Sherlock Holmes: The American Years

by Michael Kurland

  “Who are these witnesses?” Holmes asked carefully.

  “Two stagehands, and the professor was here. They saw it all and back up my story,” Diana said confidently.

  There didn’t seem to be much else to say. Holmes went to speak to the stagehands and they corroborated Diana’s story. He couldn’t find the professor; the man had apparently left right after speaking to the police. However, since he also corroborated Diana’s story, there seemed no pressing need to locate him.

  The affair, as far as the police were concerned, was ended. Bell and Holmes prepared for their return trip to England.

  The violin was played fast and furious in loud, frenzied improvisation; it spoke from behind the solid oak door with a fierce, burning passion. The sound stopped with his first knock, then she let him in.

  “I knew you’d come,” she said simply.

  “I had no idea you played the violin,” he began, watching her as she put the instrument down and then came over to him. “I have often thought of taking it up myself.”

  “You really should, Sherlock. I find it quite conducive to the thinking process, and it can be most relaxing,” she said with a smile, taking his hand in hers. She led him to a settee in the corner of her room at Mrs. Shay’s.

  “We leave first thing tomorrow morning, and I had to see you one last time,” he said softly.

  They sat down. She offered him tea. He declined with a wave of his hand. She said nothing else, but just looked at him.

  “What will happen now?” he asked.

  “You and Joseph will go back home and I shall continue my stage career here in New York,” she said simply.

  “I don’t mean that,” he said. “I mean between us?”

  “Sherlock, please don’t make this more difficult for me than it is. I’ve been through so much with Rupert. I really do like you. You’re smart and handsome and any woman would be lucky to have you.”

  The words hurt him savagely.

  He decided to try a different tack. “How much was Rupert Strickland worth?”

  “I don’t know for certain. Millions of dollars. He had substantial properties back home, gold mines in South Africa.”

  “Now it’s all yours.”

  “Yes, Rupert was the sole heir,” she explained. “As his wife I stand to inherit all holdings from his demise.”

  “Demise?” Holmes said curiously. “That’s an odd way to put it. You killed him.”

  She bristled, recovered quickly, “I had no choice.”

  “I’m sorry, ‘killed’ was a poor choice of words on my part,” Holmes said, and saw relief flicker in her eyes. “What I meant to say was that you murdered him.”

  Diana’s eyes shot wide with anger, even rage, but there was no fear. Then her face softened and she looked longingly at him. “Oh, Sherlock, how can you be so cruel. Don’t you want me to be happy after all I have been through?”

  “Tell me about the professor.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “What was his part in this?”

  Diana’s face clouded, her lips pursed for a moment, but she did not speak right away. Holmes knew she was deciding what to tell him, working it out in her mind, trying to gauge her response by determining just how much he knew. She laughed lightly, gaily. “I met him last year when he came here to lecture. Now he has returned and we have resumed our friendship.”

  “And you love him?”

  She nodded, then boldly added, “Yes, I do love him, and he loves me. You have no idea of the power of his mind and personality. He is a brilliant man.”

  “I could be brilliant for you, Diana,” Holmes heard himself say. “If you would only let me.”

  Diana smiled, apparently touched by the young man’s words. And while Holmes saw not a hint of mockery in her response, he saw no love there for him either. Then she looked away, hiding her face from him. He could not tell if she was crying . . . or laughing.

  Sherlock bowed his head in sadness.

  “I’m afraid it’s all done, Sherlock,” she resumed. “Go back home with my brother. Learn from him. He is a brilliant man, in his own way. I do hope you find in your life all that you seek and truly desire.”

  “As long as your brother doesn’t realize?” Holmes countered.

  “Realize what?” she asked carefully.

  Holmes smiled grimly. “You know.”

  “Sherlock, why do you doubt my word?”

  “It bothers me that you claim there were three men who came into your dressing room when Rupert pulled the gun out. You said they knocked the gun from his hand, yet three men could not restrain him from attacking you? Come now! Tell me the truth.”

  Diana merely shrugged, then laughed gaily, “Well then, you do have an eye for detail. So you want the truth? You mean the truth of the plan to steal the Strickland millions? Oh, don’t look so shocked, Sherlock, I have no worry about admitting it to you. You’re nobody of consequence. I can tell you all, if I so desire. I know you suspected as much.”

  “Yes, but I simply could not believe it . . . of you,” he said sadly.

  She smiled, victorious. “That is because you did not want to believe it, Sherlock. And I counted on that.”

  He nodded, inwardly hurt but angry now with her—and himself.

  “I can read you, Sherlock, I can read you like a book. It does not matter now. I can freely admit it before you, and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it. If you bring it to the authorities, I shall deny everything. You have no proof, while I have witnesses. No one can change the outcome. Not now.”

  “Tell me the truth then. What happened in your dressing room?”

  “Silly boy, I’m afraid I played poor Rupert from the very beginning. Rupert thought we were finally going to reconcile. We did. The professor and his men brought him to me, and I shot him dead. You should have seen the surprise on poor Rupert’s face!” She laughed at the memory.

  Holmes said nothing, his mind a cauldron of conflicting emotions.

  “Oh, Sherlock, don’t look so shocked. You really were out of your depth here. I played you and my brother just as I played poor Rupert. It is over now. Much like you, Joseph could never believe anything evil of me, the dear man. And you, Sherlock? You thought to win my affections.” She laughed bitterly, and her harsh reaction cut him like a knife. “I have a far better man than you could ever be. A man who understands me completely unto the very depth of my soul.”

  “If you have one,” Holmes countered.

  “Oh, bitter boy! You are just like all men, wanting what you can never have, and angry when you cannot have it!” She laughed wildly. “You were used, Sherlock Holmes! Admit it, I played your emotions like I played that violin!”

  Holmes was shocked by the length and breadth of her boldness, of her evil.

  “And I know you will not say one word to anyone about it—especially my dear brother Joseph. I’ve seen the way you look at him, how you admire, even worship him.” Diana’s confidence overflowed. “Should you ever tell him the truth about me and what I have done, I am sure he would never believe you.”

  Holmes remained quiet, thoughtful. A small but growing part of him was analyzing her words carefully and finding the entire situation most instructive, even as he felt a pain and hurt the depths of which he had never experienced before.

  “And if Joseph somehow did believe you,” she added, “I can assure you the news would kill him as clearly as I killed poor Rupert.”

  Holmes let her words flow over him.

  She smiled demurely, “You see, Joseph is a good and loving brother and I knew he would be all for me, and then welcome me when I came back home to claim my fortune.”

  “You plan to return to England?” Holmes asked, surprised now.

  “Some day, the professor and I will return to take charge of the Strickland holdings,” she said simply. “He has some ideas about developing a certain organization and the Strickland wealth will prove most useful in that endeavor.”
<
br />   “How could you, Diana!”

  She laughed uncontrollably at his words. “Oh, callow youth, you are priceless! Now, Sherlock, you must take your leave of me. Hurry, please! For my own true love will be here soon and I do not want to keep him waiting. Do have a safe journey back to England.”

  PART IV: Baker Street, October 1911

  “Well, Holmes?” Watson blurted impatiently. “You can’t just stop there! What happened?”

  “What do you think happened, old friend?”

  Watson sat silent for a moment, thinking it through. “Oh my God, so you told him! You told Doctor Bell all about his sister and how she had planned the murder of her husband?”

  “Yes,” Holmes admitted. “I had to. We were companions, friends. I admired him greatly. I still do, John.”

  Watson cleared his throat nervously, “I imagine he did not take it well.”

  “You are correct,” Holmes replied. “I told him that first night, when our ship left New York. He would not believe one word of it. He said it was all because I was infatuated with Diana, angry with her because she had spurned my advances.”

  Holmes gave a rueful smile as he took something out of the pocket of his dressing gown.

  “I say, Holmes, what have you there? A letter?”

  “Would you be a good fellow, John, and read it out loud.”

  Holmes passed the envelope to his friend, who took it in hand most carefully.

  “I was given it by Mrs. Abernathy, the charwoman, when I went up north last week to close Dr. Bell’s house. There I also saw to the doctor’s burial and provided a proper headstone for his grave,” Holmes explained. “I have held the letter unopened since then.”

  Watson looked astonished. “But how could you not read it immediately? If it were I, I should . . .”

  Holmes nodded. “I know, but I feared what I might find written therein. Open it, Watson. It is time.”

  Watson nodded, slit open the envelope with Holmes’s own dagger, and then withdrew the contents. There was just one sheet of bond writing paper, which he unfolded nervously.

  “Well, read it,” Holmes prompted impatiently.

  “Of course,” Watson replied. After clearing his throat, he began:

  Dear Sherlock,

  I am quite cross as I write this letter, though not with you, old friend, but with my own self. We have been at odds and loathe to speak these past forty years, the fault of which I put squarely upon my own shoulders. I acted abominably to you and I hope you can forgive me.

  Emotions not only skew judgment, they can ruin friendships. I want you to know I have never held you far from my thoughts. The truth is I have followed your career, every case, all these many years with great interest and much satisfaction. I have rejoiced with your every success, particularly against that evil fellow who so deservedly went over the falls. My only regret in that matter, as I know you agree, was the result it inflicted upon my sister, Diana.

  There, I have mentioned her name. No longer should her evil deeds be a barrier between us. I tell you now that you were correct about her all along. It is sometimes difficult for an old Scot to admit the errors of his ways. We tend to carry those mistakes with us too long in life and even to the grave. I pray this letter in some small way can set things right between us.

  Sherlock, I am proud of the man you have become. I am proud to have known you and call you friend. I remember with great fondness our American adventure. I have followed your life and career, albeit from afar, and tell you now in all honesty and profound respect: well done, Sherlock Holmes! Very well done indeed!

  Watson saw a great softness come to the face of Sherlock Holmes. One lone tear, then another, rolled down his cheek, but once he saw Holmes smile, the doctor knew they were not tears of sadness but tears of joy.

  Watson wiped a tear from his own eye before he continued. “It is of course signed, ‘I remain your most devoted servant, Dr. Joseph Bell, Edinburgh.’ ”

  Holmes smiled brightly, looking much relieved. “How I feared what that letter might say.”

  The two men sat silent, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

  Having exhausted the myriad delights of Hartford, Connecticut, Mr. Mallory moves Holmes on to the Baghdad of New England: Bridgeport. And introduces us to a true American original.

  * * *

  THE SACRED

  WHITE ELEPHANT

  OF MANDALAY

  by

  MICHAEL MALLORY

  When my traveling companion arrived back at our tiny and rather dusty room at the New York boardinghouse, I could read nothing from his expression. “Well, Holmes, how did it go?” I asked.

  “My E-flat did not soar as highly as I would have liked, but I did nothing to disgrace myself,” he replied. “The fact that one of my adjudicators was positioning his head in such a way as to indicate he was slightly deaf in his right ear may work to my advantage.”

  I had by this time become accustomed to such pronouncements from Sherlock Holmes, who tended to observe people the way Babylonian astronomers observed the heavens, and then deliver astounding conclusions based upon what he saw. Although no more than three years above my own age of twenty-one, Holmes nonetheless managed to carry himself as though he had walked the earth for decades and had acquired the wisdom of the ages as a result.

  He had come to New York at the invitation of the newly formed Symphony Society of New York, which, having been apprised of his virtuosity on the violin from his Austrian fiddle master back home (a man whose name I could not begin to pronounce), had asked him to audition. My presence on the trip was twofold: I was helping Holmes share the not inconsiderable expenses of an ocean voyage from England while at the same time satisfying my long-held curiosity about the biggest city in America.

  Holmes set his violin case down on the room’s one chair and rested himself on one of the beds, which groaned in protest. “This is the most taxing part of all, Stamford, doing nothing but waiting to hear their decision.”

  I knew from the experience of our sea voyage that boredom was anathema to my companion, and I did not savor the thought of seeing him through the waiting period. I attempted to think of some way to distract him during it, but as luck would have it, he found one on his own.

  Holmes had gone out to purchase a local newspaper, leaving me in the room (for better or worse, I have never considered idleness an enemy). Upon his return, he fairly burst into the room, the newspaper held open in front of him. “Listen to this, Stamford,” he said. “It says, ‘A very rare white elephant will be placed on public display in Bridgeport the morning of Thursday, May ninth, at the Went Field site of Mr. P. T. Barnum’s circus storage compound.’ ”

  “The P. T. Barnum?” I asked.

  “It is unlikely there is a surfeit of them,” he said, then continued his reading:

  Mr. Barnum is taking the unusual step of publicly exhibiting the creature free of charge to the customer, between the hours of ten o’clock and eleven o’clock. The elephant, upon which the name “Xanthippe” has been bestowed, after the wife of Socrates, is a gift to the Sovereign of the Independent Kingdom of Upper Burma, and almost immediately after its display here it will be transported across the ocean to Mandalay. White elephants such as this one are extremely rare in nature, so much so that they are considered legendary and even sacred in many countries of the Orient.

  Well, Stamford, what do you think of that?”

  “Sounds like a white elephant, if you ask me,” I told him.

  Holmes did not laugh. “I think it sounds like something definitely worth investigating,” he countered, “particularly since the public showing is tomorrow and we have nothing else on our social calendar.”

  “You mean you want to see this creature? Where is Bridgeville?”

  “Bridgeport. It is a town in Connecticut, and I believe it is easily accessible by train.”

  I knew that seeing such a rarity as a sacred white elephant is precisely the sort of thing in which Holmes reveled, so I a
cquiesced.

  The next morning I found myself accompanying Sherlock Holmes on the early (too early, in my opinion) train for Bridgeport, Connecticut. Holmes spent the journey poring over more American newspapers, while I simply watched the scenery go by. I was particularly amused when the train stopped at a town called Stamford and fought the desire to leap off the train and engage a local photographer to take a picture of me standing under the station sign, which I could then send to my father as proof that I was, despite his worst fears, making my way in the world.

  True to its name, Bridgeport was a seaport of sorts, situated along both a sound and a river, nowhere near as large and bustling as New York, but still an active town. My fondest wish as we detrained was that we could find a place that served breakfast, for I was quite famished, but after a quick glance at his watch, Holmes proclaimed there was not enough time. While he was querying the stationmaster as to the location of P. T. Barnum’s compound and the elephant exhibition, however, I spotted a nearby small café with a quasi-Parisian atmosphere, where I was able to obtain a baguette and a piece of cheese.

  I nibbled on the bread and cheese as we walked through the city, following the directions, and on the way I noticed that Holmes appeared unusually interested in the windows of the stores we passed. “Shopping?” I asked.

  “Hardly,” he replied, examining the window. “The goods on display are of little concern to me, unlike the man across who is reflected in the glass. When we walk, he walks. When we stop, he stops. Clearly, we are being followed. I am merely trying to ascertain why.”

  “Followed?”

  “Do not look at him, Stamford,” Holmes cautioned. “Whatever his game is, it is best that he not realize we are on to him. Let us continue walking.”

  We continued our trek to Went Field, which was on the outskirts of the town. It held a series of large, flat-roofed buildings that were certainly big enough to house an entire circus. An assembly of people was already gathering, directed to the largest of the buildings by a series of roughly painted signs that read, This Way to the Sacred White Elephant. We took our place in the line, but before we could actually enter the building, a voice behind us called: “Holmes!”