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''Adventures of Sherwood Hoakes: An Interrupted Honeymoon'' is the first parody of two written anonymously as ''A. Cone and Oil'' ([[Charles C. Rothwell]]) published in [[The Ludgate Weekly]] on 9 april 1892. His second parody is [[Adventures of Sherwood Hoakes: The Yellow Cockroach]].

== Adventures of Sherwood Hoakes: An Interrupted Honeymoon ==

My first introduction to Mr. Sherwood Hoakes, that eminent specialist in crime, took
place under circumstances of the following singular nature. I was walking home
inoffensively enough one evening in a late autumn, when, about half-way down Butcheravenue,
in the City, an open house door attracted my attention. It was a very ordinary
door, in a very ordinary row of flat-faced houses, but on the panel below the knocker
there was the following inscription in chalk:

"PUT IT DOWN WITHOUT KNOCKING."

I smiled, and wondered, and would have passed on, but at that instant, as my eye
travelled down the short lobby and into a room beyond, I perceived to my astonishment
and alarm that the fringe of the carpet adjoining the grate was on fire, and that the flame
was eating its way towards the window curtains. Without a moment's hesitation I
entered the house, hurried into the room, and crushed out the fire under my boot.
Contrary to my expectation, the room was occupied by a gentleman, who slowly rose
from a basket chair, showing neither annoyance nor surprise at my intrusion. I was about
to offer explanations, but he intercepted me by speaking first.

"Good evening, sir. No apologies, I beg. You are welcome. I perceive that you are a
cheesemonger by trade. And a widower. Also I regret to observe that you lost your
eldest son two years ago—from the measles, I think. Your daughter is married to a
jeweller, who, I am afraid, is not quite so steady as he might be. Won't you take a seat?
Ah I perceive you were at Margate last month with your grandchildren."
I stood looking in amazement at this man, whom I had never seen before in my life,
who, as his eyes travelled over me, read out the biographical details I have given
above.

"Now, how on earth—?"

"Do I know all these things?"

He smiled a pleasant, if rather superior, smile.

"There's no magic in it. A trained eye and a logical brain. For instance, how do I
discover that you are a cheesefactor? My nose tells me so, and my eyes corroborate it
by observing the peculiar glossy yellowness of your right hand, which, of course, must
handle many thousand cheeses a year. That you are lately a widower, that locket
containing brownish-grey hair at your watchchain leads me to presume."

"And about my son—my poor dead son? How can you tell?"

"By your collar, sir. It was one of his. That is evident by the fact that not only is it
half a size too small for you, and therefore not your own purchasing, but the collar is
one which came into fashion two years ago, and was much in vogue among young men,
which leads one to conclude that he bought it then, and probably died soon after of the
measles, which you will remember caused great mortality that year."

"Well, well! And the jeweller, my drunken son-in-law—and Margate—" I gasped.

"Nothing could be simpler. A glance at the bridge of your nose assures me that you
rarely use those gold eye-glasses dangling before you, and the fact that you wear plain
bone studs in your shirt affords a strong presumption that you wouldn't be the man to
buy a pair of useless gold pince-nez; they have therefore been presented to you, but
presumably by someone not thoroughly acquainted with your habits, and yet sufficiently
intimate to make you a handsome personal gift; this being so, the additional fact that the
eyeglasses are an old pattern, evidently furbished up and refitted with new cork noseclips,
points strongly to their having been presented by someone in the trade, no doubt a
son-in-law anxious to make a handsome gift and to get rid of an unsaleable article. The
burin-scratches on one of the glasses seem to indicate the unsteady hand of a drinker."

"Oh, you wizard!" I said, in gay reproach. "You scandalous old sorcerer!"

"As regards your trip to Margate, those three long stiff donkey's hairs—"

"Never mind about Margate and the donkey's hairs. What's under that hat on the
table?"

He lifted the silk hat in some confusion and betrayed the flat bottle underneath.

"Won't you sit down and take some?"

I sat down, and while my host moved about the room, I took note of his appearance
and surroundings. He looked a man of about forty, whom time and fortune had conspired
to ill-use. His face was long and blanched, his eye large and boiled, his red hair was
cropped so short that it might have been under a lawnmower, his general expression
was badgered and harassed, and that of a man constantly striving to accomplish
something against adverse conditions. He wore a frock coat with inked seams; and his
vest, which was buttoned askew, showed that he was one of those few remaining
individuals who take snuff.

Having equipped me with a cigar and a glass, he resumed his chair. "By the way," I
said, "I can tell you something interesting about these Manila cheroots. I was asked to
analyse one the other day, in the ordinary course of my business—"

"Analyse? But, my good sir, you—a cheesefactor—"

"Not for the world! I am a chemist and druggist, sir, from my youth up."

Mr. Hoakes fixed a puzzled jaded eye upon me.

"Dear me! That's odd now. But how comes it—your yellow hand—the odour of
cheese — I can smell it this moment, distinctly!"

"No wonder, sir," said I, "with half a pound of Gorgonzola on your own sideboard
there. And as for my hand, it was mixing iodoform ointment all morning, which may
well account for its colour."

The badgered look on the poor man's face deepened perceptibly.

"At any rate you are a widower," he urged.

"Quite the contrary. Nor am I wearing up my poor dead son's linen. The collar is all
my own buying and the hair in this locket is said to be Queen Charlotte's; I bought it at a
sale."

"But at least your daughter is married to a jeweler—"

"Never had either son or daughter. Bought the eyeglasses myself. Haven't been to
the seaside for years; these 'donkey's hairs' must have come out of the clothes-brush
this morning."

Mr. Hoakes sighed, and gazed dejectedly into the fire.

"I don't know how it is, but try as I will I never seem to get the knack of it. It's most
disheartening; yet I do my best. I strain every nerve. Induction, deduction, ratiocination
—I apply 'em all; but I'm almost always wrong. By every rule of evidence, you ought to
have been a cheesemonger, and your daughter married to a tipsy jeweller."

"Well," I said, "I'm sorry to disoblige you. Have you been at this business long?"

"About three years."

"I suppose you would call yourself a private detective?"

"'Criminal pathologist' would be more suitable, sir. I have always had a strong
leaning towards crime—I mean, of course, the detection of crime—and having been
unfortunate in business, I took up my present profession some three years ago."

"Indeed I am myself a student of humanity, but without any special leanings towards
crime, and your case interests me greatly. Have you had many successes?"

"Well—yes—perhaps one or two—partial successes. There was the notorious
backgammon case, which I am confident I should have unravelled if the police had only
left me alone. There was that remarkable case known as the 'Four and Twenty
Jailbirds,' and the other, the great Hoxton Blue Pearl Robbery."

"Ah, yes, I remember that well."

"So do I," said Mr. Hoakes, gloomily, "for I served a light sentence at Millbank in
connection with it. How was I to know that those plausible ruffians were only using me
as a cat's paw?"

He groaned bitterly.

"And yet it eventually redounded to my advantage, for while in jail I was able to
establish acquaintanceship with the elite of the criminal classes, much to my subsequent
benefit in my profession."

"And do you work in connection with the regular police?"

"Not now, sir. I went down to Scotland-yard to offer them my co-operation but they
declined; they even warned me off, and so far forgot themselves as actually to look me
out in their Photograph Albums, and make references the reverse of considerate to—in
short—to Millbank. Of course, I left the premises at once. My self-respect demanded it.
And now, though I shall always try to work in harmony with the Force, they must
understand that there can be no true intimacy between us for the future."

In this wise began my memorable friendship with Sherwood Hoakes. When I left
him he pressed his card upon me, which I reproduce here in the hopes that publicity may
be of service to him:—

SHERWOOD HOAKES.<br />
Specialist in Crime and Mystery.<br />
Felonies a Speciality.<br/>
404, Butcher Avenue.

In the course of many subsequent interviews I gleaned the details of his craft and the
methods he pursued in its practice. His early education had been obviously neglected,
but he had made a creditable attempt to repair the deficiency by means of some back
numbers of a Popular Educator, and the conscientious study of three volumes of an
Encyclopedia, ranging from "Lit" to "Sag," which he had picked up at an auction of
cottage pianos and household furniture. "Induction, deduction, ratiocination" were his
constant watchwords, and seemed to afford him as much occult satisfaction as "that
blessed word Mesopotamia" did to the devout old lady in the story.

Mr. Hoakes had, on the whole, a taking personality. Simplicity of mind and warmth
of heart were his most prominent traits. As I followed his calamitous career, at a
judiciously safe distance, I was only too frequently pained to observe the endless
troubles into which he was hurried by the unselfish zeal with which he espoused the
causes of dubious and deceitful clients. His trustful, unshaken confidence in the face of
failures innumerable, in the infallibility of his method of "lightning deductions," should
have aroused the pity of the most callous of his dissembling clients. This I will say to
my own credit that I was always the first to welcome him out of jail after he had served
one or other of those many light sentences to which his benevolent indiscretions, on
behalf of other people, subjected him.

On looking over my copious notes of his cases, I am tempted to extract the following
and most recent adventure for publication:—

I was supping with him one evening, to celebrate a recent release, and was in the
midst of an appeal to him to control for the future those "lightning deductions" which so
often ended in Millbank, when a client was announced. Mr. Hoakes put on his skull cap
(he had only been out four days) and we repaired to the consulting room.

Here a lady in a heavy crape veil awaited us; but, oddly enough, her other attire was
not mourning. As she raised the veil Mr. Hoakes took his usual plunge.

"You are recently from New York, I see."

"No, sir; I'm from Camberwell."

"But your glove-buttons are stamped with an American maker's name, and they
don't ship such articles over here."

"My sister gave me them when she was over last year from Canada."

Mr. Hoakes looked annoyed, and sat down.

"You wish to consult me, madam?"

"Yes, sir, I do. I've read about you in the police reports, and I thought perhaps you
might be able, though everyone else has failed, to help me in my terrible perplexity."
The lady turned a pathetic white face upon each of us, and sobbed in a very hopeless
way, very touching. She was about thirty, rather good-looking, with dreamy eyes, and an
accent that plainly came from Camberwell as well as herself.

"My name is Bagworthy, Marian Bagworthy. I was married three weeks ago, from
my parent's house in Camberwell, to a gentleman who travelled in tea and varnish, Mr.
Arthur Bagworthy."

"You say 'travelled' in the past tense, Mrs. Bagworthy. Is your husband dead,
then?"

"Alas, sir, I don't knows. All I know is, that he disappeared on the very day of our
marriage, and hasn't been seen or heard of since."

"Not altogether an uncommon occurrence," said Hoakes, drily. "Do you suspect foul
play, or have you any grounds (pardon the supposition) for presuming his disappearance
prearranged and intentional?"

"Oh, not the slightest! He bore an excellent character, and his accounts were found
in perfect order. The circumstances of his disappearance were so unaccountably
strange, Mr. Hoakes, that I don't know what to think, or where to turn for help! Why, he
vanished before my very eyes!"

The unhappy woman looked from one to the other in haggard despair.

"This seems strange," said Hoakes. "Let me have the story in detail."

"It was a quarter to eight on the evening of the twelfth of February when he
vanished. But let me begin at the beginning. We were married at two o'clock—it was a
very quiet wedding—and we went home to mother's after it, while I finished packing
and changed my dress. Then we drove quietly into town and put up at Lakey's Hotel,
intending to start early next morning for Folkestone."

"One moment. Be good enough to describe your husband's personal appearance."

"He was rather short and slim—a very elegant figure—dark, with black eyes, and a
— a slight squint in the left one; but not a very noticeable squint."

"Inwards or outwards?"

"Outwards, sir, and it gave him a sort of—sort of poetic, far-away look, very taking.
Well, as I was saying, we reached Lakey's at half-past six and had dinner, and then, as
it was a nice calm night, Arthur suggested a little walk. So we went upstairs to put my
things on, and then—then he—he vanished."

Mrs. Bagworthy wept into an already damp handkerchief.

"Control yourself, dear madam," said Hoakes, soothingly. "In what way did he
vanish? through the door?—the window? — the chimney?"

"No," wailed the unhappy girl, "he was sitting on my tin trunk and he disappeared."

"Into the trunk?"

"No, into nothingness."

"What were you doing at the moment?"

"I was looking at him and putting on my ulster."

Hoakes leaned back and took a heavy pinch of snuff.

"This is going to be a stickler, Chasemore"

"Had you much ready money with you at the time, madam?" I asked.

"We had a matter of twenty pounds for the honeymoon, but it was all in my box.

Arthur had only a few shillings on him when he disappeared."

"This occurred at a quarter to eight, you say," resumed Hoakes, in his most
impressive style. "You would be an hour over dinner?"

"About, sir. But we had to order the dumplings beforehand, and that delayed it."

"Dumplings?"

"Yes, sir. Apple dumplings. My husband was always partial to them, and so we
ordered three, and had one each."

"And left the third on the dish?"

"No."

"You divided it, then?"

"No. We had only one each."

"Then it must have been removed by the waiter."

"Oh no, it wasn't."

"Well, then, what became of it?"

"That's what I don't know," said Mrs. Bagworthy, tearfully.

"But why? If it wasn't on the dish, and you didn't eat it, and it didn't go out, what do
you suppose happened to it?" The poor woman put up her handkerchief and sobbed.

"It vanished too."

Hoakes stared and whistled.

"Vanished? Before your eyes?"

"I was looking at it, and it turned into nothing on the dish."

"And you never saw it again?"

"Yes, sir, I did. That's how I know Arthur's alive. It came back to me by post three
days afterwards, directed in his own writing."

Mrs. Bagworthy opened a small parcel done up in tissue paper, and displayed a
rather large and unclean envelope, which bore the post-office stamps, and contained the
withered yellow mummy of an apple dumpling.

We both started up to examine this interesting relic. Hoakes posed over it with his
inevitable magnifying glass, and we sniffed it and nibbled at it. "I don't like the looks of
this," said Hoakes, gravely. "I don't like it at all. You observed the envelope,
Chasemore. He was not only in safety when he addressed that to his poor deserted wife,
but he was actually enjoying comfort and leisure, and smoking a pipe at the time."

"O come now! How do you make—"

"Look at the handwritings! A man whose mind is distressed doesn't write such a
natty hand as that, all flourishes and whipthongs. He spread his elbows and took his
time over it, and if you look narrowly you can see half a dozen brown spots in the
middle of the '—worthy' where the ashes puffed out of his pipe and slightly burnt the
paper. Depend upon it, we have to deal with some cowardly scamp who, for private
ends of his own, has married the girl and then bolted."

On the following day we met Mrs. Bagworthy at Lakey's Hotel by appointment. This
establishment is a third-rate house at the bottom of Bloater-street. We were not exactly
welcomed by the proprietor.

"I'm gettin' sick of this here business," he shouted, angrily, into our faces.

"Police for breakfast, police for dinner; we've 'ad the 'ole blamed Force down at
one time and another."

Hoakes explained blandly that we didn't belong to the Force.

"I dessay you don't, neither! But you look as if you'd come out of their 'ands only
last week; you've got the proper Newgate cut, you 'ave! Here, Tom, show these tramps
upstairs to number 17, and keep an eye on the towels."

It was a small, square, plainly-furnished apartment. There was no wardrobe, no
cupboard, nor any valance to the iron bedstead. Tom Thumb could not have hidden
himself in the room. Mrs. Bagworthy rehearsed the details of the mysterious
disappearance, showing us where, at the foot of the bed, "Arthur" sat on the tin box,
smoking a cigar, whilst she, standing before the closed door, put on her cloak. "He was
wearing a chemical diamond pin in his tie—he was always fond of jewellery, was
Arthur — and it sparkled so prettily in the gaslight that I spoke about it to him, and the
next minute — he had vanished."

"And what did you do then?"

"It gave me a proper turn, Mr. Hoakes, but I didn't go off. I called 'Arthur,' and told
him not to be silly, but to come out again—though goodness knows there was nothing for
him to hide behind in the room."

"They do say," observed the crumpled waiter Tom, hoarsely, "as the gent had been
a amateur Moore and Burgess, and was a good 'and at playin' the 'anky-panky."

"How dare they say such things of my husband!" cried Mrs. Bagworthy, indignantly.

"I've never known him do anything but a little thought-reading, in fun; and as for playing
the 'hanky-panky' on our wedding-day—it's wicked of you to suggest such things!"
I have never seen a man so almost inspired as Hoakes was during his examination of
that room. The walls, the floors, the chimney, the bed, the washstand, were auscultated
with the loving care of a physician sounding a phthisical patient. We stood reverently
apart while the scrutiny lasted. As well as the magnifying-glass, he had a small
compass, which he deposited at different places and watched with rapt attention. He
seemed to be gathering clues as he proceeded, for his eagerness increased, and once or
twice he spoke half-aloud—"Yes, yes, as I thought, as I feared! Ah, when an
unscrupulous tea-traveller takes to crime, 'tis indeed a corker. He has no match!"
Finally he reached the window and searched the woodwork inch by inch with his glass.
At length an exclamation burst from him, and he turned with a burning glance on the
trembling woman.

"Did your husband wear a signet ring?"

"Yes."

"Shield-shaped—on his third finger?"

"Yes, yes."

Hoakes drew in a deep breath of triumph.

"One more question, madam, and I have done. Was your husband partial to a large umbrella?"

"He frequently carried a large one, as most travellers do."

"Did he bring it upstairs with him on the evening of his disappearance?"

Mrs. Bagworthy reflected a moment. "I believe he did, sir, but I wouldn't be quite positive."

"Thank you," said Hoakes, quietly, "but I am. And now, I think I can promise you,
madam, to produce your lost husband within three days."

We next chartered a cab for Camberwell, where Hoakes desired to be introduced to
the tin trunk and such personal effects of Mr. Bagworthy's as his wife was in possession
of. On the journey a very curious thing happened. Mrs. Bagworthy and I occupied the
back seat, and facing us sat Hoakes. His lens peeped over the edge of his vest-pocket
and sparkled vividly in a ray of the March sunlight. Both my companion's and my own
eyes were attracted by its brightness. Suddenly Mrs. Bagworthy remarked:—"

I wonder why Mr. Hoakes didn't come with us? I thought he said he wanted particularly to see my husband's clothing."

She turned a pair of dreamy eyes on me as I sat stupidly grinning at my astonishment.

"I think if you look closer, madam, you'll see Mr. Hoakes sitting there in front of us."

She looked, but obviously without seeing his very palpable presence.

"There's no one there," she said, smiling at what she appeared to think was my little
joke. Then it flashed upon me that she was hypnotised, no doubt by the sparkle of the
lens. Hoakes and I exchanged nods. In a few moments she came out of her partial trance
and chatted to us as if nothing had happened.

In Bagworthy's clothes Hoakes read a world of subtle meaning in his most approved
style. He construed characteristics of deceit in every fold and wrinkle. "This is no
ordinary scoundrel's waistcoat, Chasemore; see here what I've found." It was a small
brass dinner-check with the Queen's head neatly cut in it. "That's as good as a halfsovereign
on a dark night to a tipsy cabman. And look at this overcoat; look at the long
slit and the secret pocket it forms in the lining, right under the armpits. And those
slippers—they reek of trickery! You see that bend in the sole, showing his habit of
walking about, secretly, on tiptoe! The man's a monster of hypocrisy and crime!"
In discussing the case that night Hoakes was becomingly mysterious and reticent, as
all good novelists and detectives should be. We agreed that the theory of the
instantaneous disappearance was now satisfactorily explained on the assumption that
Mrs. Bagworthy had been for the moment hypnotised, probably by the sparkle of the
chemical diamond in her husband's tie, and that during her trance he had slipped away
unobserved. But how?—for the employees at the hotel were unanimously confident that
he had never come downstairs in the ordinary way.

Hoakes tapped me significantly on the knee.

"What was he doing with that umbrella upstairs?"

"But that explains nothing," I objected.

"It explains everything. He used it as a parachute! I saw the marks of his boots and
his signet-ring outlined in the soft ashwood of the window-sill. He climbed out that way
and floated down into the stable-yard, unnoticed in the dark."
Next evening I called at Butcher-avenue, and found a seedy-looking cab-driver
asleep in his hat by the fire. It was Hoakes.

"I've had a heavy day," he explained. "This is my third disguise since morning."

"Have you been successful?"

"Very. I've got my man well in hand, and I shall be up with him to-morrow. He
thinks he's going to Antwerp on the noon boat, but I don't!"

"You've seen him, then?"

"Not yet. But I've seen his other wife and the children. Oh, yes—very much married
man—nice little house and shop in the Commercial-road — sells German yeast — under
an alias, of course. Ran him to earth by means of his trouser-buttons. You remember I
cut one off yesterday and measured the trousers. Well, I found his tailor, to whom, of
course, he figures under his German yeast alias — 'Augustus Bundelman.' Same initials,
you observe. Had a chat with his little wife, and surprised the confession from her that
her husband's favourite dish is — apple dumplings! That's corroboration I should hope?
Oh, we've got him fairly!"

"And how will you proceed to-morrow? For heaven's sake, be careful, Hoakes, do
nothing rash!"

"It's plain sailing now. I shall go down to St. Katherine's Wharf disguised as a
dock-hand; Mrs. Bagworthy will be there to identify him, and we nail my little man as
he steps on board."

"Well, good luck, and let me hear from you to-morrow night."

I did hear from him. At seven a policeman brought a note to my shop, as urgent as a
four-line "whip."

"Come at once—identify me—bail me—save me!"

I found my friend extremely dishevelled and depressed. He looked so life-like a
dock-hand that I did not wonder at the police discrediting his assertions to the contrary.
Had we been Frenchmen we should have wept on each other's shoulders.

"My poor Hoakes, how did it all happen?"

"My cursed luck again," he moaned. "She didn't come in time—Mrs. Bagworthy —
the boat was about to start — he came on board—something had to be done — I charged
him—he denied it, denied everything — I dragged him ashore — there was an awful row
— the boat went off — we fought and then gave each other in charge — they've let him go
on his own recognizances, but they won't believe I'm not a dock-hand. It's too late to
bail me to-night, so go down and bring up Mrs. Bagworthy, and let us have an
explanation."

Away I posted to Camberwell. Imagine my surprise when I was precipitated, by a
flurried servant-girl, into the presence of the re-united bride and bridegroom, sitting
hand in hand by the fire.

"Oh, for shame of yourself, sirs," I cried, "dallying in the lap of pleasure while the
man who dragged you from the Antwerp boat and the paths of crime is groaning on a
bed of straw!"

My rhetoric was florid, but well-meant. Up started Mrs. Bagworthy.

"Sir, how dare you! And poor Arthur only just come out of hospital!"

"Well," I said, "it was his own fault. He shouldn't have struck Hoakes. He should
have come off the boat quietly."

Then it all came out. We were talking at sixes and sevens. Mr. Bagworthy rose and
explained, while I sat and humbly listened, for self and Hoakes. He was not Mr.
Bundelman, and never had been. On the evening of his disappearance, not noticing his
wife's temporary trance, he had quietly walked downstairs to await her in the street.
There he had been knocked down by a hansom and hurried off insensible to hospital, but
for three weeks he had suffered from "aphasia" or aberration of speech, and was quite
unable to put his thoughts and wishes into intelligible words or writing. He couldn't
even give his own name and address. As for the incident of the apple-dumpling, he
confessed, with some confusion, that he had removed it from the dish and popped it into
a large envelope he had in his pocket, being extremely fond of cold dumpling, with the
intention of eating it later on. He further supposed that the packet was jerked out of his
pocket by the collision, and picked up eventually by some honest soul, who, finding it
already addressed and stamped, consigned it to the post.

"This will be a sad blow for my poor friend," I said. "His chain of evidence was so
complete, beginning with the parachute-descent and the trouser-buttons, and ending
triumphantly at the German yeast shop. I will bid you goodnight and break the news to
him in his lonely cell."

The action of Bundelman v. Hoakes resulted disastrously for my friend. I expect him
out at the end of next week.

----
* [[Pastiches & Parodies]]

Adventures of Sherwood Hoakes: An Interrupted Honeymoon - Revision history

TCDE-Team at 21:47, 19 August 2015