Dame
Jean Conan Doyle
1912‑1997
A Certain Gracious Lady
by Jean Upton
Within a single
lifetime, Jean Conan Doyle inhabited a number of incarnations. To her devoted
father she was "Billy," a feisty little tomboy who managed to hold her own with
two older brothers. To the RAF she was an invaluable leader during World War II,
later rising to Air Commandant and Director of the WRAF - the highest achievable
post. To our Queen she was Aide de Camp, a lady of great merit and a valued
companion. To many friends she was Lady Bromet, the adored and adoring wife of
Sir Geoffrey. To certain wouldbe authors and publishers she personified the
Dragon Lady, their only obstacle to untold riches. To many Sherlockians she was
Dame Jean, the last link to the bygone age of her father and his creations. I
was privileged to enjoy her close friendship, and knew her simply as Jean.
Her personal and
professional achievements have been well-documented in many newspapers and other
Sherlockian publications. Suffice to say that she was the only one of Sir
Arthur's children to equal his accomplishments. Even into her final years she
was amazingly energetic and outgoing, with a sense of humour that often
surprised the uninitiated. At the first British BSI dinner in
1993,
over which
Tom Stix presided at Simpson's, conversation turned to a popular television
programme, which tackled topical issues in the news with a hip and distinctly
bawdy style. "Oh! That's my favourite programme!" interjected Jean, to a
crescendo of dropping jaws.
Our relationship
began, naturally enough, through Sherlock Holmes. It was 1987, and Jean had come
under attack for refusing permission to publish pastiches using the characters
of Holmes and Watson. Having just finished reading a couple of weak,
disappointing efforts, I supported her decision and wrote to tell her so. Her
friendly reply clarified her reasoning. "I understand some, in fact, perhaps
many Sherlockians have such an appetite for Holmes that they just crave for more
stories regardless of the pen that writes them ‑ with the result that some new
readers may not realize that they are not reading a genuine Holmes story and may
judge the worth of the originals by the inferior pastiche." When one considers
how many people of our generation thought that Nicholas Meyer was the creator of
Sherlock Holmes, it was easy to understand her concerns!
Ongoing
correspondence ensued, but we didn't get to meet until 1988. It was the opening
night of The Secret of Sherlock Holmes at Wyndham's Theatre in London,
and after the play I had been invited backstage to arrange an interview date
with Edward Hardwicke. Upon leaving his dressing room I was swept up in a surge
of well‑wishers, took a wrong turn, and instead of going out of the stage door,
ended up in Jeremy Brett' s dressing room. With the only exit blocked, I was
trapped and felt horribly out of place. To my great relief I recognised a
familiar face. There stood Dame Jean, bless her, who expressed delight at our
unplanned meeting. Despite the immense volume of correspondence she dealt with
regularly, she remembered precisely who I was, why I was in London, and for
exactly how long. We had a lovely gossip, and I finally made my escape feeling
far less of a gooseberry than when I first crashed the party.
In 1991 Jean
accompanied the Sherlock Holmes Society of London on its pilgrimage to
Switzerland. She attended many of our activities, and officially opened the
Sherlock Holmes Museum in Conan Doyle Square, Meiringen. On our last evening at
the Englischerhof, the dinner and accompanying festivities went on until well
past three o'clock in the morning. Jean did not abandon us for the comforts of
her bed, and bore witness to a fairly ropy rendition of "Aunt Clara," a
demonstration of Gargle Music, and a heavily revised version of Monty Python's
dead parrot sketch entitled "The Dead Detective." She was disconcertingly bright
and lively the next morning, in sharp contrast to the rest of the revellers.
Later that year,
the announcement of my engagement to Roger Johnson gave her great pleasure. My
admonishment that her father had a great deal to answer for was met by an
appreciative chuckle. Mary Ellen Rich, an incurable romantic, flew over for the
occasion of our wedding, which she described in the Spring 1992 Serpentine Muse:
"And, if there are fairy godmothers in need of a spokeswoman, they must look no
further than 'A Certain Gracious Lady' who could have personified Britannia in
her scarlet chapeau, royal blue suit, and striking silver coif. I was thrilled
to meet Dame Jean Conan Doyle, and was terribly moved when she confided to me,
'My father would have loved this!'" I sent a copy of the article to Jean,
knowing she would enjoy it. Her response was typical of her sometimes
self‑deprecating sense of humour: "How very kind of Ms. Rich to refer to my hair
as silver instead of white or grey. It sounds so much more glamorous!"
Defiant of
difficulties with her sight and the onset of Parkinson's disease, she continued
to actively support many of the London Society's endeavours. During the Back to
Baker Street festival in 1994 she participated in the unveiling of the plaque on
her father's former residence. Later that same day, she enthusiastically
unveiled her father's new portrait at the Sherlock Holmes Pub, with the able
assistance of Michael Cox. Just recently, one of the waitresses at the Pub
related a delightful story that bears repeating. Apparently Jean took great
pleasure in bringing friends to the Pub for lunch in order to show them the
portrait. The restaurant is small, intimate and friendly, and it is not unusual
for conversations to start up between tables of strangers. On one occasion a
gentleman sitting near Jean leaned over and enquired, "Can you tell me who that
is in that picture?" With a mischievous grin she replied, "Yes, that's my
father!" Her enquirer looked from her to the portrait and back again, and
pronounced "By God, it is!" Introductions were made, and a splendid time was had
by all.
By sharp contrast,
the Sherlock Holmes Museum on Baker Street caused Jean no end of irritation,
particularly when it began to tell visitors (quite falsely) that it was the
former lodgings of Arthur Conan Doyle. In the company of two friends, she
visited the Museum anonymously one day in order to gain first‑hand experience.
Her friends felt the admission fee and cost of souvenirs were expensive, and
Jean herself remarked, "'Personally I deplore the Museum because of its false
claims, especially those regarding my father, and I cannot envisage Holmes and
Watson in such extremely cramped quarters."
But Jean's life
was not entirely entwined with the world of Sherlock Holmes. She took great
personal interest in our lives and activities, and provided moral support during
the course of my move to England and search for employment. When I mentioned
that my mother was anxious about the prospect of a cataract operation, Jean sent
her a buoyant note, describing what a marvelous difference her own operation had
made.
Apart from sharing
a name, we also were in the same position of being the last in the line of old,
established families, and discussed what an odd feeling it was. We formed an
almost familial relationship between ourselves, and now that she is gone I feel
strangely orphaned. A certain gracious lady, indeed.
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