“Indeed I do. It was quite thrilling, actually.”
“If not quite realistic,” Holmes added. “And do you recall what Colonel Cody told us about his amazing cast of characters?”
That, too, I recalled quite clearly, perhaps because I had considered it such a privilege to meet the great showman himself, bedecked in fringed buckskins and wearing an enormous ten-gallon hat. “He was a true democrat. He said that he hired anyone who would work for him: cowboys, Red Indians, women, children, come one, come all.”
“As indeed he would have to do to perform such set pieces as the buffalo hunt. And I am certain that he would not inquire too closely into the background of those he added to his cast. A man such as you have described, Mr. Wilde, might find employment in Colonel Cody’s show quite appealing, especially if, since his encounter with you, he had committed other crimes in the United States.”
“But why would he still be in England?” asked Wilde. “It has been months since the last performance of the Wild West show.”
Holmes nodded agreement. “Let us assume that your enemy was dismissed from the cast for some reason. For indulging in drink, perhaps, or petty theft. Colonel Cody has the reputation of a stern taskmaster and would not tolerate such conduct. Without employment, your friend might not have been able to return to America. He might have been forced to find menial jobs here to support himself. And ask yourself this question: Why has he not attempted your life before now?”
“Do you have the answer?” asked Wilde.
Holmes did not hesitate. “If he is such a person as you describe, the likelihood is that he had not thought of you at all until he tried to kill you. He simply happened to see you on the street, recalled your role in his unhappy life, and took advantage of a sudden opportunity.”
Wilde lit another of his cigarettes. “But now he will be thinking of me often. He might very well try again to kill me unless something is done.”
“True,” Holmes agreed. “And we shall do something tonight.”
“But what?”
“We will find this man and put a stop to things immediately. Watson, do you have your revolver?”
I did not, but I told him that I could get it at once.
“Do so. And then we will be on our way.”
“But where will we go?” asked Wilde. “We have no idea where to find this person.”
“Think about it while we make ourselves ready,” answered Holmes. “You may discover that we do indeed have an excellent possibility.”
I was as mystified as Wilde, but once we were in the carriage, Holmes directed the driver to the fairgrounds where the Wild West show had been held.
“Where else would a man with little money and few prospects seek refuge?” he asked. “Some structures doubtless remain on the ground, and they would provide a modicum of shelter. He may well be there.”
It seemed quite likely that Holmes was correct, as he so often was, and we wound our way through the icy streets, passing carolers singing of animals that would speak in stables at midnight, groups of people giving each other the joy of the season, walls covered with colorful posters advertising dramatic presentations appropriate to the time of year.
One of the latter caught Holmes’s attention, and he pointed it out to us. The title of the drama was The Wolf Shall Lie Down with the Lamb, which Holmes deemed a ridiculous idea, about as likely as the mountain coming to Mohammed.
“But the drama does not deal with facts,” Wilde protested. “The title is an allegorical expression of something that is to be hoped for if not attained.”
“And why hope for something unattainable?” Holmes asked.
“Because it is the nature of man to do so,” said Wilde. “And it is in the nature of the Christmas season.”
Holmes gave him a thin smile. “Explain that to the man who is trying to kill you,” he said.
The fairgrounds were dark and apparently deserted. Where once the stagecoach had rumbled and the bison ranged, where the vaqueros had roped, where the Indian village had stood, there was now nothing at all. Not even a trace remained. Nor was there a trace of Wilde’s supposed enemy or of anyone else. All was loneliness and desolation, covered with a blanket of dirty snow. The icy wind cut through my clothing, and my right hand clutched my revolver.
Sherlock Holmes looked over the scene with chagrin. He rarely makes a mistake, although it has happened before, as even he will admit. It never pleases him, however.
“It appears that I have followed a wrong path in my reasoning,” he said. “I was certain that we would find the man here.”
Wilde, rather than showing distress, seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “Art. The answer lies in art, and in the science of deduction.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“That placard we saw,” said Wilde. “About the lion and the lamb. Are you familiar with the scriptures?”
I was far from an expert in such matters, and Holmes was equally at a loss. I told Wilde that I failed to see his point.
“The title of the drama is from the book of Isaiah. I do not claim to be a biblical scholar by any means, but I do have some acquaintance with Holy Writ. I cannot recall the passage perfectly, but it says something about the wolf dwelling with the lamb, the leopard lying down with the kid. And they shall be led by a little child.”
“I can easily see how the sentiment relates to Christmas,” said I. “But not to the current difficulty.”
Wilde was happy to elucidate. “The scripture goes on to say that the cow and the bear shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed. “Bears again.”
“More than bears,” said Holmes. “I congratulate you on your deduction, Mr. Wilde. We know that your enemy has an inclination toward the theatrical and that he can appear to be a bear in his buffalo robe. And he needs work if he is not to earn his living by the admittedly dangerous alternative of theft. Clearly, the scripture has broader applications than I had accorded it. But let us waste no more time. It is growing late.”
We returned to the carriage and soon located another placard advertising the drama in which we had become so interested. The address of the theater placed it not so very far from Wilde’s own residence, as he informed us.
“Then our suppositions are all the more likely to be correct,” said Holmes, and he urged the driver to make haste.
* * *
The outside of the rather shabby theater was bedecked with wilting tinsel, and a scrap of paper blew down the nearly deserted street. We had arrived well into the performance, and as there was no one to sell us tickets or to take them from us, we walked straight into the building.
The play had reached its climactic moment. The stage was covered with people representing animals of all kinds: oxen, lambs, panthers, lions, and bears. There were two of the latter, and as I was wondering how we were to determine which of them was the one we wanted, a diminutive actor began declaiming his lines.
“ ‘For unto us a child is born,’” said he, quoting from Isaiah, as Wilde later informed me. “ ‘Unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.’”
I believe that the intention of the playwright at this point was to have the “little child” lead the peaceful animals in what Wilde might have called an “allegorical representation of peacefulness and harmony,” but this was prevented by Wilde’s pointing at one of the bears and exclaiming “That is the man!”
Wilde had developed quite a sonorous voice for his appearances in the lecture hall. The play came to a standstill, and all eyes turned to the back of the auditorium.
“There!” Wilde said, pointing to the more realistic of the bears, the one nearest the actor playing the child.
At this exclamation the bear leapt up and stared in our direction. The costume, or robe, fell partially away, and I could see that its wearer was
a short man with a face shaped like that of a weasel. From the expression in his dark, glittering eyes, it was plain that he recognized the one who had pointed him out.
He threw off his robe and yelled, “You killed my friend, you limey poof!” Then he reached into his boot and pulled out an alarmingly large Bowie knife, quite a popular weapon in the wilds of America, or so I have been told. He waved it over his head and said, “I should have used this on you this morning,” in an atrocious accent.
I drew my revolver from my pocket to stop him, but it was already too late. The audience, realizing that what they were seeing had no part in the play, panicked. People stormed toward the exits. To fire the revolver at the man would have been far too risky in the circumstances.
I believe that his thought at that instant was to leap from the stage, charge Wilde, and perhaps disembowel him with the Bowie knife, but he was prevented from doing so for a moment by the stampeding crowd.
Wilde, undeterred by either the knife or the fleeing audience, did not hesitate. Using his great size to advantage, he forced his way through the surging mob, shoving people to the left and right as he cleared a path toward the footlights.
“I never killed your friend,” Wilde shouted as he neared the stage. “And I demand that you cease your absurd attempt at revenge.”
“Never!” his adversary shouted in reply, and then he leapt.
His bison-hide coat billowed out like the wings of some immense bird, and in one hand he held the knife. I would have attempted a shot, but I was afraid that I might hit Wilde, who was quite close to the stage by that time. All Holmes and I could do was watch as the man landed on Wilde and the two disappeared from our view.
The crowd had mostly disappeared by then, and we worked our way to the spot where the two men lay struggling, concealed by the buffalo robe, which billowed as if a great wind were blowing under it. Then Wilde stood up and threw it away from him. It landed in the first row of seats, and I saw that the man who had worn it was lying on the floor, still clutching his formidable knife by its handle. Unfortunately, the other end of the knife was embedded in his chest.
“I grabbed his arm as he fell,” said Wilde, gasping for breath. “I must have twisted it, though I never intended to.”
“It was clearly an accident,” I said. “And all in self-defense.”
Several of the actors gathered at the edge of the stage, still in their costumes.
“ ‘The cow and the bear shall feed together,’” said Holmes, looking down at the inert form.
“They won’t feed together no more,” said the cow. “Smelled worse than a bleedin’ bear, the fella did. I thought he was a crazy one from the start.”
“It was that robe of his that smelled, it was,” said the leopard, whose outfit only vaguely resembled the creature it was supposed to represent. “And he never looked like a bear, not really.”
“He wasn’t a man of cleanly habits,” said Wilde. “Of that I am certain. What time it is, Dr. Watson?”
I took out my watch and told him the time.
“Ah, two hours from midnight,” said Wilde, looking at Holmes slyly. “And even now the animals are speaking.”
“It is not yet Christmas Eve,” Holmes pointed out. “They are more than a day early.”
“The police will be here at any moment,” I reminded them, “summoned no doubt by some of the less panicked members of the audience.”
“And we shall have an interesting story to tell them,” said Holmes.
Wilde looked at his green overcoat as if checking for specks of blood. “As for me, I am not so sure that I wish to tell my story. It will cause a great deal of talk, I fear.”
Holmes smiled. “I should think that for a man such as yourself, the only thing worse than being talked about would be not being talked about.”
“Very good!” exclaimed Wilde. “In fact, I almost wish I had said that myself.” He paused and smiled, then said, “And I will.”
Then his smile faded. He looked at the dead man on the floor and said, “I am very sorry that things should have ended this way. Life should be about beauty and peace, and death should not be so ugly.”
Holmes looked at him sharply. “I hope that your life is indeed filled with nothing but beauty and peace, but you must know that few lives are.”
“Each of us is his own devil,” said Wilde. “If we choose to be.”
“Then do not choose that way,” said Holmes.
“I will not,” Wilde responded.
I had the impression that he was going to say more, but at that moment the police arrived, and we had to spend the remainder of the evening explaining about men who looked like bears. And though we heard much of Wilde in latter days, we never encountered him again.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE
NATURALIST’S STOCK PIN
Jon L. Breen
During a recent tour of the Galapagos Islands, one of the Ecuadorian guides on our ship took me aside one evening in the passengers’ lounge. After politely chatting about the day’s sightings of iguanas, sea lions, frigate birds, and Sally Lightfoot crabs, he asked me if I would like to read an old manuscript one of his colleagues had received from a naturalist in England. “Your opinion of its authenticity,” he said, “would be much valued.”
“But I’m not a naturalist,” I said. “I can barely tell a blue-footed booby from a red-footed booby. Maybe my wife . . .”
“Many naturalists have read this manuscript already and given their opinions. But one of your fellow passengers tells me you are a devotee of Sherlock Holmes, and no Holmes scholar has yet given us an opinion.”
Though calling me a Holmes scholar is a bit of a stretch, I eagerly agreed to read the document. Never having seen an original Sherlock Holmes manuscript, I didn’t recognize Dr. Watson’s handwriting. But I could at least make some comments based on the historical background and the literary style.
Early in my association with Sherlock Holmes, only a few days before Christmas in 1881, I was about to leave the Baker Street rooms for some long-forgotten errand when my friend suggested I might wish to stay.
“I am to be visited by a Mr. Beagle, Watson. He promises to present a case of singular interest. Some diversion might be welcome in this excessively cheery season, don’t you agree?”
I agreed only partially. While the Yuletide could be an agent of melancholy in bachelors like ourselves, I was invariably affected with its attendant joy whatever my current circumstances. Still, I had known Holmes long enough to know that cases of interest to him would also be stimulating to me, and I also welcomed an excuse not to venture out in the chill and blustery weather, so I remained.
From our window, we saw Mr. Beagle arrive at Baker Street at the appointed hour. He alighted from a hansom, furtively looking left and right, and moved slowly but purposefully to the door of 221B, with his coat tails flapping in the breeze. He appeared to be an elderly man, and sported an impressive white beard. His hat concealed what facial features the beard did not. When Mrs. Hudson announced Mr. Beagle moments later, Holmes welcomed him in, showed him to a chair before the fire, and offered him a glass of port, which he declined.
“Mr. Holmes, I am grateful you would see me at such short notice,” our agitated guest said, after taking a few moments to catch his breath. “I am in a dreadful state. I have become so fearful, so suspicious, I imagined the driver of the cab was an enemy who was carrying me to my doom.”
“Why did you suspect him?” Holmes asked.
Our guest waved a hand impatiently. “No good reason. It’s just the state of my nerves. City life has that effect upon me. My home is in Kent, where I am . . . ah . . . something in the nature of a country parson. My wife and I get up to London occasionally and are currently here for a short stay with friends. My wife does not know I have come to see you. Much as I dislike deceiving her, I am even more anxious not to give her unnecessary concern.”
“Admirable I am sure, Mr. Beagle. What is the nature of your problem?” Our vi
sitor glanced at me with polite suspicion. This was not unusual among Holmes’s clients, and he responded in the usual way. “You may speak freely in front of Dr. Watson. He is in my confidence and quite reliable.”
“Certainly.” Mr. Beagle’s nod toward me was apologetic. “I shall state my problem as succinctly as I can. I have received an invitation from a man named Lamburt LeSue, asking me to meet him tomorrow evening at eight o’clock in the private room of The Highwayman’s Rest, a pub in Fleet Street. He claims a prior acquaintance, but I do not remember him.”
“An unusual name,” Holmes mused. “Surely you would remember it if you had heard it before.”
“I believe that I would, yes. Normally, of course, I would ignore such an invitation from an unknown person. However, something he said in the invitation makes me want very much to see this man. Still I am wary, and I think with reason.”
“Do you have many enemies in London, Mr. Beagle?”
“If you had asked me that question as recently as a week ago, I would have said no. But I have been receiving anonymous messages, signed with names even more unlikely than Lamburt LeSue. Merwin A. Drauss was one of them. Mark Caljane was another.”
“Do you have these messages with you?”
“I destroyed them immediately.”
Holmes passed a pen and the back of a calling card to our visitor. “Please write down those names on this card, Mr. Beagle, with special attention to exact spelling as closely as you can remember.”
“Certainly.”
“What do you recall of the messages?”
“They were cryptic, nonsensical really, and not precisely threatening. Still, they have made me suspicious even of my friends, mistrustful of anyone outside my family circle. Do I have enemies, you ask? I cannot say with certainty. I dislike to call any fellow human creature an enemy, Mr. Holmes, though many are in profound disagreement with some of my, ah, ideas.”
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 17
