Dr. Joseph Bell was a lean, tall man, with the sensitive fingers of a musician. His steel-gray eyes had a sharp focus to them; they could twinkle with mirth and good fellowship or become cold with stark shrewdness. Bell had an angular nose and a chin that matched. He was the type of man who commanded immediate respect.
“Mr. Holmes,” Bell acknowledged Mycroft, though his eyes darted to the young man who stood nearby waiting to be introduced.
“This is my brother, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, presenting the young man to the doctor for the first time. The two shook hands.
“It is good to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I have heard interesting things about you from Mycroft,” Bell said pleasantly.
“And I about you, Dr. Bell,” the younger Holmes replied.
“Well, now,” Mycroft interjected, “I am afraid I must take my leave. Please excuse me, but feel free to remain in the room to discuss your business.”
A moment later the two men stood face to face alone in the room.
Dr. Bell cleared his throat preparatory to speaking but it was the lad who spoke first.
“I have been led to believe that you require my services?”
“That is correct,” Bell answered. “The mission however, is quite unofficial.”
A thin, almost imperceptive smile came to Holmes’s lips.
“Well now, Mr. Holmes . . . Sherlock,” Bell began slowly, “I have a problem. Someone very dear to me is in trouble in a foreign land and I am the only person she can count on for help.”
“Who is this person?”
“My sister, Diana Strickland. She is an actress, far away in America—in New York City, to be exact.”
“And what do you require of me, Doctor?”
“Your assistance, your companionship in my journey to America,” he said softly. “I need someone I can rely on, someone I can trust—not averse to action if necessary. Can you use a revolver?”
“I am adequate with a pistol.”
Bell nodded slowly, “And as for my choosing yourself for this deed, you must know my first choice was your brother, Mycroft.”
Holmes laughed now. “Who quite strenuously refused you!”
“Quite so,” Bell admitted, somewhat taken aback. “However, he heartily recommended you, and now that I have met you in person, I admit I am not disappointed.”
Holmes nodded, “All right then, Doctor, when do we start?”
“Arrangements have been made, we leave tomorrow from Liverpool . . .”
PART II: Aboard the Oceanic, 1876
“This is quite an impressive vessel,” Holmes said, as he and Dr. Bell strolled the deck of the mighty steamship.
The Oceanic was a beautiful three-masted ocean liner built for the White Star Line in 1870 and the first ship to carry transatlantic passengers in luxury and grace.
Bell and Holmes strolled the promenade deck. The rough sea and rain of the previous two days had finally abated, giving them this first opportunity to enjoy the ship’s sunny and peaceful deck.
Sherlock Holmes smiled and nudged Bell softly. “Well, there is certainly an unsavory character, if ever I have seen one,” he said, as they passed a nefarious-looking fellow limping along the ship’s rail.
“Oh, I don’t believe so, Sherlock,” Bell answered.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the man’s obviously a pensioned soldier,” Bell said simply. “He was a sergeant by the looks of him, fought in India, no doubt wounded in the mutiny and has been sadly cast aside like too many of our heroic old veterans. He deserves our pity and favor, not scorn. Now he’s seeking a new life in America, and I, for one, applaud his industry.”
Holmes stopped and looked at the doctor squarely. “So you know the fellow?”
“Why, I never saw him before this moment.”
“Upon your word?”
“Upon my word, Sherlock,” Bell replied seriously.
Holmes shook his head slowly. “Then how do you explain all you have said about him? How can you know such things are correct by guessing?”
“I never guess!” Bell returned sharply, obviously offended.
“I meant no insult,” Holmes quickly corrected. “I just want to understand.”
“Well, it is all quite elementary,” Bell replied as they continued walking.
“You are seeing the fellow with your emotions and most superficially, I might add. Doing so gives you a false picture of him. Rather, you must strip away all emotions and feelings and observe only facts. Observe the details. Only by gathering facts can you ever deduce truth. Feelings will betray you every time, my young friend. I see that, like many your age, you wallow in your feelings and emotions.”
“The poets tell us to indulge our emotions and to trust our feelings,” Holmes countered.
“The poets? Ah, yes,” Bell said with a wry grin, “but the poets are wrong.”
“How can you say that?”
“Feelings will betray you, mark my words,” Bell said more forcefully.
“Well,” Holmes said softly, “I’m afraid I do not agree.”
Bell laughed indulgently. “As you enjoy the intoxicating scent of the rose, never fail to notice the stinging thorns.”
Holmes nodded, then said eagerly, “Teach me your methods. Tell me about that soldier.”
Bell smiled, happy to take on the role of teacher. “It is all quite simple, really. His clothing contains small articles of his past military uniform, I believe the Forty-sixth Regiment of Foot.”
“Ah, yes, I see the badge now on his belt,” Holmes said softly. “I did not notice it before, it is such a trifling thing.”
“That’s just it, Sherlock, you must always notice the little things.”
The young man nodded, looking at his older companion in a new light. “Tell me more.”
“Well, if I am not mistaken, the history of that regiment includes the fact that it served during the Indian Mutiny in 1857. Where, no doubt, our fellow received his wound. Note the limp in his right leg? The man appears almost twenty years past retirement age, so it is logical to assume he has been pensioned off since that time. Furthermore, he is apparently alone and without family.”
“How do you know he has no family?”
“None aboard, certainly. Look at the fellow, his ragged clothing, his ill manner. No loving wife, dare I say it, no wife at all, would allow her husband to be seen in such condition. Do you see a wife anywhere? No, he is a lone fellow, long ago cast off,” Bell said simply.
Holmes thought it over. “What about the fact that you said he was a sergeant?”
Bell laughed. “The right sleeve of his battered old jacket still contains the shadow of his stripes, long since removed.”
Holmes suddenly walked over to the limping man and engaged him in conversation. When he returned his face was flushed with excitement. “You were correct in every instance!”
“So what do you think of my methods now?” Bell asked.
Holmes was about to answer when a man’s shouts attracted their attention.
“Doctor Bell!” It was Thorson, the ship’s purser, running down the wooden deck toward them, out of breath and obviously frantic.
“Here, Mr. Thorson,” Bell shouted. “What is it?”
“You are needed at once!” he shouted. Then, lowering his voice, he carefully added, “There’s been a terrible accident. A man is dead!”
“Lead the way, my good man,” Bell said, as he rushed off with Holmes following quickly behind him.
When they reached the ship’s upper level, they were greeted in the passageway by a grim Captain Charles Morrow. “Nasty business, and on my own ship. I thank you for coming, Doctor.”
“What is it?” Bell asked.
“Over there, inside.” Morrow pointed into a nearby stateroom. The door was open and Bell entered.
“His name is John Martin, a Yank returning to America. He has hanged himself.”
Bell and Holmes walked into the room and carefully approached the bo
dy, where it dangled from a chandelier. Neither man touched anything, but each stood and observed the body intently, transfixed. A belt had been hooked to the chandelier and was wrapped around the man’s neck. His body, slack, swayed gently with the rhythm of the ship.
“Jackson here found the man,” Morrow explained, pointing to a steward, who stood nervously behind him.
Captain Morrow then motioned to the purser. “Cut him down, please, Mr. Thorson.”
“No, wait!” Bell blurted suddenly. He took out a large magnifying glass and observed the corpse closely, then the floor and the rest of the room, and finally he stood on a chair and examined the belt around the dead man’s neck. Holmes watched intently.
“Really, Dr. Bell!” Morrow exclaimed, his temper growing short. “This is all very unseemly.”
“All right, Captain, you may cut him down now, but do so carefully, and have your men place the body upon the table here. I need to examine it more closely.”
Captain Morrow gave the order, and John Martin’s body was placed on the stateroom’s short dining table.
Now Bell got to work, performing a minute medical examination upon the corpse.
“Sherlock, come here, look at this,” Bell said.
When Holmes approached, Bell took the young man’s hand and placed it under the dead man’s head, just above the back of the neck. The area was covered with Martin’s long black hair.
“Notice anything?” Bell asked.
Holmes nodded, his eyes open wide in surprise. “It’s sticky—wet. Blood?”
“Yes, but not enough to notice without close examination,”
Sherlock Holmes looked at the doctor and then back to the body on the table.
Captain Morrow’s face blazed and he quickly ordered his men from the room. When they were gone he closed the door and looked at Bell. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
Bell just grunted, examined Martin’s clothing, then stated, “This man was hit on the back of the head. It was such a powerful blow that it killed him instantly.”
“That’s impossible!” Captain Morrow shouted. “The man clearly hanged himself. He is a suicide and shall be listed as such in the log.”
“The man was struck and died almost instantly,” Bell insisted. “Then he was strung up to make it look like a suicide.”
“Mr. Martin was clearly murdered,” Sherlock Holmes stated.
“That’s outrageous!” Morrow barked, aghast. “It’s a suicide, I tell you.”
“What is truly scandalous, Captain Morrow, is that you refuse to admit you have a murderer among your crew who needs to be brought to book for this crime before he kills again. Think about that,” Bell said, his high-pitched voice exuding confidence.
Holmes looked at his companion curiously. “What makes you think the murderer is a crewman?”
“If the captain will call in Mr. Jackson then I shall demonstrate.”
Captain Morrow fumed; he was already measuring the implications of such a scandal to his career with White Star.
“Call the man!” Bell demanded.
The captain reluctantly walked to the door, opened it, and called for his men to come back into the room.
When Jackson entered Bell called him over. “You say you found Mr. Martin hanging here when you came to perform your attendant duties?”
“Aye,” Jackson replied, stiff-lipped.
“And you say that he was dead when you entered the room?” Bell asked as he slowly walked around the man, his shrewd eyes examining the attendant minutely.
“Aye, I’ve plainly said as much,” Jackson said nervously.
“Then where, may I ask, did you get this!” Bell thrust his hand into the man’s jacket pocket and withdrew something bright and shiny.
“That’s my watch!” Jackson said, and made a play to grab it back, but Bell was too fast for him and held it just out of reach.
Holmes remained silent but looked at the watch as if it had suddenly been conjured up by magic.
Jackson, shaking with fear, blanched white.
Bell handed the handsome and valuable timepiece to Captain Morrow. “I believe if you examine this you will find that it belonged to the murdered man.”
Morrow looked over the watch, “Why, yes, it has Martin’s name engraved right here on the back.”
“No!” Jackson shouted.
“Mr. Thorson, place that man under arrest!” the captain ordered, and Jackson was soon held fast by the purser.
“How did you know?” Holmes asked the doctor.
“Once I determined that Martin had in fact been murdered, it was really quite easy for me to extrapolate a killer, based upon the facts,” Bell said with a wink to young Holmes. “It is all about access. An American traveling alone, he knows no one aboard, so his personal steward would have to be a prime suspect.”
“He promised me that watch as payment!” Jackson yelled from the doorway as he was taken away. “He was into me for over a hundred quid.”
“Gambling?” Holmes asked.
“Precisely,” Bell replied. “Well, captain, you have your man and a murder has been solved.”
Captain Morrow nodded slowly, but he was none too happy.
“Well, Doctor,” Holmes asked, “answer me this one question, then. How did you know about the watch?”
“It was a trifling thing, really,” Bell answered. “When we looked over the body I could not find the man’s watch, though a fob was clearly present. I thought that quite odd. I looked around the room, even on the floor, but could not find it. Nor could I find a timepiece among his clothing. So I knew it was missing because someone must have taken it. It just remained for me to find out who. Steward Jackson was the logical suspect and the bulge in the jacket pocket of his uniform told me he was our man.”
PART III: America, 1876
Holmes had never seen such a vivacious creature before; she shone with absolute radiance and sensual energy.
“Oh, Joseph,” she cried to her brother. “Is it really you? After so long.”
“Yes, Diana, we came as soon as we could,” Bell said, holding his sister in his arms.
Finally she looked more closely at her brother’s companion and smiled warmly. “And who is this handsome young gentleman?”
“I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock has proved an invaluable assistant and traveling companion, Diana,” Bell explained. “We had the most amazing journey, which I shall tell you about later, but right now we want to hear about your own troubles and what we can do to help.”
Diana shook her head in evident despair, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. “I’m afraid I’ve become embroiled in a disastrous situation that can only end badly.”
“You can speak freely in front of Sherlock,” Bell prompted. “I trust him implicitly.”
“I don’t quite know how to tell you,” Diana began. “I know you and Mr. Holmes will think terribly of me and that perhaps I deserve all that an unkind fate has thrust upon me.”
“Let us be the judge of that,” Bell said softly.
“Why not begin at the beginning, Mrs. Strickland,” Holmes offered.
Bell’s sister nodded. “Of course, that would be best, Mr. Holmes. You just now called me Mrs. Strickland, and that is where all my problems originate. For I tell you, a dark shadow came over my life when first I met that man.”
“That man?” Holmes asked. “Your husband?”
“Yes, my husband, Rupert Strickland. You see, he is very wealthy, from a quality family, and they all hate me with a passion. While Rupert adored me, soon after our marriage he changed; he suddenly demanded that I quit the stage. We fought furiously over it and it has been a bone of contention between us ever since.”
“Well,” Holmes offered, “you cannot blame the fellow for that. He merely wishes the woman who shares his name to be a proper wife.”
“But, Mr. Holmes,” Diana said sternly, “Rupert heartily approved of my career and was my biggest supporter. He n
ever missed a performance, and one of the reasons I accepted his proposal of marriage was because he promised to allow me to continue my profession on the stage.”
“Well, really, Diana!” Bell protested. “You cannot be serious. You are a married woman now and should follow your husband’s wishes. You must be aware of the unsavory aspects of your profession? Why, these ‘women of the stage’ are often nothing more than common . . . prostitutes.”
“Is that what you think of me, Joseph?”
“Of course not!” Bell blushed. The entire conversation was making him quite uncomfortable.
Holmes cleared his throat. “I believe what your brother means is that you have to admit your profession has a certain unsavory aspect to it in the mind of the public—who do not know any better.”
Diana’s anger softened. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, there are those unsavory people, but not all of us are like that, I can assure you.”
“Of course not,” Holmes said softly.
“Well, then,” Bell continued, “what is this problem? Your telegram was most vague and lacked details.”
“Tell us everything now,” Holmes said. “Hold back nothing.”
Diana nodded. “My life was never an easy one back home, Joseph will attest to that. I was ostracized and disowned by our father for my profession. After Mama died I came to America to make a new start. Here in New York I found what I had been looking for. I admit there is pressure put on some of the girls to entertain important men, but I never succumbed. Until I met Rupert. He is young and handsome and it did not hurt that he is wealthy. And best of all he was never bothered by my stage work—until recently.”
“Well, what do you want us to do about this, Mrs. Strickland? We are hardly experts on marital relations,” Holmes said.
“Perhaps if I talk to Rupert?” Bell offered.
“It has gone far beyond that now, dear brother,” Diana said sadly. “You see, divorce is not an option for such a family, and now I fear . . . I know Rupert is trying to kill me.”
There was complete silence in the room. Holmes and Bell looked at each other and then back at Diana.
“That is a serious accusation, Mrs. Strickland,” Holmes said.
“Diana, how do you know that?” Bell asked.
Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Page 10