by Gorman, Ed
“I believe we are about to receive an invitation from the owner of the second fiddle,” Holmes said.
A knock sounded at the door. I answered it and was handed an envelope by the messenger boy.
“Pray open it and read it aloud, Watson,” Holmes said.
The signature was Evangeline Legrange, with as many curls and loops to it as a tangled trout line. I read:
My dear Mr. Holmes,
I hope you will excuse this informality of approaching you without introduction, but I wonder whether you and Dr Watson would care to join us on a picnic luncheon outing to San Pedro springs tomorrow. If I may, I shall send a gig for you at eleven.
Holmes told me to ask the boy to wait while he dashed off a polite line of acceptance on hotel notepaper.
“She gives no address,” I objected.
“She has no need,” he said. “If you look out of the other window, you’ll see she’s waiting outside in the landau with the grey pony.”
” And I thought he hadn’t noticed.
• • •
I spent the rest of the day exploring San Antonio, while Holmes refused to be drawn from our shady balcony, smoking his pipe and reading a book that had nothing whatsoever to do with the subject under investigation. The town proved to be every bit as calm and prosperous as on first acquaintance. In whatever direction you might stroll, you were never far away from a river bank. Breezes rustled the groves of their strange twisted oak trees and freshened the southern heat. To my pleasure, I even saw several unmistakable cowboys in broad-brimmed hats and leather chaps, lounging on their raw-boned horses in saddles as large and deep as club armchairs. I climbed the hill to the barracks in the hour before sunset to watch the soldiers drilling, then walked back down to try to persuade my companion to take a stroll before dinner. There was no sign that he’d stirred all the time I’d been away and I might have failed in my purpose if his eye had not been caught by a flare of fire in a corner of the wide plaza.
“Good heavens, Holmes, has a building caught fire?” I cried.
“Nothing so calamitous. Shall we go and see?”
• • •
His keen senses had caught, as mine soon did, the smell of spices and the scent of charred meat. We strolled across the plaza in the dusk and found that part of it had been taken over by dozens of small stalls with charcoal braziers, tended by Mexicans. A band was playing jaunty music on accordions, violins and a kind of rattling object, a woman singing in a plaintive voice that cut across the music and gave it a touch of sadness and yearning. We were surrounded by brown smiling faces with teeth very white against the dusk, women with silver ornaments twined in their black hair and voices that spoke in murmuring Spanish. It was as if our few steps across the plaza had taken us all the way to the far side of the Rio Grande and were in Mexico itself. Holmes seemed delighted, as he always was by things unexpected. He even allowed a woman to sell him something that looked like a kind of rolled-up pancake.
“Good heavens, Holmes, what are you eating?”
“I’ve no idea, but it’s really very good. Try some.”
Its spiciness made me gasp and cough. As we were walking back towards the hotel, a Mexican man came towards us out of the shadows. He was perhaps thirty years old or so, a handsome fellow and respectable in his manner.
“Excuse me, señor, you are Sherlock Holmes?”
He spoke in English. Holmes nodded. The man passed him a piece of paper.
“My address. I should be grateful if you would call on me.”
He wished us good evening and stepped back into the shadows as smoothly as he’d stepped out of them.
“So you’ve got yourself a new client,” I said, laughing. “He probably wants to consult you about a missing mule.”
“Very likely,” Holmes said.
But he seemed thoughtful and I noticed he put the piece of paper carefully into his pocket.
• • •
Next morning the gig arrived to carry us a mile or so north of the town to San Pedro Springs. It was as pleasant a park as I’ve ever seen, with three clear springs trickling out of a rocky hill and running between grassy slopes and groves of pecan nut trees. Our hostess had established camp in one of the groves, surrounded by preparations for an elaborate picnic luncheon, with folding chairs and tables loaded with covered dishes and wine coolers. Four black and Mexican servants were in attendance, serving drinks to guests who had arrived before us. Evangeline Legrange was sitting on a bank of cushions, leaf shadows flickering over her pale blue dress and white hat with a blue ribbon that tied in a bow under the chin. She jumped up with a cry of pleasure and came tripping over the grass towards us.
“Mr. Holmes ... so kind ... I can hardly believe it. And you must be Dr Watson, such a pleasure.”
Her small white-gloved hand was in mine, the scent of jasmine in the air around us. Her hair, worn loose under the hat, was the colour of dark heather honey and her skin white as alabaster. Close to, if one must be ungallant, she was older than she had looked under the shade of the tree, perhaps in her late thirties, but she moved and spoke with the freshness and impetuosity of a girl. She set her gentlemen guests to pile up cushions for us beside her, calling on one of the servants to bring us iced champagne. California champagne, as it turned out. Several people assured us that it was vastly superior to the French article. When we were settled, she clapped her hands at guests and servants alike.
“Now, leave us alone while I tell Mr. Holmes about my violin. You all know the story in any case.”
They melted obediently away and this is the story she told us, in a voice as pleasant to hear as the stream flowing beside us.
• • •
“As everybody knows, the men in the Alamo were under siege with Santa Anna and his Mexicans camped outside. But for the local people, who knew the old building, there were secret ways in and out. Naturally, our brave defenders wouldn’t use them. But people who were daring enough could get in to the fort, to bring food or nurse the wounded. Some of those daring people were women, and I’m proud to say that one of them was my grandmother on my mother’s side, Marianne. She was only nineteen years old, and one of the defenders was her sweetheart. Five times that brave girl climbed out of her bedroom at night and carried food and water to him in the Alamo. The sixth time, they knew the end must be near. Colonel Crockett himself took Marianne aside and told her she must not come again. I can tell you the very words he said to her, as Marianne told them to my mother, and my mother told them to me. He said, ‘I honor you for what you have done, but in future Texas will need its brave wives and mothers. Our duty is to die for Texas and yours is to live for Texas. Go and tell all the ladies that.’”
Mrs. Legrange’s voice faltered. She wiped a tear from her cheek with her gloved finger.
“And the violin?” Holmes said brusquely.
He never did like to see tears. She smiled at him, disregarding his tone.
“Yes, his violin. That was when he gave it to Marianne. Again, I’ll quote his exact words. ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be much occasion for music in here from now on. This violin’s been through a lot with me, but maybe it will enjoy a gentler touch.’ So Marianne took it away with her and it’s been the precious treasure of our family ever since. Here it is.”
• • •
She reached into the cushions behind her and brought out a rectangular case, covered in white Morocco leather, tooled with gold. When she undid the gold clasp and opened the lid we saw a violin and bow nestled in blue velvet. She signaled with her eyes that Holmes was to pick up the violin. He turned it over in his long-fingered hands, carefully as one might handle any musical instrument, but with no particular reverence. It was the copper-red colour of cherrywood and looked to me like the kind of country fiddle you’d expect a frontiersman to possess.
“Nobody has played it since Colonel Crockett,” she said.
When Holmes simply nodded and handed the violin back to her, I caught a shadow of disapp
ointment in her eyes. It was gone in a moment. She put the instrument carefully away and became instantly the gracious hostess, necessarily so because more guests were arriving. It seemed that most of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas and their friends and families had been invited to the picnic to meet Holmes and the grove was soon full of laughing and chattering people. They included Benjamin Barratt and his family and I noticed that Mrs. Legrange paid them particular attention, as if to emphasize to the world that there was no quarrel between them. From the way Belmont looked at her, I guessed there might have been some feeling of tendresse between them a long time ago. If so, it seemed to be replicated by Mr. Barratt’s son Lee, a good-looking military cadet of twenty or so. He was always at Mrs. Legrange’s side or running errands for her. When we left, Lee Barratt was even allowed to carry the precious violin to her landau.
• • •
That evening, we had the history of the other violin in the drawing room of the Barratts’ fine home, after dinner. In this case, the instrument was a deep mahogany colour, on display above the marble fireplace in a glass case, with the Texas flag above it and swords with tasseled hilts flanking it on either side. Benjamin Barratt stood on his hearthrug, brandy glass in hand.
“I’m sure you gentlemen know the story. When he knew the case was hopeless, the commanding officer of the defenders, Colonel Travis, offered all his men a free choice: stay with him and die or leave without any reproach from him. One man only chose to leave. His name was Louis Rose. Travis kept his word and did not reproach him, but the other men were naturally contemptuous. Colonel Crockett could not express his contempt directly, in the face of what Travis had said, so he did it another way. He gave his violin to Rose, with these words: ‘Well, Rose, it seems you’re no soldier after all, so maybe you’d better get practicing so you can make your living with this.’ Rose took the violin, but he knew that San Antonio would be no place for him. My father had a reputation as a charitable man. Rose came to him at dead of night, begging for a loan of money to get away, offering the violin as security. My father gave him the money, on condition that he wrote a statement of how the violin came into his possession. He did so, exactly as I have told it to you. I have the statement in my desk, signed by Rose and witnessed by my father’s servant. I shall show it to you. My father knew the money would never be repaid. We have guarded Colonel Crockett’s violin ever since.”
• • •
While Holmes was reading the document, our hostess Mrs. Barratt did her best to make polite conversation with me, but she seemed uneasy and kept glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Please excuse me, but I’m anxious about Lee. Mrs. Legrange was going on after our picnic to visit some friends who have a ranch north of San Pedro Springs. Lee offered to ride with her, which was only right and proper, but he should have been home long ago.”
I wondered whether she was concerned for her son’s safety or the effect of the lady’s charms on the lad. An unworthy thought, as it immediately proved, because a clamour broke out in the hall. We all dashed out, to see Lee, with a bloodied bandage round his head, being supported by two of Mrs. Legrange’s servants. Behind them was Mrs. Legrange herself, tears streaming down her cheeks, trembling like a trapped sparrow.
“It’s my fault, my fault entirely. How can you ever forgive me?”
Barratt took charge of events with efficiency and had a couch made up in the parlor. I offered my services but also suggested sending for the family doctor, as a matter of professional courtesy. He arrived in a short time and confirmed my diagnosis of concussion as a result of two blows to the head with a heavy object, the patient’s life not in danger, but absolute quiet and rest prescribed.
• • •
I returned to the drawing room, where Mrs. Legrange was huddled deep in an armchair taking delicate sips of brandy, Holmes sitting opposite her.
“Here’s a how d’you do, Watson. It appears that some villain has snatched Mrs. Legrange’s violin.”
“The lad Lee kept trying to talk about the violin,” I said.
“It’s all my fault,” Mrs. Legrange said again. “I should never have left him to carry it up. But here at home on my very doorstep, how was I to know?”
Between sobs and sips, she repeated the account for me. The visit to the ranching friends had lasted longer than expected, so it was dusk before she returned to San Antonio, with Lee riding alongside her landau. She’d gone straight upstairs, leaving the coachman to stable both horses and Lee to follow her with the precious violin in its case. Startled by a cry from below, she’d gone back downstairs to find Lee semiconscious on the pavement and the violin gone.
“The coward had come up behind him. He never even saw his face. Did you ever hear of such villainy? And if poor Lee dies...”
I assured her that there was no fear of that, provided he was kept quiet.
With Barratt and his wife both occupied by their son, it fell to Holmes and myself to take Mrs. Legrange home in a hack and see her into the care of her housekeeper. Holmes behaved with unexpected courtliness, jumping ahead of me to hand her down from the hack, and even raising her gloved wrist to his lips as we left her in the hall. I smiled to myself, thinking that southern air and manners had made my old friend more susceptible than usual. We walked the short distance back to the hotel.
• • •
“If somebody went to such lengths to steal her violin, that must be because he believed it to be the authentic one,” I ventured.
“A false conclusion, Watson. Might it not have been any sneak thief?”
“You surely don’t believe that?”
“No, a thief bold enough to commit a violent robbery in a public place would choose some more disposable booty.”
“So is Mrs. Legrange’s the real Crockett violin? It surprises me, I must confess. I found Barratt’s story far more convincing.”
Instead of responding, he clapped his left hand to the pocket of his jacket.
“A one pipe problem. Now, which pocket did I put my pipe in?”
“Your right, surely.”
At home, it always weighed down the right pocket of his dressing gown. He patted his other pocket, frowning.
“Not there.”
“Surely it’s not in your waistcoat pocket. Or did you somehow manage to slip it in my pocket by mistake?
I started slapping my own pockets. He laughed.
“My dear Watson, I may not have the polished manners of our Texans, but you surely don’t think me barbarian enough to take my pipe to a dinner party with a lady present. It’s where it should be, on the table back at the hotel.”
“But...?”
I stared at him.
“Think about it, Watson. By the by, you mentioned that young Lee had suffered two blows to the head. As far as you could tell, was one more violent than the other?”
“Yes, but that’s not unusual. We may suppose that the thief’s first blow was not hard enough to fell the young man, so he struck again.”
“We may suppose anything we like, Watson. It’s still only supposing.”
I could get no more out of him that night.
• • •
The next day Barratt had arranged to take us to lunch at his club, which occupied the same building as the opera house, opposite our hotel. The news of his son was encouraging: the young man had woken with a sore head but was rational and showing no signs of permanent damage. Holmes asked if he had any memory of his attacker.
“None whatsoever,” Barratt said. “But at least we have the rascal in custody.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed. Has he confessed?”
“No, but he was actually seen half a mile away from Mrs. Legrange’s home soon after the attack, carrying a violin.”
“And he was arrested there and then?”
“No. The gentleman who saw him did not hear about the theft until this morning. Naturally he remembered what he’d seen and as it happened, he knew the
fellow by sight, a Mexican tradesman. Our sheriff’s officer went straight to the thief’s home this morning and arrested him.”
“And the violin?”
“Found in his house.”
“What’s the name of this Mexican?”
Barratt looked surprised, clearly thinking that such details could mean nothing to Holmes.
“His name’s Juan Alvarez. He lives on South Flores Street, down by the stockyards.”
By this time, we’d arrived at the club. While our host was turned away, Holmes slid a piece of paper from his pocket and quickly showed it to me, his finger to his lips. I had to suppress a gasp of surprise. It was the slip of paper the Mexican had given him the night before last and the name and address were those of the man under arrest. Over the soup Holmes asked if he might have a word with the prisoner. Barratt was surprised.
“I hardly think it’s a case worthy of your attention, but if it amuses you, by all means.”
• • •
An hour later, the three of us were sitting in a small room in the county jail, with Señor Alvarez handcuffed to a chair in front of us. In spite of his predicament, there was nothing hangdog about the man. He met Holmes’ eye and nodded recognition as if meeting an old acquaintance. Barratt started saying something about a cowardly attack, but Holmes held up a hand to silence him and spoke directly to the prisoner.
“I’m sorry I was not in when you called at our hotel last night,” he said. “It might have saved you some unpleasantness.”
Alvarez replied in the same civil tone.
“You had not called on me, as I hoped, so I came to call on you.”
“Bringing the violin?”
“Yes, señor, bringing the violin.”
Barratt almost exploded.
“You rogue, I suppose you were trying to get a reward from Mr. Holmes for bringing back Mrs. Legrange’s violin. The nerve of the man.”
“Except it wasn’t Mrs. Legrange’s violin, was it?” Holmes said.
“Well, whose else would it be?”
“I suggest we take a look at it. I assume it was brought in as evidence.”
