Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 7

by Marvin Kaye

  Kelley was there, though, no doubt on time as usual, bouncy and bright in her starched white chef’s coat. What she wanted from life was so simple: to cook for people, to make and serve them well prepared, healthy food. What was so unreasonable about that — why, you wonder, was it too much to ask to make a life out of nourishing people? She planned to open her own restaurant someday — a small, intimate place with good prices and even better food. You would work for her — you were always more comfortable in your position as second fiddle, and she was always so gracious, so grateful to you for your devotion.

  A car passes by outside, hitting a large puddle and splashing rain water onto the sidewalk. You imagine a pedestrian jumping out of the way, like a Laurel and Hardy movie. Except that Stan Laurel eventually would end up pushing Oliver Hardy into the puddle by mistake, then, feeling bad about it, would whimper in that high-pitched whine of his until a sputtering Hardy forgave him.

  Forgiveness.

  Your last shrink was a Buddhist and encouraged you to forgive — forgive yourself, forgive others, and ask others for forgiveness. Good advice, except that how could you ask Kelley, when she isn’t here anymore? Please forgive me for not dying with you, Kelley.

  You’ve tried saying it to her departed spirit, but you don’t really believe in life after death, so it never feels like anyone is listening.

  You glance over at the matte knife on the bedside table, its blade reflecting silver in the glow of the lava lamp like the gleaming silver planes that rained down on the city that day. In books and movies people always use razor blades, but a matte knife is so much easier to handle. You imagine sinking into the warm water in the bathtub, letting it cover your body. It will only sting for a moment, you think, and then a long slow slide into unconsciousness.

  And then you will be with Kelley.

  A HOUSE DIVIDED, by Marc Bilgrey

  It was a sunny afternoon in late March, 1865. My company had been on its way to Richmond when we were ambushed. I ran for cover in the nearby woods hoping to circle around the Rebs and take them from the opposite direction. I thought I might bring down an officer or two in the process. But no sooner had I entered the dense foliage when I was met by a gray who butted me in the head with his rifle. Then I dropped to the ground like a marble statue. After that everything went black.

  When I awoke hours later, I clutched my aching head and looked up to discover a full moon shining in a dark sky. Around me were the bodies of both Union and Confederate men. I can only suppose that both sides had left me for dead.

  As I gazed upon this macabre sight I thought about what a grim business it all was. I had agreed to serve my government to the best of my abilities, for I am not a coward. But, just the same, I took no particular joy in it either.

  Staggering to my feet I discovered that my Colt .32 caliber revolver, Enfield .57 caliber rifle, knapsack, haversack, belt and cartridge box were gone. Looted no doubt. After looking in vain for a canteen amongst the corpses I made my way through the trees till I came to a clearing. There I hoped to find a drink of water.

  “Good evening, Billy Yank,” said a voice.

  Instinctively I reached for my gun but found nothing, not even a holster. I spun around to see a Reb staring me in the face. His gray uniform was ripped in the right arm and he had dried blood on his upper lip. He looked to be even younger than I, which was twenty. The tiny bugle insignia on his kepi told me he was infantry, same as me. I saw him aim his smoothbore musket straight at my chest.

  “Good evening, Johnny Reb,” I said. Without my gun I knew my options were extremely limited.

  He came closer. As he did, I heard a cannon blast in the far distance. For a split second he turned toward it. This brief lapse of attention allowed me the time to leap upon him.

  He fought fiercely as we wrestled about in the dirt like two dogs fighting over a bone. He was able to land a blow to my stomach. Recovering quickly, I sent an uppercut to his chin, dazing him enough so that I was able to pry the musket out of his hands. I turned the barrel to his head as my finger found the trigger.

  “Drop your gun, Yankee!” yelled a voice behind me. “Drop it or I kill you!”

  I let the musket fall from my hands to the ground.

  “Stand up now!” said the man’s voice. “The both of you and I ain’t got all day.”

  The Reb and I stood up. As we did we looked at the man who was giving us the orders. He was wearing a pair of brown trousers, boots and a green shirt. He had a long white beard and in his right hand was a C.S. Spiller and Burr .36 caliber revolver.

  “Now,” he said, addressing us, “step away from the musket.”

  When we had taken a few steps back, the old man came over, still holding the revolver and staring us down, reached over and picked up the Reb’s musket. Then to my amazement, he smashed the musket against some rocks and threw the pieces off into the woods.

  “I don’t understand,” said the Reb, “why are you doing this? We’re on Confederate soil. You ought to be helping me take this here Yankee to his just reward, not—”

  “I’ll thank you to not be giving me any advice, soldier,” said the old man, moving his gun just slightly toward the Reb. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to show a little respect ’round your elders?” The old man pursed his lips and said, “Okay boys, here’s how it’s gonna be. You listen to me and do exactly as I say or I will put some very large holes in you. Nod if you understand me.”

  I nodded. I was too scared to even look toward the Reb. Being taken prisoner by the enemy was one thing but what this man had in mind, only the fates knew for certain.

  “All right, fellas,” said the old man, “now y’all gonna turn around and start walking. You will walk up to that there ridge and then you will continue to walk till I tell you to stop. And keep in mind that I have the firearm and I ain’t afraid to use it. In point of fact, I would be more than glad to use it. It don’t matter to me which one of you boys tries anything in the way of an escape attempt. I will kill you where you stand same as I would kill a squirrel for my dinner. Or if you both give it a try, so much the better. I could use the target practice. Not that I need it. I been known to bag a songbird at one hundred paces. Now then, let’s start marching.”

  We began walking. The Reb was next to me. Neither of us said a word. Behind us I heard the old man’s footfalls in the twigs. We passed trees and bushes and not much else. I wondered where this old man was taking us. Was it some kind of Rebel trick? Perhaps they were working together and planned to torture me for the purpose of extracting information. I hoped not, since I didn’t know a blessed thing. I was a private, not a general.

  Here I was, six months into my conscription and thus far luck or providence had prevailed. Though I had seen battle, other than a few minor cuts, I had emerged unscathed. But now I was convinced all was lost.

  I was suddenly seized by a severe bout of homesickness. It occurred to me that I would never again witness another sunrise over the Hudson River nor picnic in the bucolic hills of the Bronx with my parents and sisters. The thought of no longer being able to stop in front of Van Horn’s Dry Goods Shop, look in the window and see my father working behind the counter, conversing with the owner or a customer, filled me with a great sadness. How I longed to walk the noisy, crowded streets of Broadway one last time. Odd, the thoughts of a condemned man.

  Approximately five minutes later, by the light of a bright moon, I saw a small cabin appear amidst some trees. When we reached the structure (which had boarded up windows with a few bullet holes in them) the old man told us to stop.

  “All right, boys,” said the old man, as we turned to look at him, “I want you both to walk inside and each of you to sit down on one of my chairs. And, once again, if you got any ideas of trying to get away from me, give them up now. If a man can’t shoot two intruders in his own cabin, ain’t no place on this here earth that he can do any shootin’. Now, get inside. Get!”

  The Reb went in first and then I followed behi
nd him. Inside the cabin we found hardback chairs and each sat down on one. In one corner was a stone fireplace where crackling flames cast a pale yellow glow throughout the room. An oil lamp flickered on a table. The walls were unadorned except for one shelf which held a few books. In the dim light I could not read the titles. Across the room was a door which might have led to another room or a closet. In another corner was a coat rack.

  “Move them chairs close together,” said the old man. “I want them right next to each other.”

  We did as we were told.

  The old man sat down on a chair opposite us and held the gun pointed in our direction. “How rude of me,” he said. “I don’t know your names. Mine’s Samuel.”

  The Reb sat up stiffly and said, “I am Private—”

  “Stop!” said the man. “Ain’t no ranks in my home. I just want your Christian name.”

  “Owen,” said the Reb, reluctantly.

  “And you?” he said, looking at me.

  “It’s Andrew,” I said.

  “Just like the Vice-president,” he said.

  “He ain’t no Vice-president of mine,” said Owen, with disdain.

  “Oh no?” said Samuel. “And why is that?”

  “Come on, man. You live not twenty-five miles from Richmond and have to ask that question? Are you a traitor? Or just a northern spy?”

  I had to admit he had a valid question, one I had thought of myself.

  “I am neither a traitor nor a spy. I am neutral,” said the old man.

  “Ain’t no one neutral in this war,” said Owen. “You are either Union or Confederate and that’s a fact.”

  “You seem to know a lot, boy, how old are you?” said Samuel.

  “I’m nineteen,” he said, holding up his chin.

  “Yup,” said Samuel, smirking, “nineteen’s about the age when one knows everything.”

  Now it was my turn to speak. “Sir, I mean you no disrespect, but what do you intend to do with us? Did you bring us to your home simply to have a discussion?”

  “You ain’t any more polite than your brother, here,” said Samuel.

  “He ain’t no brother of mine,” said Owen.

  “All men are brothers,” said Samuel. “Where you from, Andrew?”

  “New York,” I said, “born and bred.”

  “Dirty Yankee,” said Owen.

  “I’ll thank you not to speak unless spoken to, Owen,” said Samuel, tilting his gun at the Rebel. “Now then, would anyone like a drink of water?”

  My mouth was parched and so apparently was Owen’s. After Samuel gave each of us some water from a tin cup he sat back down on the chair in front of us and, still holding the revolver, looked us over. I tried to figure out what he would do next. Would he kill me first or Owen? And why bring us to the cabin at all? Why not simply do the deed outside amidst the lost souls I had encountered only moments earlier? Unless he first meant to see if we possessed any knowledge of our superior’s plans.

  I put aside speculating upon my captor’s motives long enough to think about my sweet Bessie. How I longed to see her beautiful brown eyes, her long chestnut hair and feel the touch of her hand again. Why had I delayed in asking for her father’s blessing, and postponed my proposal of marriage? The idea that I had wanted to wait till I became a journeyman in order to receive a higher salary seemed so unimportant now.

  “Owen, you never told us where you were from,” said Samuel.

  “I’m from Georgia,” he said, “Two day’s ride from Atlanta. Or what’s left of it after that devil, Sherman, got finished turning it to rubble.” Owen looked at me and sneered.

  “I suppose Sherman had a hand in Harper’s Ferry, Chickamunga, Cold Harbor, First and Second Manassas and Fredricksburg,” I said.

  “You can’t compare the total destruction of entire cities and thousands of people to—” said Owen.

  “That’s enough, children,” said Samuel, “there’s been atrocities on both sides. But that’s what war is about, ain’t it? Killing as many people as possible?”

  “While you sit in your little house out in the forest?” I said.

  Samuel squinted at me. “I’ll have you know, young man, that I wasn’t always a hermit. I was a telegraph operator and a fine one too, till your army cut my wires.”

  “I knew it!” said Owen, smiling. “You are one of us. Now go on, put the Yankee out of his misery,” said Owen.

  “Shut up,” said Samuel. “I’ll do the killing when I please and to whom I please.”

  This quieted down the Reb, who swallowed and slumped in his chair.

  “There’s been too much bloodshed,” said Samuel, softly. “How many thousands of wives are there without husbands? How many children without fathers? It’s gone on long enough. Year after bloody year. This here is a great nation. If the war continues we’ll all perish, like that fella in Greece, Pyrrhus. His victory cost him everything. When enough people die there ain’t no winners anymore. Everyone loses.”

  “That’s a right nice speech,” said Owen. “How about I take you to meet General Lee and you can recite it to him personally?”

  At this, I watched Samuel slowly stand up. Uh-oh, I thought, now the Reb’s gone and done it. He’s opened his mouth once too often and he’s going to get us killed for sure.

  Samuel moved away from his chair and took a few steps back while still keeping the gun trained on us. Then he said, “Stand up, both of you.”

  I stood up as did Owen. Here it comes, I thought. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer. The old man would undoubtedly shoot us then toss our bodies outside. Wild animals would no doubt devour our remains.

  “Strip off your uniforms,” said Samuel.

  I glanced at Owen and he at me. Was I in some strange morphine dream?

  “You heard me,” said Samuel. “Take off your uniforms. You can keep on your undergarments.”

  Neither Owen nor I moved. Samuel held his gun and took a step closer. I began undoing the nine brass eagle buttons on my frock coat.

  “Your brogans too,” said Samuel, pointing at my feet.

  I removed my boots. In a few seconds I had my uniform and kepi in my hands.

  “Throw them all in a heap on the floor,” said Samuel.

  My dark blue coat, cap, trousers and boots landed first and then Owen’s gray ones fell on top of mine. Samuel went over to the uniforms, picked them up, and, with one motion tossed the pile of clothing into the fireplace. The flames immediately began their work and shortly all that remained were ashes.

  “All right, boys,” said Samuel, reaching for some rope on a nearby table, “sit down on your chairs.”

  “I don’t reckon I understand any of this,” said Owen. “What’s the idea of burning our clothes?”

  “Just be glad it’s your clothes I’m burning and not you,” said Samuel. “Now, sit down.”

  We did, as Samuel placed the gun in his left hand, pulled out an Arms D Guard Bowie knife and cut a piece of rope. He threw the rope piece to Owen and said, “Tie Andrew to his chair.”

  Owen picked up the rope and lashed my wrists to the back of my chair with great vigor. After fashioning what felt like elaborate knots, he tested them a couple of times, then, apparently satisfied with their strength, turned to Samuel.

  “Now what would you like me to do?” said Owen. “I could interrogate him regarding troop movements—”

  “Sit down on your chair and place your hands behind your back,” said Samuel, as he came over with the rope. He cut off a piece and tied Owen’s hands to the back of the chair. When he was done he stood up.

  “I am puzzled,” I said. “First you preach peace then you have us disrobe and bind us to chairs. You seem as warring as the armies you claim to have contempt for.”

  “A good observation, however, the difference is, thus far I have only threatened violence while your armies are doing far more than that.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Owen. “Here you are, living practically within spitting distanc
e of the capital of the Confederacy, and yet you profess to hate both sides. Why?”

  I saw Samuel stare at us and then, for the first time since we’d entered the cabin, he looked away, toward one of the boarded up windows. For a minute or two he said nothing. Then he turned and faced us again.

  “I supposed it don’t hurt none to tell you. My wife was killed by a Union army man. We’d just celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

  “A Union man,” said Owen, nodding his head and looking at me with a kind of sardonic smile.

  “I’d been out of town trying to get some new relays for my switchboard, my telegraph, and when I got back half the town lay in ruins. And my beloved, Violet…” I saw him blink a few times and wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Untie me,” said Owen. “You hate the Yankees as much as I do.”

  “I ain’t done yet,” he said. “I neglected to mention my son, Clayton. He was about your age when he joined up. They sent him to some godforsaken battlefield. All I know is, he come back in a box. Turned out he was shot by someone in his own regiment. I been told it ain’t that uncommon an occurrence. Apparently the smoke from the gunpowder and cannon fire can turn the landscape into a cloudy white sheet. A man can’t see his own hand in front of his face.”

  “It was an accident?” asked Owen.

  “Of course it was an accident but that don’t make him any less dead. That’s right, boys, you see, I’ve had enough of this damn war, of all wars forever. Now, I’m going to go to my bedroom over there and get some sleep. I suggest you try to have yourself a little rest as well.”

  Samuel went to the front door, locked it, pocketed the key, then walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

  I looked back at Owen. He gave me a mean stare.

  “We should try to get out of here,” I said. “Tomorrow he’ll more than likely shoot us. Probably wants to execute us at dawn.”