by Steve Hayes
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘No, no, you are. I can tell.’
‘And why, pray, would I be jealous of him?’
‘I suggest that it has to do with whatever relationship he appears to be cultivating with the countess.’ Watson shook his head, both amazed and amused. ‘Sherlock Holmes, the man who once told me that even the best of women weren’t to be trusted!’
Holmes eyed him sharply. ‘Might I suggest that you take out your handkerchief and wipe that look of disapproval from your face?’
‘Very funny,’ Watson said grimly. ‘I don’t need your keen analytical mind to work out what’s going on here. But have a care, Holmes. That woman has a reputation – a most unenviable one. As your friend I feel I should advise you to have nothing to do with her.’
‘Listen to yourself, Watson. If anyone is exhibiting signs of jealousy here, it’s you.’
‘That’s a damnable thing to say.’
‘Damnable, perhaps. Accurate – certainly.’
Watson drew himself up and his moustache seemed to bristle. ‘I didn’t realize it was a crime to care what becomes of one’s best friend,’ he grumbled. ‘Good heavens, Holmes, you know as well as I do that she pushed her husband down the stairs.’
‘Until you have solid evidence to corroborate that statement, it remains little more than idle gossip, Watson, pure speculation – and that is something I never respond to.’
‘Then respond to this. What about her promiscuity? Good God, Holmes, the infernal woman has been … well, intimate … with more men than England has colonies.’
‘My friend, you know that my interest in the countess is purely professional.’
‘I always thought so,’ Watson said. ‘Now, I’m not so sure.’ He set his cup and saucer down, seemingly hurt by Holmes’s rebuttal. ‘Perhaps I should just leave you to it. If you like I’ll return to the offices of The Era and continue searching their archives for your crippled acrobat.’
‘I should be most upset if you do,’ replied Holmes.
‘Why?’
‘Because things promise to get altogether more interesting here before much longer.’
Presently late afternoon darkness began to settle over the serene Richmond countryside. The pleasant chirruping of birds was replaced by the insidious whine of flying insects. Lights began to glow in the windows of the surrounding houses and taverns. Streetlights were lit, illuminating passing hansoms. Nightlife began.
But as far as Watson was concerned, things at Montague Hall remained exactly as they were – tedious. At long last, however, Elaina’s guests started making their farewells and taking their leave.
‘We must be leaving too, Countess,’ said Watson with no small relief. ‘But it has been a most pleasant afternoon.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it, Doctor,’ Elaina said. ‘But if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a lousy liar.’
As Watson cleared his throat in embarrassment, Holmes said: ‘You are as direct as you are beautiful, Countess. Unfortunately for Watson, he is as uncomfortable with the one attribute as he is at home with the other. Would you care to share a cab with us, Mr Howard?’
Howard glanced at Elaina before answering: ‘No, thanks.’
‘Mr Howard is staying on as my guest,’ she explained.
Holmes eyed her for a long, hard moment before saying: ‘I see.’
‘Actually, you don’t,’ she said. ‘Neither you nor Dr Watson.’ She guided them toward the door, adding: ‘But I can tell you this. Offering a fellow countryman a place to stay is a small price to pay for his saving my life last night.’
Holmes’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘Of course,’ he said flatly. Then with a polite nod: ‘Good evening, Countess.’
Outside, as soon as the door closed, Watson wasted no time heading for their waiting hansom. ‘At last!’ he said with feeling. Then, when his friend didn’t respond: ‘I was beginning to get worried. You’re normally the last man to wear out your welcome, Holmes, but couldn’t you see they were aching for us to leave?’
‘Of course I could. Why else do you think I refused to make a move?’
Watson rolled his eyes. ‘Holmes, you’ve always been insufferable, but I have the dreadful feeling you have just become more so!’ He buttoned his jacket. ‘Now, shall we get a move on? Pastries are all very well, but Mrs Hudson is serving roast mutton tonight!’
Holmes shrugged and slowed his pace. ‘By all means go along, old friend.’
‘What about you?’
‘I promised you that things were about to become interesting. Don’t you want to find out just how interesting?’
Without waiting for a response, Holmes turned and started walking back toward the house.
CHAPTER 7
En Garde!
The Earl of Montague’s armoury was housed at the rear of the mansion. It was a large, musty, high-ceilinged room with lead-paned windows, suits of armour, Montague pennants and weapons of all shapes and sizes mounted on the cold, grey stone walls. Four centuries of weaponry were collected here – and all of it had tasted blood on some near or distant battlefield.
Howard, who’d shown interest in the place as soon as Elaina had mentioned it, now studied a pair of overcoat pistols from the time of George III before moving on to a selection of long-barrelled sporting guns and even an old Brown Bess musket from his own country. And the blades – there were swords from Britain and France, sabres from Russia and Austria-Hungary, dirks, cutlasses, spadroons….
Howard whistled. ‘I reckon a feller could fight off a whole army with all this,’ he said, his voice echoing faintly off the cool, rough stone.
A few feet away Elaina watched him with a motherly smile, for he was like a child in a toyshop. ‘According to Rupert, that’s exactly what the Montagues did, on many occasions,’ she replied. ‘Apparently there were Montagues at the battles of Hastings and Stamford Bridge, at Saratoga, Trafalgar, New Orleans … oh, just about everywhere, to hear the way Rupert told it – and of course, they always acquitted themselves with tremendous courage.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, and laughed.
Howard helped himself to a narrow-bladed fencing sabre, which had been hanging from hooks on the facing wall. He gave it a couple of practice swipes. They confirmed his initial impression – that it was the product of a remarkable craftsman.
‘What kind of man was your husband, Ellie? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you make him sound like a blowhard.’
‘He wasn’t,’ she replied after a moment’s thought. ‘Not really. Decent just about sums him up. Though he could certainly be a windbag at times, like most of this country’s ruling class. They all think God’s an Englishman, you know.’
‘Do they also all give left-handed compliments?’
She smiled. ‘No, that’s just Holmes being … well, Holmes. Don’t take it personally, Thomas.’
‘It’s a little too late for that.’
He looked at her suddenly, saw a hunger in her eyes that was the match of his own, and impulsively went to her. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, pulled her close and kissed her, full and hard on the mouth. She kissed him back with equal fervour until….
There was a discreet rapping at the door.
For reasons neither of them could have explained, they sprang apart like guilty lovers. Blaming it on the heated passion she felt, Elaina called out in a steady voice: ‘Come.’
The door opened to reveal Fordham. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady, but Mr Holmes has just returned and asks to see you.’
Howard swore under his breath, but before she could react, Holmes – who had ignored the request to wait in the library and instead had followed the butler through the house to the armoury – entered the room with Watson tagging along behind. Fordham discreetly withdrew, closing the door after him.
The moment was especially awkward for Watson. He could see that they had interrupted what appeared to be an intimate moment, and he looked
as if he would rather be anywhere but here.
Not so Holmes. He looked from Elaina to Howard, a thin smile tilting his mouth. ‘Forgive the intrusion,’ he said, clearly not meaning a word of it. ‘But just as we were leaving Watson reminded me that we had not enquired after your, uh, brother, Mr Howard.’
‘My brother?’ Howard said blankly.
‘You remember,’ said Holmes sarcastically. ‘The missing one. It occurred to me that if you would sooner conduct your search for him by yourself, the very least I could do is suggest a few avenues that may make the job somewhat less arduous for you.’
Howard relaxed. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll find him in my own good time.’
‘As you wish,’ Holmes said. For the first time he appeared to notice the fencing sabre in Howard’s grip. ‘Do you favour the steel, Mr Howard?’
‘You mean, can I use one? Sure. After the War, I—’ He caught himself then, and said: ‘How about you?’
‘Like all men of education, I deplore violence.’
Howard’s jaw muscles flexed. ‘That a yes or a no?’
‘If you are suggesting a duel, Mr Howard – I would rather not.’
Howard had been suggesting no such thing, of course, but now that the idea had been proposed he quickly rose to the bait. ‘Why not? Afraid you’ll lose?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes. ‘But as a guest of the countess …’
‘Don’t let that stop you.’
‘Very well,’ Holmes said. He crossed to the wall, took down a matching sabre and slashed the air with it a few times. He then turned back to Howard, who was already removing his coat and shoulder holsters.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ Elaina said hastily.
‘Neither do I,’ said Watson. ‘As much as anything else it’s wildly irresponsible. No matter how careful you try to be, one or both of you is bound to sustain an injury.’
Holmes arched an eyebrow at Howard. ‘What do you say? Shall we call it off?’
‘Not a chance.’ Howard cut the air with his sabre. ‘I’m real curious to see how this pans out.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Holmes. He quickly removed his jacket and passed it to Watson before bringing his blade up to salute his opponent.
‘En garde!’
He and Howard circled each other, sabres extended, steel gleaming like liquid mercury in the gaslights. Watson wet his lips and felt his fingers digging anxiously into the material of Holmes’s jacket.
Then Howard lunged forward, thinking to end the matter quickly and decisively. Holmes back-stepped, parried deftly and with a ring of steel Howard’s blade slipped from his own. Howard himself stumbled forward, off balance, but caught himself quickly and leapt back to avoid a thrust from Holmes. He used his own blade to knock Holmes’s aside, then moved in fast with a series of thrusts and swipes. But he lacked the finesse that Holmes displayed so ably, and as his temper warmed he lost even that small degree of ability and became instead a charging bull.
Holmes parried and countered, matching his opponent move for move, almost as if he knew in advance what Howard intended to do next.
They danced back and forth across the armoury, never losing eye contact. Then Howard lunged forward again and Holmes executed a deceptively simple twisting movement with his blade. It slid along the length of Howard’s sabre and with another flick the American’s sword flew from his grasp to land with a clatter on the flagstone floor.
Elaina gasped. ‘There, it’s done,’ she said. ‘And I declare Holmes the w—’
Neither man paid her any attention. Holmes stood back and indicated that the Missourian should pick the blade up again. Howard did so, this time with murder in his eyes.
Again they faced each other. All of Holmes’s needling had finally brought about the desired effect; Howard’s temper, quick even at the best of times, had at last boiled over, while Holmes appeared to be as cool and collected as ever.
Howard leapt in. Steel clashed against steel. Howard lunged but Holmes sidestepped, eluding the other’s sword. Again and again Howard hacked at Holmes, and in the end Holmes was forced to retreat under such a determined advance.
Elaina quickly stepped forward before Watson could restrain her and yelled: ‘That’s enough, do you hear me?’
But her voice was drowned by the clashing ring of blade on blade. Holmes felt a wall at his back and knew he could retreat no further. Howard saw it as well, and heedless of the consequences brought his blade down in a sweeping overhead blow. Holmes dropped to a crouch before his opponent and the tip of Howard’s blade ripped down the stone wall, splashing sparks from its tip.
Then, abruptly, Howard froze.
The tip of Holmes’s sword was just touching the soft flesh beneath his chin. One thrust and it would be all over for the man from Missouri.
‘Do you concede?’ asked Holmes.
‘Never.’
‘Then must we continue the match until one or the other of us is injured or worse?’
Elaina rushed in close, Watson following. ‘My God, what’re you two fools trying to prove?’
Without taking his eyes off Holmes; Howard said through gritted teeth: ‘Respect has a price.’
‘So does lying,’ said Holmes.
Howard’s anger flared and he backed away from Holmes’s blade. ‘Damn you, mister, you’ve gone too far now! No one calls me a liar!’
‘Then what else does one call a man who was christened with one name and yet goes by another?’
‘Holmes…?’ questioned Watson.
As he straightened up, Sherlock Holmes said: ‘This man is not Thomas Howard. He goes by an altogether more celebrated name – that of the outlaw Jesse James!’
CHAPTER 8
Grecian Fire
Tension continued to crackle between the two men.
Then Howard – Jesse James, if Holmes was to be believed – reached a decision and tossed his sabre aside. ‘Reckon there’s no use in me denyin’ it,’ he said wearily.
‘Not a bit,’ Holmes replied.
Beside him, Elaina stared at Jesse in shock.
‘When did you peg me?’ Jesse asked Holmes. ‘Where’d I slip up?’
‘You didn’t, Mr James.’ Holmes set his own sabre aside. ‘But the London Times carried your picture some six weeks ago. I recognized you as soon as I saw you.’
‘How come you didn’t call me on it?’
‘I was curious to discover what had brought you to England. Your story of a missing younger brother was clearly a smokescreen. When I first questioned you on the matter, you were, to your credit, obviously reluctant to compound the initial lie with still more.’
‘So why am I here?’
‘I could make an educated guess, but I prefer not to indulge in speculation. I will leave it to you to explain.’
Before Jesse could reply, Elaina said in hushed disbelief: ‘If you really are Jesse James, what are you doing here?’
‘It’s a long, grim story, ma’am. But maybe some of your fine British sippin’ whisky’ll make it easier to swallow.’
They left the armoury and returned to the library. After Fordham had served the drinks and left them alone, the man from Missouri began his tale.
‘You know my name and you know my reputation. I ain’t denyin’ or makin’ excuses for either. I’ve killed and robbed and though I ain’t proud of it, I’ll more’n likely do it all over again before I meet my Maker.’
He turned to Holmes. ‘You were right when you said I had Welsh ancestry. My pa came from Wales. He was a Baptist minister … which I reckon makes what I’ve done all the worse. Still, we were raised decent, my brother Frank and me. It was the War taught us how to fight and kill and, after a fashion, how to live with the fightin’ and the killin’ afterward. We learned our lessons well. The Unionists called us bushwhackers. We saw ourselves as guerrillas, fightin’ stronger forces the only way we knew how, by hittin’ them hard and then runnin’ before they could mount a counter attack.
‘Eventually we fell in with a feller named Bloody Bill Anderson, a cold-blooded killer who helped us hone our skills, if I can use such a word. After that, Frank joined up with an outfit known as Quantrill’s Raiders, and later I joined him.’
‘William Clarke Quantrill,’ Holmes mused. ‘I’ve read about him. He was responsible for a particularly bloodthirsty raid on Lawrence, Kansas, was he not?’
Jesse nodded. ‘Yeah. But that was before I hooked up with him. You were right about somethin’ else, too, Holmes. I was shot in the chest – on two occasions – and your miserable English weather does make those wounds act up….’
He paused, his mind drifting back to his early days. ‘Anyways, after the war, times were hard in Missoura. Reconstruction robbed us of ’most all our rights. We couldn’t carry guns, own slaves, work in government, not even preach … nor lawfully prevent Yankee carpetbaggers from commandeering our livestock or land. Only choice left us was to take what we needed by force.’
‘Not everyone chose that road,’ Elaina reminded him softly. Ever since she’d learned his real identity, she’d been studying him intently, sizing him up with fresh interest.
‘True,’ he admitted. ‘And many folks would say me and Frank chose the wrong one. Maybe we did. Who’s to know? All I can say is I sent letter after letter to the Kansas City Times – letters they published, too, to their credit – sayin’ as how we were willin’ to go straight, but still the law branded us outlaws.
‘’Course, I did a fair bit to deserve the name. I was always part of one gang or another, and we robbed banks and stage-coaches – even a fair, once – from Iowa to West Virginia and just about every place in between. A couple years ago we took to robbin’ trains, as well.’
‘And you gave some of the money to the poor, from what I’ve heard,’ put in Elaina, ‘which is why the newspapers began comparing you with Robin Hood.’
