by Steve Hayes
‘It’d pleasure me to say that was true, Countess.’
‘Ellie.’
‘Ellie – but fact is, that whole ‘Robin Hood’ thing started ’cause one time there was some local families ’board a train we robbed and when Frank recognized them he gave ’em back their money. They spread the word and, well, the press picked it up and made us sound like heroes. We all had a good laugh about it. Truth be known, there wasn’t much profit in robbin’ the poor. They got nothing worth stealin’, anyway. So we concentrated on banks and the express safes, where the real money was.’
He chuckled, adding: ‘Had a mighty good run of it, too. But finally the law got their fill of us, and one of the express companies hired the Pinks to run us to ground.’
‘You’re referring to the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, I take it?’ said Holmes.
Jesse nodded. ‘Their agents were everywhere. Got so bad, you couldn’t cross the street in Kearney without bumpin’ into a Pinkerton man.’
‘Yet you were never caught,’ Elaina said.
‘No, ma’am. Kearney folk take care of their own, see. Wasn’t no one ever gonna tell the Pinks where we was holed up. That was one of the things that got Cage Liggett so riled – he knew we were operatin’ right under his nose but he couldn’t get folks to turn us in.’
‘Cage Liggett?’ echoed Watson.
Jesse suddenly scowled, the mention of Liggett causing his temper to flare again. Gulping the remainder of his drink, he said: ‘He was the man Allan Pinkerton chose to lead the hunt for me, the man I’m really here to find.’ His eyes hooded dangerously. ‘The man I’m here to kill,’ he finished in a rasp.
Silence filled the room for long moments before Jesse found it within himself to continue. ‘Cage Liggett’s a hard, vain man, Mr Holmes, ambitious as hell an’ cruel as winter. He promised Pinkerton that he’d have us in irons within two weeks of takin’ the job, but Frank and me, we chose not to oblige him. ’Fact, we did all we could to lead him a merry chase and make him look the fool – and that was our mistake, I guess, for we should have stomped him the way you’d stomp any snake. But we didn’t, and in the end he swore that if he couldn’t catch us then he’d find some way to fetch us out into the open.
‘Well, that Liggett eventually got so desperate, he started chasing rumours. And when one of his spies told him that me’n Frank planned on visitin’ Ma and our stepdaddy, Dr Reuben Samuel, at the tail end of January just past, that was all Liggett needed to hear. He and a bunch of his men surrounded the house one night without being seen. They hid among the trees for a spell, tryin’ to figure out what to do to flush me’n Frank out. Finally, accordin’ to Liggett, he yelled for us to come out. Ma swears she never heard nothin’ an’ Ma’s no liar. Anyway, when no one answered, Liggett threw a pot flare into the house….’
Holmes, seeing Elaina’s puzzled frown, explained: ‘Officially, it’s known as Grecian fire. It resembles a lantern, except that it has a hemispherical cast-iron base and a brass top from which project two wicks. The idea is that the weight of the base makes sure the device always lands right side up, and its turpentine contents, which feed the wicks, act as a flare.’
‘Well, that wasn’t its purpose that night,’ Jesse said grimly. ‘Liggett used it as a bomb, hopin’ to force us out into the open so him and his men could gun us down. ’Least, that’s what his excuse was. Truth is, we heard that the Pinks got word at the last minute that Frank and me were fifty miles south, in Laurinsport.’
Watson swallowed hard. ‘Are you saying this man Liggett deliberately firebombed your family home?’
‘Damn right I am. I told you, he’s a man of cruel temper, is Cage Liggett. We’d made him look the fool once too often, so he decided to pay us back by bombing Ma’s house….’
He broke off, choked with emotion. Elaina wanted to go to him but wasn’t sure how he would react.
Holmes said clinically: ‘I wouldn’t have thought a pot flare would have caused that much damage.’
‘Maybe not,’ Jesse said, ‘under normal circumstances. But the bomb rolled into the fire and exploded, blowin’ off Ma’s right arm from the elbow down and killin’ my eight-year-old stepbrother, Archie.’
Again emotion choked off his words as he thought back to that night and imagined how it must have been in the long hours afterward; Ma sitting up all through the night, a cord tied clumsily around the stump of her arm to limit the bleeding; her weeping for her dying boy Archie; and two days – two whole days – before a doctor came and fixed her up as best he could.
First-hand memories came thick and fast, then, and what he visualized was so vivid and real he could feel the Missouri sun hot on his face; smell the ryegrass and hear the creaking of Ma’s wagon as the mules pulled it up the slope from the foothills to the west.
‘You were saying, Mr James?’
Holmes’s voice brought him back to reality. Collecting himself, he explained that the day before he left Missouri, he and Frank had gotten word to their mother through a neighbour, telling her to meet them at the usual place around noon.
From the cover of some trees, they scanned Ma’s back-trail with a pair of field glasses to see if she’d been followed. When they were sure she hadn’t, they rode out of the wood and dismounted beside the wagon.
‘Sorry we couldn’t come to the house, Ma,’ Frank said. He and Jesse shared a passing resemblance, but Frank’s features were larger, his hair darker, his expression and demeanour more sober. ‘But we heard the Pinks are still watchin’ it day and night.’
‘They are,’ Zerelda Samuel confirmed. ‘Fools don’t think I see ’em, but they’re easier to spot than a blind ’coon in the pantry. That’s how come I know that cowardly pig-scum Liggett ain’t with ’em.’
‘He’s gone, Ma,’ said Jesse. ‘Ol’ Man Harris heard some Pinks talking in Blaine’s feed store. Said when Liggett found out what happened to you and Archie, he took off.’
It was true. After word of the cowardly bombing had spread, Cage Liggett’s name, along with that of Allan Pinkerton, the agency owner, became mud in most people’s eyes. And as time passed, dark rumours started circulating that Liggett had better leave the country, and fast, because Jesse and Frank James were out to kill him.
‘Reckon we’ll never settle up with him now,’ Zerelda said bitterly.
‘Don’t be so sure, Ma. Word is he’s sailed for England.’
‘England?’
Frank said: ‘He’s got a kid brother name of Jack who lives in a place called Liverpool. Gone to hole up with him.’
Zerelda frowned, her wrinkled, dried-up face bereft and toothless. ‘Reckon we can forget about gettin’ even, then.’
‘England ain’t as far as it sounds,’ Jesse said. ‘Not these days. An’ it ain’t nowhere near far enough to stop me from goin’ after him.’
Zerelda’s jaw firmed up. ‘I still say you’ll have more luck findin’ sunshine in a blizzard.’
‘It’s already been decided, Ma. I got Liggett’s picture, clipped it right out of the Liberty Advance. And I got plenty of money for passage and hotels. And when I get to this Liverpool place, I’ll track him down. Count on it. And when I do …’
There was no need to finish the sentence.
Zerelda fixed him with eyes harder than granite. Then, with her remaining hand, she picked up the Bible from her lap and held it up to Jesse. ‘Swear it to me, son,’ she said. ‘Swear, no matter what, you’ll kill that gutless murderer.’
Without hesitation Jesse pressed his palm on the book. ‘I swear.’
Satisfied, Zerelda returned the Bible to her lap, the movement making her wince.
‘Arm still botherin’ you, Ma?’ asked Frank.
‘Some,’ she admitted, looking at the sleeve-covered stump. ‘But I’m learnin’ to do without it.’ She reached down and gave each of them a fond, rough hug, then said: ‘You’re always in my prayers.’ She then nodded to their black servant, Ishmael, and he clucked the horses back into motion.
Jesse and Frank watched the wagon as it descended the slope and disappeared into the trees. It was a sombre, silent moment. Then Frank took something from his saddlebag and handed it to Jesse. It was a pair of hand-tooled leather shoulder holsters.
‘What’re these for?’ asked Jesse.
‘Cole Younger reckons it’s against the law for folks to go packin’ iron in England, and I didn’t want you goin’ unarmed.’
Jesse grinned. ‘Why, you miserable old sour-belly, damned if you ain’t got feelin’s after all.’
‘If you’re gonna get all mushy,’ his brother growled, ‘I’ll take ’em back.’
But he was grinning as he said it, and Jesse was grinning too, and for a beat the brothers just stood there, neither wanting to say their goodbyes and go their separate ways. At last they hugged, briefly and self-consciously, and stepped back. Jesse hung the shoulder holsters over his saddle horn and mounted up. Frank grabbed the bridle and looked up at him.
‘Jesse, promise me somethin’.’
‘If you’re worried about women …’
‘Not women. Women I know you can handle. It’s your temper, Jesse. Sometimes it’s quicker’n a hair trigger. You get into trouble in England you won’t have nobody to back your play.’
‘Who says I’m gonna get into trouble?’
Frank’s face was grim in the hard sunshine. ‘You’re lookin’ to kill one, maybe two men, Jesse – I reckon that qualifies for starters.’
‘Trust me, Frank. I can do this.’
‘I know you can, little brother. But if you do get into a scrape—’
‘Frank, quit your worryin’. I’ll keep my temper and I’ll stay away from the ladies. OK? As for England,’ Jesse added, ‘it won’t throw a scare into me. It’s got saloons and banks, and the folks there speak English just like us, don’t they? How dangerous can it be?’
‘How dangerous indeed?’ echoed Holmes as Jesse finished his story. ‘So you’re here to find the man who maimed your mother and killed your stepbrother? A man you believed to have fled to Liverpool?’
‘He did flee to Liverpool. I docked there myself not two weeks back and started showing Liggett’s picture around, finally found a feller who claimed he talked to Cage an’ Jack both in one of the saloons – pubs, I guess you call ’em – at the docks. They told him they were headed for London. So I went to the railroad depot where I “persuaded” a ticket clerk to admit that he’d sold ’em tickets to a place hereabouts called Euston. I followed ’em there and after nosin’ around I found out they spent a few nights at some kind of charity mission or hostel. Feller who runs the place said they were talkin’ about goin’ into business in what you folks call the East End. But that’s where the trail went cold.’
‘Curious,’ noted Holmes. ‘I should have thought that two Americans would have been easy enough to locate in that area.’
‘They likely are,’ Jesse agreed. ‘But East Enders, they’re like the folks back in Kearney – they clam up tight around outsiders like me. Could be you might have better luck.’
Watson looked scandalized. ‘Surely you don’t expect Sherlock Holmes to help a known outlaw?’
‘Why not?’ asked Elaina. ‘I intend to help him.’
‘Then do so by keeping him off the streets,’ ordered Holmes. ‘The Times has a large circulation, and others will certainly have seen your picture. I also noticed a sketch artist here earlier from the Illustrated London News. Did he by any chance draw you, Mr James?’
‘Yeah. But I took the drawin’ away from him, plan to burn it later.’
‘Well, that’s good news.’
Jesse looked surprised. ‘That mean you’re throwin’ in with us?’
‘It means that I want you to stay undercover until I find this man Liggett and his brother. But I must also tell you this, Mr James. I am not entirely without compassion, and I will happily serve this man up to the authorities to pay for his crimes. But I will not serve him up to you.’
‘But I promised Ma—’
‘I do not care what you did or did not promise. I will not stand by and watch any man murdered in cold blood.’
Jesse glared at Holmes. ‘Then let me tell you somethin’: stay the hell out of my way, or you and me are gonna butt heads.’
‘You’re hardly in any position to make threats,’ Watson reminded him.
‘Then let’s just say I’m givin’ him fair warnin’,’ Jesse said. ‘Same as I’d give anyone who tried to stop me from shootin’ Liggett.’
‘Well, I sincerely hope it does not come to that, Mr James,’ said Holmes. ‘For what it is worth, I do not believe all I read in the press. Now that I have met you and got your measure with my own eyes, I do not believe you are altogether the man you’ve been made out to be.’
‘He means that as a compliment,’ Elaina said as Jesse looked questioningly at Holmes. ‘But he’s quite right. You must stay here, out of sight, where I can hide you from all prying eyes.’
‘Like you done this afternoon?’ asked Jesse with a sour grin.
‘This afternoon, cowboy, you were only suspected of rustling. How was I to know that in a matter of hours you’d graduate all the way up to being Jesse James?’
CHAPTER 9
Mrs Violet Kidd
The offices of The Era were situated on the corner of Tavistock Street and Wellington Street. Holmes and Watson arrived shortly after opening time the following morning and were once again shown to the newspaper’s archive, a dusty, almost forgotten room at the rear of the premises, which smelled faintly of mildew. Left alone, they each worked their way through one bound volume after another until, around noon, Watson said: ‘Here – I think I’ve found it!’
Holmes was instantly beside him, peering over his shoulder at the small article headlined TRAGEDY STRIKES AERIALIST IN BRISTOL. Below the headline they read:
Mrs Violet Kidd, a member of the Tumbling Tornadoes aerialist act, presently in the employ of Castello’s Circus, was injured in a fall during the evening performance at Castle Park, Bristol, on the 18th inst. The trapeze act went on about fifteen minutes after seven o’clock. The attendance at that time numbered around 500 persons, a large proportion of whom were women and children. A bungling with the ropes threw Mrs Kidd off balance at a crucial moment in her act and with great force she fell to the ground, breaking several bones. A scene of the wildest confusion followed. Ladies fainted, children cried and the crowd pressed forward towards the woman who lay senseless on the sawdust arena. But the active attendants of the show were too quick. Before the crowd could fairly realize what was done Mrs Kidd was transferred to the dressing-room and surgical aid sent for. In addition to some injuries of an internal nature, Mrs Kidd’s left leg was fractured in several places.
‘Well?’ asked Watson. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you have more than earned your keep today, old friend,’ replied Holmes, noting the date of the story, which had happened some eight months earlier. ‘At the very least we should discover what became of Mrs Violet Kidd.’
The bespectacled editor of The Era was more than willing to help. He confirmed that Castello’s Circus was still in business and after some searching through a box folder stuffed with various itineraries and schedules, announced that it was presently playing in Southsea, Portsmouth. Holmes thanked him and he and Watson headed for the nearest post office, where they sent a telegram to the owners, requesting the present whereabouts of Mrs Violet Kidd.
They returned to Baker Street and, while waiting for a reply, Holmes slipped into his long maroon dressing-gown and busied himself at his workbench.
He found relaxation in many varied hobbies, among them the study of Buddhism and the Cornish language and art, but perhaps his greatest passion was the study of honey-bees. It was no secret that Holmes was fascinated by the social order, behaviour and selfless work ethic of Apis mellifera. In fact, he often expressed his intention of one day retiring to the South Downs in order to keep them.
Now,
as he studied the contents of one test tube or another and then scribbled notes, Watson asked him what he was doing.
‘I am attempting to create a new allotropic form,’ was Holmes’s reply.
Watson pondered that momentarily, then said: ‘Would you care to elucidate?’
‘Certainly. As you know, every time a beehive is opened, cool sulphur smoke is used to cover the guards and induce a calming effect upon the workers, who are then encouraged by some arcane survival instinct to gorge upon honey. However, it has been my experience that the smoke can occasionally be noxious to the bees, and so I am trying to create a new, gentler allotropic form that is somewhat kinder to them.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Watson, returning to the newspaper, ‘that all the little “bumbles” will appreciate your efforts.’
Shortly after three o’clock the doorbell rang and soon thereafter they heard Mrs Hudson’s tread upon the stairs. Holmes opened the door before she could knock and snatched the telegram from her outstretched hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson,’ he said, and promptly closed the door in her face. He tore open the envelope, unfolded the telegram inside and read it quickly.
‘Excellent!’ he said. ‘According to the rather obliging Mr Andrew Castello, the last known address of Mrs Violet Kidd is here, in London – number Twenty-Seven Canal Road, Deptford. Watson, will you…?’
‘I know,’ sighed Watson, rising from his fireside chair and limping towards the coatrack. ‘Go downstairs and summon a hansom.’
The journey took just over half an hour. They crossed the Thames by way of Westminster Bridge and then the cab wound through the thin, mean streets of south London – Lambeth, the Elephant & Castle, Southwark and Bermondsey. The sun slowly began dipping westward, bathing the streets of tiny homes and dark, dusty shops in grey shadow. Eventually the cab slowed and the trapdoor in the roof behind them opened. The driver called down that they had arrived, adding: ‘That’ll be four an’ a tanner, sir.’