No Relation (24 page)

It was obvious to anyone who might have been looking our way that Professor James Moriarty was excited. His arms were snapping as he walked. We turned a corner and down the hall could see a sign on the wall proclaiming “Adventures with Sherlock Holmes.” As soon as he saw it, he quickened his pace and left me in his dust. He was already poring over the showcases when I entered the room. Apparently, the Toronto Reference Library held one of the most extensive collections of Arthur Conan Doyle artifacts anywhere in the world. Only a small portion of the collection was on display, yet James was spellbound. There were some original manuscript pages in Conan Doyle’s own hand, along with letters he’d written. There were also first editions of the Holmes collections and several copies of
The Strand
magazine in which the Holmes stories initially appeared in the late 1800s. It would take several pages to enumerate all the Conan Doyle treasures offered in what seemed to me to be an all-you-can eat Sherlockian buffet. It
took an hour and a half before James was sated. I suspected that if I hadn’t been with him, he would have stayed all day.

“What a magnificent collection,” he bubbled. “I was hoping to get a chance to visit. Very kind of you to propose this in the middle of a trip that was to be all about you and Hemingway.”

“James, I slept in Hemingway’s room. Short of meeting him, I think we’ve achieved our goals for the Toronto stop.”

James swept his arm to take in the whole room.

“I imagine all of this does not have the same hold over you as it does over me.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s all quite fascinating. In fact, you’ve inspired me to read the Holmes stories.”

“Excellent. We’re always looking for new and younger recruits!” he replied. “You know, you can download all the stories and the four novels on your newfangled tablet device for free, as they are now all in the public domain.”

“Good to know,” I said. “James, if you think you’re nearly done exploring this Holmesian cornucopia, there’s one more stop we should make, and there’ll be food.”

“Splendid. I’m ready to venture forth,” he said. “What’s on our itinerary now?”

“Lunch at the Duke of Kent. It’s a handful of subway stops north of here.”

“Lead on.”

We thanked the librarian on the way out and were back on the subway a few minutes later. The Duke of Kent is on the southeast
corner, one block north of Yonge and Eglinton. As you might infer, it’s a pub, serving, yes, pub fare. I didn’t really know if it was well known for its food. The man I’d spoken to on the phone this morning had proposed it. He was waiting at a table for two wearing the paisley cardigan he’d warned me about.

“Mr. Hemmingway?” he said as he rose. I reached out my hand and we shook. “I’m Barclay Grant.”

“You’re Barclay Grant? The Bootmakers of Toronto?” James piped up.

“None other.”

“You wrote that brilliant piece about
The Five Orange Pips
in the
BSJ
, what, two years ago now?”

“Very impressive, Professor. You’re right,” Barclay replied. “And though I never thought I’d ever say this, you must be Professor James Moriarty?”

James’s jaw dropped as they shook hands. He kept looking from Barclay to me and then back to Barclay. It was nice to watch his dawning understanding.

I’d discovered a reference to The Bootmakers of Toronto when I’d been surfing the Internet that morning in search of the Sherlock Holmes exhibition at the library. Barclay Grant led what was, apparently, one of the leading societies devoted to literature’s great detective. I had no idea that James would also know of the organization, but I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.

After a demolishing a plate of what the Duke of Kent pub claims is its “famous bangers and mash,” I left James and Barclay deep in
debate while I walked back down the street to the Starbucks we’d passed earlier. When two deeply steeped Sherlock Holmes experts get together, it’s probably best just to leave them to it. So I did.

I ordered a double tall latte and sat down in the leather armchair that had just been vacated. It was still warm. I pulled out my iPad mini and confirmed that my flight to Paris that evening was still scheduled to leave on time at 8:15. I also checked my Gmail account and amid the spam was a response to my airport email to Sarah. It was short.

I called her but only got her voice mail.

I wanted to give James and Barclay some more time, so I called up Hemingway’s
A Moveable Feast
on my iPad mini and turned my thoughts to Paris.

On the way to the airport, the cab driver stopped for a moment on Bathurst Street, south of Eglinton Avenue, so I could see the
apartment house Hemingway and Hadley had lived in for most of their time in Toronto. Gold script on a green awning out front now announced the building as The Hemingway. I got out of the taxi and pressed my hands against the brick wall just adjacent to the entrance. Hemingway would have touched these same bricks in 1923, perhaps after a night of drinking, bracing himself as he pulled open the front door. I felt nothing. I slipped back into the cab and we were off again.

At the airport, Professor James Moriarty and I shook hands. Our respective gates were at different ends of the terminal.

“Hem, I must say I’m overwhelmed with the day. Taking it upon yourself to track down Barclay Grant and arranging lunch for us was an act of kindness and generosity I’ll not soon forget,” said James as he gripped my hand for much longer than your garden-variety shake.

“It was nothing. We did the Hemingway thing, and it was great, but we had extra time. Don’t give it a thought.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a paper stapled in one corner.

“I gave Barclay a copy of this new paper I’ve just written about “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” one of my favourite stories in the canon. I’ve just submitted it to
The Baker Street Journal
and am hanging on tenterhooks awaiting their response. I’d like you to read it, if you feel so inclined.”

“Thanks, James. I have a long flight ahead of me so I’m glad to have it,” I answered. “And I’m glad your lunch with Barclay was enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable? It was dazzling. He has a fine mind for Sherlock. I’m thrilled to have met him. And it is you I have to thank.”

Then James put both his hands on my shoulders as if he might be about to bestow upon me a heartfelt head butt. He smiled and fixed me with a rather intense gaze.

“Sincerely, I thank you for a wonderful visit to a lovely city,” he said.

I felt a rush of warmth for this thoughtful, kind man.

“James, I’m supposed to be thanking you,” I replied. “It meant a lot to me that you came up with this idea in the first place, and that you wanted to come along for the ride. It’s been a great couple of days, and I won’t forget it.”

“Now steel yourself for what lies ahead,” James said with considerable gravity. “Hemingway was never more formidable than he was in the Paris years. He hated Toronto. But he loved Paris. Confronting him on his home turf, in the City of Lights, may not be so easy. Godspeed.”

A final squeeze of my shoulder and he was off.

I realize I’m not the first to make this observation, but, um, there really is something about Paris. For many visitors, certainly for me, there’s a vibe in the city that transcends the history, the architecture, the people, the pure and unalloyed significance of this special place. I can’t describe it, but if you were in Paris with me, I think you’d know exactly what I mean. You would.

I took a cab from Charles de Gaulle airport directly to Hôtel de Buci, located, appropriately, on rue de Buci in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. What a lovely little hotel. I’ve stayed there before and have never had call to try anywhere else. The location is perfect. The staff is wonderful. The rooms are charming. And the price is at least reasonable and, I think, worth every euro. You see, I’ve been to Paris several times over the years. It took a few exploratory visits before I knew that Saint-Germain was my favourite part of the city and where I would always choose to stay. It’s also where Hemingway spent much of his
time, living, loving, writing, fighting, and drinking, in the Paris of the 1920s. I’m sure it was just a coincidence that we both preferred Saint-Germain. Yeah, that’s it, a coincidence.

The dull ache in my buttocks confirmed that I had just endured a very long flight, despite the prevailing west wind. The plane actually arrived on schedule, but the thinly padded seats made it a long haul. In Toronto’s Pearson International Airport, I’d downloaded
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
, which included “The Blue Carbuncle,” the story James had examined in his paper. He was right. The story itself was wonderful, and the writing was downright glorious. I suspect I fell so hard for the prose because it tends toward my own. I’m not suggesting for an instant that I’m anywhere near Conan Doyle’s league. It’s just that he writes the way I aspire to write. Unlike Hemingway, Conan Doyle doesn’t just plod along from point A to point B in minimalist prose, but crafts complex and ornate sentences that make you feel good about the trip. If Hemingway’s writing is a competent skater crossing a frozen river, Conan Doyle’s is an elite figure skater, elaborately costumed, tossing off triple Salchows and quad toe loops along the way. Yes, both writers get you across the river, but Conan Doyle makes the journey as entertaining, significant, and rewarding as the destination.

Don’t get me wrong. I certainly understand those critics who hail Hemingway as the master, believing his simple, straightforward writing gives the reader free and immediate access to the story. Those same critics often contend that Conan Doyle’s
florid prose distracts and detracts from the tale it’s telling. I understand what they mean. I get it. I just don’t agree. I doubt I ever will. And the warm tinges I felt reading “The Blue Carbuncle” lent physical affirmation to the judgment my mind made a long time ago.

Then I read James’s paper. Intentionally or not, it was written in a style similar to Conan Doyle’s, which seemed fitting. In part, James examined the extraordinary deductive conclusions Holmes draws early in the story about a mystery man, based solely on the careful scrutiny of a dusty, creased, and cracked hat. It’s a wonderful scene that leaves Watson reeling from the detailed descriptions and predictions Holmes provides about the man’s life and habits. It is as if Holmes had known the man for years rather than simply “knowing” the man’s hat for minutes. That section of the story alone is worth the price of admission.

I thought the paper was outstanding. It was thoughtful, substantive, enlightening, and very well written. There was even a dollop of humour thrown in to leaven the academic rigour. Even though I know very little about the Sherlockian world, I could not imagine a respected periodical like
The Baker Street Journal
rejecting this submission. But James was filled with doubt. He really did believe that sharing the infamous name of Sherlock’s nemesis compromised, perhaps even crippled, his chances at publication.

When I’d finished with “The Blue Carbuncle” and the Moriarty paper, I read a few more Holmes stories and was
entranced all over again by the writing. It was as if I were reading on two levels. I was enjoying the stories themselves with their intricate plots and fully formed characters, while marvelling at the wonderful words assembled to tell them. My brain was fatigued after all that, so I killed the rest of the flight watching the aptly named film
Dumb and Dumber
. It was dreadful, but it took my mind off the pain in my inadequately cushioned hindquarters. I slept not a wink and arrived in Paris early Saturday morning feeling a little dazed but thrilled to be back in the City of Lights.

I was a little early for my rendezvous with Marie Antoinette so I decided to walk from my hotel to Notre Dame. If you have the time and the right shoes, I would always recommend walking in Paris. It’s the best way to lose yourself in this spectacular city, figuratively, and often for me quite literally. I’ve learned never to wander the streets of Paris without the aid of my smartphone map app. When you’re walking, you’re in the streets with the crowds. You’re seeing the architecture up close. You’re hearing the city, and smelling it, too. You’re jostling with citizens and tourists alike, navigating market stalls, and passing more little cafés than you ever thought one city could ever support. Full immersion is the best way to get inside and underneath Paris. It’s really the only way to be a part of Paris.

As well, walking in Paris is recommended simply because it’s infinitely safer than driving in Paris. Then again, professional knife-catching is safer than driving in Paris.

I left my hotel and walked east along rue Saint-André des Arts, past the local Starbucks. I veered north when I hit rue Danton and headed toward the Seine. I took a right at the river and continued east along the bank until I crossed over the bridge to Île de la Cité with Notre Dame beckoning on my right. All of the tourists around me, and there were many, were slack-jawed at the beauty of the famous cathedral, one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture anywhere in the world. But I was staring slack-jawed at Marie Antoinette.