This was not the impact I had in mind, thought Holmes. He quickly unwrapped his hands, then reached into his pocket for a kerchief, which he proffered.
“Chin up,” Holmes instructed. “Chin up!”
“Chin down, chin up… kindly make a decision,” Sherlock snuffled crossly as he held the kerchief to his nose.
* * *
The boxing lesson thus terminated, the brothers walked across the main square to a cavernous dormitory that held 150 beds. Holmes could tell immediately which was his brother’s by the mess around it, as if someone had tidied the entire quarters to a fare-thee-well, but had forgotten one small spot for a decade… or perhaps three.
“The headmaster makes no mention of this?” Holmes asked, staring askance at the piles of papers, books, and curios jumbled there.
“Well, naturally he does,” Sherlock said. “Westminster holds thrice-weekly inspections—has done so for some centuries now, I believe.”
“Well then…?”
“This is all new, d’you see. I have added to it only since last night.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness…” Holmes began, but Sherlock wasn’t paying him any mind. He had somehow located his tin of shag tobacco, and was rolling himself a cigarette.
“You did well, by the way,” Holmes said. “Not with the boxing, perhaps, but with the deductions. I must admit I was impressed.”
Sherlock lit the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke. “And what, in your estimation, am I to accomplish with such gifts? Eh? Become a detective? An Inspector Bucket? Is that how you perceive me, dear brother?”
“If you refuse to take a compliment—” Holmes began, but Sherlock interrupted.
“I have no qualms with compliments, when I hear them. That was not one.”
Cigarette in hand, he dove into various piles of detritus, avidly searching for who-knew-what.
Glancing about, Holmes spotted a document that stood out from the rest, and lifted it up. The pages were so yellowed and stained, the text so faded, that the only thing he could even make out was the Latin phrase, nullius in verba. Roughly translated, it meant “Take no one’s word for it.”
He was about to dispose of it in a proper trash bin when Sherlock prevented him.
“Halt!” he cried. “I might need that.”
“Need it? You can’t even read it!”
“Precisely,” Sherlock said. “I thought I might experiment with different ointments and tinctures to see if I could bring up the ink again… aha!” This last came as Sherlock dug into a mound with intent, and pulled out a fine old walking stick.
Holmes stared at it. “Father’s walking stick!” he said, trying to keep the accusation from his voice.
“Correct,” Sherlock said. “Mother is ill again—‘medicated’ is the genteel term, I believe—and Father is avidly ignoring it. This,” he said, indicating the walking stick, “is his appeasement, for want of a proper wife.”
“Be quiet,” Holmes countered quietly. “She is our mother.”
“On occasion, yes,” he shrugged. “Then there are the more frequent occasions when she is nothing of the kind. Though she has taken to heating the mixture herself—I am told that cooking reveals a maternal instinct, of sorts.”
With that, Sherlock tossed the stick to his brother, who caught it on the fly.
“Bon voyage, brother!”
Holmes shook his head no. “Father gave it to you. Taking it is the last thing I would want.”
“Nonsense. The last thing you would want is to lose a limb, or to perish in some freakish manner in a foreign land where hospitals are appallingly ill-equipped.”
Holmes sighed, silently conceding the point. In truth, he didn’t want the blasted thing at all. He considered it cumbersome, if not downright pretentious. On the other hand, it was a touching gesture by a younger brother from whom touching gestures were all but unheard of. And so he accepted it graciously.
“Thank you,” he said with a slight bow.
“In exchange,” Sherlock continued, “you shall endeavor to keep a mental record of your adventures. Mind, however, that it slant toward individual peccadilloes, and not some larger ‘view of humanity.’ Or, God help us, political intrigue, governments falling—that sort of thing.
“As to my walking stick,” he added as his brother made ready to depart, “it is to be returned to me in one piece. As are you yourself, of course,” he added.
Well, mused Holmes, as he shut the door behind him. Though my well-being was most definitely an afterthought, he spoke of it, nonetheless. It is progress!
It seemed a most agreeable start to his journey.
10
WAITING AT THE LIVERPOOL DOCKS WAS THE SULTANA. THE 3,500-ton steamer boasted three masts and an iron hull, and could accommodate 200 first- and second-class passengers, with another thousand shoehorned into third class. She was agile, able to reach speeds of thirteen knots, and was “majestic in countenance”—or so claimed the advertising graphic clutched in Holmes’s hand.
Now that he was actually about to board, he had to admit that the plaudits seemed accurate enough.
She is built to impress, from the height, thickness and strength of the bulwarks; to the heavy wheels and pinions connecting it to its steam-power; to the immense blocks and tackles hooked to the rigging; to the vast efficiency and force with which the passengers’ heavy trunks are run up by machinery into the air, and then lowered rapidly into the hold.
When he showed the advertising brochure to Douglas, the latter laughed and reminded Holmes of the points it failed to mention. Somewhere below decks and hidden from view, stokers known as the black gang—aptly named for the color they quickly assumed—would be shoveling a backbreaking five hundred tons of coal per day to keep the ship moving at a steady clip. The black gang consisted of trimmers, who shifted the coal, coal-passers, who carted it in huge barrels to the boilers, and firemen, so called because they tended and stoked the furnaces.
“Hell hath no fires that burn hotter than those,” Douglas proclaimed.
Upon the deck itself, a bit of the heat might have been welcome. The morning was overcast and cold, with a pervasive mist that—especially in late spring—often gave Liverpool its slightly yellow hue.
The dense fog obscured a great crush of strangers from all parts of England, from the very rich to those so poor that they carried everything on their backs, including bedding. There would be no comfortable bunks to be found for the third class, also known as “’tween decks.” Indeed, between those decks they would be entombed for eight long days, with no light and precious little air.
Holmes easily spotted the dreamers among them, the ones with a bit of light still in their eyes. The ones who dared to hope that their children, or their children’s children, might someday join the ranks of the burgeoning professional class—physicians and barristers, owners of businesses, perhaps even what Holmes himself had become: a civil servant on his way to a political career.
For many, their hopes were buoyed by the Prime Minister himself. William Ewart Gladstone was a non-aristocrat like them. The fact that he was a millionaire many times over, with massive holdings of land, did not quench the pride with which the “common folk” clutched him to their proverbial bosoms. Like Georgiana, those poor wretches were certain that progress was just around the corner.
Holmes wished with all his heart that he could believe as they did. But a war was looming. And war rarely did the poor any favors.
The captain of the Sultana, James Miles, walked past Holmes and Douglas as he hurried aboard. He sparkled in his uniform and wore very well his other emblems of authority, including side whiskers so fulsome that they would have made Edward Cardwell weep with envy. As he went, all eyes were upon him, for twelve hundred passengers relied on him to get them through gales and mists, past treacherous tides and small islands of floating ice, safely to their destination.
As the fog grew thicker and more pronounced, guards took their positions at t
he hatchways and companionways and spoke ominously of heavy waves that would soon be crashing over these pristine decks. As if on cue, a great bell sounded and the steward cried out.
“All ashore!”
This prompted another jostling and unsettling of the great throng as non-passengers said their final goodbyes, then hurried off the ship across the heavy bridge that connected the Sultana to the pier.
A second bell sounded, and the massive engine came alive. Water at the stern suddenly became a whirlpool of boiling surges as the vessel slowly moved away from the pier. As she picked up speed, and the city and its waving denizens became smaller and smaller, everyone aboard felt the thrill of knowing that they were at long last underway.
Some passengers hurried to secure seats on the promenade deck, where they would wrap themselves in blankets for warmth and watch the shoreline recede. Others strolled to their staterooms to unpack and relax in peace. The poorest of the poor scrambled down the rough-hewn wooden ladders to steerage, to claim the hard wooden planks on which they would sleep—the only alternative being the harder deck.
Holmes and Douglas moved through and past the throng, searching for the one passenger who had set this entire adventure into motion. From the moment they’d arrived—more than three hours before—Holmes had been craning his neck, hoping to spot Georgiana. The bouquet of irises and yellow roses that he’d purchased from a street vendor had by now been crushed so assiduously by strangers that it looked every bit as crestfallen as he felt. He found himself growing so desperate, in fact, that if he could have climbed upon Douglas’s shoulders to have a better look round, he surely would.
As the two men kept up their vigil, a handsome but severe-looking man in his mid-thirties with light brown hair, a neat handlebar mustache, and rather intense hazel eyes, took particular note of them.
Then he melted into the crowd.
Douglas and Holmes both caught a glimpse of him, but as they could think of no particular reason why someone should be observing them, they granted him only a curious glance. Then, when he disappeared, they thought no more about it.
Douglas, in his usual guise of valet, was handling Holmes’s bags along with his own. As a result, he would have loved nothing better than to locate their cabin and put them down at last, but Holmes insisted they first go to the steward’s office. Since he understood Holmes’s anxiety, Douglas acceded to the request.
* * *
Armed with his credentials, Holmes demanded to see the passenger list, adopting a tone that said he would countenance no response but the affirmative. When the steward quickly complied, Holmes ran his finger down the pages filled with names.
“Sutton… Sutton…”
Searching for Georgiana was no easy task. There were hundreds of passengers aboard. As was standard, the list had been compiled, not in alphabetical order, but in order of boarding, with extended families at times grouped together under various surnames.
Douglas helpfully pointed out a Sutton that Holmes had missed.
“That is a Sully Sutton, aged fifty-five,” Holmes grumbled.
“Could the person you are seeking have boarded an earlier ship?” the steward inquired meekly.
“The last ship to depart for Trinidad was three weeks ago,” Holmes snapped. “Don’t be absurd!” At which point the steward found something else that demanded his immediate attention, while Douglas quietly proposed a different explanation.
“Perhaps she changed her mind,” he offered, “and had no manner of contacting you.”
“Nonsense, Douglas,” Holmes muttered. “She is quite resourceful. Had she wished to get a message to me, she would have done so.”
“Resourceful or not,” Douglas replied, “she is most certainly not aboard.”
Holmes stared at the list, very nearly undone.
As they walked out of the steward’s office, he looked toward the strip of land that seemed now so thin that it might have been the paring of a fingernail.
“What now?” he asked of no one in particular.
Before Douglas could reply, a gaunt woman dressed all in black came rolling toward them. Deathly pale, she rode in a rickshaw-like wheelchair, supported by pillows and attended to by an Indian maid, and was looking around languorously. As she glided past, her eyes fell upon Holmes, and she smiled a hello.
But when she caught a glimpse of Douglas, she reared back as if he might take it into his ebony head to abuse her, there and then. She clutched possessively at a plum-sized black pendant that hung about her neck.
Douglas ignored the insult and would have walked on, but Holmes was in no such mood.
“He is not interested in your jewel, madam,” Holmes said scornfully. “He has two of his own—larger, I am sure, and much more dear to him!”
The old woman looked shocked, while behind her the Indian attendant struggled not to smile.
“You cannot say such things to an elderly woman,” Douglas hissed as they continued on their way.
“She deserves no special consideration,” Holmes replied crossly. “She’s the sort who finds Oliver Twist seditious. I will not allow you to be abused by someone like that.”
“Please allow me to decide when I shall be abused,” Douglas retorted, “and by whom. And the next time you wish to berate someone in public, kindly leave my ‘jewels’ out of it. Now, may we please find our cabin and be rid of these bags?”
“One more detour, Douglas, I beg of you.”
“Holmes, she is not here!”
“Perhaps she is traveling under an assumed name…”
“An assumed name? For what reason?”
Holmes could think of none. Yet he would not be deterred. He was so agitated, while at the same time bullish about their mission, that Douglas simply sighed and followed him—bags still in hand—to the grand saloon.
11
THE GRAND SALOON, SET APART FOR FIRST- AND SECOND-CLASS passengers, was neither grand, nor was it a saloon in the traditional sense. It was a large, plain room with walls covered in cedarwood, a dozen long cypress tables in the center, three beds on wheels in one far corner, and four large gas lamps that hung from the ceiling, as the room let in little natural light. Its plainness was by design, as it was meant to serve a variety of functions: parlor, study, dining hall, drawing room, and even—should it prove necessary—invalid chamber. All around it were ventilated doors that opened onto the nicest staterooms, so that the passengers therein could have the luxury of going directly from their cabins into the saloon without having to set foot outdoors.
When Holmes and Douglas walked in, ladies and gentlemen were already selecting their preferred places at the long dining table in the center, pinning their calling cards upon the seats to mark them as reserved.
One of these was the intense brown-haired chap who’d been eyeing Douglas and Holmes. As they walked past, Holmes glanced at his card.
MR. ADAM MCGUIRE
Once again, Holmes paid him little mind, noting only that his mode of dress and bearing indicated he was American, and that he’d been—at some juncture—a government official or military man. While scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Georgiana, Holmes noticed that there were perhaps half a dozen government officials from various countries lingering about… and that they all seemed to be avoiding one another.
He whispered as much to Douglas.
“How do you know they are government officials?” Douglas inquired.
“Because I am a government official,” Holmes replied. “Do you not know other purveyors of tobacco when you see them? Surely I can suss out my own kind.”
“Be that as it may,” Douglas countered, “people can eat with whomever they choose.” But Holmes shook his head.
“There is something about this that I find unsettling.”
Douglas considered pointing out to Holmes that he was already unsettled, and might be fabricating excuses to become more so, but he decided to hold his peace.
In the meantime, Captain Miles—he of the fulsome sid
e whiskers, for they extended to the top of his breastbone—hurried in and waved a jovial hello to the passengers. Clearing his throat, he announced that, should they choose to stroll out onto the quarterdeck, he would be briefing them on the ship’s progress for the day.
But it was bitterly cold outside, and the quarterdeck offered no barrier against the biting wind, so most passengers stayed where they were, chatting in little groups, or celebrating to the steady sound of popping champagne corks. Since there was no sign of Georgiana, however, Holmes and Douglas decided to hear the report, after which they would locate their quarters…
Then something caught Holmes’s eye.
Seated on a straight-backed chair, a small portable writing apparatus unfolded before him, was a boy of fourteen or so, not homely but not particularly attractive, laboring intensively on a document of some kind. His concentration was such that Holmes, some twenty feet away, couldn’t help but notice, though he had no way of seeing what the boy was writing.
“Ah, he is saying his final farewells to a girl,” Holmes whispered to Douglas.
“Or perhaps he is writing down a description of his surroundings,” Douglas countered, ready to move along.
“Nonsense,” Holmes scoffed. “He isn’t scanning the room for detail. Rather, from his point of view, the room seems to have disappeared. You see how his eyes turn down and to the right? That is a sure sign of the poetical, rather than the practical thought. And the florid way he composes each and every letter? No, it is a schoolboy crush gone awry.”
Douglas was keen to continue on their way, but Holmes planted himself squarely in the middle of the room, so that others were forced to flow round him like eddies of water.
“It is an inferior paper stock,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the boy, “mixed with too much hemp. What does that tell you, Douglas?”
“That he cares little for this girl you are imagining?” Douglas muttered.
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