A Conversation with Herbert Greenhough Smith
As Imagined by Tom Campbell (with the help of AI tools for research)
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Arthur Conan Doyle died on July 7, 1930, at the age of 71, from a heart attack at his home called Windlesham Manor in Crowborough, Sussex, England.
This is an imagined conversation between Arthur Conan Doyle and Herbert Greenhough Smith, Editor of the Strand Magazine on the day before Arthur died. |
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sickroom where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle rested against a stack of pillows. Though his imposing frame had grown thinner in recent months, his eyes remained bright and alert as Herbert Greenhough Smith was shown in by the nurse. The editor of the Strand Magazine approached the bedside with a practiced smile that belied the heaviness in his heart.
"My dear Smith! Come in, come in," Doyle gestured with a weakened hand. "How good of you to journey all this way."
Smith took the offered hand gently. "My dear Arthur, wild horses couldn't have kept me away. I've brought you the latest issue." He placed the magazine on the bedside table. "The readers continue to write about your 'Maracot Deep.' Quite the imagination you have, even now."
"Ah, the deep sea adventure," Doyle's eyes brightened. "You know, Smith, there's more truth in fiction than most would believe. The unexplored realms beneath our feet, above our heads... magnificent mysteries waiting."
Smith settled into the chair beside the bed. "I've always admired how you see wonder where others see only darkness."
A silence fell between them, comfortable yet laden with unspoken knowledge.
"The doctors have been talking to you, haven't they?" Doyle asked suddenly, his gaze direct.
Smith hesitated, then nodded. "I've never been able to hide anything from you, Arthur. You have your own deductive methods."
"Elementary," Doyle smiled faintly. "Don't look so glum, old friend. This is merely a transition. You of all people know my views on the matter."
"Yes, your spiritualist writings have been... most passionate."
"Not merely writings, Smith. Truth. The most important work of my life, though the public may never see it that way." Doyle's breathing grew slightly labored. "They'll remember Holmes, won't they? The detective will outlive his creator."
"He will live as long as people value reason and justice," Smith agreed. "Though I hope you know that your historical novels, your Professor Challenger... all of it matters."
"What a strange journey it's been," Doyle mused. "From a struggling doctor scribbling stories to supplement my income, to... whatever I've become."
"One of the most beloved authors in the Empire," Smith supplied.
Doyle waved away the compliment. "You know, I had a vision last night. Jean was there." His voice softened at the mention of his first wife. "And Kingsley." The son he had lost in the Great War. "They were... waiting."
Smith swallowed hard. "Arthur..."
"No, no. Don't be distressed." Doyle reached for his friend's hand again. "I've spent decades studying what lies beyond. If anyone should face this passage with curiosity rather than fear, it should be me."
The sunlight was fading now, casting the room in gentle shadows.
"I should let you rest," Smith said.
"Before you go," Doyle's voice had a sudden urgency. "I want to thank you."
"Whatever for?"
"For taking a chance on an unknown doctor's stories. For giving Holmes a home in your magazine. For our friendship these many years."
Smith felt his composure slipping. "It is I who should thank you. The Strand would never have been what it became without you."
"We made something remarkable together, didn't we?" Doyle smiled. "Promise me one thing?"
"Anything."
"Don't let them mythologize me too much. I was just a man who tried to follow truth wherever it led."
"I promise," Smith said, though he knew it was a promise he could not keep. The world had already begun turning Arthur Conan Doyle into legend.
As Smith reached the door, Doyle called out once more.
"My dear Smith? The game is still afoot, you know. It always will be."
Smith nodded, unable to speak. He closed the door gently behind him, knowing it would be the last time he would hear his friend's voice.
"My dear Smith! Come in, come in," Doyle gestured with a weakened hand. "How good of you to journey all this way."
Smith took the offered hand gently. "My dear Arthur, wild horses couldn't have kept me away. I've brought you the latest issue." He placed the magazine on the bedside table. "The readers continue to write about your 'Maracot Deep.' Quite the imagination you have, even now."
"Ah, the deep sea adventure," Doyle's eyes brightened. "You know, Smith, there's more truth in fiction than most would believe. The unexplored realms beneath our feet, above our heads... magnificent mysteries waiting."
Smith settled into the chair beside the bed. "I've always admired how you see wonder where others see only darkness."
A silence fell between them, comfortable yet laden with unspoken knowledge.
"The doctors have been talking to you, haven't they?" Doyle asked suddenly, his gaze direct.
Smith hesitated, then nodded. "I've never been able to hide anything from you, Arthur. You have your own deductive methods."
"Elementary," Doyle smiled faintly. "Don't look so glum, old friend. This is merely a transition. You of all people know my views on the matter."
"Yes, your spiritualist writings have been... most passionate."
"Not merely writings, Smith. Truth. The most important work of my life, though the public may never see it that way." Doyle's breathing grew slightly labored. "They'll remember Holmes, won't they? The detective will outlive his creator."
"He will live as long as people value reason and justice," Smith agreed. "Though I hope you know that your historical novels, your Professor Challenger... all of it matters."
"What a strange journey it's been," Doyle mused. "From a struggling doctor scribbling stories to supplement my income, to... whatever I've become."
"One of the most beloved authors in the Empire," Smith supplied.
Doyle waved away the compliment. "You know, I had a vision last night. Jean was there." His voice softened at the mention of his first wife. "And Kingsley." The son he had lost in the Great War. "They were... waiting."
Smith swallowed hard. "Arthur..."
"No, no. Don't be distressed." Doyle reached for his friend's hand again. "I've spent decades studying what lies beyond. If anyone should face this passage with curiosity rather than fear, it should be me."
The sunlight was fading now, casting the room in gentle shadows.
"I should let you rest," Smith said.
"Before you go," Doyle's voice had a sudden urgency. "I want to thank you."
"Whatever for?"
"For taking a chance on an unknown doctor's stories. For giving Holmes a home in your magazine. For our friendship these many years."
Smith felt his composure slipping. "It is I who should thank you. The Strand would never have been what it became without you."
"We made something remarkable together, didn't we?" Doyle smiled. "Promise me one thing?"
"Anything."
"Don't let them mythologize me too much. I was just a man who tried to follow truth wherever it led."
"I promise," Smith said, though he knew it was a promise he could not keep. The world had already begun turning Arthur Conan Doyle into legend.
As Smith reached the door, Doyle called out once more.
"My dear Smith? The game is still afoot, you know. It always will be."
Smith nodded, unable to speak. He closed the door gently behind him, knowing it would be the last time he would hear his friend's voice.