Marion The Librarian

Marion The Librarian—George Davis

  People in Bickford, Maine are mesmerized by the town’s librarian, Marion Marvel a spinster lady of indeterminate age. Her medium-brown tresses, wrinkle-free facial features, and that certain glow in her beautiful azure blue eyes. Marion has held the position of head librarian for as long as I can remember, and I am eighty-four years of age. 

In the summer when the tourists arrive, they treat our library as a must-see venue in our fair town. 

  No one to my knowledge has ever questioned the enigma that Marion’s presence has been well over ninety years at the same job. I know you think this is an impossible situation in our town, that the librarian must be over ninety years old, but still resembles a woman in her mid-thirties. I've pondered that same question for over fifty years. I once asked Marion how this could be, nearly one-hundred and appearing so young. She told me, she didn’t know but accepted it as the will of one greater than she. 

  “Good morning, Marion,” I said, as I stood at the checkout desk in the library. “I’m looking for anything Sherlock Holmes.” 

  “Well, Chester Doyle, I am surprised at you. I didn’t think you were a mystery fan. I see you as a non-fiction buff.” 

  “I’m both, Marion. I love biographies and good mysteries, like The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.” 

  “Well, it just so happens, we have an entire section of the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Let me show you.” She raised her hand, pointed at me and suddenly I was in London on Baker Street. I stood in the middle of the street as carriages passed on either side. The odor of horses and soot-filled my nostrils with acrid fumes. 

  As I stood there I noticed I was in front of 221B Baker Street. A small woman with a dust cap and long white apron opened the door and shook a dusty rag into the air. She stared at me for, maybe two minutes and then said, “Come over here young man.” Young man. I am older than she. But, wait, I looked at myself in the reflection of the window in which the lady stood, hands on her hips. “You will be run over standing in the middle of the street.” I stepped up to the curb, staring at this woman. “Who are you?” She asked. 

  “I’m Chester Doyle from…America.” 

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Come inside and get warm. You must be cold. You are dressed very strangely, in cloth I have never seen before. It doesn't look very warm.” She ushered me inside and up a pair of stairs to a room where she knocked and opened the door. “Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I have a visitor. I think you might be interested in talking with him.” There were two men sitting in robes around a blazing fireplace each smoking a clay pipe. The tall man with the aquiline nose and chiseled chin approached me. “Who are you, young man?” 

  “My name is Chester Doyle, Mr. Holmes. I am from America, and I have no idea how I got here.” 

  “Did you come by boat, Mr. Doyle?” He asked as smoke circled his head like a victor’s wreath. 

  “I don’t know. I was in the library in my hometown. I asked the librarian for any books by your author; She pointed her finger at me, and here I am, Mr. Holmes.” 

  “You ask me to believe, by some magic spell, I arrived here Baker Street, London?” 

  “Yes, it is true. I think. I’m not sure how I got here.” 

  “And you want me to help you find your way back home?” 

  “It would be welcomed, your help, I mean,” I said with a cough. The smoke in that room hung over it like a coffin shroud. It was hard to get my breath. I guess Holmes realized the stench from their pipes was overpowering. “Here, Mr. Doyle. Let me put up my pipe.” He laid it on the mantle where I saw a knife was driven into the wood beneath a large sheet of paper. 

  “Let’s start with the last thing you remember before landing here, Mr. Doyle. Where were you, and what are the circumstances surrounding your…enigma?" 

  “I went to the library. It is in the small town of Bickford located in the northeast of the state of Maine.” 

  “Yes, get to the point, Mr. Doyle. I deal in facts.” 

  “Well, Miss Marvel, our town’s librarian after I asked for books by your author, Conan Doyle, no relation, I was sure. She told me she had just received some stories from your author. Then, without warning, she pointed her finger at me…well, here I am. I have no idea how I arrived at your door, Mr. Holmes.” 

  True to what I read about Holmes. He, with the wave of his hand, sat, his back to me. “I’ll need time to research your dilemma, Mr. Doyle. Please come back tomorrow. I’ll receive you no later than noon. Goodbye, Mr. Doyle.” 

  “I have no place to go, Mr. Holmes. I am a stranger. My money would be of no use. It is dated to the twentieth century. I have no means to rent a hotel room or a flat as you call a set of rooms.” 

  “Okay, go downstairs and tell Mrs. Hudson to put you up for the night. Now go. I must have time to concentrate. Please go.” I left the room and went downstairs to talk with Mrs. Hudson.  She led me into a small room at the rear of her house. It was neat but very old-fashioned in design, Victorian. Aha, Queen Victoria is on the throne, here in the flesh. How interesting. The old rose-colored wallpaper with a floral design was clean and bright. Time hadn’t paled the designs. A large woven red, yellow, and black carpet covered half the floor the remainder was pine. A large water pitcher with a matching bowl sat on a mahogany doily-covered dresser on which a kerosene lantern sat, its chimney sooty but dusted. 

  “Have a good night, son,” Mrs. Hudson sighed. 

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I replied. 

  The next morning I rose at dawn to the smell of bacon and coffee. I washed, dressed, and made the bed. Mrs. Hudson set a table for me. “Come now, son. Eat before everything gets cold. I have to admit. Mrs . Hudson was an excellent cook. After I ate a good breakfast, she ushered me upstairs and into Holmes’s living room where Dr. Watson sat reading the newspaper. 

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Doyle. My name is Doctor John Watson. Holmes shared your dilemma with me. Trust Holmes if anyone can get you back home, it is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.” 

  I could hear rustling and moving about behind a large door in the living room. Before I had time to discover what, or should I say who was making such a noise the door opened and Sherlock Holmes entered the room. Good morning, Mr. Doyle. I trust you slept well. Mrs. Hudson makes a fine bed doesn’t she?” 

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, she is the consummate housekeeper,” I declared. “It was a very restful evening.” 

  “I have had all night to cogitate on your predicament Mr. Doyle for I did not sleep at all.” 

  “You must be very tired, Mr. Holmes,” I said. 

  “Not at all. Tell him Watson. How many nights do I go without sleep.” 

  “Yes, Mr. Doyle. Holmes is an insomniac. I didn’t ask Holmes what he had arrived at. I knew he could not be pushed, shoved, or bribed to speak. I must wait for an answer, so I sat down, and put my feet on a fabric ottoman. Doctor Watson was the first to speak. “Holmes, did you come up with the solution to Mr. Doyle’s problem?” 

  “I think I have the answer, Watson.” I was seated next to the good doctor, but Holmes ignored me. It was as if I was invisible. 

  “What is it, Holmes?” Dr. Watson asked. 

  “I need to try some things before I can be sure. I won’t say anything until I am perfectly sure I have an inviolate answer to Mr. Doyle’s enigma.” 

  Two hours passed, and I was still in that chair by the fireplace next to Dr. Watson, who at many times had tried to pry an answer from Holmes to no avail. Sherlock was standing at the fireplace smoking his pipe and pacing back and forth. Suddenly, Holmes blurted, “Watson I’ve got it.” 

  “What have you got, Holmes?” 

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, she is the consummate housekeeper,” I declared. “It was a very restful evening.” 

  “I have had all night to cogitate on your predicament Mr. Doyle for I did not sleep at all.” 

  “You must be very tired, Mr. Holmes,” I said. 

  “Not at all. Tell him Watson. How many nights do I go without sleep.” 

  “Yes, Mr. Doyle. Holmes is an insomniac. I didn’t ask Holmes what he had arrived at. I knew he could not be pushed, shoved, or bribed to speak. I must wait for an answer, so I sat down, and put my feet on a fabric ottoman. Doctor Watson was the first to speak. “Holmes, did you come up with the solution to Mr. Doyle’s problem?” 

  “I think I have the answer, Watson.” I was seated next to the good doctor, but Holmes ignored me. It was as if I was invisible. 

  “What is it, Holmes?” Dr. Watson asked. 

  “I need to try some things before I can be sure. I won’t say anything until I am perfectly sure I have an inviolate answer to Mr. Doyle’s enigma.” 

  Two hours passed, and I was still in that chair by the fireplace next to Dr. Watson, who at many times had tried to pry an answer from Holmes to no avail. Sherlock was standing at the fireplace smoking his pipe and pacing back and forth. Suddenly, Holmes blurted, “Watson I’ve got it.” 

  “What have you got, Holmes?” 

  “What did you do to me, Miss Marvel? I spent the last…” I looked up at the old grandfather’s clock on the stairs. It was ten-fifteen. I wasn't gone more than five minutes. But that is impossible. I spent two days and one night at 221B Baker Street. 

  “You seemed to enjoy those novels about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, and I thought you might get to see and question them.” 

  “Rest assured, Miss Marvel, I did indeed enjoy those books. However, I’m curious as to how you transported me back in time to the late 19th century.” 

  “It is a gift my mother passed down to me many years ago. I so love reading great books and have often been to the lands they write about. I’ve been to London and visited Hercule Poirot, Agatha Christie's famous detective. I have also talked with none other than Erle Stanley Gardner’s attorney, Perry Mason.” 

  “Believe me, Miss Marvel. I am not making fun of your abilities. I am only trying to discover how you are able to transport yourself and others to distant lands and eras. It truly boggles my mind. One knows that these people are not real, they’re fictitious in nature.” 

  “Are they really, Chester? Didn’t you meet Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?” 

  “Yes, but." 

  “No buts, Chester. You did meet them didn’t you?” 

  “I did.” 

  “Then suffice it to say, you got to meet one of the most famous and delightful detectives in all the world. Now when you read Conan Doyle’s works you can say, I’ve met those men in person.” 

  I returned home, met by my brown and white Beagle-Dachshund mutt, who was pushing his food dish all over the kitchen floor. I swear that dog has a hole in his stomach, and all the food falls out. I spooned the remainder of his Alpo into his tray. 

  Sitting in my dark-green recliner, I ran the day’s film through my mind’s theater. Today, before five o’clock, I visited 9th century England, talked with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, and slept in a bed furnished by Mrs. Hudson. I then returned to the library and talked with Miss Marvel the librarian. 

  Bizarre would do my adventure an injustice. I have traveled half way across the world and seen ole London Town. And, I shall not be able to tell anyone about my escapades. No one would believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either. This story is too peculiar to communicate. 

  I’ll end this text with this quote. “But please remember: this is only a work of fiction. The truth, as always, will be far stranger.” 

― Arthur C. Clarke