Sherlock Holmes: The American Years

by Michael Kurland

  Bertram Boatwright said, “Quite right, my dear, quite right.” Then he shook his head. “My manners, my manners,” he exclaimed, patting himself on the chest. From an inner pocket he drew an elaborate cigar case of yellow metal and green stone—I guessed, gold and jade—and opened it. “Will you have a smoke, Mr. Holmes? I prefer the torpedo myself, but you may prefer a smaller and milder product. Perhaps this panatela.”

  He extended the cigar case to Sherlock and to me. It contained a variety of smokes. We each extracted a cigar from it.

  “The finest Havana,” Bertram Boatwright announced. He drew a packet of lucifers from another pocket and struck one to light.

  Sherlock bit the tip from his panatela, bent toward the flaring lucifer that Mr. Boatwright held for him, and drew a flame into the cigar.

  This, I thought, will be the supreme test of my masquerade. I imitated my brother and managed to get the cigar going. I had expected to collapse upon the deck in a coughing fit, but instead I found the flavor of the smoke not unpleasant.

  We soon parted from the Boatwrights and returned to our cabin. Sherlock sat upon his bunk, making arcane computations in a notebook while I penned another missive to our parents in London.

  I made it my business to arrive early that evening at the grand salon. Our voyage was drawing to a close. We expected to make land on the second day following, and a peculiar air had descended upon the ship. It was an amalgam of melancholy and excitement; the former, I suppose, deriving from the imminent dissolution of the little aquatic community that had formed on our ship; the latter, as women and men thought of the homes that awaited them or of the adventures they might experience in an exotic and undeveloped nation.

  Mr. Beaufort made his entrance as usual. I thought that the night before he had drunk almost to the point of unconsciousness, and I rather expected him either to miss tonight’s meal altogether or to arrive shaken and contrite. No such symptoms, however, were visible.

  The Boatwrights of Boston and the other couples who shared their table arrived in turn. They exchanged greetings with one another and even ventured a polite nod to the self-styled monarch who favored them with his company.

  Maestro’s selections of music for the evening were subdued for the most part, although the performance climaxed with a chamber arrangement of Peter Illich Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique symphony—not the lugubrious piece that its title implied, but in fact a rousing composition.

  Mr. Beaufort—I still thought of him as “the man with the metal teeth”—managed to avoid any outbursts, and retired even before coffee and brandy had been served.

  The next day was to be our last full day at sea. The Great Eastern had performed admirably and I was saddened to think that this would, in all likelihood, be her last oceanic crossing save one. That, of course, would be her return journey to England. I stayed up late composing another missive to my parents, then lay in my bunk, imagining the wedding to which I was journeying.

  If I was in truth to serve as my cousin’s maiden of honor I would of course need a suitable costume. Knowing my Cousin Inga from a lifetime of correspondence, I was aware that she and I are of similar proportions. Inga would have served as a draper’s model in my stead, and a lovely gown would await me. Of this I was certain.

  I passed from wakefulness into the land of sleep without being aware of the transition, and dreamed pleasantly of the experiences that lay ahead of me in the company of the wonderful cousin whom I had known all my life through the medium of correspondence but whom I had yet to meet in propria persona.

  The morning of our planned arrival in New York dawned hot, with a brilliant sun, a lovely blue sky, and even a great white albatross circling above our ship, the traditional symbol of good luck to all nautical enterprises. I breakfasted in company of my brother and several other members of Maestro Ziegfried’s ensemble.

  It was, perhaps, an indication of nervousness on my part that I was able to take only a cup of fragrant Indian tea and a half slice of toast lightly coated with orange marmalade for my meal. Need I describe the quantity of scrambled eggs, the slab of broiled ham, the potatoes and biscuits with warm honey that Sherlock consumed, accompanied by a series of cups of rich, steaming hot chocolate mit Schlagsahne.

  My traveling gear was small and so I was able to pack everything into my gripsack quickly enough. I spent the next hour strolling on Oxford Street. At one point I had the misfortune to cross paths with the terrible Mr. Beaufort. Clearly, he recognized me, certainly because of my appearance each night with the Great Eastern’s orchestra.

  He tipped his hat and offered me one of his metallic smiles. In that moment I felt a chill as I feared that he had penetrated my disguise and recognized me as a member of the female sex. Should this be the case, a most unpleasant conversation might all too easily ensue.

  But he merely bowed slightly as we passed, walking in opposite directions. “Mr. Holmes,” he hissed.

  “Mr. Beaufort,” I returned.

  I walked on as rapidly as I could, hoping that he would not turn and follow me. Fortunately, he did not.

  The hours seemed to drag that day, and yet I was taken by surprise when I realized that night had fallen and it was time for me to repair to my cabin and don my evening outfit.

  As is traditional, the last evening of the voyage was observed with a gala dinner. Captain Halpin and his officers were present, each wearing a splendid uniform. The captain’s lady and their three daughters were gowned in the most charming fashion. The passengers who filled the salon were similarly garbed in their finest.

  The meal featured cold lobster, roasted squab, lamb chops with fresh mint sauce, baby peas, and carven potatoes. Champagne flowed freely. The repast ended with coffee and brandy and portions of trifle.

  Toasts were offered to Her Majesty, to Mr. Disraeli, to the American president, Mr. Grant, and to Vice President Wilson. A special toast was offered, to the memory of the great Isambard Kingdom Brunel. A resolution of thanks to Captain Halpin and his officers and crew was proposed and adopted by acclamation by the passengers.

  Maestro Ziegfried’s orchestra performed a series of numbers alternately stirring and amusing. Our American passengers were clearly pleased to hear the jaunty “Carve Dat Possum,” by Messers. Lucas and Hershey. A great cheer greeted the Water Music of George Frideric Handel. The maestro had chosen to end the program with a salute to the United States of America and to our own blessed isle. Alas, the Americans have no accepted national song. Many of them, I have been led to understand, enjoy singing a set of lyrics by the poet F. S. Key, set to the tune of “The Anacreontic Song,” but those very words are deemed to be anti-British. Instead, there was an instrumental rendering of their so-called “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Mrs. Howe’s reminder of their own Civil War.

  At last came the great moment, the orchestral rendering of our own glorious anthem. For this occasion the maestro elected to add his pianistic talents to those of the rest of the orchestra, whilst conducting, as the expression has it, “from the keyboard.” All present, further, were invited to give voice to the patriotic words.

  Throughout the evening I had cast an occasional glance at Mr. John Gaunt Beaufort, the man of the gleaming teeth. He had drunk a great deal, this much was obvious, but to this moment had behaved himself in an acceptable manner.

  All rose.

  Maestro raised his hand in signal and the first notes rang out stirringly.

  I could see Mr. Beaufort leave his party and stumble drunk-enly toward the front of the grand salon. He climbed clumsily onto the vacant conductor’s podium and began to wave his arms as if conducting the orchestra.

  Four hundred voices rang out:

  God save our gracious Queen,

  Long live our noble Queen,

  God save the Queen.

  Mr. Beaufort reached inside his evening jacket and drew an old-style, two-barreled pistol. He pointed it upward and fired. There was a single loud report. Shards falling, colliding, tumbling, red, green,
purple, yellow, glittering, reflecting flickering gaslight, crashing to the parquet, all against the sounds of the orchestra playing, four hundred voices in anthem raised . . .

  Half the orchestra ceased playing. Half the room ceased to sing. The other half, perhaps unaware of what had transpired, perhaps too stunned by the suddenness of Beaufort’s act, played or sang on:

  Send her victorious,

  Happy and glorious,

  Long to reign over us.

  Beaufort lowered his pistol, pointed it before him. He shouted, “Deo, regi, patriæ! Bow before your rightful monarch, Richard the Fourth, Rex Anglorum!”

  Mr. Albert Saxe, our cornetist, stood forward, his massive chest expanded like the breast of a pouter pigeon. He spread his arms, the salon’s lights glinting from his silver cornet. “Shoot,” he commanded, “if you must. I am your target. Aim well!”

  But the delay had given Sherlock time to raise his fiddle and bow, and I, my flute. At his grotesque signal I breathed into the airhole of my instrument, and he drew his bow across the strings of his. The two sounds converged upon Mr. John Gaunt Beaufort. He screamed in pain and tossed his pistol into the air. As it crashed to the parquet he tumbled from the conductor’s dais and rolled on the floor, clutching his jaw in agony as smoke rose from his mouth.

  In moments he had been seized by crewmen and hustled from the room to end the voyage in irons, as he well deserved.

  An hour later I sat upon my bunk, trembling. I had decided to end my charade a day early and was garbed in comfortable female costume. Sherlock had doffed his performer’s finery and donned his tweeds.

  There was a knock upon the door. Sherlock rose and answered it. Standing in the doorway we beheld the rose-cheeked Mr. Jenkins, my fellow flautist. He nodded, smiling, and said, “Mr. Holmes, and”—he hesitated but for a moment—“may I presume, Miss Holmes. Would you be so kind as to accompany me.”

  Mr. Jenkins offered no explanation, but there was something in his manner that persuaded my brother and myself to comply.

  Without further speech we accompanied Mr. Jenkins to a suite guarded by two armed ship’s officers. At Mr. Jenkins’s knock the door was opened and we were ushered into the presence of two bearded, portly gentlemen. They were remarkably similar in appearance. One was Captain Robert Halpin, master of the Great Eastern. The other was Mr. Albert Saxe, the talented cornetist.

  Mr. Jenkins addressed the latter personage. “Your Highness, may I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Holmes.”

  “Elisabeth, please,” I corrected.

  Sherlock and I were in the presence of none other than the prince of Wales, the heir apparent to Victoria’s throne. Sharing the suite were Mrs. Halpin and the three Misses Halpin, and a woman whom I recognized as a leading beauty of London stage.

  The prince shook Sherlock’s hand heartily, then reached and embraced me in his great arms. I was bereft of words.

  “How can I thank you both,” His Highness said. “My equerry, whom you know as Mr. Jenkins, was kind enough to tell me who you both are. Your courage and resourcefulness are quite amazing.”

  Not one to hold his tongue at a moment like this, Sherlock asked, “Who was that drunken fool, Your Highness?”

  The prince uttered half a laugh, then became more serious. “Apparently he is a Plantagenet pretender.”

  “A criminal!” Sherlock expostulated.

  “Perhaps,” said the prince. “Or more likely a madman. It is not for me to say. Everything will be sorted out in due course, I am certain.” He issued a sigh. “I wish I could reward you both suitably but at the moment I am traveling incognito and any ceremony would be unsuitable. But when we return to England, rest assured, you shall hear from me.”

  Sherlock scrabbled in his tweed jacket for pencil and paper. “Here, Your Highness, I’ll give you the address.”

  The prince waved his hand. “No need. No need, young man. I well know your older brother.”

  Why did Sherlock Holmes first go to America? Why else, Mr. Lupoff tells us, but to attend a wedding? But complications ensued . . .

  * * *

  MY SILK UMBRELLA

  A Mark Twain Story

  by

  DARRYL BROCK

  London

  18 May 1897

  My home country’s so thick with sleuth-hounds nowadays that a body can scarcely open a door without some would-be Pinkerton chucklehead—the breed must be chuckleheaded to keep spawning like it does—tumbling out from a rigged-up hideaway. This budding sleuth was cut from his own design, though, and since I first encountered him, on this very day, twenty-two years ago, he’s become notorious, puffed everywhere like a dime-show marvel, a walking, snorting, detecting legend if you judge from what all the puffers claim, especially Dr. John H. Watson, that tireless puffing engine.

  This balloon of a detective specimen—Holmes—was still an unknown article then, and as a result of our bumping together, an encounter I equate to a plague of aching molars, I somehow became one of his first paying customers. Not that I volunteered for this unlikely distinction, or paid him directly, or even knew about it till nearly the end of the dismal episode.

  18 May 1875. . . .

  My recollections of that day are nigh perfect. It was on a spring Tuesday with nature all tailored out in her new clothes that fortune threw us together at a base ball match in Hartford, where I’d moved my family the previous year. Dawn had delivered a coating of frost, and the morning papers prophesied rain showers—not that it was easy locating weather tables amongst the columns bristling with tawdry revelations from Grant’s latest corruptions—but my darling Livy managed the task, and she insisted I pack along my prize umbrella.

  I had no worthy excuse for dodging work, except that the promise of today’s match was too potent. Our hometown nine, the Dark Blues, had shaken off last year’s bottom finish and somehow catapulted themselves to a 12-0 start in the National Association. Coming to face them were Boston’s champ Red Stockings, themselves with a gaudy record of 16-0. The matchup was a sockdologer—and I was burning to see it.

  I set out along lanes canopied by cherry and peach blossoms. Golden shafts pierced the cloud-swollen sky, and I felt the air heating up. The day was built for pleasure, aburst with vital juices, redolent of sweet lost loves. Though my umbrella was superfluous, I twirled it to add dash to the figure I cut in my linen duster and new green spectacles. I nodded to passersby who greeted me, most invoking my nom de plume, calling, “Top of the morning, Mark.”

  Downtown was tarted up like a parlor-house madam, festooned with bunting and overhung with whip pennants and banners proclaiming the Dark Blues’ invincibility. I joined the crowds on Willys Avenue heading toward the ball grounds near Dutch Point. At several places I had a prickly sensation of being watched—more than usual, that is—and took the trouble to ensure that my billfold resided in its customary pocket. Once I spun around but found nothing to provoke suspicion beyond some noisy street-boys, whose numbers grew thick outside the grounds. I watched a squad of fly-cops try to keep young invaders from gaining entry over, under, or between the planks of the tall fence. They also labored to pacify those who had not purchased tickets ahead, and now found the sales office closed.

  “But it’s a glorified game of rounders!” I heard a decidedly English voice protest, and turned to see a tall, thin young man in London-cut tweeds engaged in negotiations with a shady-looking hawker. “Why the deuce is your price so dear?”

  He would prove to be Holmes.

  Inside the gates I moved to the Pavilion, a new covered stand built for the occasion. Tickets for it, originally 75 cents, had been trading upwards of five dollars, and the dullest saphead could see that these seats had been criminally oversold. Now they were fairly bursting. With gyrations to make a snake blush, I worked my way to my allotted space near the top. From there I could see the 50-cent “bleaching boards” that flanked the Pavilion likewise packed with raw humanity, and beyond them, behind ropes stretching around the outfields, m
en standing shoulder to shoulder in the 25-cent “bullpens.” With a seasoned eye I put the throng at ten thousand—surely the biggest ever for a New England sporting event.

  Who was pocketing all the gate money?

  As if galvanized by the thought, my lefthand neighbor, an overstuffed banker by the name of Ashcroft, introduced himself—or rather, reintroduced himself, claiming we’d met the previous winter—and presented his prune-faced wife, seated on his other side. She gave me a sour stare through an ivory lorgnette, her general demeanor lifted from a chromo ad for galloping dyspepsia. Noting Ashcroft’s jowls quivering with each utterance, I did recall him: I’d been trapped with him in a club room and sorely regretted the experience. Politically, he regarded high tariffs as proofs of God’s workings. Personally, he was a raging dullard.

  The red-legged Bostons trotted on to the field; then came the Hartfords, natty in their navy blues. I leaned back contentedly, ignited a cigar (only my fifth of the day; I was heeding Livy’s dictum to cut back), and inhaled an elixir of tobacco, pungent mustard, and the Pavilion’s fresh-planed pine. The grass of the outfield radiated emerald green. Vendors’ cries—Soda water here! New York ginger snaps!—sounded in my ears.

  How perfect, I thought, tracking wrens in the rafters above me, how dear to be playing hooky like the rawest of schoolboys. Like my own Tom Sawyer, whose adventures I’d nearly finished writing—should be at home working on it that very instant—but instead of squeezing out Tom’s story up in my study, here I was free, being Tom. Work on the boy’s novel had thrust me deep into the territory of my own youth. Today’s sporting affair, though conducted by top-paid professionals, quickened memories of town-ball games in Hannibal played in drowsy summer afternoons during those too-brief years before my pap died and I’d apprenticed as a typesetter, my boyhood effectively ended.