DROODIANA - Peter Rowland: The Disappearance of Edwin Drood

Peter Rowland: The Disappearance of Edwin Drood

Author's Note

'I am lost without my Boswell,' Sherlock Holmes once remarked.

The private papers of Dr John H. Watson, MD, late of the Indian army, are less voluminous than those bequeathed to a delighted posterity by the Laird of Auchinleck, but the question of their publication has posed problems of a more intractable nature. Their trustees, Messrs Cox & Co. of Charing Cross, have been advised that, the passage of many years notwithstanding, there are certain matters over which, even now, the veil of secrecy must remain firmly drawn. Such material as it has otherwise been possible to release has proved, in the main, disappointingly inconsequential.

Frustrating though this is for the dedicated researcher, anxious to sift the contents of that battered tin despatch box to his heart's content, there occasionally occur relaxations of the necessary constraints. Specified time limits expire and the records of a particular case can pass, at last, into the public domain. One such case-history is set out in the pages that follow. The present editor was intrigued to find, however, when perusing the manuscript, that parts of the story it had to tell, albeit incomplete and written from a totally different viewpoint, had already been chronicled elsewhere. Dr Watson's account, while a complete dossier in its own right, thus acquired something of a complementary character. This being so, I have taken the liberty of replacing its original title. The Adventure of the Missing Nephew', by one which (in the circumstances) appeared more appropriate. Other than this, editorial emendations have been kept to a minimum.

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Chapter I

'Well, Watson, and what do you make of it' enquired Holmes languidly, from the depths of his favourite armchair.

I pulled my own chair nearer the fire, digested the letter for a second time and passed it back with a shrug of the shoulders. 'Not a great deal,' I confessed. 'Your correspondent is obviously distraught and excited. Somebody — his son, presumably, or even a grandson — has left home and he is desperately anxious to find him. The notepaper is of good quality and the writer appears to be a man of substance, although the shakiness of the hand suggests someone of advancing years.'

The document in question, embossed with the address of 'The Gate House, Cloisterham' and dated 22 December 1894, was relatively brief. 'My Dear Sir,' it ran, 'I implore your assistance. You are the only person who can help me now. I must know, for my own peace of mind, whether my dear boy is alive or dead. This never-ending anxiety is driving me to the depths of insanity and despair. Only you, Mr Holmes, can solve this most baffling of problems.

Expense is no object. I will be with you tomorrow afternoon and beg that you will do me the honour of hearing my story and assisting me with every means at your disposal. I am, yours distractedly, John Jasper.'

'I fear', said Holmes, 'that since my much-publicized return to Baker Street those little articles by which you sought to bring my modest achievements in the sphere of elementary analysis and elucidation to the attention of a wider audience, although penned with the best of motives, are proving a mixed blessing. There appears to be an ominous disposition on the part of Mr Jasper to regard me, first and foremost, as a bureau for missing persons.'

'But he does refer', I remarked rather tartly, 'to an element of mystery in this affair, which is surely why he is coming to you, and he insists that you are the only person who can help him. I trust I am not to be blamed. Holmes, for attracting clients to your door at a time when you would otherwise be complaining of the dearth of business.'

Holmes smiled. 'The festive season', he said, 'does indeed have its longueurs. If Mr Jasper can relieve the ravages of boredom then he is most welcome, but my experience of reuniting fathers or grandfathers with long-lost heirs is limited and I rather fancy that I will be obliged, at the end of the day, to direct the gentleman elsewhere.' He glanced at his watch and then again at the letter, holding it up to the fading light. 'It may just be,' he mused, 'that this affair will not be totally devoid of points of interest. The note-paper, as you say, is of good quality, although sicklied o'er by a certain yellowish tinge which suggests a degree of antiquity. You will observe that the date has been squeezed in as an afterthought and is penned in a different hand. A wife or secretary, perhaps? Cloisterham, as you are doubtless aware, is a cathedral city in Kent some forty miles hence. The dog-eared envelope which contained this letter, however, bears a Surrey postmark. Whether or not a curious address such as 'The Gate House' confirms that our client is a man of financial stature remains to be seen.'

We did not have to remain long in suspense, for the bell rang even as Holmes ruminated and a few minutes later Mrs Hudson ushered Mr John Jasper of Cloisterham into our room. He was a tall man, dressed in a long black coat which had evidently seen better days — and so, one was obliged to acknowledge, had Mr Jasper himself. His age was difficult to determine. His hair, once black, was heavily streaked with grey and there was an appalling haggardness about his features. The most striking aspect of the man was his dark eyes, which shone with an almost fanatical light. He collapsed with an air of exhaustion into the chair which I speedily made available and sat there without speaking for several minutes, breathing heavily. He eventually proffered a shaking hand and scrutinized each of us closely.

A look of mild surprise had passed across Holmes's face. 'I believe, sir,' he murmured, 'that you and I may have met some years ago, and in rather curious circumstances, but no matter — you will not recall the occasion. My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson. You may speak freely in front of him and you have my assurance, if you so desire it, that what you say will notgo beyond the four walls of this room. How may we be of service?'

Mr Jasper summoned up his strength, drew a deep breath, and launched into his tale...