by Andrew Lane
“You weren’t there,” Mycroft said softly. “You couldn’t have done anything.”
“I should have been there,” Crowe said, just as softly. “So should have Al Pinkerton. In point of fact, the only bodyguard lookin’ after the president that night was a drunken policeman named John Frederick Parker. He weren’t even there when the President was shot. He was in the Star Tavern next door, drownin’ himself in ale.”
“I remember reading about it in Father’s newspaper,” Sherlock said, breaking the heavy silence that had descended in the room. “And I remember Father talking about it, but I never really understood why President Lincoln was killed.”
“That’s the trouble with schools these days,” Mycroft muttered. “As far as they are concerned, English history stops about a hundred years ago and there’s no such thing as world history.” He glanced at Crowe, but the American seemed reluctant to continue. “You are aware of the War Between the States, I presume?” he asked Sherlock.
“Only from the reports in The Times.”
“Simply put, eleven states in the southern half of the United States of America declared their independence and formed the Confederate States of America.” He snorted. “It’s as if Dorset, Devon, and Hampshire suddenly decided that they wanted to form a different country, and declared independence from Great Britain.”
“Or as if Ireland decided that it wanted to be independent of British rule,” Crowe murmured.
“That’s a different situation entirely,” Mycroft snapped. Turning his attention back to Sherlock, he continued: “For a while, there were two American presidents—Abraham Lincoln in the North and Jefferson Davis in the South.”
“Why did they want independence?” Sherlock asked.
“Why does anybody want independence?” Mycroft rejoined. “Because they don’t like taking orders. And in this case there was a difference in political views. The Southern states supported the concept of slavery, whereas Lincoln had run his election campaign based on halting the spread of slavery.”
“Not that simple,” Crowe said.
“It never is,” Mycroft agreed, “but it will do for the moment. The war began on April 12, 1861, and during the next four years 620,000 Americans died fighting one another—in some cases, brother against brother and father against son.” He seemed to shiver, and for a moment the light in the room grew darker as a cloud passed across the sun. “Gradually,” he continued, “the North, known as the Union of States, eroded the military power of the South, who were calling themselves the Confederacy of States. The most important Confederate general, Robert Lee, surrendered on the ninth of April 1865. It was as a direct result of hearing that news that John Wilkes Booth shot President Lincoln five days later. That was part of a larger plot—his confederates were supposed to kill the Secretary of State and the Vice President—but the second assassin failed in his task and the third lost his nerve and ran. The last Confederate general surrendered on June 23, 1865, and the last of their military forces—the crew of the CSS Shenandoah—surrendered on the sixth of November 1865.” He smiled, remembering something. “Ironically, they surrendered in Liverpool, England, having sailed across the Atlantic in an attempt to avoid having to surrender to the forces of the North. I was there, representing the British government. And that was the end of the War Between the States.”
“Except that it wasn’t,” Crowe said. “There’s still people in the South who want their independence. There’s still people agitatin’ for it.”
“Which brings us to now,” Mycroft said to Sherlock. “Booth’s co-conspirators were caught and hanged in July 1865. Booth himself fled, and was allegedly captured and shot by Union soldiers twelve days later.”
“‘Allegedly’?” Sherlock questioned, picking up on the slight emphasis in Mycroft’s words.
Mycroft glanced at Crowe. “During the past three years there have been repeated claims that Booth actually escaped his pursuers, and that it was another conspirator, one who looked like Booth, who was shot. It’s said that Booth changed his name to John St. Helen and fled America, in fear of his life. He was an actor, in his personal life.”
“And you think he’s here now?” Sherlock said. “In England?”
Mycroft nodded. “I received a telegram from the Pinkerton Agency yesterday. Their agents had heard that a man named John St. Helen who met the description of John Wilkes Booth had embarked from Japan to Great Britain. They asked me to alert Mr. Crowe, who they knew was in the country.” He glanced across at Crowe. “Allan Pinkerton believes that Booth arrived in England on board the CSS Shenandoah three years ago, stayed for a while, then moved abroad. Now they believe he’s back.”
“As I think I mentioned some time ago,” Crowe said to Sherlock, “I was asked to come to this country to track down those people who had fled America because they committed the most horrific crimes durin’ the War Between the States. Not killin’s of soldiers by soldiers, but massacres of civilians, burnin’s of towns, an’ all manner of godless acts. Since I’m here, it makes sense for Allan Pinkerton to want me to investigate this man John St. Helen.”
“Do you mind if I ask you,” Sherlock said to Crowe, “what side you were on in the War Between the States? You told me you came from Albuquerque. I looked it up on a map of America, here in my uncle’s library. Albuquerque is a town in the New Mexico territory, near Texas, which is a Southern state. Isn’t it?”
“It is,” Crowe acknowledged. “An’ Texas was part of the Confederacy durin’ the War. But just because I was born in Texas doesn’t mean I automatically support anythin’ they do. A man has the right to make his own decisions, based on a higher moral code.” He grimaced inadvertently. “I find slavery … distasteful. I don’t believe that one man is inferior to another man because of the colour of his skin. I may think that other things make a man inferior, includin’ his ability to think rationally, but not somethin’ as arbitrary as the colour of his skin.”
“Of course, the Confederacy would argue,” Mycroft said smoothly, “that the colour of a man’s skin is an indication of his ability to think rationally.”
“If you want to establish a man’s intelligence, you talk to him,” Crowe scoffed. “Skin colour ain’t got a thing to do with it. Some of the most intelligent men I’ve ever talked to have been black, and some of the stupidest have been white.”
“So you went to the Union?” Sherlock asked, eager to get back to Crowe’s fascinating and unexpected history.
Crowe glanced at Mycroft, who shook his head slightly. “Let’s just say I stayed in the Confederacy but I worked for the Union.”
“A spy?” Sherlock breathed.
“An agent,” Mycroft corrected quietly.
“Isn’t that … unethical?”
“Let’s not get into a discussion of ethics, otherwise we’ll be here all day. Let’s just accept that governments use agents all the time.”
Something that Mycroft had said finally percolated through Sherlock’s mind and sparked a response. “You said that the Pinkerton Agency asked you to tell Mr. Crowe about John St. Helen. That means”—he felt a wash of emotion flood across him—“that you didn’t come here to see me. You came to see him.”
“I came to see you both,” Mycroft said gently. “One of the defining characteristics of the adult world is that decisions are rarely made on the basis of one factor. Adults do things for several reasons at once. You need to understand that, Sherlock. Life is not a simple thing.”
“It should be,” Sherlock said rebelliously. “Things are either right or they are wrong.”
Mycroft smiled. “Don’t ever try for the diplomatic service,” he said.
Crowe shifted from foot to foot. He seemed uneasy to Sherlock. “Where does this St. Helen fellow live?” he asked.
Mycroft took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and consulted it. “He apparently has taken a house in Godalming, on the Guildford Road. The name of the house is”—he checked the paper again—“Shenandoah, which might
be indicative or might just be a coincidence.” He paused. “What do you intend doing?”
“Investigatin’,” Crowe said. “That’s why I’m here. Course, I’ll have to be particular about how I go about it. A big American like me is likely to be spotted pretty quickly.”
“Then be subtle,” Mycroft warned, “and please do not try to take justice onto yourself. There are laws in this country, and I would hate to see you hanged for murder.” He sniffed. “I dislike irony. I find it upsets my digestion.”
“I could help,” Sherlock said abruptly, surprising himself. The thought appeared to have gone straight from his brain to his mouth without engaging his reason.
The two men stared at him in surprise.
“Under no circumstances,” Mycroft said sternly.
“Absolutely not,” Crowe snapped, overlapping Mycroft’s words.
“But I can just ride into Godalming and ask questions,” Sherlock persisted. “Nobody will notice me. And haven’t I shown that I can do that kind of thing with the Baron Maupertuis business?”
“That was different,” Mycroft pointed out. “You became involved by accident, and most of the danger to you occurred while Mr. Crowe here was attempting to disentangle you.” He paused, considering. “Father would never forgive me if I let any harm come to you, Sherlock,” he said in a quieter voice.
Sherlock felt aggrieved at the description of his actions against Baron Maupertuis, which he felt ignored or distorted several important points, but he kept quiet. There was no point in starting an argument about things in the past when there was something more important on the table. “I wouldn’t do anything to draw attention to myself,” he protested. “And I can’t see how it would be dangerous.”
“If John St. Helen is John Wilkes Booth, then he’s a confirmed killer and a fugitive,” Crowe proclaimed, “who faces hangin’ if he returns—or is returned—to the United States. He’s like a cornered animal. If he thinks he’s under threat, then he’ll cover his tracks and vanish again, and I’d have to go after him. I’d hate to see you become one of the tracks that gets covered.”
“There is something else,” Mycroft murmured. He glanced at Crowe. “I don’t know to what extent the Pinkerton Agency have kept you apprised of the situation, but there is a growing belief that Booth and his collaborators were a part of something bigger.”
“Course they were,” Crowe rumbled. “It was called the War Between the States.”
“I meant,” Mycroft said heavily, “that the idea behind the assassination of President Lincoln didn’t come from them; that they were working under instructions, and that the guiding lights, if you like, are still at large. If Booth really is here in England then it’s possible he’s heading back to America, and if that is the case then one might well ask why? What is his aim?”
Crowe smiled. “If he’s headin’ back to America, then my job’s a lot easier. All I have to do is raise the alarm and get him arrested when he steps off the boat.”
“But wouldn’t it be preferable to establish his intentions first? Stopping him doesn’t necessarily stop the conspiracy.”
“If there is a conspiracy,” Crowe said, shaking his head.
Sherlock felt as if he was caught in the middle of a philosophical discussion. All he knew was that the informal tutor he’d got used to having in his life was faced with a problem that might call him back to his home country, or set him chasing this man all over the world. If Sherlock could do something to solve that problem, he would. He just wouldn’t tell Mycroft about it.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. “Go and ramble in the countryside, or whatever you do. We will talk for a while.”
“Come to my cottage tomorrow mornin’,” Crowe said, not even looking at Sherlock. “We’ll continue then.”
Sherlock slipped out while the two men were starting a conversation about the intricacies of extradition treaties between individual American states at the federal level and the British government.
Outside the sun was still a heavy presence in the sky. He could smell wood smoke and the distant malt odour of the breweries in Farnham.
Godalming couldn’t be that far away, could it? There was a Guildford Road leading out of it, which indicated it was somewhere near Guildford, and Guildford was somewhere near Farnham.
Matthew Arnatt would know.
Matthew—or Matty, as he liked to be called—was a boy Sherlock had come to know pretty well over the past month or two. He lived alone, on a narrowboat, moving between towns on the canals, stealing food where he had to and avoiding the workhouse. He’d settled down in Farnham for longer than he usually stayed in a town, although neither he nor Sherlock had spoken about the reasons why.
If Sherlock was going to head across to Godalming to take a look at this house named Shenandoah, and the man who lived there who might or might not be an assassin named John Wilkes Booth, then he wanted Matty on his side. Matty had saved his life a couple of times already. Sherlock trusted him.
He walked around the back of the house past the kitchens, across to the stables. The horses that he and Matty had taken from Baron Maupertuis’s manor house some weeks ago were both standing there, contentedly eating from a bag of hay. Sherlock hadn’t quite known what to do with them after the Baron’s colossal scheme fell apart, so he’d just asked the stable boys to look after them for him and slipped them a shilling. Nobody else seemed to notice that there were two extra horses hanging around the house. And, of course, he could go riding with Virginia. She was giving him lessons, and he was actually enjoying the fact that he could ride a horse properly.
Sherlock saddled up his horse and then, taking the reins of the other horse in his left hand, he trotted out into the open, leading the other horse after him. Having two horses rather than one to worry about made the ride slower, but he was still in Farnham within half an hour and heading for the spot on the river where Matty’s narrowboat was moored.
Matty was sitting on top of the boat, staring out at the river. He jumped up when he saw Sherlock.
“You’ve got the horses,” he said.
“I know,” Sherlock said. “Your powers of observation are amazing.”
“Shove off,” Matty said calmly. “I observe that you want me to come with you someplace. If that’s right, you don’t want to be too sarcastic.”
“Point taken,” Sherlock replied. “Sorry. I can’t help myself sometimes.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I thought you might want to have a ride out to Godalming,” Sherlock told him.
Matty squinted at Sherlock. “What would I want to do that for?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Sherlock replied.
The ride to Godalming took them up a gradual slope that went on for miles. The hill was actually the beginning of a ridge that led into the distance. It fell away to both sides, and the countryside spread out before them until it was lost in a haze of distant smoke.
Matty glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. “We go along the Hog’s Back for a while, then we come off downhill, through Gomshall. It’ll take an hour or so. You okay to keep going, or do you want to rest for a moment?”
“Let’s just admire the view for a minute or two,” Sherlock said. “Let the horses get their breath back.”
“The horses are fine,” Matty pointed out. “You’re not getting saddle-sore, are you?”
The rest of the ride was easier, taking them past fields and large areas of common ground where sheep and goats and pigs grazed side by side. As they came to the edges of Godalming they passed across a bridge over a narrow river lined with green reeds as tall as a man. Just over the bridge a road led off to the left.
“I think that’s the Guildford Road,” Matty said, pointing. “Which way do you want to go?”
“Let’s head out of town for a while,” Sherlock replied. “I’ve got a feeling the place I’m looking for is further out, more isolated.”
They rode along, slower this time so Sherlock could check out the houses as they passed. Matty seemed content just to look around, without asking Sherlock what they were doing.
Many of the houses weren’t named, or were smaller than Sherlock was expecting to find. After all, there was no point calling a place Shenandoah if it was a broken-down hovel, was there? A name, especially one that grand, implied something bigger, more substantial. A few of the houses had children playing outside, either with wooden tops and string or with leather balls. One or two of them waved as the boys trotted past.
Eventually they came to a house set apart from any other, not in its own grounds, but isolated by a bend in the road and a group of trees. From the road, Sherlock could see a wooden plate by the door. The word on it was long, and it might have begun with an “S.” Or it might not. Purple-flowering wisteria vines curled up the side of the building, clinging to any gap or projection they could find.
“Is this it?” Matty asked. “Shall we go and knock?”
“No,” Sherlock said. “Keep riding till we get past, then stop.”
The front of the house was whitewashed, and there were open shutters on the windows. The garden was well maintained, he noticed as they went by. Someone was obviously living there.
Once past the house, the boys slowed to a stop.
“You’re obviously looking the place over,” Matty said, “and you don’t want the bloke living there to know it. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Sherlock promised. “I need to get closer to the front door. Any ideas?”
“Walk up the path and knock?”
