: Mark Coggins : City Brights

Sherlock Holmes and the adventure of the black bishop: pt. V

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Newly recovered papers from the estate of John H. Watson, M.D. chronicle a thrilling and hitherto unknown episode in the career of the world's most famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Today's installment is the final one in the adventure. In the first, second, third, and fourth, Holmes is engaged by London barrister Charles Keshton to investigate his wife Barbara's mysterious hysteria. Holmes determines that a letter she received may have been the catalyst for her outburst, and that her visits to the Wood Pushers Club are somehow involved.

I fell asleep only a few hours before dawn and rose late in the morning to find the dim veil that normally hangs over our great city further darkened by storm clouds. Dark, too, was my mood until I descended the stairs to find Holmes at breakfast.

“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he. “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me bringing this extraordinary case to a close.”

“Good God!” I cried. “Excuse you? Of course I will. I am only relieved to see you safe and unharmed.”

“Pooh, Watson, there was no danger to me at the Wood Pushers’ Club. I had matters well in hand from the start.”

Holmes is surely the most unemotional man I have ever known, but I felt I detected in his mien some small sign of gratification over my concern. “You must tell me what happened, then.”

“There is not time, I fear. I must return to the club this morning and then I must put into process a scheme for punishing the guilty parties without causing harm to the innocent.”

“Then there is no doubt that the club represents a nexus of the threads in the case?”

“Without a doubt, my dear fellow, without a doubt. In the meantime, I need your assistance.”

“I am listening with all my ears.”

Holmes pointed to an envelope on the table. “This note must be given to Emily, Barbara Keshton’s maid, with instructions that she deliver it to Mrs. Keshton directly. As you will observe, the envelope is sealed in wax with the imprint of my ring. No one must open it but Barbara Keshton, and she must destroy it immediately after reading. No one else in the household may even know of its existence. Can you insure that this happens?”

“You can count on me.”

“I knew that I could. And now, I must be off. If you will be back in our rooms at seven o’clock this evening, I hope to spin a pretty tale for you.”

Holmes departed, and shortly thereafter, I took myself out to the Keshton estate once more, where I gave Holmes’ note to Emily with the strictest instructions for handling. I waited in the servants’ quarters for her to confirm delivery of the envelope to her mistress, and as I left the estate, I thought that I saw a figure dressed in white in a third floor window waving to me.

I was sitting to one side of the fire in our quarters that evening when Holmes arrived at exactly seven o’clock. He was much dampened from the heavy rain that had started mid-day, and I thought I detected a faint odor of smoke upon him.

“It is done,” said he, passing across a copy of the evening Times before finding his place on the other side of the fire. “You can read some details on the front page.”

I spread out the paper in my lap. The headline of the lead article ran, “Fire in Cavendish Square district; Amateur chess champion leaps to his death to avoid flames.”

“Holmes, you did not—”

“Push our acquaintance the chess champion out of the Wood Pushers’ Club? No, but before I left the burning building, I did warn him that the police were outside waiting to arrest him.”

“And were they?”

Holmes smiled grimly. “They were not. I did not feel I could involve them given the sensitive nature of the crimes involved. Still, it is a fitting end to a man who caused the suicide of at least one young woman and inflicted untold mental anguish on countless others, wouldn’t you say?”

“But, Holmes, it all remains a blank to me. What was the Wood Pushers’ Club? And what role did it play in these women’s lives?”

Holmes stood to answer, locking his hands behind him as he was wont to do during explanation of a problem or theory. But before he had even opened his mouth to speak, there was a disturbance downstairs, followed by a familiar and loud tramp of boots on the stair.

A moment later, Charles Keshton broke into the room, followed closely by Mrs. Hudson.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” cried our landlady, “I asked the gentlemen to wait while I announced him, but he refused.”

“No matter,” said Holmes. “He is here now. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson departed. Keshton glowered at Holmes from the far end of the room, water from his long waterproof dripping on the carpet. “What have you done?” he demanded.

“Your question is vague, sir.”

“Today my wife vacated her room and acted as of old. All trace of her paroxysm seems gone.”

“Then you should be happy.”

“I would be, save no explanation is given for the change, nor is there even acknowledgement that the original affliction was anything more serious than a mild flu. Given your commitment to provide results in one or two day’s time at the Marlowe residence, I can only conclude that you achieved them. I demand an explanation as to how.”

“I’m afraid I have none to provide,” said Holmes calmly. “I am not infallible. The tack I was following was erroneous.”

“And what was that tack?”

“Modesty prevents me from sharing what I now realise was a ill-conceived theory.”

“Why did you warn me to protect my wife from news of Sarah Marlowe’s suicide? You clearly thought there was some connexion between her death and my wife’s behavior.”

“I was mistaken. It was only an unfortunate confluence of events. A coincidence.”

Keshton shook his walking stick at Holmes. “You are bald-faced liar, sir. You have conspired in some way with my wife and I will have an explanation from you—even if I have to beat it out of you.”

At the sound of this threat I jumped from my chair and took hold of a fire place poker. Holmes placed a restraining hand on my arm.

“Mr. Keshton,” said he, “if you provoke a fight in this house, you will lose more than the modicum of dignity you possessed when you arrived. You have no call against me. Your wife has recovered. Be satisfied—and be so good as quit the premises this instant.”

Keshton looked from one to the other of us, made a strange growling noise, and abruptly turned heel. Holmes followed him down the stair to insure he departed without hanging back or molesting Mrs. Hudson and then returned to the room.

“Did you really mean to use your fireplace poker on him, friend Watson?”

“Certainly, if he moved upon you.”

“You are good man to have in one’s corner. Still and all, I have some sympathy for him. It cannot be easy to bear the horns of a cuckold.”

“A cuckold! Whatever do you mean?”

“You are familiar with the history of ancient Rome?”

“To some extent.”

“During the time of its long decline, you are aware that there were debacherous parties involving both sexes?”

“Do you mean orgies!?”

“Yes, orgies. To answer the question you asked before Keshton appeared, the Wood Pushers’ Club was a club for orgies. As there would naturally be many more males than females interested in participating, the men, as you’ve seen, competed via chess for admission to the party each day. The young women who were involved were young, bored and attracted by the allure of sexual mischief in a mysterious, somewhat ritualized setting. And, as I found out, they were often plied with drugs.”

I was dumbstruck. Such an explanation for the case had never occurred to me. “But what, then, was the exact catalyst for Barbara Keshton’s paroxysm? Guilt over her participation?”

Holmes shook his head. “I have found that guilt, like water wearing away a stone, is a force that takes a long time to alter the subject upon which it works. No, as I suspected from the moment we discovered the burnt correspondence in Barbara Keshton’s sitting room, blackmail was involved.”

“The letter Mrs. Keshton received threatened her with exposure?”

“Exactly. Based on all you know, can you deduce the precise hold the blackmailer had over Barbara Keshton?”

“A compromising photograph, perhaps.”

“Very good, Watson. There were in fact photographs of young women in compromising positions held in the files of the club. It is for that reason that I set fire to the building. However, it was not a photograph that prompted Sarah Marlowe suicide or Barbara Keshton’s illness. It was a tattoo.”

“A tattoo? Holmes, you astonish me. These are young English women, not sailors or Hottentots in Africa.”

“Yes, which would have made it all the more difficult to explain a tattoo of a small chess piece deep in the contour of the buttock. Sarah Marlowe’s was of a black bishop.”

“So that is why you insisted on examining her body!”

“Indeed. You also perceive the true motivation of her request for cremation.”

“But Holmes, are you saying that the women were not immediately aware of the tattoos? Surely they would recall receiving them or would have later felt some tenderness of the skin from their application.”

“The women were drugged with laudanum at the time of the application. As for tenderness of the skin, many of the other activities they participated in during their visits to the club would have provoked tenderness in the nether regions. And given the tattoos’ placement, it was quite difficult for the bearer to see them. Even during the course of normal marital relations, there would be no good or wholesome reason for exposure to a husband.”

I shivered. “I now perceive the reason for your interest in Barbara Keshton’s request for a mirror in her sitting room. The letter she received told her of the presence of the tattoo and she needed the hand mirror—and perhaps the wall mirror—to view it. But what was the goal of the blackmail? To extort money? I would have assumed the members of the club were well-to-do.”

“Money was not the objective. The club champion used the tattoos as leverage to force the women to recruit other females to the club. The new recruits were in turn marked, and after some time, required to ensnare yet more members. Failure to comply would result in an anonymous letter to one’s husband informing him of the tattoo—or at least that was the threat. I am not sure that it was ever carried out, although it is clear that the women who received the letters took them seriously enough.”

I stared into the fire and felt my blood rising. “What a vile, vile programme. You have done a great service to society to destroy these pernicious Wood Pushers.”

Holmes gave a slight bow and crossed the room to retrieve his violin. When he returned to stand by the mantle, he said, “You, too, are to be commended, Watson. I would be lost without my Boswell.”

“Thank you, but I have just one more question, Holmes—no, I have two.”

“Pray ask them.”

“Why chess? Why was competency in that arena used as a means to select male participants to the orgies?”

“I cannot say for certain, but I have a theory. It is my observation that ability in the game is given to men in inverse proportion to their ability to attract the fairer sex. I think the club champion and his fellows perceived it as a way to even the scales with regard to their success with women.”

“I see. Then my last question is this: why was it necessary to visit the club twice? Why return today? Could you have not resolved the case during your first visit?”

Crimson rose in Holmes’ face. His eyebrows peaked in a suggestive manner, then he tucked his violin under his chin. “Watson, are you familiar with Satie’s Gnossienne No. 3? I find it quite soothing on violin.”

Stay tuned: As a bookend to "The Adventure of the Black Bishop," next Monday's post will feature an interview with famed Sherlockian Leslie S. Klinger, editor of The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes.

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Nov 22 at 07:00 AM

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Sherlock Holmes and the adventure of the black bishop: pt. IV

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Newly recovered papers from the estate of John H. Watson, M.D. chronicle a thrilling and hitherto unknown episode in the career of the world's most famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Today's installment is the fourth of five. In the first, second, and third, Holmes is engaged by London barrister Charles Keshton to investigate his wife Barbara's mysterious hysteria. Holmes determines that a letter she received may have been the catalyst for her outburst, and when a friend of Barbara's commits suicide, the mystery only deepens.

Cavendish Square is home to the practices of many of the well-to-do in my chosen profession. Yet when I found Holmes waiting for me on the corner of two of the more popular streets in the district, his attention seemed focused on an octagonal stone building that was altogether unrepresentative of the houses typically let by physicians to receive patients.

Nodding towards the building as I came up, Holmes confirmed his interest in it. “What do you know of the Wood Pushers’ Club, Watson?”

“A gentleman’s club or fraternal organisation I presume, although I’m not familiar with the term ‘wood pusher.’ Is it used as a metaphor for carpentry as the Freemasons use stonemasonry?”

“Observe yonder maiden at the front door. She is one of many I’ve seen enter in the last few hours. It appears that the club does not discriminate with regard to sex. I can also testify that a ‘wood pusher’ is a reference to a chess player of low ability.”

“I see. A person who pushes the wooden pieces across the board willy-nilly. It is a chess club, then.”

“Perhaps. But I can think of at least one other connotation for wood pusher that might apply.”

“I fail to take your meaning.”

Holmes gave a weary smile. “It is not important. There is no question that chess plays a role.”

“And what role does the club play in our inquiry?”

“There have been rumors about it for years. I’ve had my eye on it, but have never had reason to personally investigate before. I fear now that both Barbara Keshton and Sarah Marlowe have spent time inside.”

“Nothing that I have heard of Barbara Keshton—with the possible exception of the chess piece drawn on the letter she received—would suggest an interest in chess.”

“No indeed. But there may have been other activities of interest to her—activities which have led to her personal crisis. We must gain entry to be sure. Did you bring your pistol as I requested?”

I patted my pocket. “I have it here. Do you mean to force our way in?”

“Only as a last resort. As I understand it, another more cerebral challenge is typically required to gain entry. Pray let me do the talking, but be on your guard for any eventuality. If cunning and deception do not succeed, we will have to make do with main force.”

We crossed the street to the octagonal building and passed through its church-like door. Inside, there was a broad, well-carpeted stair leading to the first floor, but two burly men stood at the foot. Holmes merely nodded at them, steering a course past the staircase to the circular hallway that followed the perimeter of the building. There were a series of doors along interior. Holmes paused in front of one of them and tested the knob. It was not locked.

“Unless I am misinformed,” he said in an undertone, “any woman who visits the club may ascend the stairs directly. Entrance for men, however, is more selective.”

Holmes pulled open the door. Inside was a small space with a bench and a single, flickering gas light. In front of the bench hung a demonstration chess board with the pieces arranged as they would be at the start of a game. Holmes ushered me into the room and indicated that I should sit on the bench. He joined me after sliding the bolt across the door.

“You are new,” said a muffled voice that seemed to issue from behind the board. “What is the watch word?”

“En passant,” said Holmes.

“Very well,” said the muffled voice. “But you must each play your own game. You or you companion must go to a different room.”

“My companion is only here to observe. He is not seeking entrance today.”

“That is…unusual. It will only be permitted if he gives his word not to assist you in any way.”

It took me a moment to realize I was required to speak. “I give my word as a gentleman,” said I.

“So be it. If you are observed cheating, you will both be ejected. As you may know, the game is simultaneous chess against the club champion. There are only two other gentleman seeking to gain entrance to the club at present, so unfortunately for you, the champion will have rather more leisure than usual to consider your particular game. You have only one minute to make each move and must avoid checkmate before forty moves to be admitted.”

“And if I achieve checkmate before forty moves?” asked Holmes.

There was a dry chuckle behind the wall. “Then it will be a first in the history of the club.”

I worried that Holmes’ bravado was misplaced. During my long acquaintance with him, he had never evidenced the least interest in chess, nor had I observed him play the game or study any of its literature. I had played the odd game during my army days, and I knew that pure intellect would not carry the day against an opponent who was practiced and conversant with the many attacks, gambits, defenses and myriad move combinations in the repertoire of the modern player. I found myself seeking the reassuring bulk of the pistol in my pocket. I feared that it would soon be required.

“The champion plays white and will make the first move,” continued the voice. “Once he relays the move to me, I will post it on the board and then you will have one minute to indicate your opening move. Am I entirely clear?”

“Quite.”

“Then we shall begin. White moves pawn to queen’s bishop four.” Through a mechanism operated from behind the wall, the piece was advanced along a track to the stated position.

Holmes hesitated nary an instant before responding, “Pawn to king four,” and the move was likewise registered.

The game continued rapid-fire like this, each player making his moves with little pause for contemplation. By my watch, Holmes never consumed more than thirty seconds to determine his move. The unseen champion took longer—perhaps as much as ninety seconds at the outside—but as he was juggling two other contests simultaneously, the time dedicated to his game with Holmes was the same.

Just as the pace of play was rapid, so, too, were developments on the board. At the end of ten moves, both players were down two pawns and the pieces were arrayed thusly:

Given my limited experience with the game, I could discern no particular advantage to either White or Black, but it was clear to me that Holmes’ strategy was the more aggressive. The advanced placement of his king’s knight, in particular, seemed provocative.

In the next few moves, Holmes traded knight for bishop and then pressed an attack on the white king with pawns, his remaining knight and his queen. There was more tit for tat—rooks were exchanged and Holmes reversed his earlier trade, gaining a bishop for a knight—but after Holmes’ twentieth move, no doubt remained about who had gained the upper hand:

“Check,” declared Holmes.

I heard an exclamation of surprise from behind the board. White’s next moves were ones of sidestep and evasion as Holmes relentlessly tightened the noose around his opponent’s king. On the twenty-fifth move, with Holmes set to bring his queen in for checkmate, White resigned. (Editors note: this game bears an uncanny resemblance to the 1988 match between Gary Kasparov and Patrick Wolff, where Wolff defeated the world champion in twenty-five moves.)

“Congratulations!” I exalted. “A tremendous victory.”

He flashed a rare smile. “It does warrant some small jollification.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a mechanism being released behind the wall. Following a hidden track, the wall rolled aside, revealing two male figures dressed entirely in black. One was of average height and girth, the other shorter and of gross obesity. The faces of each were completely obscured by a black hood, much like the ones worn by the terrible secret society of the Ku Klux Klan. Without any positive evidence to support the conclusion, I intuited that the fatter man was the club champion, and the other the owner of the voice we had heard from behind the wall. This was confirmed when the large man addressed Holmes in a high-pitched wheeze.

“Well, sir, that was a brilliant attack. You are to be commended. You are a newcomer, but I hope that you make Wood Pushers’ a regular habit. I would very much enjoy a rematch.”

“As would I,” said Holmes, and it was hard to tell if the enthusiasm in his voice was real or feigned.

“Come then,” said the fat man. “You have passed the admissions challenge for today and are free to enjoy the benefits of the club.” He extended his hand to present another black hood. “All members wear these. We find they alleviate bashfulness during club activities.”

Holmes rose to take the hood and then placed it over his head. I was much taken aback by this dark transformation to my friend’s appearance and realized I had not fully thought through the consequences of his victory. He had gained entry to the club, yes, but he would be entirely without my support. I rose, too, and put a restraining hand on his arm. “Are you sure—” I began.

“I will be fine,” he said from behind the mask. “Make your way home and we will talk later.”

“Or try your own hand at a game,” said the fat man. “It would be impossible to better the result of your friend, but that is not required.”

“No,” rebutted Holmes, “he is leaving now.”

“As you like,” said the fat man. “Follow me please.”

Holmes gave me a quick nod and then stepped across the threshold to the space on the other side. The other men disappeared from view, and a moment later, the wall rolled across the opening and latched with a loud clang.

I went out of the little room and through the front door of the octagonal building, pausing in front to stare at the lone shingle that advertised the club’s name. Then, with only my thoughts and my fears as companions, I turned away to hail a cab for an anxious ride to our rooms on Baker Street.

There I passed an even more anxious night without word from Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Nov 15 at 07:00 AM

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Sherlock Holmes and the adventure of the black bishop: pt. III

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Newly recovered papers from the estate of John H. Watson, M.D. chronicle a thrilling and hitherto unknown episode in the career of the world's most famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Today's installment is the third of five. In the first and second, Holmes is engaged by London barrister Charles Keshton to investigate his wife Barbara's mysterious hysteria. Holmes determines that a letter she received may have been the catalyst for her outburst.

I saw little of Holmes in the days which followed. He came and went at irregular hours, often costumed in the guise of a stable hand, dock worker or other representative of London's teeming working class. He offered no explanations for his activities, nor did I request any, but I gradually came to discern that the investigation was not going as well as he might hope.

Finally, after brooding over the morning's papers one day for several hours, he threw down the Times in disgust and confessed, “This won't do at all, Watson. It simply won't do. I am like the mountaineer who seeks vainly for a fissure or crevice at the base of the peak to use as a first foothold. My route of ascent is well planned, but I am unable to begin my climb until I can uncover a support for my first step.”

After being shut out of the case in what I still felt to be a rather brusque and cavalier manner, I was reluctant to be drawn in again so easily. “But at the least,” I said noncommittally, “you have formed a working hypothesis.”

“Yes, yes, that is what I meant when I said my route was well planned.” Holmes stood up and began to pace about the room. “I know that I have been remiss in not keeping you apprised of the details of the case, friend Watson. The end result, no doubt, is that these last few days have proved nearly as trying for you as they have for me. In my defense I can only say that I long ago expected to have moved to a stage of the investigation where I could make use of your stalwart and trusted aid once more.”

I felt my mood soften. “I can well appreciate that, Holmes, but can you not give me some inkling of what steps you have taken to date?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Holmes said somewhat peevishly. “I have taken the obvious steps. Even our colleague and sometime collaborator on the police force, Inspector Lestrade, could be relied upon to do as much—or as little. To be specific, I have investigated Barbara Keshton's background, I have interviewed her friends and family, and I have endeavored to recreate her movements on the days immediately prior to her paroxysm.”

“And?”

“And I have determined that Barbara Keshton, née Barbara Walker, is a spirited young lady, who is not always bound by the mores and conventions of traditional English society. Her father, Joseph P. Walker, a widower and very successful London merchant, paid less attention to Barbara's upbringing than might be desirable in today's world. Perhaps to compensate for this neglect, or to free himself entirely of the burden of her supervision, he betrothed his daughter to a much older man with little more than a formal introduction to serve as courtship. The result has been a marriage which, according to her friends, is exceedingly repugnant to his daughter, although outward appearances have been maintained by the couple.”

“That is quite a different picture than painted by Mr. Charles Keshton.”

“It is indeed. As to Barbara Keshton's activities on the days preceding the incident, these, for the most part, are quite ordinary. Of interest only is a day trip made to London two days prior. As far as I can determine, Mrs. Keshton had a doctor’s appointment and spent the remainder of her time shopping for clothing. However, there is a three hour period in the late evening before her return to Maidenhead on the 8:45 train from Paddington for which I cannot account.”

“Do you deem it significant?”

Holmes stopped pacing long enough to glance out the window. “The absence of knowledge is always significant, Watson,” he said over his shoulder. “But perhaps the telegram borne by approaching messenger will prove illuminating.”

Our page boy brought the telegram up to our rooms, and Holmes opened it greedily. “Events have advanced in a most tragic fashion,” said he, thrusting the telegram in my direction. “You would do well to prepare for another trip to Maidenhead.”

The message read simply, “Friend of wife killed self. Come immediately. Charles Keshton.”

“But Holmes,” I protested. “What possible connexion could the death of an acquaintance of Barbara Keshton have to the case? It is most unfortunate, but surely it does not warrant our immediate return?”

“I fear I understand very well what the connexion is,” said Holmes. “However, let us trust for the moment that Mr. Charles Keshton's concern provides a full and sufficient reason for returning.”

Holmes scribbled a hasty response on a yellow telegraph form, passed it to our page boy for delivery, and we rushed downstairs to secure a hansom for the ride to Paddington. We arrived in Maidenhead in the late morning, and were met at the station by Charles Keshton himself. Accompanying him was a short, ferret-faced man with an official air—none other our old ally from Scotland Yard, Inspector Lestrade.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” said the detective with a broad grin, “Once again your sources of information appear nearly as expeditious as those of the regular force. I had only time for a brief visit to the scene of the tragedy, and was endeavoring to interview those individuals who appeared to have insight into the matter, when during the course of the first such interview Mr. Keshton here informed me of your interest and your eminent arrival.

“I agreed to defer further discussion until you were present, but I think I may safely say that you and Dr. Watson have journeyed here without need. There is no mystery to Mrs. Marlowe's death, and therefore it affords no opportunity for the application of the elegant, if overly complex, amateur theories of which you are so fond.”

“We thank you for your forbearance, nonetheless,” said Holmes, failing to rise to the bait. “Might you indulge us further by describing the circumstances surrounding the tragedy as you understand them?”

“Certainly, sir. A quick rendering can only confirm my assertion. Permit me to consult my notebook…yes, here we are.”

It was a simple story that Lestrade had to tell—indeed there seemed to be no great mystery associated with the unfortunate death of Barbara Keshton’s friend, Sarah Marlowe. Alone in the third floor attic of her house, she had flung herself from a window to the garden below. Her fall was witnessed by the gardener, and she was found to have died instantly from a broken neck. A note written in her hand was discovered in her room, the essence of which was that she was despondent over the unfortunate death of her only child the proceeding winter, and no longer had the will to live. She bade her husband forgive her, and asked that her body be cremated to obliterate all trace of her wretched existence in the world.

Her husband confirmed that the death of their only child, Randolph, had left his wife in a state of great depression, and speculated that the anniversary of the child’s birth, one week prior, was the final catalyst for her most lamentable action.

“Curious that she should wish to be cremated,” said Holmes. “The Queen's surgeon, Sir Henry Thompson, has proposed it as an alternative to earth burial, but the practice is uncommon, and to my knowledge, there is only one working crematory in the Kingdom, located in Woking. It seems unlikely that a young married woman of Mrs. Marlowe’s upbringing would have knowledge of, or interest in, cremation.”

Being acquainted myself with Sir Henry’s writings on the topic, and having much sympathy with his concerns regarding health conditions in and around our cemeteries, I was less sure. “There are many sound reasons to encourage the practice,” said I, “and the Cremation Society of England has written much to promote it. Perhaps is not so curious that the young woman would have seen the publications of the Society and be persuaded by them.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes. He turned to Lestrade. “May I ask where the body of the Sarah Marlowe rests now?”

“Why, she remains at home. There has not been time to move her.”

“Excellent. Please take me there at once. I would examine the body before preparations are made for cremation.”

“But there is no point, Holmes,” objected Lestrade. “I assure you she died of a broken neck. The local doctor has so testified and, indeed, it is evident to anyone with even the grossest knowledge of human anatomy.”

“I have no doubt you are correct, sir. But I would still examine the body.”

Despite Lestrade’s continued protestations, Holmes could not be dissuaded from his avowed course of action. The well-appointed brougham of Charles Keshton whisked us to the Marlowe residence in less than twenty minute’s time. It was a severe, modern-looking brick building, four-storied, slate-roofed with little in the way of sentimental decoration. Upon alighting from the carriage and being admitted to the house by the footman, Holmes surprised us all by insisting on performing a private examination of the body where it lay at rest in the bedroom of the deceased.

“But Holmes,” I insisted. “Surely I, at least, can be of some assistance to you in the examination. You will grant that I have some little knowledge of medicine.”

Holmes leaned close to me so that his remarks would not be overheard by the others. “The reason for my examination has less to do with medicine than motivation.” He then strode up the stairs to the first floor, where he disappeared behind the closed door of Sarah Marlowe’s bedroom.

When he returned, there was a grim look on his face and a new air of determination about him, yet his first words to the group seemed calculated to misdirect, if not to deceive outright. “You are correct, Lestrade,” he said. “Her neck has been broken.”

Lestrade bowed. “As I told you, sir. Are you now ready to concede that there is no great mystery surrounding her death?”

“I am ready to state that I have no remaining questions about her death.” He turned to Keshton. “Sir, I would suggest that you maintain a close watch on your wife, and if possible, try to shield her from news of Sarah Marlowe’s suicide. It may act upon her psyche in unwholesome ways.”

“It is too late. The servants have already informed her.”

“Then I bid you keep a twenty-four hour watch upon her to prevent her from doing anything rash.”

Keshton waved his hand in an angry gesture, and I was reminded once more of his fiery temperament. “I am not an idiot. I have already taken precautions. What of your own activities? Have you no progress to report?”

“I am on the cusp of a solution. You may expect results in one, or at most two, days.” Holmes took my elbow and guided me towards the door. “But for now Watson and I must hurry back to London to effectuate that solution.”

We returned by brougham to the station and from thence to London. Along the way, I asked Holmes to explain the curious remarks he made before going up to Sarah Marlowe’s bedroom, but he would only say that his observations had led him to form a provisional theory about the motivation for her suicide—and he hoped—Barbara Keshton’s strange behavior.

I mulled this over for the remainder of the journey, but I could not fathom what he had seen nor grasp the association to Mrs. Keshton. Just as the train was approaching Paddington, I felt emboldened to guess, “Does your theory involve the loss of Sarah Marlowe’s child? And some correspondence from her to Barbara Keshton regarding it?”

“It does not.”

“Then what are we to do next?”

“We must test my theory with action.” He recited an address in the Cavendish Square quarter. “Meet me there at four o’clock—and bring your pistol.”

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Nov 08 at 07:00 AM

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Sherlock Holmes and the adventure of the black bishop: pt. II

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Newly recovered papers from the estate of John H. Watson, M.D. chronicle a thrilling and hitherto unknown episode in the career of the world's most famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Today's installment is the second of five. In the first, Holmes is engaged by London barrister Charles Keshton to investigate his wife Barbara's mysterious hysteria.

The next morning found Holmes and I ensconced in a first class train carriage, speeding towards Maidenhead at fifty-five miles an hour. As was his wont when there was scant data to fuel the machinery of his great intellect, Holmes said little during the journey. He contented himself with several pipefuls of his favorite shag tobacco, while I made do with a recent edition of the British Medical Journal. At the station we were met and conveyed by trap to the residence of the troubled barrister.

Mr. Charles Keshton’s house was a good-sized building of gray stone with an expansive portico. The stables beyond the house were large and modern, bearing witness to the master's passion for polo.

We were received in the library by our host. After refreshment had been offered and declined, he said, “I have arranged for you to interview the servants here. I assume that you wish to speak with all who were present at the time of my wife's paroxysm.”

“No,” said Holmes. “I think we shall manage with Emily alone for now. If the need suggests itself, I will take the opportunity to interview the others.”

A short while later, Emily presented herself for questioning with a brisk curtsy. She was a simple country girl, quite representative of her class, but possessed of a certain spark.

“Was it common for your mistress to spend her mornings in the sitting room?” began Holmes.

“Yes, sir, quite common. She very often passed the first hours after breakfast there.”

“What use did she make of her time?”

“She did any number of things, Mr. Holmes. Often she would write orders for the tradesmen, or catch up on her correspondence, or read from a book, or work on her embroidery. She embroidered the most beautiful pieces, did my mistress.

“Oh, but you have me speaking as if she were dead, Mr. Holmes! And in reality she is but a short distance away, safe and warm in her bed. I have faith that the dark mood which has afflicted her will quickly depart, and once more she will be healthy and happy.”

“Your faith does you credit, Emily,” said Holmes. “I will do everything in my power to see that it is not misplaced. Please describe in detail the sequence of events on the morning of the crisis.”

“Little enough is there to tell. Cook made breakfast as usual, and as usual I took it up to the mistress' bedroom. After eating she rose to bid the master good-bye. I assisted her with her morning toilet and then she returned downstairs to the sitting room. At about half past ten I brought in the morning mail, and all seemed well and normal with her. But not more than an hour later, she burst from the room and proclaimed loudly that everyone in the house must leave. So forceful were her requests, and so wild was her appearance and demeanor, that all present in the house departed save me.”

“And why did you remain?”

“I could not abandon my duty as easily as that, could I? Not with my mistress in so horrid a state.”

“Quite so. What transpired next?”

“The mistress went back upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. I knocked at her door several times, but my appeals fell on deaf ears for I could not detect even so much as a whimper in response. Eventually, I settled in the parlor to await the master's return.”

“Yes, we are already familiar with the events subsequent to Mr. Charles Keshton's return. Why did you not seek help from a neighbor, or even a doctor or policeman?”

Emily's face became flushed. “For two very good reasons, sir. I feared to leave my mistress entirely alone in the house, and I had no wish to make public a circumstance which could very easily lead to gossip and scandal.”

“You were undoubtedly correct, Emily,” I put in soothingly. “You were undoubtedly correct.”

“Perhaps so,” murmured Holmes. “But it is a pity no strenuous attempt was made to question Mrs. Keshton earlier in the day. It is very difficult to get information from a victim of hysteria once the shock has fully set in. Now Emily, you are quite sure you have given me a complete account of the affair? There are no details, however trivial, that you have chanced to omit?”

“Well, there is one small item. It is but a trifle, Mr. Holmes. I am certain that it has no significance.”

“It is remarkable how often trifles become consequential. Let us have a description of it, if only to make unabridged your most coherent narrative of events.”

“As you wish. Here is what I omitted: while she was in the sitting room, the mistress rang for a hand mirror.”

“And this you delivered to her?”

“No, I was occupied by other duties at the time. Edward, the butler, brought it to her.”

“Most curious,” said Holmes.

I smiled at the naïveté of my friend's remark. “Holmes,” said I, “you are led astray by the severely practical nature of your mind. That a member of the fairer sex should ring for a hand mirror would not be curious to other men.”

“You may be right, Watson. Yet one wonders…” Holmes formed a bridge with his hands and drifted off into a reverie. “Time enough for analysis later,” he said, abruptly ending his ruminations. “For now, we must concentrate on gathering data. Be so good as to escort us to the sitting room, Emily, for that is the one place in the house we may still find profitable to examine.”

As requested Emily brought us to the sitting room, remaining long enough only to register surprise as Holmes got down on all fours with his magnifying glass. For one with less interest in minutia, the room seemed ordinary enough. At one end was a large bay window, at the other, an oak-mantled fireplace. Situated between was a small writing desk and a divan with matching chairs. Watercolours and a decorative mirror hung from the walls.

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes straightening up from the fireplace. “What do you make of this?”

Holmes placed a charred corner of foolscap in my palm and continued his examination of the room without pausing for a response. No writing was visible on the fragment, save the initials P and S written in a flowing script. To the left of the initials was the stylised drawing of a chess piece. “Surely it is the postscript of a letter,” said I.

“Yes, Watson, but what may we conclude from its discovery?”

“That the lady burned a portion of her correspondence, I presume. And that the author of the letter had an interest in chess.”

“Yes. But more to the point, we may safely conclude that the contents of the burnt letter were the catalyst for her outburst.”

“How so?”

“The chain of reasoning is elementary. That the lady was serene and self-possessed before retiring to the sitting room we know. To account for her abrupt change in demeanor, then, we must postulate the influence of some outside agent. How could such an agent exert influence whilst she was sequestered in the room? An obvious mechanism is the morning post, which was delivered to her there. The balance of probabilities shifts in favor of this conclusion when we take into consideration the burnt letter, as it is quite likely the lady would wish to destroy any document whose contents were so unsettling.”

“But what did the letter say?”

Holmes made a wry face. “I take some small pride in my abilities, Watson, but I am not a magician. If we knew the contents of the letter, we could conclude the investigation immediately. However, if you seek a further clue in the case, I can do no better than to direct your attention to the mirror on yonder wall.”

The mirror Holmes indicated was quite ordinary. I dimly perceived that his allusion to it was somehow linked to his earlier mention of the hand mirror, but I knew from my long association with Holmes that he would be unlikely to supply further explanation.

Holmes concluded his examination of the sitting room, and after a short interview with Charles Keshton, we returned once more to town. At the station, Holmes alighted from the carriage and rushed off immediately to engage a hansom. When I moved to join him in the cab, he placed a restraining hand on my shoulder and said, “No Watson. Your time would more profitably be spent elsewhere. This phase of the investigation is not well suited to your talents, however multifarious they undoubtedly are.”

Somewhat stung by this reproof, I returned to 221 Baker Street on my own.

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Nov 01 at 07:00 AM

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Sherlock Holmes and the adventure of the black bishop: pt. I

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Newly recovered papers from the estate of John H. Watson, M.D. chronicle a thrilling and hitherto unknown episode in the career of the world's most famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Today's installment is the first of five, which will be presented weekly on Monday morning.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ aversion to women has oft been documented in these little narratives I have produced to illustrate his extraordinary powers of deduction and reasoning. So clearly and uncompromisingly documented, in fact, that as I take up pen and paper in the twilight of my years to describe the single case which proved the exception to this rule of Holmes’ psyche, I fear there will be protestations of disbelief among my long suffering readers. Some may even question the authenticity of the account. Yet there can be no doubt—on at least one occasion of which I have personal knowledge, Holmes broke his habit of cold aloofness toward the fairer sex, and engaged in relations with women that more closely corresponded to the common pattern of behavior between men and women the world over.

My purpose in describing these events is not to titillate and shock. It is rather to provide a more complete insight into the character of this rare and complex man, and to refute once and for all the slanderous rumors about his attitude toward relations with members of his own sex spread by the few remaining allies of that monstrous Napoleon of crime, Professor Moriarty.

Were he alive at the time of its proposed publication, however, I have no doubt that Holmes would suppress the account. Often has he rebuked me for dwelling on the sensational, when to his mind a cold and unemotional rendering of the precise train of logic and deduction in his cases was required. Therefore, I have resolved to go against my friend’s undoubted wishes and place the manuscript for this narrative in trust for publication some six score years after the events it describes. Although Holmes and I will have long since passed to dust, I have no doubt that the memory of and interest in Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be as strong as ever.

We take up the threads of the story late one evening in January 1889. I sat wrapped in an afghan in front of a dwindling fire in our rooms at 221B Baker Street, where I had been putting the finishing touches on a narrative of one of our earlier adventures, The Hound of the Baskervilles. I was quite weary and endeavored only to muster the will power required to take myself straight off to bed. Holmes, on the other hand, was possessed of the feverish energy that overtook him whenever he grappled with a problem or inquiry with the potential to challenge his prodigious intellect. In this instance it was an in-depth analysis of a certain class of hydrogen compounds which occupied him.

The sounds of Holmes’ work in the corner of the room—tinkling glassware, the hushed bubbling of boiling liquids—served to lull me into a near slumber. But without being fully conscious of it, I perceived a cessation of his activities. Suddenly, a rough hand shook me and I opened my eyes with a start to find Holmes standing over me. He held a steaming test tube of clear liquid, gripped in a pair of forceps, uncomfortably close to my face.

“Good God, man,” I erupted. “What is it?”

“I’ve done it Watson,” cried he. “I’ve created a compound of hydrogen and oxygen which shares all the characteristics of ordinary water save one.”

“In what characteristic does it differ?”

“It is heavier.”

“It is heavier? Then surely there are particles of some other material suspended in it.”

“No Watson, I would not make so simple a miscalculation. This heavy water differs from ordinary water at the elemental level. Its fundamental composition includes an additional neutrally charged component which water lacks.”

“I see,” I replied, somewhat confused by the explanation. “Of what use is it, then?”

Holmes laughed and shook his head. “Ever the practical man, eh Watson? It is of no real use I’m afraid, save that of providing a few hours diversion for me, and a rude awakening for you. Here, we will be done with it.” Holmes turned to the fire and poured his “heavy water” on the red embers, where it sizzled away in a cloud of dense steam. His face assumed a look of melancholy, such as that of a man whose work is unappreciated.

Words of consolation had just formed on my lips when a light knock on our door arrested them. Our stalwart landlady, Mrs. Hudson, crossed the threshold hesitantly, attired in her night clothes.

“Pardon me sirs, but there is a gentleman downstairs who insists on seeing Mr. Holmes. I suggested he would do better to call in the morning, but he is in a most excited state and was quite insistent.”

Holmes brightened visibly. “Well Watson,” said he. “I may yet find something more practical than heavy water to apply myself to. Send the man up, Mrs. Hudson, send him up, by all means.”

Mrs. Hudson left the room and presently a loud tramping of boots sounded on the stair, followed by the appearance of a florid, heavy set gentleman. His clothing was simple and conservative, but seemingly well made. His hair was a dull brown, his face full, and he sported that type of beard the French name an imperiale, but which is not commonly worn in English society. Beady, but fierce looking eyes glistened behind his gold spectacles.

“Which of you is Holmes?” he demanded.

Holmes identified himself and our visitor strode up to the great detective and planted himself not a foot away.

“Many extravagant claims have been published in the popular press about your supposed powers of deduction,” declared he. “I, frankly, am not a believer. What proofs can you offer on the accuracy of the published accounts?”

I was shocked by the audacity of the man! Had I been Holmes, my inclination would be to show the fellow directly to the street. Holmes reacted with a tolerant smile. He said mildly, “I do not know what you have read, sir, and my strong suspicion is that there can be no simple proof or disproof to any of the claims for my abilities you may have encountered. However, if it serves to mollify you, I can testify that you are a barrister by profession, that you are strong-willed and given to fits of violent temper, and that you make your home in the country village of Maidenhead. I might also say that you are newly married, and you engage in the sport of polo. Finally, if I were a betting man, I would wager that in the last few weeks you have been under great emotional strain.”

The hearing of Holmes’ pronouncement caused our visitor’s complexion to whiten markedly. He searched Holmes’ face for a moment, then seemed to recover his color. “Bah,” he scoffed. “That is nothing. You must already have some knowledge of me—I am well known to many in the legal profession. As for the other things, you have guessed them merely by the fact that I have chosen to call upon you.”

This was too much even for Holmes. There was clear annoyance in his voice when he said, “No, sir, I am not acquainted with you in the least, and I am developing no great desire to change that state of affairs. These aspects of your character, occupation and habits I have deduced only from careful observation of your appearance.

“Watson, you are familiar with my methods. What explanation for my deductions would you give our guest?”

I studied the man for a moment, and then addressed him directly. “There is much that escapes me, I fear. That you are newly married I perceive from the bright luster of the wedding band on your finger. That you are under great emotional strain one might conclude from observation of your attire. Your clothing is well made, but it fits you poorly, suggesting that you have recently lost weight as a result of an all-consuming worry, but have not yet had time for alterations. That you have a violent temper is clear enough from your rude behavior this evening. That is all I can say.”

Holmes chuckled. “You underestimate your abilities, Watson. You are correct about the ring and the loosely fitting garments. But recall that I said my deductions were based solely on the man’s appearance, not his actions. His violent temper is evident from the distended blood vessels visible at his temples. The strain of angry outbursts often produces that effect.”

“I am not over-fond of being discussed like a laboratory specimen,” said our guest. “But how do you conclude that I am a member of the legal profession?”

“The ceremonial wigs which officers of the court are compelled to wear in our English system of justice leave a distinctive impression on one’s natural hair when they are removed. Your hair has such impressions.”

“What of my residence in Maidenhead and my interest in polo?”

“Your interest in polo is clear from the calluses on the thumb and forefinger of your right hand. No other endeavor produces a roughening of the skin quite like that. I might add that wearing riding gloves only slows the process, it does not prevent it.

“Your residence in Maidenhead I deduce from a more complex chain of reasoning. Observe the few grains of bright orange pollen which cling to your trouser leg. I have made a deep study of plant pollen, as a small sample of even a few grains which cling to an object can often be an invaluable clue to the object’s origin in the course of a criminal investigation.

“The particular pollen which adheres to your trouser is from a rare species of plant native to the Indian subcontinent. This plant flourishes in only one place in England, and that is the well-tended gardens of the Duke of Westminster on his country estate of Cliveden. I am given to understand he imported the plant from India after becoming enamored of its purple blossoms during his service there in Her Majesty’s Cavalry. In any case, we conclude from the pollen that you live in the vicinity of Cliveden. The only nearby village or town suitable for a gentleman of your means is Maidenhead. Ergo, you make your home in Maidenhead.”

“Very well, sir,” said our visitor after a pause. “I am forced to conclude you possess either a remarkable skill for observation and reasoning or an equally remarkable capacity for fabrication. In the end, it matters not which is the case for there is no one else to whom I may turn. I consent to hire you.”

“Whether I consent to your employ is another matter,” Holmes said coldly. “Pray be seated and relate the details of your case as clearly and precisely as you would present it to the Queen’s court.”

As requested, our visitor lowered himself into a chair by the fire, but glanced hesitantly in my direction before speaking. “What of this gentlemen, then? I see no need for his presence.”

“Dr. Watson is my trusted aid and confidant. You may leave if you choose to do so. Under no circumstances will he.”

The florid gentleman beside me shrugged his shoulders resignedly. All the bluster seemed to go out of him as he began his explanation in a subdued voice, “I will start with my name, which is Charles Keshton. As you deduced, I am a barrister by profession, and am newly married. In point of fact, I seek your aid for my wife Barbara rather than myself. She is some twenty years junior to me, and we have been joined in wedlock a scant six months. Although there are naturally differences in outlook and temperament between a man and a woman of this age difference, up until recently our days together were happy ones and there were no significant disagreements between us. All of this changed abruptly on Monday, week last.

“Leaving our home to begin my day in the city, I had no cause for concern. Barbara took special pains to see me off on my journey, in fact. Yet when I returned late that evening, she was nowhere to be found in the downstairs area of the house. Worse, there was no dinner set, and the only servant extant was her maid, Emily. This was most unusual as we normally employ seven servants in the household, and dinner is always prepared by the time I return home.

“After brusque questioning, Emily related that her mistress had, as she put it, ‘gone daffy’ in the mid-morning and summarily dismissed all the servants, including herself. According to Emily, my wife then retreated into her room, where she remained the entire day. The other servants eventually left the premises, but through loyalty to her mistress or me, Emily resolved to stay behind until I returned. There was also the question of her outstanding wages.”

“And what, according to Emily, was the event which elicited this behavior on the part of your wife?” asked Holmes intently.

“There was none, sir,” said Charles Keshton.

“There was none!” I ejaculated. “Surely some misdemeanor involving broken china or spilt food was committed on the part of one of the servants. No other explanation of your wife’s outburst, however young and immature she may be, is possible.”

Charles Keshton smiled ruefully. “Your thoughts parallel my own at the time. However, Emily steadfastly refused to confirm this conclusion. She maintained that my wife was alone in the sitting room at the outset of her rampage. I resolved to speak with Barbara directly and proceeded upstairs to her room, where I knocked on her closed door. There was no response from within, even after I called out her name. When I moved to open the door without invitation, I found it was locked securely.

“You were correct in your deductions regarding my temper, Mr. Holmes. This last development was too much for me to bear placidly. I took hold of the nearest heavy implement I could locate, which by happenstance was the ancient battle-ax on display in my study, and broke down the door.

“Inside I found my wife lying in bed with the covers pulled up around her throat, as if to protect herself. As I moved towards her, she looked up at me with an expression of shock and dismay. At first, I was very much relieved to find her physically whole because it had occurred to me as I removed the obstacle of the bedroom door that my wife had possibly taken her own life.

“But immediately after, as I queried her about her actions, I grew angry once more. She made no response to any question I put to her, but simply stared back at me with the same expression of shock fixed upon her face.”

“From your description it seems apparent that she was severely frightened by some person or thing,” I suggested.

“Yes, so it seemed to me as well, but there was no frightening person or thing in evidence anywhere in the house.”

“Let us have the remainder of your story, Mr. Keshton,” chided Holmes gently. “Conclusions are best drawn when one is in complete possession of the facts.”

“There is little else to tell, I fear. Since the evening of the incident, my wife has not moved from her bedroom or spoken a word to me or the newly reinstated servants. Doctors, clergymen, friends and family members have I brought to her bedside, but none has had any material success in determining the motivations for her behavior or the means of changing it. I come to you now a desperate man, willing to pursue any avenue in an attempt to restore my wife’s sanity and the equilibrium of our family life.”

A thin smile formed on Holmes’ lips. “Your case is not without interest. Although I can call to mind at least five cases of similar circumstances, including the notorious affair of the starving cook in ’79, it does present some aspects which are unquestionably unique.”

“Then you consent to take the case?”

“Yes, I will glance into it for you. I believe there is a train bound for Maidenhead which departs Paddington Station at 10:24 tomorrow morning. Would it be convenient for you to have us met upon our arrival? I wish to interview your staff and cast my eye about your residence.”

“It would be most convenient,” said Charles Keshton.

“Then good night, sir, and I trust tomorrow’s inquiry will yield results which move us closer to a successful resolution of the matter.”

When the sound of Mr. Charles Keshton’s heavy tread on the stair had quite died away, Holmes was moved to remark, “A singularly unpleasant gentleman, wouldn’t you say, Watson?”

“Yes, I quite agree. Given the man’s temperament, it is a wonder to me that you saw fit to accept the case—especially when it is apparent there is little you or anyone else can do to break the pattern of his wife’s behavior. Surely the entire episode is simply the consequence of her extreme youth, and the strain of an overactive female imagination.”

Holmes gave a dry chuckle. “No, Watson, there is more at work here than the capricious emotions of a young woman. I draw your attention to the time and place she elected to begin her outburst: mid-morning, alone in the sitting room. Also indicative is the complete absence of prior episodes.

“No, we are in deep waters here. I fear we may uncover something quite sinister once we begin to plumb the depths. It goes without saying that I shall want your assistance in this affair; I hope I may count on it.”

“Most assuredly, Holmes. Most assuredly.”

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Oct 25 at 10:00 AM

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Crime in San Francisco (w/ photos)

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Last weekend the mother of all crime fiction conferences was held in San Francisco at the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Dubbed "Bouchercon" to honor Anthony Boucher, a crime fiction writer and reviewer who scribbled for the San Francisco Chronicle and The New York Times, this year's edition of the annual conference drew nearly 1,400 readers, authors, publishers, agents and booksellers.

Below are photos of some of the big guns in the author category who made an appearance.

David Baldacci (Mark Coggins)

Barry Eisler (Mark Coggins)

Michael Connelly (Mark Coggins)

John Connolly Mark Coggins)

Walter Mosley (Mark Coggins)

Lee Child (Mark Coggins)

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Oct 18 at 07:00 AM

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Polaroids from the metropolis - Li Po Lounge

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Li Po Lounge, with its lantern-like neon sign and faux gold grotto entrance can be found on Grant Avenue at Washington. Named for the Chinese poet Li Po, it's been quenching Chinatown thirsts since at least the late 1940s. In fact, a glimpse of it can be seen in the 1947 Orson Wells movie The Lady from Shanghai.

Strange doings are said to take place in the subterranean basement.

Li Po Lounge (Mark Coggins)

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Oct 11 at 07:00 AM

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The equipment makes the man

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When the annals of shopping and shoppers are written, my old man will go down in history as one of the world’s worst. He had the unique ability to spend a great deal of money and bring home something of distinctly inferior quality, both functionally and aesthetically. Partly this was dislike of shopping. He was a shy man and didn’t like to have to actually speak to the store clerk to learn anything about the goods he was purchasing. He preferred to make a snap judgment on his own and rush to the checkout line clutching his purchase without any discomforting interaction with an actual human being.

Partly it came from a preference for traditional, well-known brands. And for “traditional, well-known” read obsolete, non-innovative, stodgy, buggy whip-like and often heavy. When most of the kids in our mid-1960s Phoenix, Arizona neighborhood were riding around on sporty, low-to-the-ground Schwin Stingray bikes, I was stuck on an oversize Raleigh bike that nearly castrated me each time I got on or off. Similarly, when my dad decided to take up motorcycles, he purchased a Harley-Davidson. That should be a positive example of his preference for well-known brands, but he purchased the bike during the dark period in Harley-Davidson’s history when they were owned by AMF—the people who make bowling pins. During the AMF reign, the company was mocked with bastardizations of its moniker like, "Hardly Ableson" and "Hardly Driveable.” The bike broke down all the time, but he was only induced to sell it after he went flying over the handlebars (but thankfully avoided injury).

The final reason my dad was a terrible shopper was that he was easily talked into things by people he was not shy around, namely family and friends. The best (or worst) example of this was his decision to buy a 1950s vintage Peugeot with a fabric sunroof. He was aided and abetted in this by my uncle Jim, who had lived in Europe during his service in the Air Force and developed an interest in European cars. Not that Jim intended to buy one for himself. No, he was content to let my dad handle all the Coggins family experimentation in the arena. It was a short experiment. The roof leaked water when it rained and the engine caught fire when it didn’t, and soon my mother put her foot down and my father acquired a new car: a Chevy Nova. You may recall that the Nova was said to have sold poorly in Latin-American countries because the name, when translated to Spanish, means “doesn’t go.”

Since my mom was in charge of most of the shopping I cared about—acquisition of key goods and services such as Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries, Red Ball Jet sneakers and the ticket to the kids Saturday matinee—the old man’s issues with shopping rarely cramped my style (Raleigh bike notwithstanding) … until I joined the Boy Scouts.

I had been a Cub Scout from ages eight through ten, and with the exception of a traumatizing incident at the Pinewood Derby (two words—derailed car), I had enjoyed the experience. I learned practical skills: our den mother schooled us in the arts of pencil holder, key chain and bolo tie-making. I was introduced to the sporting life: regular field trips to the bowling alley honed the classic form I still employ today. And I gained respect for authority—“obey the law of the pack”—and picked up a life’s credo—“do your best.”

After transitioning through an awkward phase known in scouting lingo as “Webelos,” an eleven-year-old Cub Scout seeking to continue his character and citizenship-building in the Boy Scouts leaves the pack and joins a troop. He must take an oath, learn the secret handshake, and demonstrate a facility with square knots, and then he may trade in his blue Cub Scout uniform for a green Boy Scout one. He will also be given his first badge—the Scout Badge—and he will likely make his first request to his mother to sew it on for him. Then begins the relentless quest for additional badges and higher ranks, which ultimately leads (for a select few astronauts, presidents and serial-killers) to Eagle Scout status. Thus it has been and thus it will always be.

That is certainly the way it was for me. Once I donned my green uniform, I immediately began eyeing the next rung in the Boy Scout ladder: the exalted rank of Tenderfoot. I will confess to you now that I never made it. In order to become a Tenderfoot, the scout must “spend at least one night on a patrol or troop campout” and “sleep in a tent [he has] helped pitch.” Prior to said patrol or troop campout, the scout must also present himself to the troop leader for inspection of his camping gear, demonstrating the correct way to pack and carry it.

Like many an explorer before me, my equipment proved my undoing. Once I understood that I would need a backpack, sleeping bag, tent, canteen, mess kit and hiking boots, I went to my mother and put in my request. I’m certain that if it involved the sort of goods she was used to supplying, she would have come through with flying colors. As it was, she was completely unfamiliar with the equipment specifications, so kicked the requisition upstairs to the senior officer. My dad.

Kevin Dooley

Backpack

He embraced the assignment with enthusiasm—which was the first sign I was in trouble. Some of his worst decisions were made in the heat of a misguided passion. He packed me up in the Nova one Saturday morning and we drove to the imaginatively named “Yellow Front” store. Yellow Front was known primarily for selling Army surplus items, but they also stocked factory seconds and new items for a few retail brands, notably Coleman camping gear. Coleman. A company that had been in business since 1900, whose well-known products included propane lanterns and stoves, primarily used for car camping.

Although this was only the mid-1960s, space age innovations in camping gear were already being incorporated. Modern backpacks were made with aluminum frames and nylon fabric, with many separate zippered compartments for water, food and gear. Sleeping bags were constructed from nylon too, stuffed with light but warm goose down or synthetic materials that were just as light and nearly as warm. Nylon was once again used in the manufacture of tents, and their poles were made from aluminum or fiberglass.

Yellow Front had modern gear like that—factory seconds, perhaps—but they had the stuff on the shelves. My dad was not impressed. Being a Korean War Veteran, he liked the idea of Army surplus, and when that wasn’t available, a trusted brand like Coleman. To heck with that flashy orange nylon.

For a backpack, he selected a Army Surplus frame with canvas straps and no waist belt. The surplus frame did not come with the actual pack, so he picked up a single-compartment canvas number that tied with a shoelace. Probably it had been designed for doughboys to lug horse fodder during the Battle of the Marne.

For a sleeping bag, no Army Surplus was available, so he fell back on a thirty-pound Coleman model made of cotton. It rolled into a tight little cylinder about the size of a hay bale, which we attached to the frame of the pack with two bungee cords.

The tent was another matter. There was nothing truly tent-like in the Army Surplus category, and Coleman only sold tents that were intended to be lugged around in the back of station wagons. Even my father realized a 4’7”, 75 pound boy wasn’t going to be carry one of those. We compromised on a “tube tent.” Tube tents are great swaths of plastic in the shape of a tube through which you thread a piece of string. The string is then tied to two trees at about waist height and rocks are placed in the base of the tent to hold it to the ground and form the shape of a triangle. You then crawl into the plastic tunnel with your sleeping bag and hope for the best. I should note that tube tents are still being sold today—for emergency situations.

We finished my camping ensemble off with a metal Army surplus canteen and mess kit and a pair of Army surplus boots that laced halfway up my calves. When we got home, I assembled my gear, packed the backpack and put it all on to stand in front of the mirror. I looked like a dwarf with scoliosis.

I dimly perceived that I might not have the slickest rig in whole of the Boy Scout troop, but I didn’t realize how badly off I was until I presented myself for inspection on the morning of my first camping trip. Fully packed with (heavy) canned food, spare clothes, mess kit, canteen and tube tent, the canvas pack looked like a bulging green tumor. I actually caught the flash in the Scoutmaster’s eyes as he got his first look at it.

“Are, ah, your parents still here?” he asked.

The troop assembly point for the hike was the parking lot of our grade school, and not wanting to be seen with my mom, I had shooed her off as soon as we pulled up.

“No, sir,” I replied.

He hefted the backpack and then craned his neck around to look for his second-in-command. “Hey, Bob,” he said. “Get over here and tell me what you think of this.”

Bob—the Assistant Scoutmaster to me—came striding over. I stared at his boney knees exposed between shorts and knee-high green socks while he took a turn at hefting the pack. “I guess it will be okay,” he conceded.

“Okay, Mark,” said the Scoutmaster, putting on a brave face beneath the brim of his Dudley Do-Right hat. “A good scout is an improviser. Take your gear over to the van and get it loaded.”

As I staggered off to the van, I heard the Assistant Scoutmaster say in a half whisper, “Poor kid.”

The van proved to be chock full of the sort of flashy nylon backpacks that my dad had poo-pooed at Yellow Front. The older kid loading the van didn’t hold it against me. By way of making conversation he asked, “Where’d you get that old crap?”

The trip went downhill from there. On the hike itself I discovered that a few of the kids did have older-style canvas backpacks, but even these packs had multiple compartments to distribute the load and make finding specific items easier. And none of them was stuck with a doofus Coleman bag. I was teased mercilessly all the way to the campground.

I suffered, too, from the excess weight of the pack and the awkward way it rode on my shoulders during the three or four mile walk, but I soldiered through that. After all, Scouts in the 40s and 50s must have made due with equipment like I was using. The real pain came from the thing every kid dreads most: being perceived as different or not cool.

When it came to pitching my tent as required for the Tenderfoot rank, the Assistant Scoutmaster stopped me in my tracks when he saw me tearing open the plastic bag that the tube tent came in. “We don’t use tube tents in the Scouts,” he intoned.

He paired me with a bully named Don who had squinty, Siamese cat blue eyes, and I assisted him in setting up his state-of-the-art two man tent. After unrolling my bulky sleeping bag in the tent and telling Don, that, no, it wasn’t stuffed with Kotexes (which my mom had told me were a product “adults use”), we had hearty dinner featuring beans, listened to ghost stories around the campfire and eventually went to bed.

Don hadn’t been much of a conversationalist up to that point, but since he was stuck with me for the night, I guess he decided to kill time until we fell asleep. He was one grade ahead of me in the same school and was curious about the girls in my class.

“Which of them are stacked?” he asked.

The question took me off guard. “Stacked?” I repeated.

“You know, which of them have big boobs?”

None of the girls in the sixth grade could exactly be considered well endowed, and in any case, it wasn’t something I’d given much thought to up until that point. I racked my brain trying to think of girls who would fit the bill. I finally settled on a girl named Penny. On reflection, I decided, she could be considered a little top heavy.

I blurted out her name.

Don just grunted.

His real response came at school about a week later. He came up to me, and without any preamble, slugged me in the arm.

“What’d you do that for?” I yelped.

“You said Penny was good.”

“I didn’t say she was good. I said she was stacked.”

“You don’t know anything,” he said and walked off.

I may not have known anything about girls, but I did know that I was done with Scouts. I trudged back from the campground, trailing behind all the other boys to avoid conversation and further insults about my equipment.

I spent the drive back huddled in the rear seat of the Assistant Scoutmaster’s station wagon, brooding on the big speech I was going to make to my parents. When my mom pulled up in the school parking lot and popped open the trunk to her (much cooler than a Nova) 1963 Buick Riviera, I slammed the hated pack into it and announced petulantly, “I quit.”

At home, while my dad sat in the Barcalounger in front of the TV in his underwear chain-smoking Camels—as he was wont to do on evenings and weekends—I gave full vent to the self-pitying rant I prepared about how the antiquated Yellow Front equipment had made me the laughing stock of the troop and now I would never be an Eagle Scout.

My dad listened sympathetically at first, but as my complaints got more personal and specific about his shopping ineptitude, he angrily suggested I was being a baby and sent me to my room.

I was being a baby, of course, and it was just as well that I washed out of Scouts early because, quite apart from the teasing I endured about my backpack, I pretty much detested everything else to do with the trip from eating the charred yet doughy pancakes, to sleeping with a root digging into my back, to hanging around with guys who liked to compare Swiss Army knife attachments. Later in life, I came to enjoy the hiking part of backpacking, but I’ve never gotten over the crappy camp food and the sleeping on the ground.

Following the trip, my backpack got put on a dusty shelf in our garage and was never used by anyone in the family again. However, when my dad decided about a year later to personally undertake a hiking trip to the Grand Canyon, he went back to the Yellow Front and came home with a couple hundred bucks of flashy orange nylon.

Which proves, I suppose, that even he could learn from his shopping mistakes.

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Oct 04 at 07:00 AM

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Polaroids from the metropolis - Ross Alley

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The oldest alley in San Francisco’s Chinatown, Ross Alley was originally home to gambling houses and brothels in the wild Barbary Coast days. Today, the narrow passageway between Jackson and Washington Streets retains enough of its character to have been featured in movies like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

If you visit during the day, you can take in the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory and view the two-woman cookie assembly line stuffing fortunes and folding cookies. Or journey further down the block to the single-chair barbershop, where barber Jun Yu will play a tune for you on his erhu (a two-stringed Chinese violin) or give you a trim. If you opt for the haircut, you’ll be in good company. Yu numbers Frank Sinatra, Clint Eastwood and Michael Douglas among his former clientele.

If you visit at night, the experience can be bit more noirish …

Ross Alley (Mark Coggins)

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Sep 27 at 07:00 AM

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Toga!

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Getting a degree part time is like getting a root canal part time. Completing classes and homework while juggling a career and personal life, particularly a screwed up personal life, can be torment. And so, in the late 80s, after painfully chipping away at MS degree requirements for five years, when I finally donned the graduation gown with special orange regalia to represent the Stanford School of Computer Science (yes, it takes a real computer geek to pick orange), I was ready for a party. A big one.

Mark's toga

The movie Animal House had come out in my junior year of college and I had always loved it and its star John Belushi. When it came time to pick a theme for the celebration, it didn’t take me long to hit on the idea of a toga party. But I didn’t want it to be a wimpy backyard affair with a pony keg and a few bowls of stale Doritos. I wanted a blow out bacchanalia in the Delta style with all the trimmings. That meant getting a venue that befit the scale and the theme of the celebration, catering the food and the booze, and booking some live entertainment.

At first the venue had me stumped. I expected to invite around a hundred people, so I needed space for a crowd that size with plenty of elbow room for all the crazed activities in which they might engage. And speaking of those activities, I also wanted a measure of privacy so people didn’t feel uncomfortable prancing around in bed sheets in front of the non-Romans. I supposed that a hotel ballroom could be made to work—or even a hall at the Elks Lodge—but those options didn’t come close to satisfying my final criterion: I wanted the venue to be unique, cool and if possible, somehow suggestive of ancient civilizations.

An errand to the (then) neglected downtown of Redwood City prompted the solution. As I drove by the mix of boarded-over storefronts, vacuum cleaner repair shops and burrito joints clinging to life on the main drag, a sign came to me. It was a big sign: a marquee. It read, “Available for Private Parties” in removable plastic letters.

The marquee belonged to the old Fox Theatre. Built in 1928 as a vaudeville and movie house, the Fox, like the rest of downtown, had struggled to stay relevant—and economically viable—in the age of suburban super malls with multiplex theaters. It functioned sporadically as a art house and I had been inside to see Jules and Jim—or some other European film featuring bicycles (as all European films must). I knew that the lobby and mezzanine were done in the grand style of old movie palaces, and furthermore, that the ceiling of the mezzanine was supported with gold-topped Corinthian columns.

As the Roman poet Horace said, “dimidium facti qui coepit habet” (he who has begun has half the work finished). After calling the number on the marquee and coughing up a deposit, I had my venue.

Next, I figured, came the caterer. I soon found that finding and vetting a caterer amongst all the bewildering options that surfaced through the Yellow Pages, newspapers advertisements and word-of-mouth was beyond the tiny portion of my engineer’s brain devoted to comparative analysis of purchase alternatives—i.e., shopping. I hired a party planner.

Things happened quickly after that. The planner lined up the food and the booze. There were a few nods to Mediterranean cuisine, such as stuffed grape leaves, but mostly we went with Midwestern finger food such as Swedish meatballs (on a toothpick of course)—and plenty of it. In the booze category I did end up with a keg—after all the Deltas would have surely had one—but also sprung for a full open bar.

The planner lined up decorations, augmenting the Fox’s plaster columns with a kind of faux Roman ruin, complete with a full scale arch for the guests to walk under as they arrived. She arranged for tables and chairs to be set up in the wings of the mezzanine and rented an oak parquet dance floor to be laid out in the center. Finally, she rented a sound system and a dais for the entertainment.

The entertainment was not a live band like Otis Day & the Knights in Animal House—I decided to draw the line at that level expenditure. The entertainment was an pudgy guy with brushy black hair and a three-day beard growth who, when dressed in a sloppy toga with an oak leaf crown atop his head, looked a whole lot like Bluto, John Belushi’s character in the movie. His job was to spin records, initially songs from the film like “Louie Louie” and “Shout,” and later contemporary ones to which my guests might be more comfortable dancing.

With the party logistics safely in hand, I moved on to the final two items: the invitation and my costume.

I didn’t do anything especially creative with the invite. There were no clever illustrations, no colored paper or ersatz Roman fonts, just the basics: the reason for the party, the time (7:30), the location and directions to the theatre. I of course made the clear the theme—a Roman Toga party with a capital T. I also mentioned there would be a contest for best and worst costume. But in making clear the theme, and perhaps in trying to be a little provocative or funny at the same time, I unknowingly planted the seed for discord amongst a certain vocal subset of my invitees. At the bottom of the initiation, next to a superscript asterisk, I placed a short footnote linked to the relevant sentence above. It read:

“Ladies! Please! No visible bra straps!”

One the of the sight gags from the movie was a scene of women with bra straps exposed on otherwise bare shoulders at the Delta toga party. I thought it would be fun to remind my guests of the scene and perhaps encourage the females to be a little more creative (or risqué) in costume construction.

Deluded in the conviction of a job done well, I sent off the invite to a hundred or so friends, co-workers and classmates. The one person I did not invite was a date. I had a tortuous on again/off again relationship with a certain young lady named Lotta—in fact, she attended my graduation ceremony with my parents—but by the time the party rolled around, we had broken up yet again. I resolved to go stag and enjoy myself anyway.

That left my toga. I wanted it to be good enough to win the best costume contest, even though I wasn’t going to enter. And if you want to take the gold, I figured, you’d better start with gold. Gold lamé, that is. I bought about three yards of the stuff at the local fabric store, paired it with a gold curtain cord, and by wrapping the fabric over my shoulder and cinching the cord around my waist just so, fashioned the Roman equivalent of a spangled Elvis suit. To accessorize, I added a crown of oak leaf that I spray painted gold, sandals with straps that crisscrossed my calves, dark sun glasses and one of those stupid skinny ties that were popular at the time. Mine was made of black leather and I simply strung it around my bare neck.

As sort of protective camouflage against the dangers of wardrobe malfunction, I went to the trouble of locating and buying some gold underwear. Well, not really gold. More like yellow. This in spite of the advice I received from a female friend of mine at the lunch table at the company cafeteria: “No one wears yellow underwear, Mark.” What the hell. It most likely wouldn’t be seen anyway, right?

That was the set-up, then. Nerd spends a lot of money (for him) to arrange a lavish costume party, invites just about every single person he knows—except a date—dons a goofy gold lamé toga (with yellow briefs underneath) and then tootles off to the Fox Theatre in Redwood City with great expectations.

I arrived at 7 (a half hour early) to make sure that all was going to plan. Bluto was already there, along with two or three of the caterers. They congratulated me on the splendor of my costume. I conveyed my hearty approval of their preparations. From food, to drink, to faux Roman decorations, to dance floor and sound system, it all really looked great. I was very pleased.

I grabbed a glass of wine to take the edge off, and settled down on one of the two red-carpeted staircases that led from the lobby to the mezzanine. I wanted to observe from an elevated vantage point as my guests arrived and walked through the Roman “ruins.” I could already hear the oohs and the ahs.

Thirty minutes slid quickly by. No one stampeded through the door at exactly the advertised time, but that was to be expected, right? There’s such a thing as fashionably late. I fetched another glass of wine and returned to my perch.

This time the glass only held me for fifteen minutes. I trudged back up to the bar and asked the bartender for refill.

“Starts at 7:30 you said, right?” he asked as he passed my cabernet over.

“Yeah, but you know, party’s take a while to get rolling.”

“Sure,” he said, and smiled. “Toga, toga!”

“Toga!” I agreed.

Back at my outpost, I gulped the wine. I was really getting worried. What if nobody showed up? Or worse, what if only a handful appeared? It would be better to have no witnesses to my humiliation except the caterers than to have a few gossipy friends spreading the story everywhere.

When I returned to the bar at around 8:30 and still no one had arrived, the bartender didn’t even try to make small talk. I pointed at the open wine bottle and he handed it over without comment.

Smeared across the stairs, chugging the rest of the bottle, I heard whispers above me in the mezzanine, then the sound of a heavy tread behind me. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I looked up to find Bluto smiling down at me.

“Things not going the way you planned?” he asked.

“No kidding.”

“Well, don’t let it get you down.” He brought up a beer bottle and playfully tapped it against the side of his head, mimicking the scene in Animal House where Bluto tries to cheer up the pledge named Flounder after the Delts have wrecked his brother’s car.

I had intended the party as homage to Animal House, but I did not intend to be Flounder, the loser who causes a horse to die of a heart attack in the dean’s office and later becomes “sensitivity trainer” in Cleveland!

“You can't spend your whole life worrying about your mistakes—” Bluto continued.

“Hold it right there,” I snapped. “Do not tell me, ‘You f---ed up ... you trusted us.’”

“Sorry. Guess I was getting into the role a little too much.”

“Yeah, I guess you were. I appreciate the effort, but everything will be cool. People will show up soon.”

“Sure,” he said and retreated back up the stairs.

I went back to draining the bottle.

Long after I’d finished all the wine and I was lying on my back watching the ceiling spin, I heard the front door creak open.

“Hey,” said a voice. “Is this a mausoleum or a party?”

I heaved myself upright and cast a blurry gaze in the direction of the voice. My friend Betty, attired in a lavender bed sheet, made her way up the stairs. Betty was a heavyset woman with a raunchy sense of humor who had no problem telling jokes on herself. She and I were good friends—I’d often confided the myriad failures of my love life to her—and if there was one person who I didn’t mind, nay, appreciated having beside me during my humiliation, it was her.

She asked the obvious question. “Where is everybody?”

“Hell if I know.”

Betty shifted the folds of her toga a little self-consciously. “Hmm. Maybe it was your invite.”

“What about my invite?”

“Well, I heard the line about no bra straps pissed off Nicole. She said she had a surprise planned for you.”

In retrospect, I concede that prohibition on bra straps was probably out of line, but Nicole, a co-worker of Betty’s and mine, was a notorious prude. When the French division of the company used a line drawing of a nude female statue on their internal newsletter, she had called HR to complain. “Was Nicole’s surprise a conspiracy to convince everyone not to attend?”

“If it was, she didn’t talk to me.”

Having gained a shoulder to cry on, I now proceeded to bite it. “Then why are you late?”

“It took me this long to get the damn toga ready. I’ve got safety pins all over the place. And that business about the bra straps makes it particularly hard. I’m going to pop a boob out here any minute.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I’m thirsty. Where’s the alcohol?”

I pointed behind me, up the stairs. Betty returned a few minutes later with another bottle of wine and a glass for herself. She poured some more for me, “not that you need any,” and we sat and we talked and we waited.

Eventually, other guests started to trickle in. Then all at once, a clump of thirty or so piled through the door, Nicole among them. Not a single woman had a visible bra strap. Except Nicole. Her “surprise” was to wear her bra over the top of her toga, and she made sure to personally explain the reason why. I had to admit it was pretty funny.

There was a lot of other creativity on display. One guy had fashioned a toga like tuxedo, complete with bow tie. Another guy, who was known for wearing nothing but corduroy, had made one with a corduroy sash. A gay couple had done matching shorty-short togas, trimmed in gold bric-a brac. They were good enough to be used in a remake of Sparticus.

Many of the women had gone all out with slinky hand-sewn togas, slave bracelets, hair extensions, Roman-looking clasp brooches and earrings and elaborate laurels. It was nearly impossible to pick a winner for best costume.

And in spite of his earlier hectoring, Bluto did a great job spinning the records, and an even better job of dragging people out on the dance floor, cutting up and generally imitating John Belushi.

I was so drunk by the time the party started that I lost all restraint and sense of decorum. I have a picture of me on my back on the dance floor, legs in the air spinning like a top. My yellow/gold underwear is clearly visible. I’ve no idea how I came to be there, but it was a comfort to know that my guests were spared the sight of my unmentionables clashing with my robes.

When it was all over, they carried me out the door and Betty drove me home. The next week at work, I tried to (casually) ascertain why everyone had showed up so late. Their responses echoed Betty’s: togas were not simple, slapdash attire, despite how they were portrayed in Animal House. They were complicated, unreliable things made more complicated and unreliable by my prohibition on bra straps. In other words, I had brought most of the trouble down on myself.

The other thing I learned is no one, and I mean no one wants to be the first to arrive at a toga party. It would be too embarrassing to be the only idiot standing around in a bed sheet, waiting for others to show up.

Tell me about it.

Posted By: Mark Coggins (Email) | Sep 17 at 07:00 AM

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