by David Marcum
“Who is it you think haunts you?” Holmes asked.
The fellow blinked. “The ghost of Abraham Lincoln,” he said as if he were astonished we should ask.
Holmes let loose a bark that may have been laughter or scorn.
I gave him a reproachful look and said to the actor, “Lincoln? The slain American president?”
“The very same, sir,” he replied.
“Why would the late president be haunting you?” I said.
At that, the fellow’s face closed over. “I do not know,” he said.
“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Clarke,” Holmes said, rising. “I must ask you to leave. I need my rest if I am to serve my legitimate clients adequately.”
“Wait, wait!” cried our visitor. “You cannot abandon me, Mr. Holmes. They will find my lifeless corpse in the morning and my blood will be on your hands.”
“I cannot help a man who dissembles,” Holmes said. “If you are not prepared to tell me the truth, there is nothing I can do. Either speak candidly or leave.”
The fellow, pale, perspiring, gibbered and seemed to be wrestling in his thoughts. “It is shameful,” he said at last, “But not my shame... Very well, Mr. Holmes, I see you are quite right. I must speak to you frankly. Well then... My brother-in-law was that foul creature, that wretch, John Wilkes Booth.”
“The man who assassinated President Lincoln?” Holmes said. “Ah, that is interesting. All the same, just because the assassin was related to you by marriage, I see no reason why you should be fearful. Not to mention the very obvious truth that ghosts are the subject of housewives tales and children’s stories.”
“I am an actor, Mr. Holmes. I know there are ghosts. I have seen them. And I have seen the ghost of President Lincoln three times now. I saw him as clearly as I now see you.”
“Then get you to a priest,” Holmes said. “I do see how I can help you.”
The man began to sob. Holmes and I stared at each other, dumbfounded.
“Mr. Clarke,” Holmes said. The fellow continued to wail. “This is preposterous. Mr. Clarke, if you do not cease this caterwauling instantly, I shall fling you out.”
The little man stopped sharply, although his lower lip continued to quiver and tears splashed down his ruddy cheeks.
“That is better,” Holmes said in a cold voice. “Now, if you would be so kind, tell us your story. Start at the beginning, mind, and skip nothing.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, “I will tell you everything.” He dabbed at his cheeks with a handkerchief, hiccoughed twice, and then told his remarkable tale.
“My name, as I said, is John Sleeper Clarke. I am an American by birth and I grew up in Baltimore, Maryland, USA. I trained to be a lawyer, but from my earliest days, I was drawn to the stage. I went to school with Edwin Booth of the famous theatrical family, and through him met his sister Asia, whom I married in ’59.
“I began a career in the theatre and became extremely successful. So many people loved my performances...” He caught the glint in Holmes’s eye and continued, “But that is a story for another time, perhaps. My life changed utterly in April ’65, when Asia’s brother John Wilkes Booth murdered our beloved president. The whole country was in a lather over it, as you can imagine.
“Wilkes had stayed with us from time to time in our home in Philadelphia in the months before the assassination. Accordingly, we came under scrutiny. Officials could not believe I had no prior knowledge of his foul crime. Marshals came to our door. I was arrested and spent the next several months in a prison cell, though I had done nothing wrong. The house was turned over and my wife was placed on house arrest. The government, indeed the American public, saved all their hate for me, a man who was not even of the same blood, who only had the misfortune to marry into the same family.”
“Being married into the most famous theatrical family in America can hardly have been so onerous prior to the assassination. How unlucky for you the president’s murder should have ruined your life,” Holmes said.
Utterly oblivious to Holmes’s mocking tone, the actor replied, “That’s the truth of it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You said it. I was arrested twice, though I was blameless. Utterly blameless.
“The Booths continued to thrive. Asia’s brother Edwin, in particular, is universally admired. When he returned to the stage less than a year after the assassination, he received a two-minute standing ovation. It was me, a virtual outsider, who bore the brunt of the country’s opprobrium.
“My life was ruined. Upon my final release from prison, I determined I could have no future in America, and decided to come to England. We arrived in ’67. Fortunately, this country was very welcoming, and the English public rewarded me with great success and even, dare I say, affection. I played Toodles in the Strand Theatre for two hundred nights. Two hundred. Though that is nothing to my Major Wellington de Boots. I played him two thousand times!” He looked from Holmes to me, seeking some sort of acknowledgement or acclaim. In this, he was disappointed. I was too fatigued, and Holmes was focused on the mystery.
“You had no political interest yourself?” Holmes asked.
“My interests lay elsewhere. I admired Lincoln, if that is what you mean. I was as shocked and saddened by his death as my fellow countrymen.”
“Yet you believe his ghost haunts you?”
“I cannot explain it. Is it possible he, too, blames me?”
Holmes sat in long silence, his fingers a steeple, as he contemplated this peculiar case. At length, he said, “Did your wife find England as much to her taste as you, Mr. Clarke?”
“No, indeed. She might as well have stayed home for all the joy she got out of being here. She hated the country, the people, the food. Everything. Nothing pleased her. She suffered a series of miscarriages in the years following the birth of our twins. She never recovered from Wilkes’s actions and his death. I did try to be a comfort. I even offered her her freedom. She refused. She chose a life of melancholia, right up to her death.”
“She lost everything,” I said, “Her children, her family, her reputation, her country, and a most-beloved brother, whatever he had done. No wonder she was unhappy.”
“I lost everything, too,” Clarke said in an unhappy voice.
“By your own account, you seem to have thrived here in England,” Holmes said, coolly. “Tell me when you began to see these curious apparitions.”
“I have been very successful in my career, and some years ago I took a house in Richmond with a view of the Thames. It is a splendid place and I am always very glad to get back to it, never more so than two weeks ago. I had been away on business for a time and returned home feeling rather under the weather. It was very late on a Saturday night, and I was thoroughly exhausted. As I alighted from my carriage I saw... well, thought I saw a tall, thin man standing amid the trees. It seemed he raised his hand and pointed to me. I shuddered and cried out. I described the fellow to my driver, but he claimed he saw nothing. All the same, I was certain. A tall, thin man with a stovepipe hat was watching me. I felt a sense of something... disquieting. I did not sleep well. My rest was troubled with dreams of the past. However, in the morning, in the sunshine, I put it the matter down to fatigue and ill health.
“The second incident occurred a week ago. I came up to town to visit some friends and see a show at the Savoy. As is my custom, I dallied after the performance, spending time in the green room with some old friends. By the time I left, it was almost one o’clock in the morning and, as before, I was extremely fatigued. I came out by the stage door exit and the spirit was just standing there, glowing in the fog. Again, he pointed his threatening finger at me. He opened his mouth and I thought he might speak...”
“Well?” Holmes demanded, as Clarke’s voice faltered. “Did he?”
“I screamed and ran. I gave him no moment to say anything.”
/> “And he did not pursue you?”
“Not that night, no.”
“Did you see him clearly?”
“I saw enough to recognise him as the late president.”
“Unsettling,” Holmes said, in a bored voice.
“For the rest of the week, I tried to keep myself busy and, where possible, in company with other people. I was determined not to fall into despair. I could see no reason why the president should haunt me. I told myself the first occasion was merely a trick of the light; the second... well, perhaps he had appeared for someone else and I merely happened upon him. We tell ourselves these things so we might continue to live our lives. But tonight...” He paused, shuddered, and mopped his dripping brow with a large handkerchief. Then, with a heroic effort of will, he resumed his tale.
“I determined not to be defeated by these strange occurrences, and so last evening I went to the Royal Theatre Haymarket, which I used to manage. I was there to see the evening show and then planned to have drinks with my old friend Herbert Beerbohm Tree, who is now manager of that illustrious establishment. After watching the performance, I went around backstage and spent time congratulating the cast. I then wandered about while I waited for Tree to finish his work. I love an empty theatre. There is a mystery and a sadness that lingers.” He glanced up at Holmes’s impatient expression and added, “Perhaps you have to possess some sensitivity to notice.
“I found myself on the darkened stage and I closed my eyes, remembering all the glorious moments I had enjoyed there. I wandered about, reliving some of my glory days and revelling in simply being there. After a moment, I had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. I opened my eyes and there he was, in the box. Glowing. He pointed at me and this time he did speak. One word: Death.”
He shuddered and the pearls of sweat ran down his course cheeks. The horror of whatever he had seen was still very much alive in him.
“Pray be precise. Describe who or what you saw exactly.” Holmes said, sharply.
“I saw President Lincoln. That is to say, the ghost of the man. He was in the box, glowing like... like I don’t know what. The ghost of Hamlet’s father, or a witch from the Scottish play, perhaps. He looked just as he did in life: The stove-top hat, the black frock-coat, the thin cheeks, and the bearded chin. He pointed an accusing finger at me. I screamed and fled. I did not even tell Tree I was leaving. Oh, what he must think of me! I staggered out into the street and ran. I ran for my very life.”
Holmes and I exchanged a look. I could see the amusement and disdain on my friend’s saturnine face. I said to our visitor, “How can you be sure it was Lincoln and not some other similarly-attired gentleman?”
The man stopped gibbering and stared at me in astonishment. “Why everyone knows what the late president looked like. He was tall, thin, and wore a top hat. He had thin cheeks and a beard. Surely you have seen photographs? Alexander Gardner took a great many and they were very popular...”
“You saw his features clearly, then?” Holmes interrupted.
“Clear enough to know the man. Well, he was not a man, of course...”
“Where were you when you saw him?” Holmes said.
“I told you, in the theatre.”
Holmes released a long sigh of exasperation.
“Mr. Holmes meant where were you were in relation to the figure,” I explained. “What distance was between you?”
“Oh. Oh, I see. I am sorry, my nerves have made me a fool. I am not usually so stupid.”
“Where?” Holmes roared.
Clarke jumped. “I was on the stage. That is to say, I was roughly centre stage. I did not see him when I first stepped out onto the boards. I heard no footsteps. One moment he was not there, and the next he was. He was in the box, glowing in the dim darkness. I was close enough that I could see his ghastly white features clearly. He stood in the box nearest to the stage. It was only a few feet away from where I stood.”
Holmes yawned and said, “Did you recognise the voice?”
“Recognise... ? Why on earth would I recognise it? I have heard the late president speak, of course, but it was a long time ago.”
“I suppose your relationship with John Wilkes Booth is common knowledge?”
Clarke shuffled his feet. “I do not advertise the fact, Mr. Holmes, but neither can I quite conceal it. It is a matter of public record.”
“Do you have enemies?”
“Certainly not. I do not claim to be blameless, but I try to be honest in my dealings with people. There was a time when some envied me my talent, but I cannot imagine there is anyone now who would wish me ill, as I am all but retired. Besides, what has that to do with this haunting?”
“Haunting...” Holmes said. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and said, “We need to investigate.”
“What, now? It’s the middle of the night, Holmes.”
“You can return to your bed, if you wish, Watson. Mr. Clarke and I must go out.”
“Out?” Our guest suddenly looked as if he had eaten a disagreeable meal. I confess I shared his dismay, though for a very different reason. I have no fear of ghosts, but I very much longed to continue my dream about the lovely Mary Morstan. Alas, neither of us was to be satisfied.
“Just give us a few moments to dress, Mr. Clarke, and we shall be on our way. Will you join us, Watson?”
I sighed. There would be no continuing my reverie that night.
Some twenty minutes later, the three of us walked down an almost-deserted Baker Street in the cold night air. We finally caught a cab on Devonshire Street and soon after arrived at the Haymarket. We alighted outside the theatre. That is to say, Holmes and I alit from the vehicle. Clarke continued to gibber in his seat.
“Oh, do come along,” Holmes said. “If you want me to find the answers you seek, you must assist. You have nothing to fear. All good ghosts are in their beds by now.” Despite his outward irritation, I caught his smirk in the gaslight. Clarke, seeing no other option, climbed reluctantly from the cab.
“Now, you will take us inside the theatre and show us exactly where you were when you saw this, uh, phantom.” Clarke produced a key and led is in.
A theatre is an unsettling place when it is empty. There are sounds one cannot identify and the blackness is thick as treacle. Holmes lit a match and shadows shuddered around us. For a moment, I could almost believe that spirits walk. No wonder actors are so superstitious.
“I assume the gas is laid on here?” Holmes said.
“Tree installed electric lighting.” After a moment’s fumbling, Clarke found the switch and the theatre lit up, golden and scarlet, beautiful, but empty. A queen without subjects.
Holmes led the way to the stage and the three of us stood there facing the auditorium. Empty as it was, I felt a thrill of wonder for those people who made their living playing parts before vast numbers of people. I shuddered at the thought.
“Where did you see this figure?” Holmes asked.
“There.” Clarke pointed to the box that was a mere few feet above the stage to our left. I was suddenly reminded how the assassin John Wilkes Booth had slain the unfortunate Lincoln with one shot fired in a theatre box. From the photographs I had seen, I guessed the box in Ford’s Theatre was in the same approximate position as this. In that case, the box was close enough to the stage that the assassin was able to leap onto it after committing his horrible act, though he had fractured his ankle in doing so.
“What lighting was there when you saw this, uh, figure?”
“The house lights were off, but the footlights were lit. I turned them on myself.”
Holmes stared up at the box. “How do we get up there?” he asked.
Clarke shrank in terror, but my friend was in no mood to mollify him. It was, by now, about half-past four in the morning and I think we were all fatigued
, though Holmes’s stamina and passion for the case spurred him on.
With the greatest reluctance, the former actor led us off the stage, into the auditorium, and through a door that was hidden by a curtain.
Holmes went into the box but Clarke huddled outside on the landing. I could hear the rattle of his teeth from several feet away.
“You see, Watson?” Holmes said, pointing to a smear of sticky whitish wax on the seat.
“What is that, Holmes?” I said.
“Evidence of Mr. Clarke’s spectre.”
“Ectoplasm?”
“Greasepaint.”
We left the box and joined the gibbering former actor on the landing. “Thank you, Mr. Clarke,” Holmes said, “Your case is most instructive. Well worth the loss of a night’s sleep. We shall get a cab and send you home. No, no, you need have no fears. You are quite safe, I promise you. I shall be in touch in a day or two, but I think you need have no further worries about your spectre.”
Streaks of pre-dawn light glittered over the yawning streets by the time we left the theatre. We found a cab in Piccadilly Circus and Holmes firmly set Clarke inside. The cab sped away and only then did I exclaim, “Why, what were we thinking? We should have had him drop us at Baker Street.”
“Whatever for?”
“For our beds, Holmes. We have hardly slept this night. Do you not want to get some rest before you continue this strange business?”
He glanced at his pocket watch. “The post office and other businesses won’t open for another few hours.” He sighed heavily, as if the burden were a heavy one for him to bear. “Well, you may as well head back to Baker Street, my good fellow. I suppose I can manage well enough without you.”
Before I could reply, he turned and stalked down Jermyn Street in the direction of Green Park.
I found a cab near Pall Mall. Though the walk home was not beyond me in the normal course of events, I was too weary at that hour to endure the thought of it. I got back to Baker Street at last, and collapsed onto my bed without even undressing.
When I awoke the sun was high. For some moments I considered remaining in my bed, but hunger drew me to my feet and I went in search of food. I found Sherlock Holmes sitting at the table reading a telegram. “Ah, Watson, you are up at last. I trust you slept well.”
