Sherlock Holmes: The American Years

by Michael Kurland

  A titter of laughter, mixed with catcalls, echoed through the courthouse.

  “Ten minutes, then,” the judge agreed.

  Holmes went up to the Indian. “Don’t waste your breath, my friend,” Shadow Wolf said. “They have already prepared the gallows for me.”

  “But you didn’t do it.”

  “No. I did not kill that man.”

  “Then tell me what happened, for God’s sake,” Holmes implored.

  Shadow Wolf stared out beyond him. “I was walking alone in the darkness last night. I did not go near the bright lights of the streets because I did not wish to pass the saloons. Men full of liquor have been known to become violent when they see one of my people. I heard noise—raised voices, men shouting—in the alleyway ahead of me. I heard a voice say, “No more. This has gone on long enough.” Then a few more words. Then departing feet, and silence. I continued on my way until I saw something lying in shadow. It was a man. I bent over him to see if he was still alive. Suddenly hands grab me and they drag me away. They are shouting that I am the killer. I tell them I am innocent, but they don’t listen to me.”

  “Do you have any idea who the men were you heard quarreling? Or what they were quarreling about?”

  The Indian shook his head. “As to their words, I only heard the words I have told you. One has a deep voice, rumbles like mountain thunder.”

  Another of the men who robbed me, Holmes thought. Clearly the whole gang is in town, and this could have been a falling-out among thieves. The man with the refined English voice wanted no more of it, so they killed him. But how to prove this?

  “Where did this happen?” Holmes asked.

  “Behind the tavern there are stables. Behind those stables there is a way through to the road out of town. I have been sleeping in safety away from the houses of the white men.”

  “But why are you still here?” Holmes asked. “Surely your business must have been concluded long ago?”

  The Indian shook his head. “The man who would buy my stones has been away. They told me he would return yesterday. So I waited. But he did not return.”

  “And your stones?”

  “Safely hidden.”

  “Okay, you’ve had your confab,” came the judge’s voice. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “One more thing,” Holmes said to the judge. “I should like to see the scene of the crime for myself.”

  “Ain’t necessary. Nothing to see there.”

  “All the same, it is only right that I view the site for myself,” Holmes said.

  “Shut him up.” “Let’s get on with it.” “Let’s get on with the hanging.” The voices echoed from the dark stuffiness of the courtroom.

  The tall man in black rose to his feet. “As an outsider I can only advise, but this does not seem an unreasonable request. The defending attorney needs to see the scene of the crime.”

  “Oh, very well. Have it your way,” the judge snapped. “Court adjourned for fifteen minutes. Maybe if we hurry we’ll have time for a quick visit to the tavern to fortify ourselves.”

  Holmes waited not a moment longer. He ran out of the courtroom, found the stables and then the little-used walkway between the back of the stables and the fence of a private dwelling. He stared at the ground. Think, he told himself. Remember what he taught you. The land tells a story. He looked down at the sandy soil. The first thing he noticed were some flies on a black tarry area that Holmes deduced was dried blood. He dropped to his knees and examined the ground for prints. Several sets of boot prints, and then he picked out one set of the soft-soled shoes that the Indian wore. He studied the ground carefully. The Indian had come that way, as he said. The prints did not proceed beyond the spot with the blood. He also noted that one pair of boots had an interesting, almost heart-shaped metal tip to the toe and the heel. It came down the alleyway before the Indian, as the latter’s print was over it, and then continued on. Could have been coincidence, or he could be looking at the boot print of one of the killers. From the width of the stride and the depth of the print, Holmes could deduce that the man was running.

  Reluctantly he returned to the courtroom. He noticed from the raised volume of noise that many of the occupants had indeed fortified themselves at the tavern while he had been gone. Their rowdiness was now bordering on belligerence.

  The trial began. The first witness was called. He gave his name as Chuck Hawkins. He told how he had heard a ruckus the night before, gone into the alleyway, and seen the Indian bending over a body. The body was still warm. He and some other men had grabbed the Indian and dragged him to the jail.

  “Don’t seem no need to go any further,” the judge said. “Open-and-shut case, like I said.”

  “One moment, please.” Holmes got to his feet amid groans and catcalls. “First I would like to speak to the character of the defendant. He is no killer. Only last week he saved my life when I had been robbed and left for dead in the desert.” He let his gaze move deliberately around the courtroom. “It may surprise honest men among you to know that a gang of stage robbers actually resides in this town and are here among you today.”

  Murmurs rumbled through the crowd.

  “But this is not the business at hand. We are speaking of the life of a man, a human being, no matter what the color of his skin. Like any other man here, he is innocent until proven guilty. I should first like to call the doctor who examined the body. I presume a doctor did examine the body.”

  “Most certainly did,” the judge said. “It was me, son. He died instantly, stabbed through the heart.”

  “Interesting,” Holmes said. “Stabbed from the front, you mean? Now I have just examined that alleyway and note that the Indian’s footprints go no further than where the man fell. So I can only deduce that he came upon the body, as he said, and bent to examine it from behind. Now, if he had just stabbed the man, he would have been standing in front of him, wouldn’t he? But there is no sign of his footprints beyond where the man fell. On the contrary, I could see two pairs of rather distinctive boots, running away, by the size of their strides. White man’s boots, mark you, not Indian moccasins.”

  “Footprints don’t prove nothin’,” someone near the front shouted. “Those prints could have been there for days. And the injun could have snuck up from behind, spun the poor fellah around, and then stabbed him.”

  There was growled agreement to this.

  Holmes took a deep breath. He could see they’d have an answer to almost any kind of evidence he produced. They wanted the Indian to be guilty and they were going to make sure he was.

  “Doctor,” he said. “You examined the body. What size would you say the wound was?”

  The judge thought for a moment. “About two inches, I’d say. Nasty, vicious wound. Went straight into the heart.”

  “And who took the Indian’s weapons from him when he was arrested?”

  “I did,” a voice called from the back. “They’re locked up now, in the jail.”

  “Can you please produce them as evidence?” Holmes demanded.

  They waited. A few seconds later an out-of-breath deputy placed the hatchet and the knife in front of the judge.

  “This is correct,” Holmes said. “During the time I was with this man he was carrying only these two weapons. The hatchet could not have been used for stabbing. It wouldn’t make a cut deep enough to kill. Now, let us examine the knife. It is a throwing knife, you will note. Light, designed with a teardrop shape for flying swiftly and easily through the air. But at its widest the blade is only—what would you say, Doctor—one inch wide?”

  The judge leaned forward to examine the blade. “Yep. About that.”

  “So it could not have been the blade that killed Mr. Fletcher, could it?”

  Another rumble went through the crowd. “And what’s more,” Holmes went on, emboldened, “I believe I can prove which knife in this room did kill him. If you’ll follow me outside . . .” They complied, jostling for position.

  Holmes walked
behind them, checking their footprints in the soft sand of the street. “Would you step forward, sir?” He went around touching shoulders apparently randomly. “And would you place your knives on the bed of this buckboard?”

  He had summoned ten men. He recognized two of them.

  The knives were placed. Holmes waited.

  “What you goin’ to do, a magic trick? Goin’ to make the dead man appear and point to his killer?” Tyler Jensen demanded, and got a general laugh, although not from the men standing in that line.

  “While we wait,” Holmes said, “let me fill you in on a little background so that you understand better. Last week I was in a stagecoach that was robbed in the desert. I tried to protect a young woman and was knocked unconscious. I was left for dead. I should surely have died if this Indian had not found me and brought me to safety. Imagine my surprise when I came into town and saw the men who robbed me. It is true that they were masked, but they each had something about them that gave them away—a peculiarly deep, rumbling voice, for example, or bright orange freckles on a forearm and a high-pitched laugh. One of them had a smooth, English-sounding accent. I surmise that he is Mr. Robert Fletcher, who now lies in your morgue. I also surmise there was a falling-out among thieves. Mr. Fletcher was overheard to say, ‘No more. This has gone on long enough.’ I suspect his conscience was getting the better of him and he wanted out. But he could not be allowed to leave the gang, in case he betrayed his fellow bandits. So they killed him. It was purely fortuitous that the person who happened to stumble upon the body was an Indian. An obvious scapegoat, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Utter rubbish,” one of the men standing in that line said. “Come on, Judge. This has gone on long enough. What’s the fellah think he can prove? He’s just making things up to protect his Indian pal. I say we string ‘em up, both of ‘em.”

  Holmes held up his hand. “Only one more minute of your time, I promise you. The proof has arrived. While I was staying with Mr. Tucker, he taught me a good deal of things, including that flies will always home in on blood. The killer thought that he wiped his knife clean, but not clean enough. The flies still smelled the traces of blood on it. If you will turn your attention to the knives, you will now see which knife killed Robert Fletcher.”

  There was a gasp from the crowd. One knife now had five or six flies on it. The others did not.

  “Would the other men now retrieve their knives?” Holmes instructed.

  He looked at the young redheaded man. His face was ashen. “Willard Jensen, is it not?” Holmes said, “And if I’m not mistaken, your boots have distinctive metal tips. I saw your prints as you ran away from the scene of the crime.”

  As hands went to grab him, Jensen whipped out a gun. “He made me do it,” he shouted, waving the pistol at the big man in the red shirt. “He said we had to make sure Robert didn’t talk.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Tyler Jensen stepped forward. “Accusing my boy? That’s a mighty stupid thing to do, stranger. You’ve been nothing but trouble since you came into town. And if you men know what’s good for you, you won’t listen to a word he says.”

  “On the contrary.” The federal agent pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “I believe he has put his case extremely well. I for one am satisfied that he has arrived at the truth. If you wish to deal with him, you will have to deal with me first. And I can assure you that my colleagues in Washington would have the cavalry here in a minute flat and would take over the running of this town if anything happened to me.”

  He moved to stand beside Holmes. “Judge,” he said. “I think it behooves you to release this Indian.”

  The judge shot an anxious glance at Tyler Jensen. “Oh, very well. Bring out the Indian. But you guys better get him out of town pretty danged fast, or I’ll not be responsible for what happens to him, or to any of you.”

  “As it happens, I planned to leave today anyway,” the man in black said. “Would you care to join me, Mr. Holmes? I am on my way to Phoenix and then to the West Coast.”

  “My dear sir, I’d be delighted,” Holmes said, “if we can give my good friend Shadow Wolf a ride to safely.”

  “We most certainly can,” Mr. Cleveland replied.

  “Before I go,” Holmes said, turning back to the crowd. “I should like to retrieve my pocket watch. I don’t know what happened to the rest of my belongings, but that watch was dear to me.” He walked up to the big man in red and held out his hand. “I noticed it in court,” he said.

  “Hey, I bought this watch fair and square from a trader,” the man snapped. “Ain’t no way you can prove it’s yours.”

  “I think that the inscription inside the back cover might convince some people that it is mine,” Holmes said. “To my dear brother Sherlock on his twenty-first birthday. It is signed Mycroft.”

  Hands removed the watch and opened it, and a murmur of recognition went through the crowd. The watch was handed to Holmes.

  “Now take it and get out while you’re still alive,” Mr. Jensen barked.

  Shadow Wolf was brought out and climbed into the buckboard. Holmes and the federal agent climbed up beside him.

  “I fear that justice will not be served in that place,” Holmes said.

  “We have done the best we can do without reinforcements,” Mr. Cleveland said. “You should be glad the outcome was so positive. Had I not been there, I rather fear that both of you would be swinging from a noose at this moment. I will report the case to my superiors in Washington, but I doubt that much can be done. We shall have to wait until more women come out west. They are always a civilizing influence.”

  The buckboard started off. As they swung to take the road out of town, Tyler Jensen ran forward and drew his pistol. “Take that, ya damned meddler,” he yelled. A gunshot reverberated in the clear air.

  Then a surprised look came over his face and he slumped to the ground. An equally surprised smile spread over Holmes’s face as he replaced his smoking pistol into its holster.

  “One of the things Mr. Tucker taught me during the time of my recuperation was how to shoot one of these things. I must have mastered it remarkably quickly.”

  The horses picked up speed as the town fell away behind them.

  Marta Randall writes with passion and fire and her usual grace of the Mexico of 150 years ago and what Sherlock Holmes found there.

  * * *

  THE English SEÑOR

  by

  MARTA RANDALL

  I had long ago lost patience with the young man who shared the carriage with me. It did not matter that my son-in-law Teobaldo had begged me to take him safely out of Mexico City, it did not matter that he was not quite the age of my youngest grandson, it did not matter that he was ill and barely fit for travel, and it mattered less and less that if he were discovered his life was forfeit, as was that of Teobaldo, and quite possibly my own. If they strung this young English señor from a lamp standard, it was only what he deserved.

  Because he was here, with his long nose sticking out of his nest of blankets like the beak of a particularly annoying bird, I was missing the only performance of Ludwig van Beethoven’s sublime Ninth Symphony, the culmination of the cycle conducted by the famed Hungarian conductor Arthur Nikisch. It had been a triumphant season, our classically trained musicians rising to meet the challenge of the impressively mustachioed Nikisch so that a three-way partnership burst forth, conductor and musicians and chorus filling the grand concert hall with music as sublime as—but I digress . . .

  I had agreed to forgo Sr. Beethoven’s crowning creation only because Teobaldo had quite literally fallen to his knees, taken my hands in his, and wept over them. My son-in-law was known for his melodrama, but how could I refuse him? He was the family’s bulwark against the Political storms that continue to buffet our poor country: revolutions, dictators, invasions, the shameful occupation by the hated French, and the monarchy of the pretty boy Maximilian and his poor, crazy wife, Carlota.

  Teobaldo had fought at the side o
f Benito Juarez, a true hero, and helped drive the French from the country, but the memory of the invasion still rankled. An English army had landed together with the French, a fact not lost on Mexicans, and so periodically the English were booted out of the country. Apparently the English trade delegation had trodden on the delicate sensibilities of the mayor of Mexico City and his pocket army, led by el maldito General Tomás Pulgón de Coliflór. The mayor had vowed that if the Ingléses were not out of Mexico within a week, any lingering member would be shot, or hanged, or perhaps both. He was a powerful man and known for such outbursts, which usually passed within a year, mas o menos. Unfortunately until they subsided, General Pulgón was happy to hang, or shoot, or possibly both, any putative offenders. This one, who undoubtedly deserved it, had been too sick to travel and his brother had begged that Teobaldo save the boy’s life. The boy was newly out of school, accompanying his older brother as an adventure, to see the New World, innocent of all evil intent, just a child, worthy of salvation. What was he to do, my son-in-law asked me as he watered my hands with his tears. It was a matter of honor. Honor! And so here I sat, while this young jackanapes muttered into his blankets and wiped at his beak with my best linen handkerchief.

  All of this was bad enough, but he himself added to my fury. Why? I will let him tell you himself, in his tweetery English. Mind you, when he said all this we were barely out of the heart of the city and he had no idea that I spoke his language.

  “Señora, I am tremendously grateful (sniff) that your most kindly relative (snuffle) has taken it upon himself (sneeze) at great peril to himself (snort) to come forward in my hour of need (cough) and arrange for you to transport me (gag) to safety, saving me from the grasp (sniffle) of that great barbarian (cough) who runs this poor, benighted (snort), and miserable country.”

  Poor, benighted, miserable country! He could only say this because he did not think himself understood by the poor, benighted, miserable woman who was saving his life. In addition, he thanked Teobaldo, but did he thank me, Ana Magdalena Coraje Montalvo de Conejo? He did not, and yet my peril was almost as great as this child’s, and probably greater than Teobaldo’s, who was a consummate politician and could wheedle his way out of any number of sticky situations. But I was just the widow of a hacendado from the north of Jalisco, owner of a small but wealthy rancho well apart from the worldliness of Mexico City. My lands were fruitful, my herds fat and tempting to those in the capital who would be glad of any excuse to declare them forfeit. Teobaldo would survive but I, I would be incarcerated at best and shot at worst, and it did not matter that the soldiers would take care to shoot me below the neck, so as not to damage a lady’s face.