by Amy Thomas
“Things went wrong long before that,” I could not help saying.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I suppose you’ll tell me that Roy murdered the man instead of defending himself.”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than even that,” I answered gently. I looked her straight in the eyes and spoke slowly. “The day before the man was killed, the body of a young woman was found. She had been stabbed. Her wound was exactly the same as the wound that killed the man Roy admitted to fighting with, and I’m afraid a button was found near the body that almost certainly belongs to Roy’s coat. I don’t know how he acquired the facial wound, but I expect he used it to have a way of deceiving you.”
“Why?” was all she said as she sunk onto the edge of the bed, sitting very still.
“Many years ago, Sherlock Holmes succeeded in finding out that Roy’s uncle, Captain James Calhoun, was part of a gang that had killed many people, but particularly one named Openshaw, who was Holmes’s client. Holmes sent a letter on ahead to warn the authorities in Savannah, Georgia, that Calhoun was wanted in England, but his ship never made it back, or so we thought. According to Sergeant Keating, whom I think you know, what had actually happened was an elaborate ruse. Calhoun had friends in the Savannah police who intercepted the letter and warned him. He sailed to a different port, and, it appears now, destroyed his own ship in order to make it look as if he’d been lost at sea, most likely paying off the foreign seamen to return home other ways and say nothing. Two Americans sailed with him, but they were also implicated, so they remained with Calhoun when he fled.”
“The same friends who had assisted Calhoun’s flight kept in contact with him. They informed Calhoun’s family, which consisted of a widowed sister and her young son, that the man was well, but that he could never return. He begged that rather than joining him, they should remain on the family’s estate. They were to act as if he had died, inheriting his fortune. Calhoun attempted to reestablish himself in Mississippi, but stripped of his wealth and estate, he remained a poor man. The few people who figured out his true identity did not care. He had been a hero of the southern cause during the war, and they were willing to turn a blind eye to the possible misdeeds of a man who had been brought so low. He could not risk a return to the city where his guilt was so surely known to the law, and his nephew was left to grow up and manage the estate. I do not know exactly what happened, but Roy eventually discovered his uncle in Mississippi, and his latent disquiet turned into something more.”
The girl had turned very pale during my narrative. “Are you absolutely sure his uncle was a murderer?”
“Yes,” I answered, “several times over. He killed to protect his own reputation and the reputations of his friends. They were part of a group called the Ku Klux Klan. When the law in the United States of America sought to eradicate them, they endeavoured to destroy all evidence of their activities. In so doing, they took many lives. It’s ironic, I suppose, that after leaving such carnage in his wake while trying to maintain his life as it was, the elder Calhoun was forced to flee from it in the end.”
“If you do not trust me,” I added, “I can produce proof.”
The girl shook her head in the negative. “I believe you. I have always known there was something in Roy’s manner that was not at peace, as if something was eating at his soul from the inside. I thought that if he could finish his task, and we could marry, that he would finally settle down and find rest. I thought I could provide that for him.”
“You’re not the first to have been mistaken in that way,” I said.
“Will I go to prison?” she asked, as a look of resigned despair began to overtake her features. Finally, I had achieved the reaction I sought.
“That depends,” I said, “on how much you are willing to help with the capture of Calhoun. You are, right now, an accessory to kidnapping. I am willing to vouch for the fact that you were goaded into it, at least partially, by your fear of Roy at the time.”
“I cannot say that I have ceased to love him even now,” she said, “but I will help you.”
You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man’s place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to imagine how I should myself have proceeded under the same circumstances.
- The Musgrave Ritual
Chapter 16: Holmes
Holmes felt like a horse that was at the starting gate, ready to spring into action. He had observed The Woman and Lady Helen leaving the drawing room, and he could not help wishing he could hear their exchange. He trusted Irene’s abilities, but he was tired of the pace of a case that seemed to go at breakneck speed, only to slow down to nothing when he was getting close to his target.
It was not that Roy Calhoun had been an inordinately clever criminal. He had simply had the advantage of surprise, striking quickly and with deadly accuracy before the detective had realised he existed. His folly was in needing to be noticed, to have the object of his revenge see the hand which wielded the knife that was being twisted in his heart. That folly had led to the notes signed K.K.K. and the trusting of a young policeman who had not been nearly prudent enough to successfully shadow the detective. It was all simple, in a way, but that made it no less costly.
The Woman and the girl did not return for quite some time, and he was beginning to be concerned that their presence would be missed, because, after the conclusion of the singing, the guests began to organise themselves into tables for games. Holmes quietly entreated Watson to take up the hostess’s attention to keep her from noticing, and he did so with his usual easy ability.
Fortunately, the two returned just as Sir Allen was attempting to pull the detective into a game of Loo. Irene caught his eye and nodded once, and the relief on her face communicated the same feeling to him. If they had Helen, provided they did not lose sight of her, then they would soon have Calhoun.
“Excuse me,” he said to the solicitor and their other table companion, the earl’s elderly, widowed sister, who seemed to be setting her cap at Sir Allen.
He moved to the edge of the room, where Irene and Helen had quietly taken their places at a table but had not engaged in a game. He sat down with them, but before he spoke, he took the stack of cards from the table and dealt three to each of them.
“This will make it look as if we’re intent on our game,” he said very softly, taking up his three cards and nodding at the ladies to do the same. He leaned in towards the table and spoke again. “I trust that you are with us, Lady Helen. What is your mechanism for contacting Roy Calhoun?” He watched her face carefully to ascertain her veracity.
She was pale, but she spoke with certainty. “I was to meet him tomorrow at the entrance to the Savoy. He told me that if an emergency arose and I found that I had to contact him, I could find him at the Gloucester Arms. He warned me never to go there under normal circumstances, since the risk that I might be seen would be too great.”
“Very well,” said the detective, “then we will give him a taste of his own medicine and pay him a surprise visit this night. Lady Helen, you must divine a way to leave the house without your absence being noted. I take it by your recent behaviour that you will not be without an idea of how to do so.”
The girl blushed shamefacedly, which Holmes considered to be a mark in her favour. “Perhaps if Miss Adler were to become ill,” she said, “I might volunteer to take care of seeing you out of the house, and I could simply fail to return.”
“What about when your absence is noticed?”
“Chapman, my maid, is on standing orders to say that I’ve gone to bed with a headache if I am absent without explanation.” Holmes noticed that The Woman’s face showed disapproval at this, and he was momentarily struck by the extremely human hypocrisy of his formerly notorious opponent sitting in judgement on someone else’s deception.
“Very well,” he said. “I have no wish t
o be unnecessarily harsh, but if you betray us, I will not hesitate to bring you down along with Calhoun and the others. The time for blind belief in the man has passed.”
“I believe you,” answered Helen, her green eyes serious. “Roy deceived me about the nature of his actions. I can’t act as if this completely eradicates my feelings for him, but it has begun to sour them and will probably do so more and more as I contemplate the truth.”
Holmes nodded. Without his bidding, Irene suddenly slumped forward in her chair, clutching her stomach. The brilliance of the performance was in the subtlety of it. She made no sound except a low moan, and her gestures were desperate, not dramatic.
“Miss Adler, are you unwell?” Helen asked.
“I am - a bit faint,” The Woman answered.
Holmes finally sprang into action, though outwardly he showed the decorous behaviour of a gentleman whose companion is in distress. He went around to the other side of the table, noting that the performance was beginning to be marked by the other guests. In a moment, Watson came and stood by.
“Perhaps we ought to get Miss Adler home,” he said. “I believe it’s a case of nervous indigestion.” The doctor was impressively serious.
The evening’s hostess had arisen now, but Helen went to her and laid a hand on her arm. “Do not leave your guests, Mama. I will help Miss Adler outside, and perhaps Keating will help us as well.” Lady Colesworth nodded gratefully to the girl and reclaimed her seat, clearly relieved.
For a moment, it seemed that Keating might try to keep his place, using the delicacy of the situation to try to wrench himself from Holmes’s iron grasp, but the detective caught his eye, and he rose slowly and came over to the group.
Irene got up shakily, supported by Helen on one side and Watson on the other. Holmes followed with Keating, as they slowly made their way outside the drawing room and to the door. “Evans, please call Mr Holmes’s carriage. Miss Adler is ill,” Helen instructed a nearby servant, who rushed away quickly.
The next few moments were awkward ones, with everyone continuing the charade in case any other guests should decide to come out and investigate. It would have been humorous if the atmosphere had been less filled with tense anticipation. Finally, Evans returned and indicated that the carriage was ready, and they clattered across the polished wooden floor to the outside. As quickly as possible, the doctor helped Irene into the conveyance, and everyone else followed.
It was a tight journey now that Helen had joined them, but the driver dutifully agreed to go to the Gloucester Arms, which was close to an hour’s drive from Colesworth Hall. As soon as the party was situated, Holmes asked Watson for his revolver, which he kept casually on his knee, but focused in the general direction of Keating, who sat opposite him between Watson and Helen. The Woman was next to him, her spirits high after the apparent success of her act.
Few words were said for the first half of the journey, but Holmes finally began the speech that would herald the evening’s task. “Lady Helen, you know that Sergeant Keating has acted as Calhoun’s informer. This night, like yourself, he acts as turncoat. I know the Gloucester Arms well. When we arrive, you and Keating will go inside and raise Calhoun. If he has a lookout stationed on the premises, you will tell that person that all is well. Once you have spoken to Calhoun, you will bring him outside, where we will capture him.
“What about Lestrade?” asked The Woman.
“I slipped a note to Sir Allen,” Holmes answered. By this time, he will have endeavoured to get word to the inspector at home, and Lestrade will be waiting for us at his office when the matter is concluded.
“I repeated,” he added, looking pointedly at Helen and Keating, “that if you attempt to betray us, Calhoun’s downfall will also be yours.” Keating looked angry but cowed, and Helen simply nodded quiescently.
When the carriage turned onto the street that held the Gloucester Arms, the driver pulled to the side of the road as he had been instructed. The party disembarked, a strange group of elegantly-dressed revelers on a quiet street.
Holmes led them as close to the Arms as was sensible to avoid raising the alarm of any watchmen Calhoun might have placed. There were low-hanging buildings nearby, and he and the others crowded into a tiny alley that lay diagonally from the inn’s entrance.
“It is time,” Holmes breathed, and Helen and Keating stepped forward. “Remember, Sergeant,” said the detective, “my gun is trained on you.” With that, the two went towards the inn.
Holmes watched as a figure emerged from the shadows across the street, a short, muscular man, who stopped them with a low shout. As he’d expected, Calhoun had not left the place without a watchman. Keating remained silent, but Helen spoke to the man, and in a moment, he returned to his post, and the two went inside.
“What will we do about that man?” whispered The Woman.
“I will have him in a moment,” said Holmes. With slow movements, the detective crept out of the alley and past one building and then another. His object was to spring unaware on the watchman, ambushing him from behind so that the man would have no time to cry out.
The process took a painstakingly long time, for he could not rush or allow himself to be revealed in the moonlight. Every moment, he was concerned that Calhoun might appear, thus complicating matters considerably, but thankfully, he did not. Holmes kept to shadows and imperceptible, creeping motions. Finally, he emerged in the alley where the lookout leaned against the sagging wall of a tiny set of miserable flats. The detective made no sound. He was much taller than the other man, so when he was ready, he sprang forward and raised his arm. He had one chance for a blow before the man could begin to raise alarm, and he took it. The watchman fell with a thud, unconscious. The detective bent down and picked up the man’s gun.
Holmes stood still for a short time, forcing his breathing to return to normal rhythm, then rushed quickly back to the alley where Irene and Watson stood. “I thought I would faint with apprehension,” said The Woman, grasping his hand in the darkness and squeezing it. The uncharacteristic shakiness of her tone and extremity of her statement, as well as the unusual physical contact, made him realise that he had not been the only one with rapid breath and heartbeat during the escapade.
“Well done, Holmes,” Watson added, speaking low. His flatmate returned his revolver and kept the lookout’s weapon.
“We have now only to hope the man remains unconscious long enough for the plan to conclude,” answered the detective. Only moments before, he had hoped for more time, but he now looked towards the door of the inn and willed the American to walk through it.
In mere seconds, his wish was granted. The large wooden door began to creak on its hinges, and Holmes stepped forward, gun in hand. Irene was just behind him, and he heard her take out her own gun. Watson stood beside him, and the three waited as the door completed its rotation. Helen emerged first, then Keating, and finally - wonder of wonders - a man Holmes had never seen before, wearing a long grey coat with buttons that glinted in the moonlight.
“They’re after you, Roy!” Helen suddenly yelled. Fueled by pure instinct, Holmes ran towards the young man and jumped on him. The force of the collision knocked both to the ground, and Holmes heard the American’s gun fall from his hand and clatter away.
The detective was too much for Calhoun, who was slight of build and not physically strong. In a very short time, he had him lying flat, with a gun at his temple. The doctor quickly secured a gag made of his handkerchief and tied it around the man’s head, then went on to tying twine around his hands. “Very solid work, Watson,” said the detective with admiration.
Meanwhile, the innkeeper had come out of the Gloucester Arms because of the commotion. “Don’t worry, my good man,” said The Woman, handing him a fistful of coins. “There will be no more disturbances. I need only to look into the inn for one moment.” The man looked dubious, but the money
was generous, and he nodded.
With that, Holmes hauled the American to his feet, and he and Watson forced the man down the street to where the carriage was waiting. The doctor kept his gun trained on Keating and Helen, who reluctantly followed.
Within five minutes, Irene emerged from the inn, supporting Billy, who leaned on her shoulder. He appeared wan and weak, but otherwise unharmed.
“We must hurry,” said the detective as they approached the carriage. “The watchman will come to at any moment.” He did not speak to Billy, but he put a strong arm around the lad’s shoulder and helped him into the carriage with extreme gentleness.
“Do you intend to let the other man go?” The Woman asked.
“He is not the primary object of tonight’s raid,” said Holmes. “I think our friend Calhoun may be very willing to reveal the names of his associates when his life is at stake.” A series of grunts from the American revealed what he thought of this.
Trying to re-enter the carriage was a comically ridiculous business, but they finally ended up with Keating, Helen, and the doctor on one side, and the detective, Billy, and Irene on the other, with the bound American between the detective and his page. Holmes was glad he had secured a driver who was did frequent errands for Mycroft, for the strangeness of the proceedings seemed to bother him not at all. “Are you well?” the doctor asked Billy, concerned. “You are not hurt anywhere, are you?”
“No, Sir,” the young man answered in his usual way, as if he had done nothing more serious than taking an evening’s stroll. “They intended to kill me, but they had not yet decided on a sufficiently meaningful location at which to do so in order to show Mr Calhoun’s disdain of Mr Holmes.” He reported this in an immensely clinical way, of which the detective approved.
“I am glad to see you well,” he said, putting out his hand, which the younger man shook solidly.
“Thank you for your pains to find me,” he said simply.
