fascinating film purporting to be about the opening of my tin dispatch box, after which we all went into the next room for a well-served wine and cheese reception. Soon Holmes and I retired for the night, as even go Holmes needs sleep at his advanced age.

The next morning’s proceedings now taking place at the University of Dubuque, began with another demonstration of the fanatic nature of Sherlockians. John Bennett Shaw presented them with what he claimed was one of his "easier" quizzes on "The Cardboard Box," which many Sherlockians attacked with deadly earnestness, intent on bringing back some measure of glory to their home scion society. The manner of questions Shaw put to them, however, were on such minute and unusual points of the story that even Holmes, utilizing his usually splendid memory of past cases, failed miserably. The winner, a fellow named George Skornickel, made a gallant gesture, giving his first place book to Ann Byerly, easing her disappointment at losing a heated tie-breaker round for fourth place. Other winners were John Nieminski (a Hound) in second, Brad Keefauver (a Hansom) in third, and P.J. Doyle (a Norwegian Explorer) in fourth.

I note the names of the scion societies of each of the winners, as it seemed a good demonstration of the wide variety of Sherlockians in attendance. Not only were three representatives of the Hounds of the Baskerville (sic), the Hansoms of John Clayton, and the Norwegian Explorers of Minnesota, but an inordinate amount of other scions as well. The Bootmakers of Toronto, the Red Circle of Washington, the Brothers Three of Moriarty, the Occupants of the Empty House, the Jefferson Hopes, the Criterion Bar . . . an exhausting list could be compiled if one had the time and knowledge. All those scions and so many more were represented, including a number of Baker Street Irregulars so large that it had to have violated some federal law.

Keeping this fanatic congress of Sherlockians interested and entertained was no mean feat, but the University of put its back into the task so to speak. In addition to Harrison, a number of other fine lecturers were on hand. Jack Key, fresh from his work on Medical Casebook of Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle, spoke of my friend Conan Doyle's often overlooked medical career, after which writer and publisher Jack Tracy read from an early, and unusually flawed, rough draft of "The Final Problem." That afternoon, Michael Harrison enthralled those assembled once more with his wanderings through England of yesterday. One charming young woman remarked that he looked and spoke much like Sir John Gielgud, the actor, and I had to agree.

One of the most startling and impressive portions of the program came after Harrison that afternoon, in the guise of a young Australian named Derham Groves. Groves, an architect, showed his fellow Sherlockians the plans for his life's dream, a building called the Sherlock Holmes Center. From its Holmes profiles in brick on the outside, to the three-story Reichenbach Falls at its center, the building was a marvel, all dedicated to my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes. Theatres, museum rooms, a place to house the finest of all Sherlockian libraries; all any Sherlockian could want was in it, including an ample supply of restrooms, something the lecture hall we were in seemed in short supply of. And the most fabulous part of the whole affair was the possibility that it could be built one day by the University of Minnesota.

In my mind, such bright prospects completely obscured the grim mission that Sherlock Holmes and I were on, and I began to enjoy myself thoroughly during the cocktail hour that preceded dinner that evening. I had purchased a copy of Michael Harrison's A Study in Surmise and was just beginning to inspect its contents when Holmes tapped my shoulder.

"Note the partition," he said, pointing to a screen that suddenly a screen that had appeared to separate the banquet area from the cocktail lounge. "Something is afoot, Watson. The answers to our little mystery may be coming soon."

At the earliest possible moment, we made our way into the banquet room and found seats by two young women who we learned were in the process of co-authoring a book on dear old Mrs. Hudson, our ever-faithful landlady. Their names were Linda Reed and P.J. Doyle , the latter of which I was about to comment upon, thinking that perhaps she was some relation of Conan Doyle, when a tape player somewhere across the room began a stirring rendition of "God Save the Queen." My reflexes took hold and I was on my feet and standing at attention in an instant, when I spotted the royal presence entering the room.

Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself strode regally into the room, followed by her son the Prince of Wales. All those present, even though they were for the most part American, were moved to an awed silence as Her Majesty took her place at the head of the room. Was this the missing person we had come so far to find? Her Majesty certainly did not appear to be a captive, by any stretch of the imagination.

Refusing a microphone, she spoke in a clear, regal tone and called forward Michael Harrison to present him with an emerald stickpin as she had done once for Holmes himself. The Prince of Wales then performed a similar function for John Bennett Shaw, and the royal guests sat down to dine with us all, taking in the numerous Sherlockian toasts and singing that followed, during and after the fine English meal.

As I savoured my oxtail soup I looked at Holmes with a questioning glance. Was Queen Victoria indeed the party for whom we searched? Had she not died in 1901, and if so why hadn't rigor set in? Holmes smiled impishly and let out a sudden laugh.

"Brother Mycroft's sources are not what they once were," he pulled me aside to whisper, "he thought that it was our current monarch who had suddenly appeared in this far-off place."

Holmes seemed to be taking the entire fiasco very well, so we were able to enjoy the rest of the weekend to its fullest, without the concerns of a case weighing on us.

David Hammer, Dubuque's best-known Sherlockian and the author of The Game is Afoot: A Travel Guide to the England of Sherlock Holmes, bused all those attending to a party at his home following the evening's proceedings, so our relaxation got off to a fine start. Hammer, his wife Audrey, and their talented bartender proved to be the most gracious of hosts, and we thoroughly enjoyed wandering about their home, which David Hammer himself designed, bumping into Sherlockian’s in the unlikeliest of places. When the shuttle bus finally deposited us at our hotel we were more than ready for at least a small amount of rest before the next day's proceedings.

Again a Bennett Shaw quiz assailed our tired minds, and again Holmes and I made feeble attempts to answer questions on matters we had thought we knew better than anyone. P.J. Doyle, Bob Thomalen, Linda Reed, and George Skornickel obviously knew it better, however as they were the prize winners. Entries for the literary contest were turned in, and just for curiosity's sake, I handed in a brief account of the true happenings of "The Case of the Tired Captain." As the judging of that contest was not to occur for some time, two more speakers filled out the morning's program. Phillip Shreffler, author of the newly-released Baker Street Reader, lectured on "the writings about the writings" as these Sherlockians call their work, followed by David Hammer, who had sufficiently recovered from his hosting duties of the night before to present a slide lecture an the sites of the Sherlock Holmes cases. Michael Harrison pitched in for some colour commentary on the slide tour partway through, and the whole presentation was so we'll done that I was quite surprised. Speaking as one who was there originally, I can safely say that the greater part of Hammer’s slides were of the locations where the cases took place, a fact that brought back many memories to both Holmes and I.

Following another excellent luncheon at the university, John Bennett Shaw began the afternoon's proceedings by announcing the winners to the literary contest. To my surprise, and Holmes' relief, my pseudonym was not among them. Brad Keefauver, whose articles I’d noticed in more than a few Sherlockian publications, took first prize with a letter from a rather hillbillyish detective to Holmes complaining about my friend's handling of "The Cardboard Box." Second place went to the publisher of Calabash and eternal prize-winner, George Skornickel, followed by Ely Liebow and Linda Reed, in third and fourth, respectively. Whatever happened to my abbreviated "Tired Captain" I was not certain, but later heard a rumor that there was a collector on the panel of judges. Perhaps the keen eyes of said collector realized the true value of the brief manuscript and pocketed it before anyone else read it. I shall never truly know.

Michael Harrison gave one more talk to close out the weekend, with a content, that equaled either of his previous talks. It was the perfect close for the seminar, and all those assembled gave Mr. Harrison a standing ovation. There were "thank-you"s said, but not many good-byes, for the weekend's festivities were far from over. Seats had been reserved, for all who wanted, on the riverboat, "Spirit of Dubuque" for an evening dinner cruise. Sherlockians were not the only ones who had booked space on the boat that evening, but with that same lively spirit they had been exhibiting all the weekend, they took over the boat just the same. Numerous rumors are certain to spread concerning this aquatic excursion, so perhaps it would be best to quell them here and now. No, it was not a "moonlight" cruise, although several passing boaters did attempt to make it one. Yes, one Jack Tracy did take scissors in hand, prepared to cut the speaker wire connecting us with the over-loud lounge act in the front of the boat, but the needed diversion did not come through and the plan failed. Yes, a boisterous rendition of "Aunt Clara" did drive some non-Sherlockians to the front of the boat, at which point a quartet of volunteers did go to the front of the boat to sing it again, seemingly intent on driving them back. No, Bob Thomalen did not don a sailor's cap to infiltrate the crew, or to impress Peter Blau, as was rumoured. And finally, yes, Ann Byerly did bring her flute on the riverboat, although it gives one pause to wonder the size of her purse if she is constantly so well prepared for in, every occasion.

More than once during the cruise I wondered to myself if this was what the Gloria Scott had been like once the convicts had taken her over. Holmes gave a sudden start at one point, upon hearing a note from Tonga being read over the boat's P.A. system, but he quickly grew used to such Sherlockian mischief and the evening passed without any true criminal incidents or anyone falling off the boat.

With the exception of scattered Sherlockians roaming Dubuque the next day, it was all over. Holmes and I spent the short time before our plane left seeing a few of the more unique sights of the attractive and diverse city, but were soon back in the heart of Her Majesty's Realm (Elizabeth's, that is). I'm certain Holmes had some words with his brother over the poor bit of intelligence that sent us on our weekend's trip, but I do not think the detective held any hard feelings about it.

"If I am ever asked by my brother to undertake another mission of such 'importance' for the crown, just whisper 'Dubuque' in my ear, Watson," Holmes told me on the plane back.

"And we shall go at once!" I replied heartily.

"Of course," Holmes laughed, and returned to reading his copy of A Study in Surmise.