Sherlock Holmes: The American Years

by Michael Kurland

  “Hello!” Kitty said brightly. Her blond hair bounced in tight ringlets around her face, and her blue eyes were cheerful as spring daisies. “Oh,” she said, peering around my shoulder to spot Holmes. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you had company!”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Please come in.”

  “Hello, Mr. Helms,” Kitty said.

  “Holmes,” I corrected.

  “Yes, yes—I am sorry, Mr. Holmes!” Kitty corrected herself, blushing prettily.

  “This is Kitty Trimble,” I said to Holmes.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said graciously.

  She gave a little curtsy in response; she came from the slums of the Lower East Side, and was forever at pains to behave like a lady. As she entered the room, her fluffy white terrier, Prince, trailed behind her, his sharp little eyes just visible under the shaggy fur on his head. When he saw Holmes, he gave a high, piercing bark, wagging his stub of a tail.

  “Stop it, Princey!” Kitty cried, picking him up and cradling him in her plump white arms.

  “Your dog does not appear to like me,” Holmes commented.

  “Oh, no—he does!” Kitty protested. “He only barks at people he likes.”

  “Curious,” said Holmes. “He wouldn’t be much use as a watchdog.”

  Kitty erupted in peals of silvery laughter. “He’s not a watchdog, silly! Did you hear that, Princey? Mr. Holmes thinks you’re a watchdog.”

  She hugged the dog close to her lilac-scented bosom and fluttered her eyelashes at us. I mused that she would be more attractive if she didn’t overplay her hand; as for Holmes, he seemed immune to her charms.

  “What can I do for you, Kitty?” I asked.

  “I was just wondering if perhaps it might be a good idea to have more of the members of the court onstage for the final scene,” she said, putting the dog back down and twirling a lock of golden hair between her dainty fingers. “It would heighten the tension to have more spectators onstage.”

  I smiled. Kitty was always anxious to spend more time onstage.

  “You may be right,” I replied, and her already pink cheeks reddened even more.

  “Thank you for the idea,” I continued, ushering her to the door.

  “You’re welcome,” she said with a charming smile. “Goodbye,” she called to Holmes. “Welcome to the company!”

  “Thank you very much,” he replied.

  With a rustle of skirts and a flash of yellow hair, she turned, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume, her little dog trotting obediently after her.

  “A very cheerful young woman,” Holmes remarked dryly when she had gone. “And a very ambitious one.”

  I stared at him. “You don’t suspect—”

  He smiled grimly. “My dear Booth, I suspect everyone.”

  “But surely—” I began, reddening.

  “Your gallantry toward the fairer sex does you credit, but one of the most charming women I ever knew drowned all three of her children in a bathtub.”

  I shuddered.

  “Really, Holmes, I am not sure I would care to have your perspective on humanity.”

  “I can quite understand that,” he replied evenly. “However, if one wants to engage in solving crimes, one must not shy away from the truth.”

  I was just about to turn my attention to a platter of cold roast beef that had been delivered to my dressing room when the bell rang to resume rehearsal. Disappointed, I gazed longingly at the beef for a moment before we hurried off to the stage.

  We were approaching the gravediggers scene when I realized I had left Yorick’s skull in my dressing room. I hurried back to retrieve it, hoping to grab a piece of roast beef before returning.

  The door was ajar, and when I opened it, I saw Kitty’s little dog Prince lying on the floor, unnaturally still. I knelt beside him; he did not appear to be breathing. I felt for a pulse but could find none. There was white foam clinging to the corner of his mouth. I also saw that a chunk had been bitten from the thick slice of roast beef on the table.

  My head began to spin and my knees suddenly went weak. I realized immediately what had happened: the poisoned meat was meant for me. Taking several deep breaths in an attempt to steady my nerves, I leaned against the dressing room wall and ran a hand across my clammy forehead; I had broken out into a cold sweat.

  There was a quick, light knock at the door. I hesitated for a moment.

  “Who is it?”

  “Holmes.”

  Relief flooding my veins, I opened the door to admit him to the room. He took one look at the poor dog and grasped the situation immediately.

  “Dear me,” he said, frowning. “This is very bad indeed.”

  “What should we do?”

  “We must remove the dog from here immediately—the killer must not know we are on to him.”

  “Poor Kitty,” I said as we lifted the small, lifeless body.

  “Yes; it will go hard with her when she discovers him in her dressing room.”

  “But shouldn’t we tell her—”

  Holmes shook his head. “It is most regrettable, but also vital that the dog appear to have died of natural causes.”

  We took the poor creature down the hall to the dressing room Kitty shared with the other ladies-in-waiting, and left him next to her chair. I felt my throat thicken as we closed the door behind us, and my forehead burned with shame at the ruse we were perpetrating on poor Kitty.

  “And now?” I said.

  “Now we return to rehearsal as though nothing happened.”

  And so we did.

  We had just begun Act II when a bloodcurdling wail came from the direction of the dressing rooms. Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened, horrified. It was a woman’s voice, and the chilling sound made my skin prick out all over in goose bumps.

  Of course, I knew only too well who it was, and why she was crying. Moments later one of the other young actresses, Carolyn Maloney, rushed into the room, tears streaming down her face.

  “It’s Kitty!” she wailed. “Her poor little Prince is dead!”

  Moments later Kitty appeared, carrying the inert body of her pet dog, her pretty face swollen from crying. I admit my own eyes did not remain entirely dry—the sight was so piteous that I doubt if any of us were unmoved by it.

  Kitty was petted and hugged and made much fuss over, but she was inconsolable. No one was more solicitous than young Nate Carlisle, who took her hand in his and, with a trembling voice, expressed his sincere regret. When Kitty wouldn’t stop crying, he looked beseechingly at the rest of us.

  “You can always get another dog,” he suggested hopefully.

  “I don’t want another dog!” she wailed. “I want my Princey!”

  Poor Nate looked miserable, as if he was about to cry himself, and I decided to save him by calling everyone back to rehearsal. It would have been nice to take the rest of the day off, but we were scheduled to open in a week.

  Kitty struggled bravely through rehearsal, but it was clear that the death of her beloved Prince had devastated her. The shock of grief was stamped on her face—her lower lip trembled during the queen’s speech about Ophelia’s death, and she shed real tears during my death scene at the end of the play. If she were only able to summon up such real emotion consistently onstage, she might have been a principal player instead of a lady-in-waiting.

  Finally rehearsal was over, and I was waiting in the lobby for Holmes to join me when I saw Joseph Jefferson hurrying toward me. I had known Joe since my days in California. He had agreed to play the small but key role of the First Gravedigger in our production. It was a role he had played many times before, and he was always an audience favorite. The repartee between Hamlet and the First Gravedigger is some of Shakespeare’s wittiest; one mark of his genius is his ability to relieve the mounting tension of the tragedy with this brief comic scene.

  “I say, wait up for a moment!” Jefferson panted, running after me on spindly, storklike legs. A long black greatcoat hung
off his lean, slightly bowed back, and with his coarse black hair and piercing dark eyes, he reminded me of a bird of prey—a crow, perhaps, or a raven.

  “Edmund, my boy,” he said, catching up with me, “I have something for you.” It was one of his little jokes to call me Edmund, which was the name of the evil bastard son in King Lear.

  He fished a slip of paper from his pocket and thrust it at me. “Geoff Simmons gave this to me to give to you.”

  “Very well—thank you, Joseph,” I replied, putting the note in my pocket.

  “Don’t mention it.” He began to leave, then turned back to me, his black eyebrows furrowed. “I say, old man, is everything all right?”

  “Yes, perfectly—why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason, I suppose . . . it’s just that you look a bit—well, forgive me, but distracted, I suppose.” He leaned closer to me, and I could see the yellow in his eyes. “I say, it’s not your wife, is it? Taken a turn for the worse, has she?”

  It was Joe Jefferson who had first introduced me to Mary Devlin, my beloved first wife, and I always thought he found my current wife a poor substitute.

  “No, no—she’s much the same,” I answered.

  “Poor thing,” he clucked, his eyes crinkling sympathetically. “Madness runs in that family,” he added, with a conspiratorial nod.

  “Yes, well, I must be off,” I said, buttoning my coat.

  “Do take care, won’t you?” he said earnestly.

  “Yes,” I replied, thinking his comment somewhat odd.

  “Right, then, old man—see you tomorrow.”

  With that he loped off into the night, his greatcoat flapping around his ankles like the wings of a giant black bird.

  As I stood watching him, I was suddenly aware that someone was behind me. I turned to see Holmes standing there silently, arms folded, looking after Jefferson.

  “Curious man,” he said when I turned around.

  “How do you mean?” I was both fascinated and irritated with Holmes’s ability to pluck observations out of thin air. “What do you know of him?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” he answered airily, “other than he owns a Springer spaniel of advanced years, is overly fond of coffee, and is quite the amateur gardener. He is keen on roses in particular, I should think.”

  I stared at him.

  “Really, Holmes, how on earth—?”

  “Do not distress yourself, my dear Booth,” he replied. “That he owns a dog is evident from the short, curly hairs clinging to his trousers. That it is a medium-sized dog is evident from the fact that the hairs are found only as far up as his knees. As the hairs are both black and gray and curly, the most obvious choice would be a spaniel, probably a Springer, which is a very popular breed just now.”

  “But the age of the dog—”

  He smiled. “There I confess I was surmising. A man his age does not get a young dog—in fact, if he has a dog at all, it is likely to be as advanced in years as he is. That and a preponderance of the gray hairs led to my conclusion.”

  “And the rest of your conclusions? The coffee drinking, for example?”

  “My dear Booth, one of the first things I noticed was the color of his teeth—and few things except tobacco can stain the teeth quite that shade of gray. However, as he has not a whiff of smoke about his clothing or his person, I discounted that conclusion and surmised that he is overly fond of coffee.”

  “And the gardening?”

  “Again, simple observation. He is impeccably groomed, and yet his fingernails are ragged and somewhat dirty. That and the ruddy glow of his cheeks leads me to believe he spends time among his flowers—and the scratches on his hands lead me to the conclusion that he is particularly fond of roses, which, as poets have oft noted, are not without their thorns. Are you satisfied now?”

  “Oh, very well!” I said. I’m afraid I sounded a bit exasperated, which was not my intent, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’m satisfied, but you have to admit it’s a bit . . . well, irritating.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps. But just as a man who wishes to improve his bodily strength must do his exercises, so I must exercise my brain. May I ask what you were conversing about just now?”

  “He had a note to give me from Geoff Simmons.”

  “Oh? May I inquire what was in it?”

  “I haven’t read it yet,” I said, fishing it out of my pocket. I glanced at it quickly—it was written on the back of one of our programs for Hamlet. I handed it to Holmes, who read it aloud.

  “ ‘My dear Edwin, would you kindly meet me tomorrow after rehearsal in the grill room of the Players? I may have something of import to tell you. Geoff Simmons.’ ”

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  “It’s very curious,” he murmured, handing it back to me. “Observe the wording: I may have something of import to tell you—it suggests that he does not yet know whether he will or not.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  “Furthermore, it is written hurriedly, on the back of a program—almost as though he did not plan to write it, but suddenly had the need, and grabbed whatever was to hand at the time.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “Also, why not request a meeting with you tonight instead of tomorrow?”

  “Presumably because of his appointment.”

  “Indeed. The whole thing is very mysterious, and I don’t like it.”

  We left the theatre, heading northeast toward the Players, starting up Fifth Avenue, then winding east through side streets, past stalls of booksellers and greengrocers. We walked for a while in silence, breathing in the early spring air; the cold snap of the previous week had lifted, and the air was suddenly heavy with the smell of cherry blossoms. We wandered uptown through the gaily decorated theatre district as carriages careened past us, bouncing briskly down Broadway.

  It was late when we arrived at the Players, and the grill room was about to close. However, an exception was made for me. We ordered lamb chops and roast potatoes, and though I normally am very fond of lamb, I didn’t have much appetite. I was silent all throughout dinner, and only when Hector brought us our coffee and brandy in front of the fire did I finally give voice to the thoughts I had been nursing all night.

  “Do you believe in fate, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It depends upon what you mean by fate.”

  “Do you have a brother?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And what is he like?”

  “Completely unlike me in certain ways, but in others very much like me indeed.”

  “How so?”

  A faint smile flickered across his thin lips.

  “We are both of an intellectual turn of mind . . . in fact, his intellect is probably superior to mine.”

  “Really? He must be quite impressive. And how are you different?”

  Holmes’s dark eyes searched my face for a moment, then he lowered them and shook his head.

  “Except for a certain . . . aversion to our fellow man, our temperaments could not be more distinct. Whereas I am all nervous energy, kinetic and restless, my brother is a sloth of a man. You may perhaps have remarked upon my rather pronounced leanness.”

  It was my turn to smile. “That would be difficult not to notice.”

  “Well, my brother is my exact physical opposite. If you saw the two of us together you would not believe we were related—except perhaps for a certain resemblance around the eyes. I am convinced that nothing would please him more than to live the rest of his life seated in his armchair at his club, moving only to turn the pages of a newspaper or order another brandy.”

  I nodded. “Yes, it is quite astonishing how far apples can fall from the same tree.”

  Holmes nodded but did not reply. A silence fell between us, heavy with the unasked question.

  “And your brother, Mr. Booth?” Holmes said at last, his voice gentle.

  “My brother,” I began slowly, as if by delaying the words I could somehow delay the though
t of those terrible days, “my brother John was very like me in some ways—and completely different in others.”

  “He was a gifted actor, I hear.”

  “Oh, yes—and handsome too. All the ladies were in love with him.”

  “It is hard to imagine one whom Nature has provided with so much being driven to such desperate extremes,” Holmes replied, then his voice softened. “This must be difficult for you. My apologies if you feel I am prying into matters you would rather not discuss.”

  I shook my head and lit a cigar. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Holmes, but my sister Asia insists it does me good to talk about it.”

  “Perhaps,” Holmes murmured. “There are more things in heaven and earth . . .”

  “My poor brother bore within him a darkness—a hunger, if you will—that was never completely satisfied by what other men would have deemed profuse blessings. Youth, talent, beauty of form and face, a family name of honor and renown . . . all of these gifts were bestowed upon young Johnny, and yet he was possessed of a dissatisfaction with life the rest of us could never understand. He identified always with the South, even though everyone else in our family considered ourselves Northerners. None of us fought in the war, but Johnny seemed determined to rail against the North whenever the chance arose. Then, when victory came to the Union forces, he seemed to come apart in some way. But upon my soul, Mr. Holmes, I will never to this day understand what evil force propelled him into such a desperate and despicable act!”

  “Can you not, Mr. Booth?” he replied softly. “You yourself have been considered the preeminent actor in this country for most of your career, the sole inheritor of your father’s mantle of greatness.”

  “Perhaps, but Johnny was—”

  “Your younger brother, never destined to reach your heights—or so he must have believed.”

  “But he had fame, and the adoration of women wherever he went.”

  “But you had the respect and adulation of your peers, the press, and everyone who truly mattered in his eyes. I believe your brother realized he would never be the great tragedian that you are—and having come of age in your shadow, he craved attention more than virtue or honor.”