The Tarleton Murders

by Breck England

  “There is a specimen very like it in the Vatican catalogues,” Holmes mused. “Are you a collector, Mr. Raymond?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “I don’t suppose you would part with this one piece.”

  “Not on any terms you could name, Captain Basil.”

  “Ah, well, forgive me. It was unseemly of me to ask,” Holmes sighed. “I was so taken by it … the story of Ariadne captivates me so. It is a romance heroic, but no less enigmatical for that. You will recall that Ariadne was intended for the Minotaur, the beast at the heart of the labyrinth; but she supposedly became enthralled by Theseus and gave him a key to finding his way through the famous maze.”

  “In what sense is the story enigmatical?” asked Katherine Wells.

  Holmes gazed into her eyes. “Because no one has ever been quite sure of Ariadne. Was she for the beast or the hero?”

  “For the hero, without question,” she responded.

  “You will recall also that once the beast was conquered, the hero abandoned Ariadne straightaway, leaving her to the mercies of Bacchus the wine god—thus, this glossy piece of incised black-and-white shell.” Holmes nearly touched the cameo in the delicate hollow of her neck.

  Abruptly, he met Raymond’s narrowing eyes. “Men who say they will give you no terms sometimes soften in the end.”

  “I do not,” Raymond said, his voice colorless. “What brings you to the New World, Captain?”

  “As a naval person, I am conducting my own informal study of the history of the late American war. I was drawn to the site of the famous battle of Atlanta, and my cousin has been kind enough to accompany me. Now we hope to meet General Sherman when he arrives tomorrow. Will you be there, Mr. Raymond?”

  “I fear I shall be elsewhere,” Raymond replied, taking champagne from a waiter. “I must say, Captain, you do have a broad range of interests: jewelry, military history … plumbing?”

  Holmes laughed. “All of my interests are purely artistic, including plumbing. A fascinating maze of mysteries beyond our ken, don’t you see? And the occasional mass of corruption lurking in the walls, ready to be rooted out. But you too have an array of interests, I take it, Mr. Raymond—art, musicales, business monopolies?”

  “Like you, Captain, I have only aesthetic interests,” Raymond took a sip of champagne. “Primarily lovely ladies like Mrs. Wells.”

  The band finished a waltz and struck up a tune I had heard many times back in England. “Oh! Listen to that, won’t you?” Holmes said. “’Sweet Molly Mogg of the Rose.’ Lovely old English tune about a bonny barmaid.” He bowed to Mrs. Wells and Raymond and withdrew to the drinks table, where a gaggle of ladies swarmed him.

  Baffled, I tried to make excuses for him. “Please,” Mrs. Wells said airily, “allowances must be made for brilliant men like Captain Basil. Let him know, won’t you, that I would enjoy a dance before the end of the evening.”

  I assured her that I would, and she and Raymond bowed and moved on. As he passed me, he murmured, “I still owe you a debt, Padre, so I will say this—it’s wisest to stay indoors on an unruly night.”

  I conveyed these messages to Holmes, who stood with Joe Harris surveying the crowd.

  “An unruly night?” Holmes smiled. “A reference to Julius Caesar? ‘The night has been unruly … Lamentings heard in the air; strange screams of death, and prophesying with accents terrible of dire combustion and confused events.’”

  “And Caesar assassinated the next day,” I added grimly.

  “You caught the allusion, Tuck? Well, it is a land of accents terrible, if you’ll pardon me, Joe Harris. I just spent two minutes in an effort to comprehend the speech of some of your indigenous ladies, to no avail. That charming expression they use, ‘fiddle-dee-dee.’ What on earth could it mean?”

  “I th-think it is the equivalent of a dis-dismissive gesture,” Harris grinned.

  “What do you think, Tuck?” Holmes was watching Mrs. Wells in her snowy gown doing a progress among the fat wives and their equally fat businessmen husbands. “Is our Ariadne on our side, or the side of the bull?”

  “She insisted she was on the hero’s side.”

  “Of course, she would… .” His voice trailed off. “Your two angels, General Martin Gary and Colonel Tillman, just collected hats and coats and withdrew from the party. No wives. It’s early—where could they be off to?”

  “To a meeting of ‘the board’?” I wondered aloud.

  Holmes had the same thought. “Could there be a second board meeting? A meeting of a different kind of ‘board’? Look, several other men are making their way to the coat check stand, yet this party is just starting. I must follow them.”

  “If only we knew what G.R.F.D. 9 meant,” I muttered.

  Joe Harris asked, “G.R.F.D. 9?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wells’s cryptogram ended with those letters and the number 9,” I explained. “We thought perhaps it was some kind of signature… .”

  “I d-don’t know what the number signi-signifies,” Harris murmured, “but in Atlanta G.R.F.D. refers to the new Georgia Railroad Freight Depot.”

  Holmes snapped round and asked Harris to repeat himself. “G.R.F.D. They j-just finished building it. Spanking n-new depot, only three city blocks from here.”

  We both embraced Harris, then realized we were drawing attention. “What time is it, Tuck?” Holmes asked.

  My pocket watch indicated eight o’clock.

  “I have one hour to find my way to the depot. I’ll wager that there is another meeting at nine—a more ominous meeting than the one you attended this morning, Tuck.”

  “The Georgia Railroad Freight Depot at nine on the 27th. I see now!”

  “Yes, we all see now,” Holmes said impatiently. “I must fetch my carpetbag and then be on my way.”

  I protested, “You cannot go alone. You mustn’t. We know how dangerous these men are, and even if you forbid it, I am going with you.”

  “And … and so am I,” said Harris.

  “A priest and a journalist should make excellent bodyguards,” Holmes scoffed. “One can absolve my killers, the other can write it up for the morning edition. As you insist on coming, I require you to remain silent and out of sight. We must leave now, and separately.”

  A half hour later, Joe Harris was leading us through the darkened streets of Atlanta toward a long, low brick building hemmed in by rails on all sides. Holmes held out his hand for us to stop in a particularly gloomy corner from which we could observe the depot at a distance. Through the windows we could see wobbling lights, clearly from a number of lamps. Two ghouls in robe and cap stood sentinel in the shadows under the arch of the doorway; and as we watched, three more ghouls arrived and were admitted by the men standing guard.

  Holmes whispered to Harris, “I have genuine misgivings about your coming with us. You have a family to think of. No one would miss Tuck or myself, but … .”

  “I’m c-coming,” Harris interrupted him.

  “You must stay here with Tuck. I, on the other hand, am prepared for this meeting,” he said, pulling his penitente robes from his carpetbag and putting them on. “It is obvious you would not get through the door.”

  Harris grasped Holmes by the shoulder. “There is always … always a k-keyword,” he hissed.

  “I anticipated that as well. Remember, Tuck? In the woods? ‘The keyword is Revenge!’” Fully robed and phantomlike, Holmes gave us a last instruction. “Gentlemen, if I do not emerge safely, seek out the commandant of the federal outpost at Fort MacPherson and tell him all you know. He must dissuade Sherman from coming to Atlanta.”

  With that, Holmes strode away. We hardly breathed as he approached the sentinels guarding the doorway; they stopped him, exchanged a few words, and to our amazement let him enter.

  Then Harris murmured in my ear, “There is a-a-another way to g-get inside.”


  “Old man, Holmes wants us to stay here. We must alert the Army if he doesn’t return.”

  “I don’t … don’t believe he will r-return without our help,” and he was off.

  Chapter 35

  Against my better judgment, I decided to follow. We crouched and crept in the shadows along a wall opposite the depot until we came to the rails, where Harris sure-footedly made his way in the darkness toward a great open maw in the side of the building. This was one of the loading docks. We clambered up a platform and slipped into the warehouse. It was utterly black inside, although from the clean, earthy odor of raw cotton, I gathered we were surrounded by bales of the stuff awaiting shipment. My repeater watch beat nine o’clock, and instantly a chant echoed through the shadowy building:

  “Yah Oh Ee Ay Oh, Yah Oh Ee Ay Oh, Yah Oh Ee Ay Oh … .!”

  The sound sent a horrid thrill through my bones. I was back in that haunted grove once again, my hands and feet frozen, my heart hammering with fear. Harris and I took a few steps in the direction of the sound, but it was so murky we found ourselves disoriented. He took a match from his pocket and risked lighting it—for a moment we could see our path ahead—then he put it out and we walked straight, feeling our way through the cotton bales until we reached the opposite wall. At this point we detected a glow far above our heads.

  “We—we should be able to see into the receiving hall if we c-climb up there,” Harris whispered. He lit another match, and we caught sight of a staircase only yards away. The chant grew louder as we climbed, then stopped abruptly. A harsh, high voice sang out as we reached the top of the stairs, and if we held our heads up in the rafters, we could see through cracks in the wallboard into the next room.

  It was a dim well crowded with ghouls in all manner of fancy dress—some in immaculate white sheeting from head to foot, others in ragged red hats that looked like stockings pulled over their heads, and still others wearing black uniforms with gray piping and the black cap of an executioner. No faces were visible. I immediately picked out Holmes, who stood erect and still in his silk robes.

  On a high shiplap platform sat a handful of ghouls who must constitute “the board.” Addressing the crowd was one whom I recognized even beneath his hood as General Martin Gary. He looked like a priest in a chasuble, his tall, lean form trembling, his hands spread as if he were celebrating the mass. His voice was unmistakable.

  “Shadowed Brotherhood! Murdered heroes!

  Fling off the bloody dirt that covers you to the four winds.

  Prepare Charon for his task! Row back across Styx! Mark well your foes!

  The keyword is Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!”

  The crowd echoed the strident word. “Revenge!” they cried, lifting their lamps toward the speaker.

  “We mighty goblins in the Kuklux of Hell-a-balloo assembled,

  Offended ghosts,

  Condemn General William Tecumseh Sherman for the blood of the Lost Cause!

  FLECTERE SI NEQUEO SUPEROS,

  ACHERONTA MOVEBO!

  If we cannot move heaven, we shall move hell!”

  The ghouls cheered, whistled, and gave out a deafening cry I later learned was known as the “rebel yell.”

  The speaker paused to cough and drink from a flask secreted in the folds of his robe.

  “Tomorrow, my friends, tomorrow the Battle of the Golden Spurs begins.”

  There was another yell.

  “Five-hundred years ago, the Dutch had their breeches beaten off. The French beat ‘em, took everything they had worked for, and occupied their country. But a handful of Dutchmen bided their time and waited for the French to relax, and then they struck! They cut the throat of the French general!”

  Another cheer.

  “And what did the King of the French do? He sent ten thousand knights with golden spurs to beat them down again. But this time, the Dutchmen wuz ready! They rose up and thrashed that French army into the mud!”

  Passing round bottles of corn liquor, the ghouls cheered again.

  “Tomorrow, we will cut off the hero of the Yankees. This will enrage the Yankees, and they will come against us in force. We met ‘em on the field once, and we are ready to meet them again; but this time will be different. The Yankees have lost their will to fight. They have pulled out and gone home to their soft women and their soft jobs. Their blood is dried up, but ours is smoking with revenge!

  “They think we have forgotten how they slaughtered our brothers, raped our women, and burnt our cities. They think our cause is lost and we are resigned. But we are organized in every state of the old Confederacy, and what a surprise they have in store when they come at us again!

  “Now …” he paused to cough, “there are traitors amongst us, scalawags who love the Union and Yankee-lovin’ top-dog Negroes. We must be rid of them directly Sherman is dead. I tell you there are certain men you must put out of the way—men you must kill. If you get rid of them we can carry things as we want them.

  “Go, arm your masses against these scalawags. Shoot them down and cut off their ears, and I warrant you this will teach them a lesson. Take every statehouse in the South and tear it down if you must, to show them we will rule!”

  With this effort, Gary fell into a coughing fit, which was drowned out by the liquor-soaked singing of the throng.

  O, I’m a good ol’ rebel, that’s just what I am,

  and for this Yankee nation I do not give a damn,

  I’m glad I fought agin’ her, I only wish we’d won,

  and I ask no pardon for anything I’ve done,

  I hates the glorious union, ‘tis drippin’ with our blood,

  I hates the stripèd banner and fought it all I could… .

  This charming song eventually faded, and Gary shrieked for order once again.

  “Gentlemen, now I introduce to you a man whose name is known to only a few of us, and that’s all right because you don’t need to know it. Just know that he is a generous, shrewd, and sympathetic benefactor who has provided us the means to lop off the head of the Yankee Butcher. He has kindly agreed to say a few words.”

  The figure who stepped forward in evening dress wore an elegant top hat from which a silken black hood covered his face. The badge of the Golden Spur gleamed on his breast. It was Raymond.

  “Gentlemen, I honor and applaud your noble struggle and your glorious future. I believe in both. Now let me be brief. Tomorrow, Sherman will arrive at the Union Station, he will descend from the train, but he will not leave the environs of the station. How this will be done is of no concern to you, but you must be ready for the inevitable onslaught of the Union army. It is true they are now mostly dispersed across the West fighting Indians, and it is also true that the President is a fraud and a weakling, but you must not underestimate the North as you did before.

  “Now let me present to you the hero who has volunteered to do this bloody, fiery, and terrible work tomorrow—a man who loves the name of honor more than he fears death—a Grand Cyclops worthy of the title …”

  A stocky figure in a long white robe trimmed with a scarlet cross stood forth among the crowd, which shrank away from him. The holes in his hood were edged with red, and his spurs glinted in the lamplight. I had seen him before—it was certainly Tom Beaufort.

  The ghouls hailed him as he raised his arms in triumph.

  Gary stepped up next to Raymond and took the floor again. “Now you Dragons with your Hydras, take note of your duties and be ready. Tomorrow we take the golden spurs from the Yankees! You all are dismissed.”

  But then Raymond raised his hand for silence. “All of you except that tall man by the door. Take him. He is a traitor.”

  Raymond pointed at Holmes, and a set of burly ghouls seized him.

  I shrank from the crack in the wall and grasped Harris by the hand. “What can we do?” I whispered. “They’ve got him! But how …?”

 
The crowd, mumbling with anger at Holmes, withdrew as he was dragged to the platform and his hood ripped from his head. “This man is not one of you,” Raymond told Gary calmly. “He goes by the name of Basil, but his real name is Sherlock Holmes. He is a detective from London, a clever fellow who diverts himself by snapping at my heels.”

  He squatted to look Holmes in the eye. “I knew you would be here, my friend. You and your two associates.” Then, astonishingly, he turned his gaze directly up at Harris and me.

  “You can come down from your theater box now, Father Simon, Mr. Harris. The play is over. It is time to pay the ticket.”

  We heard a noise at the bottom of the stair, and turned to see three ghouls there with lamps lit and revolvers trained on us. We descended and soon found ourselves in the well standing next to Holmes. I felt Gary’s eyes on me.

  “I had thought we made our peace with you, Father Simon,” Gary said, his voice high and threatening. “Now you betray us.”

  “Betrayal is your business,” Holmes said. “General, I am not the only masquerader in this room. I wonder if you know with whom you are dealing. This man’s real name is Adam Worth, a subtle thief, the foulest criminal mastermind on two continents. His speciality is binding men to him with silken threads, promises of wealth and glory, until those threads become chains… .”

  “Shut your mouth, Mr. Holmes,” said Adam Worth almost amiably. “Take them to the wagon.”

  We were harried out to the dark street, tied up, and locked with two ghouls into a van marked “Decatur Bakers.” When the Klansmen lit a lamp and removed their hoods I recognized one of them as One-Arm, the gaunt, grizzled torturer from the woods. The face of the other was almost charred from the sun and branded with purple marks.

  “Where are you taking us?” I demanded to know, as the van lurched forward.

  “Nowhere,” One-Arm laughed, his pistol resting in his elbow. “At least that is where you will be when we have done with you.”