Arthur & George

mortals who gained applause for deciphering palpable clues laid right across their path. In their place he had put a cool, calculating figure who could see the clue to a murder in a ball of worsted, and certain conviction in a saucer of milk.
    Holmes provided Arthur with sudden fame and – something the England captaincy would never have done – money. He bought a decent-sized house in South Norwood, whose deep walled garden had room for a tennis ground. He put his grandfather’s bust in the entrance hall and lodged his Arctic trophies on top of a bookcase. He found an office for Wood, who seemed to have attached himself as permanent staff. Lottie had returned from working as a governess in Portugal and Connie, despite being the decorative one, was proving an invaluable hand at the typewriter. He had acquired a machine in Southsea but never managed to manipulate it with success himself. He was more dextrous with the tandem bicycle he pedalled with Touie. When she became pregnant again, he exchanged it for a tricycle, driven by masculine power alone. On fine afternoons he would project them on thirty-mile missions across the Surrey hills.
    He became accustomed to success, to being recognized and inspected; also to the various pleasures and embarrassments of the newspaper interview.
    ‘It says you are a happy, genial, homely man.’ Touie was smiling back at the magazine. ‘Tall, broad-shouldered and with a hand that grips you heartily, and, in its sincerity of welcome, hurts.’
    ‘Who is that?’
    ‘
The Strand Magazine
.’
    ‘Ah. Mr How, as I recall. Not one of nature’s sportsmen, I suspected at the time. The paw of a poodle. What does he say of you, my dear?’
    ‘He says … Oh, I cannot read it.’
    ‘I insist. You know how I love to see you blush.’
    ‘He says … I am “a most charming woman”.’ And, on cue, she blushed, and hurriedly changed the subject. ‘Mr How says, that “Dr Doyle invariably conceives the end of his story first, and writes up to it”. You never told me that, Arthur.’
    ‘Did I not? Perhaps because it is as plain as a packstaff. How can you make sense of the beginning unless you know the ending? It’s entirely logical when you reflect upon it. What else does our friend have to say for himself?’
    ‘That your ideas come to you at all manner of times – when out walking, cricketing, tricycling, or playing tennis. Is that the case, Arthur? Does that account for your occasional absent-mindedness on the court?’
    ‘I might have been putting on the dog a little.’
    ‘And look – here is little Mary standing on this very chair.’
    Arthur leaned over. ‘Engraved from one of my photographs – there, you see. I made sure they put my name underneath.’
    Arthur had become a face in literary circles. He counted Jerome and Barrie as friends; had met Meredith and Wells. He had dined with Oscar Wilde, finding him thoroughly civil and agreeable, not least because the fellow had read and admired his
Micah Clarke
. Arthur now reckoned he would run Holmes for not more than two years – three at most, before killing him off. Then he would concentrate on historical novels, which he had always known were the best of him.
    He was proud of what he had done so far. He wondered if he would have been prouder had he fulfilled Partridge’s prophecy and captained England at cricket. It was quite clear this would never happen. He was a decent right-hand bat, and could bowl slows with a flight that puzzled some. He might make a good all-round MCC man, but his final ambition was now more modest – to have his name inscribed in the pages of Wisden.
    Touie bore him a son, Alleyne Kingsley. He had always dreamed of filling a house up with his family. But poor Annette had died out in Portugal; while the Mam was as stubborn as ever, preferring to stick in her cottage on that fellow’s estate. Still, he had sisters, children, wife; and his brother Innes was not far away at Woolwich, preparing for an army life. Arthur was the breadwinner, and a head of the family who enjoyed dispensing largesse and blank cheques. Once a year he did it formally, dressing as Father Christmas.
    He knew the proper order should have been: wife, children, sisters. How long had they been married – seven, eight years? Touie was all anyone could possibly want in a wife. She was indeed a most charming woman, as
The Strand Magazine
had noted. She was calm and had grown competent; she had given him a son and