The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  I might add that my literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle, who knows a thing or two about successful publishing, has always encouraged me to promote the American angle.

  “It’s good for business, Watson,” he constantly reminds me. “Sprinkling your adventures with Americans broadens the market.” How else to interpret Sir Arthur’s delight upon meeting William Gillette, the American actor famous for depicting Holmes on stage, and who at the time of the encounter was fully dressed in ear-flapped travelling cap and long grey coat?

  According to the reports, Gillette approached Sir Arthur with magnifying glass in hand, and after examining him closely, proclaimed, “Unquestionably an author!”

  Though I myself could never see the resemblance, it was the American Gillette who popularized for the entire world the inaccurate notion that Holmes smoked a calabash pipe and always donned a deerstalker.

  And yet, in spite of the hyperbole surrounding such American influences, I continue to marvel at the large number of Holmes’s investigations that truly did have connections to the United States. After all, with so many English trappings associated with the man - the Baker Street address, the London backdrop, Bradshaw’s Railway Guide (not to mention his generally stoic nature) - it is difficult to imagine a figure that more fully epitomises the British character than does Sherlock Holmes.

  One need only glance at some of our most celebrated adventures, however, to discover just how much of Holmes’s career depended upon cases linked to the States. These include (to name but a few): “The Noble Bachelor”, featuring the ill-fated marriage of Hattie Doran from San Francisco; “The Problem of Thor Bridge”, dealing with a former American Senator; and “The Dancing Men”, involving the peculiar stick-figure code employed by American gangsters. Two cases, “The Five Orange Pips” and “The Yellow Face”, suggested the pernicious effects of Southern prejudice, and Holmes himself assumed the persona of an England-hating Irish-American before the onset of the Great War. And one must not forget two other cases, “The Red Circle” and The Valley of Fear, that brought within Holmes’s professional circle Agents Leverton and Edwards, a pair of investigators from Pinkerton, the renowned American detective agency.

  There is, however, a hitherto unknown investigation linked to this same Birdy Edwards that involves yet a third Pinkerton operator. Though much less dramatic than Edwards’ clandestine work in Pennsylvania’s Vermissa Valley, equally significant was the simple act he performed in referring a colleague to our Baker Street rooms.

  In point of fact, it was this innocent recommendation that led to the conclusion of a political drama containing one of the most cold-blooded operations Holmes ever undertook. The less charitable among us might even say that the adventure I publish here for the first time lays at the feet of the world’s first consulting detective the indisputable charge of premeditated murder.

  * * *

  The origins of the ugly business occurred in the middle of a wintry morning in late February of 1900. Holmes and I sat warming ourselves by the fire when Billy the page brought to our rooms a tall, thin, clean-shaven gentleman who seemed to be in his mid-thirties. He wore a long black coat over a dark suit, bowstring tie, and stovepipe trousers. Square-toed Western boots peeked out at the cuff, and his left hand was holding what appeared to be a dark-brown, wide-brimmed Stetson hat with a flattened crown. One did not need to hear him speak to conclude that yet another American was about to make his presence known.

  “Wyatt Steele, Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor, extending his hand. “I’m a Pinkerton agent.” His flat intonations confirmed his provenance.

  Holmes offered his own hand and then introduced me.

  “Glad to meet you, Dr. Watson,” said Steele, gripping my hand with an air of confidence. I must admit that with his strong square jawline, he cut quite a figure, every bit the straight-backed American that the Pinkertons were famous for hiring.

  “I know it was a few years ago, Mr. Holmes,” he went on, “but if you recall my old pal Birdy Edwards, it was he who said to look you up if I ever needed help in London. He wrote a quick note to me before he vacated Birlstone Manor. It was right after you investigated a murder there. He didn’t sign the letter, but I knew it was from Birdy all the same.”

  Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I do indeed remember Mr. Edwards, a fearless Irishman with a singular mind. Lost at sea a few years back - or so the story runs - another victim of the late and unlamented Professor Moriarty.” The smile waned as he contemplated the destructive power of his former enemy.

  “Hold on,” said Steele, raising his hat as a kind of stop-sign, “I had no intention of setting off so dark a mood. To tell you the truth,” he announced, “I’m actually here on Pinkerton business.”

  Holmes took the man’s hat and coat and hung them on a peg near the still-open door. Then, indicating to our guest a cushioned chair near the fire, he proceeded to shout down the stairwell at the pageboy. “Billy!” he cried. “Ask Mrs. Hudson to send up tea - on second thought, make it coffee in honour of our American friend.”

  I heard a murmur of what sounded like assent from below before Holmes closed the door and joined me in his own armchair opposite our guest.

  “Now, Mr. Steele,” said Holmes, “pray, tell us what sort of Pinkerton business has caused you to seek me out on so miserable a day. Other than the assassination of Kentucky’s governor a few weeks ago, I recall no other recent crimes in America that would have sent you all this way.”

  Steele’s mouth gaped wide. For a moment, the calm and cool Pinkerton agent seemed to have lost his composure. “Wh - how? How did you know?” he stammered.

  I shared his amazement. Holmes’s words were the first I had heard of any such affair.

  “The newspapers provide all sorts of information,” he said with the wave of his hand. “And when it comes to more vital issues of state, my brother Mycroft also keeps me informed.”

  “However you’ve come by the news, Mr. Holmes, you’re quite correct. I am indeed on the trail of the killer of William Goebel, the governor of Kentucky. He was shot in Frankfort, the state’s capital, and I have good reason to believe his assassin has come to London. But then you seem to know all this already.”

  “I make it my business to keep abreast of a variety of crimes, Mr. Steele, though I must confess that political assassinations generally fail to interest me. They’re too prosaic. One politician doesn’t like another and - Bang!” Holmes pointed his long index finger like a gun at Steele and pretended to fire. “Motives are obvious, and means are generally unimaginative. Not much to hold my attention, I’m afraid. This case, however, features some curious echoes.”

  I had participated in most of Holmes’s investigations, yet I remained at a loss regarding the so-called “echoes” to which he alluded.

  “Allow me to tell you what I know about the case,” offered Steele. “Perhaps we might then combine our knowledge and reach some sort of conclusion. It’s the sort of thing Birdy said you were so good at.”

  Just then Mrs. Hudson arrived with Billy in tow. He was holding a tray with her silver service and a few biscuits neatly arranged on a large plate. Mrs. Hudson herself placed the fixings on the low table near our guest, filled our cups, observed that all was in order, and finally - with a brief dip of her head - fairly pushed Billy out the door ahead of her.

  Whilst we listened to the two of them thumping down the stairs, Holmes leaned forward to sample the coffee. Finding it to his satisfaction, he placed his cup back on its saucer and turned to our guest. “Now, Mr. Steele, pray tell us about this unfortunate William Goebel. What had he done to bring his death upon him, and, for that matter, what is there about his murder that is mysterious enough to have engaged the likes of the Pinkertons?”

  As if to fortify himself, the American drank some of his coffee. Thus prepared, he began his tale. “First, one must understand William Goebel the man
. Ironically for a politician, he wasn’t a particularly likeable fellow - at least, according to those who knew him. Besides his brothers and sister, he seemed to have few friends. There was no woman in his life and, while he advocated reforms for working people, most folks believed that it was their votes he sought rather than their true well-being.”

  I grunted in agreement. I could name many a duplicitous politician in England who fit the same bill.

  “Nor was Goebel much of a speaker. I’d actually been to one of his political rallies when I was travelling through Frankfort. Oh, he’d go through the motions, but his words didn’t soar. You’d have to turn elsewhere - to someone like William Jennings Bryan, who had, in fact, campaigned for him - if you wanted to get your blood flowing. His looks weren’t much to speak of either. He had a pale skin, narrow eyes, and plastered-down black hair. To tell the truth, there was something reptilian about him.”

  Holmes and I exchanged glances. I knew that we were harbouring the same suspicions. The only person I had ever heard Holmes call “reptilian” was the cold-blooded Moriarty himself.

  “And yet,” continued the American, “despite such obstacles, Goebel successfully climbed the political ladder. In the name of the common people, he challenged the L&N - that’s the Louisville and Nashville railroad, the major line in Kentucky. He called them ‘blood-suckers’, said their labour practices were unfair, their ticket prices too high, their interests only concerned with financial gain. It was a good sales pitch all right, and he rode it straight to the leadership of Kentucky’s Democratic Party. He became quite the power broker. People called him Czar, King Goebel, even William the Conqueror.”

  “One presumes,” observed Holmes quietly, “that in the process, he also collected some formidable enemies - the so-called L&N in particular.”

  “Precisely, Mr. Holmes. It was, in fact, the leadership of the L&N - Basil Duke and Milton Smith, to be precise - that hired Pinkerton to find out who killed Goebel. They want L&N’s name cleared. You see, as Goebel’s principal adversaries, they fear being held responsible for the assassination themselves - as, I can assure you, they already are by some. There are plenty of Kentucky Democrats who’d think nothing of shooting a likely suspect - especially if he runs a railroad.”

  “So I have read,” said Holmes. “No, offense, Mr. Steele, but even before this latest outrage, a number of pressmen have already referred to Kentucky as the most violent state in your country.”

  “No offense taken, Mr. Holmes.” With a chuckle, he added, “I’m originally from Montana,” and proceeded to revisit his coffee.

  “Kentucky’s a dangerous place all right,” he went on. “They have their own methods for working things out. It’s funny. Though Goebel wasn’t born there either, he seemed to fit right in. A while back, he was having some sort of dispute with a banker named Sanford. Planned or not, they happened to meet out on the street. Within seconds, guns were drawn, shots were fired, and Goebel’s bullet struck Sanford in the head. The man died not long thereafter. That’s how things get taken care of in Kentucky.”

  Frontier justice, I could not help thinking. To the average Englishman, myself included, Kentucky seemed no different from our opinion regarding the rest of the country.

  “Which,” continued Steele, “brings us back to that fateful day last month when Goebel was shot. The election for governor had taken place in early November.”

  “The election presumably won by Goebel,” I noted. “You already told us he was the governor.”

  “If it only were that simple, Doctor. A Republican named William Taylor - ‘Hogjaw’ Taylor, they call him - came out ahead and was actually inaugurated in December. But, you see, Goebel had previously set up his own legislative committee to rule on the integrity of the election, and he appealed the results to them.

  “Much to everyone’s surprise, especially Goebel’s, his handpicked committee confirmed Taylor’s victory. Yet Goebel still wasn’t satisfied, and he ultimately appealed the decision of the committee to his allies in the heavily Democratic state legislature. In fact, it was when Goebel was on his way to hear the final deliberations that he was cut down. Ironically, it was after he was shot that the partisan legislature overturned the election results and declared him the new governor. Mortally wounded - some say he was already dead - he was sworn in the next day, the 31st of January, 1900. He died three days later.”

  “My word,” said I. “Quite a dramatic tale.”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and closed his eyes. “Describe the scene of the shooting, if you please.”

  “With your permission,” said Steele, withdrawing a small pocketbook from inside his coat. He flipped through a few pages to consult his notes and then reported the following: “On the morning of Tuesday, January 30th-a cold, crisp day it was - Goebel set off with two friends for the state house from the Capital Hotel where he was staying. It was just a short walk - one block down Main Street and up St. Clair to Broadway.

  “You must understand that due to the contested election, feelings were running high. This was Kentucky, after all, and most of Frankfort seemed an armed camp. Mountaineers from the south-eastern counties that supported Taylor - some called them ‘desperadoes’-had arrived with shotguns and rifles and pistols - presumably with the intent of intimidating the legislature into supporting Taylor. For their part, the Democrats responded with newly-sworn-in police to help maintain the peace. With all the talk of violence, of course, it was feared that somebody might even try to shoot Goebel himself.

  “In fact, the two friends accompanying him that morning also served as bodyguards. Yet despite all the gunmen milling in the streets, when the three arrived at the Capitol grounds, they found the area almost completely deserted. Capitol Square takes up a full city block. The landscape is pretty flat, interrupted here and there this time of year by barren hackberry trees. The square is surrounded by an iron-rail fence. That morning, a thin layer of snow covered the ground. The water in the four-tiered fountain near the Capitol’s steps had frozen. The Capitol building itself, a two-storey, brick and white-stone structure, stands at the centre of the square. Designed in the Greek revival style, it features a portico with six grand columns that hold up the gabled pediment.”

  Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes at this description, and Steele noted the change.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “An assassin hidden behind one of the columns could do some damage. But there wouldn’t be enough cover, you see, and the front contains no windows and only a single entrance. A shooter in the portico would be easily detected.”

  Holmes nodded, and the fire crackled in accompaniment.

  “At 11:16,” Steele continued, “the three men made a turn into the square through one of the two open gates and proceeded up the wide stone walkway, their shoes crunching the leftover snow on the pavement. It’s about a hundred feet from the street to the portico, and the walkway itself inclines slightly as you approach the building. One of the men went ahead to check that the interior was safe. the other dropped back a step or two.

  “It was just then, right before Goebel reached the fountain, that shots rang out. Some say Goebel tried to draw his own pistol, but the wound was too great, and he fell to the ground. ‘Get me away,’ he’s said to have uttered, ‘I’m afraid it’s all over for me.’”

  “How many shots?” Holmes asked.

  “Not certain. Maybe five. Maybe fewer. There were too many conflicting accounts. What is known is that a single bullet traveling downward pierced Goebel’s right side - splintered a rib, passed through a lung, and exited his back. Mortally wounded, he was carried to his hotel room, where doctors were sent to his aid. Needless to say, the assassin escaped.

  “A few days later, after having been sworn in as governor and visited by his sister and one of his brothers - the other couldn’t get there in tim
e - Goebel died. I suppose it’s fitting that controversy dogs his last words. Democrats say that he told his friends to, ‘Be brave, fearless, and loyal to the great common people.’”

  “Quite noble in the end,” I observed. “A lasting tribute to the man’s social concerns.”

  “To be sure,” said Steele, “if true. One of his doctors reported that his final words were really a complaint about his last meal. ‘Damned bad oyster,’ he’s supposed to have said.”

  I shook my head in disbelief and changed the subject. “What did the police make of all this?” I asked. “Surely their investigation must have turned up valuable information.”

  Steele allowed himself another short laugh. “Well, Doctor,” he drawled, “at least I can’t say they didn’t try. They did determine that a rifle had been fired from a window in the next-door Executive Building. It’s a three-storey brick structure some forty feet to the east of the Capitol.”

  “You said ‘from a window’, Mr. Steele,” Holmes pointed out. “Not from the window?”

  “Good point, Mr. Holmes. Exactly which window wasn’t so easy to identify. Remember that there were just a handful of people walking around at the time. A few of them pointed at the nearest open window in the southwest corner of the Executive Building - which, incidentally, just happened to be the private office of Caleb Powers, the newly-elected Republican Secretary of State. The shade was down most of the way, and the window was raised about six inches.”

  “There you have it,” said I.

  “Not quite, Doctor. You see, a number of other people maintained that the shot had actually come from higher up. A few said they’d actually seen a rifle barrel in a third-floor window.”

  “Certainly,” said Holmes, “an immediate investigation would turn up the appropriate evidence to establish the facts.”

  Now anyone familiar with the investigative methods of Sherlock Holmes could predict that, had Holmes been there himself, he would have invaded both offices, fallen to his hands and knees, and begun peering through his glass in search of vital clues.