Sherlock Holmes In America

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “As have I, several times,” Holmes replied. “It is the occupational hazard of the beekeeper.”

  Holmes inched closer and closer to the hive, and the bees, sensing danger, began to swarm around the hive and Holmes. Soon, he seemed enveloped in a cloud of angry, buzzing insects.

  Bees were everywhere, crawling inside the hollow log. Holmes, brave as ever, crept closer to the hive and peered in. He shielded his face from the bees with his handkerchief, but I could see that this was wholly insufficient to guard him from stings.

  He raised his head, and the look on his face chilled my blood. “The honeycomb is gone,” he said. “There is no time to lose.”

  I understood at once. Mrs. Tingley had expressed a preference for honey straight from the comb. She might be eating her deadly treat at this very moment.

  We were both stung over and over again as we fled the oleander grove and made our way as fast as we could back toward the colony.

  Once back inside the Lomaland grounds, Holmes stopped the first person we saw, a young woman carrying a book. “Do you know where Mrs. Tingley is at this moment?”

  “I believe she is taking tea at her house.”

  By the time we arrived at Mrs. Tingley’s modest cottage, we were very much out of breath. Holmes flung open the door and we raced through the foyer and found Mrs. Tingley sitting with the Spaldings at a tea table on the rear porch.

  In front of her sat a plate with a dripping honeycomb on it. She had lifted her spoon and was about to plunge it into the comb when Holmes whisked the plate away from her.

  She raised an eyebrow and said, “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Holmes? I am quite looking forward to my little treat.”

  “This treat would be your last, Mrs. Tingley,” Holmes said. “This comb is not from the hives Mrs. Imbler tends. Instead, it comes from a hive hidden deep inside an oleander grove. This honey is poisonous.”

  “I knew it!” Elizabeth Spalding said. Her plate contained bread and jam, no honey. “I knew I was right to bring Mr. Holmes here. He has saved you from that presumptuous beekeeper.”

  “But would this honey really have killed me, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Tingley asked. She seemed almost amused at the prospect of having nearly eaten it.

  “It is not unknown for honey to be tainted with the nectar of whatever plants the bees feed upon,” Holmes pointed out. “Cases have been documented in Greece and New Zealand. Those poisonings were, of course, accidental, but one who knows the principles of bee culture could easily arrange for his hive to feed upon poison flowers. Such was the case with Jonas Imbler.”

  I started, as did Mrs. Spalding. “Jonas Imbler?” she said with a gasp. “But surely it was Grace Imbler who wanted Mrs. Tingley gone.”

  “No, madam, your suspicions of Mrs. Imbler are quite unfounded. She did not create the rogue hive in the oleander bushes. Her husband, who is also a skilled beekeeper, did.”

  “Holmes,” I protested, “you distinctly said you were hunting a murderess. Did you mislead me on purpose?”

  He smiled. “I was referring to the bee. The workers are female; the workers made this honey; ergo, the workers are murderesses. Q.E.D.”

  “But why?” Albert Spalding protested. “Imbler has shown no interest in Theosophy and would never wish to become head of the Brotherhood. What reason could he possibly have for murdering Mrs. Tingley?”

  For once, I had an answer at the same time as Holmes. He opened his mouth to explain, but I found my voice first. “Not all husbands are as tolerant as you, Mr. Spalding,” I said. “You are content to live here on Point Loma because your wife is a part of this community. You busy yourself with your golf and your civic activities and you are happy here. It was clear to me at our meeting that Jonas Imbler felt very differently. He chafed under the rule of a woman. He resented his wife’s commitment to the Brotherhood and her responsibility for the beehives.”

  Holmes nodded and picked up the rest of the tale. “The bees failed to pollinate the avocado trees because their queen was gone,” he explained. “Queenless bees cannot survive. They were queenless because Jonas Imbler removed the queen to start his rogue hive in the oleander grove. The sabotage of the pollination experiment was a mere byproduct of his larger scheme to murder Mrs. Tingley. Without her, he felt sure the Society would fail and his wife would be willing to leave Lomaland.”

  “It seems a strange way to commit murder, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Tingley said. “Surely there are more straightforward methods available to one who is determined to kill another human being. Poisoned honey seems rather a roundabout way to do it.”

  “Roundabout, yes,” Holmes replied, with a small smile. “But for Jonas Imbler, it had the virtue of poetic justice. He saw you, Mrs. Tingley, as the queen bee of Lomaland, and he felt that one queen deserved death at the hands of another.”

  Mrs. Spalding’s face continued to wear its stubborn look. “How can you be sure,” she asked, “that Mrs. Imbler was not her husband’s willing accomplice?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I am convinced that Mrs. Imbler knew nothing of her husband’s activities. She might be capable of murder; I believe most people are. But she would never use her bees as weapons. She has far too much respect for them. It would be,” he added, turning to me, “as if our own Mrs. Hudson were to put poison into her breakfast porridge.”

  I hastily agreed that this was not to be contemplated. I could see that Mrs. Spalding was not mollified, but Mrs. Tingley nodded her agreement.

  “The soul is not invisible, Mr. Holmes,” she pronounced. “It reveals itself in our every waking action. And Mrs. Imbler has shown me a soul devoted to order and peace. Her well-tended hives are her character reference.”

  We stayed one more night with the Spaldings before returning to the Hotel del Coronado. It was a night of sheer magic, for the magnificent orchestra played exquisitely as the sun lowered itself into the Pacific and the lights went on, one by one, inside the glass globes over the domes of Lomaland.

  I stole a glance at Holmes. He was entranced by the music, and I saw another glimpse of the child he had once been as I watched a tall, slender boy of about twelve raise his violin to his chin and draw his bow across it.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE QUARTERS

  Jon L. Breen

  Jon L. Breen, the winner of two Edgar Awards in the biographical/ critical category, has contributed to six previous Sherlock Holmes anthologies. He is the author of eight novels, including the Dagger Award-nominated Touch of the Past, and around a hundred short stories. His reviews appear regularly in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Mystery Scene, and frequently (and non-politically) in The Weekly Standard. His latest books are the comic courtroom novel Probable Claus (Five Star) and A Shot Rang Out: Selected Mystery Criticism (Surinam Turtle).

  Although I was a freelance American correspondent for several English newspapers, joining the crowds of ink-stained wretches attending the latest famous personality’s arrival in Chicago was never part of my usual regimen. So it was purely by chance that autumn afternoon in 1907 that I was at Grand Central Station on West Harrison Street to see Sherlock Holmes’s unheralded arrival. I had known him years before, and apart from my pleasure at seeing him again, I had hopes of an exclusive story to impress my Fleet Street masters.

  “Clive Armitage, Mr. Holmes. We met—”

  “I remember you well, Armitage, and I am pleased to greet a fellow Londoner. You are fully Americanized, I see.”

  “It’s true I’ve been here several years now, and some say I’m developing an American accent, though I can’t hear it myself. Why do you think me Americanized?”

  “Your tiepin and cufflinks identify you as member of some sort of baseball supporters club, and the handle of your walking stick depicts an ornate American eagle. You appear to be chewing gum, a habit that has not yet infected British journalists in my experience.”

  “A representative of the Wrigley Company gave me some samples when I was working on a feature article abou
t them,” I said somewhat defensively. “Wrigley is something of a Chicago success story, and I was assured their products will one day span the globe, so be warned.” Then, like a thespian belatedly remembering his lines, I exclaimed, “That was a truly amazing demonstration of your undiminished powers.” It wasn’t actually so amazing once he explained it, but I was not above flattery in search of a journalistic coup. “When I came to America, I feared I would miss reading about your adventures in The Strand, but Collier’s Weekly has filled the breach. Didn’t I hear that you had retired, though, beekeeping in Sussex or some such thing?”

  “That is essentially correct.”

  “And how is Dr. Watson?”

  “Well. I see little of him since his most recent marriage.”

  Finally, I reached the obvious question. “What brought you to America?”

  The answer proved frustrating: “A matter too delicate to reveal. Perhaps one day the full story can be told. For now, consider me an ordinary tourist, hoping to see some of this invigorating young city before returning home. I seek no publicity of my presence here, and in fact explicitly discourage it.”

  “Do I gather though that you still do some detective work?”

  “On rare occasions. A problem with truly singular elements is difficult to resist.”

  I immediately offered to be his guide to the city of Chicago, and he readily accepted. In the days to follow, we saw (and smelled) the stockyards, visited the site on De Koven where Kate O’Leary’s cow kicked over a lantern and started the great fire of 1871, viewed such towering architectural masterpieces as the Rookery and the Schiller Building, rode the “L” trains, marveled at the great collections of the Art Institute, attended a concert of the Chicago Orchestra, and sampled the varied cuisines that immigrant populations offer a great city’s diners. On his third morning in the city, I suggested a visit to the site of the World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago’s 1893 world’s fair, and casually asked if he would consent to meet a friend of mine while we were in the area.

  “I am too much in your debt to refuse,” he said, “but I trust I can rely on your friend’s discretion.”

  “Absolutely. He’s an interesting chap. Athletics coach. I met him when I was in France seven years ago covering the Olympic Games. A man of unshakable moral principles.”

  “They can only be deemed unshakable if they have been put to the test.”

  “Oh, his have. He was planning to bring several runners to the Games but cancelled the trip when he learned the finals of all their events would take place on Sunday. Then a cablegram from Paris said the French had decided to change the finals to a weekday, so he made the trip with his athletes after all. But when he got there, he found the original schedule still in place. He withdrew his team from the competition. Americans take the Sabbath seriously, you see. Don’t ask my friend his opinion of the French. But he’s a splendid fellow, really, has played and coached nearly every competitive sport under the sun. At present, he is most renowned for football.”

  “Is that Association football or rugby?”

  “Neither. American football. Closer to rugby but different. It’s a college game primarily, but some institutions have banned it on grounds of excessive violence, including fatalities. In response, the coaches keep adjusting the rules, whether to save the sport or outfox their fellows, I’m not certain, but it is enormously popular and draws huge crowds.”

  Conveniently for my ulterior motive, the former site of the World’s Fair overlapped the campus of the University of Chicago, a highly experimental, daringly coeducational institution established only a few years earlier thanks to a series of gifts by John D. Rockefeller. For all the university’s modernist innovations, its buildings were of a traditional gothic design, combining with the artistically landscaped quadrangles to create an aesthetically stimulating environment for learning.

  “That gymnasium resembles a cathedral,” Holmes remarked at one point of our walk across the campus.

  “That’s what Rockefeller thought. But in a way it’s appropriate. One of the new ideas that enliven this place is a well-funded Department of Physical Culture and Athletics. It’s given equal status with other academic disciplines and headed by an athletic director with professorial rank. And he, it happens, is the man we are going to see.” As I pointed out to Holmes the buildings and other landmarks, I had been following the most direct route to the office of Amos Alonzo Stagg.

  Stagg was a large, powerfully built man in his forties with chiseled features and a steady, penetrating gaze. Though he already had a visitor, he waved us into his office with a broad smile. As he walked around the desk extending his hand, he seemed to be moving somewhat gingerly, but his handshake was firm as ever. His younger companion, slight, pale, and alight with nervous energy, was Perry Garth, a reporter for one of the Chicago dailies. Respecting Holmes’s desire for privacy, I introduced him as Mr. Benson. Shaking hands with Stagg and Garth, he nodded amiably but said nothing.

  “Not given up, Perry?” I twitted my colleague.

  Garth shrugged. “One can only keep trying.” As always, his manner had a studied nonchalance, as if nothing in the world mattered, but I sensed an undertone of desperation.

  Stagg explained, “Mr. Garth would like me to write some articles for his newspaper, and every time he darkens my door, he increases his offer. I have repeated over and over that it’s not a matter of money, but apparently he subscribes to the notion that every man has his price. As the athletic director of the University of Chicago, I must make myself available to all of the city’s daily newspapers equally. It would not be appropriate for me to favor one over the others.”

  “Sure, I can understand that,” said Garth. “But with all the scandals and bad publicity visited on your sport in the last few years, I thought you would welcome the chance to defend it against the hordes of bluenoses. My editor agreed, and I sort of went out on a limb promising your cooperation.”

  “That’s the danger of going out on a limb without testing its strength first.”

  “Maybe. But writing something for us about the character-building you do out on the practice field might be in service of a higher good, don’t you think?”

  Stagg smiled. “I hope I always act in service of a higher good, Mr. Garth.” I knew they had rehearsed this argument many times before, and the journalistic grapevine suggested enticing Stagg to write for his paper was crucial to Garth. Some said his job depended on it.

  But now Garth shook his head in comic resignation. “Anyway, before I leave, you can at least give me a good quote on the Carlisle game. You’ve already won the Big Ten. You’ve said this year’s team is your best ever. Now you’re up against Pop Warner and his Indians. You’re not going to let a bunch of redskins take your scalp, are you?”

  “I saw their game against Minnesota, and they are impressive indeed. Their speed is dazzling. Our men will need to play their very best to beat them.”

  “What do you think of Warner as a coach?”

  After a moment’s pause, Stagg said, “He’s certainly a fine coach.”

  “I’ve been to Carlisle to interview him. Would you like to hear what he says about you?”

  “Nothing profane, I hope. Glenn Warner can say what he wants to my face, and I don’t take secondhand reports of anyone’s comments too seriously. Not all journalists are as scrupulously accurate and professional as yourself, Mr. Garth.”

  Turning toward Holmes and me, Garth said, “You fellows caught the sarcasm there, didn’t you? Was ever a man so misjudged as this humble scribe? Seriously, I don’t know why I bother. Coach Stagg always says the same thing. Good day, gentlemen!” And with that, Garth was out the door.

  Stagg, not fooled for a moment by my subterfuge, said to my companion, “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I congratulate you, Mr. Stagg,” Holmes said. “We’ve never met, and I’ve managed to avoid publicity while in your country. Surely, you could not identify me from the idealized im
ages conveyed by Mr. Steele in the magazines, or Mr. Gillette on the stage. I am innocent of that calabash pipe or that countrified deerstalker with which I am so often depicted. I haven’t uttered a word since I entered your office, so you heard no accent to indicate my nationality. How, pray tell, do you know who I am?” As he spoke, Holmes cast a suspicious glance in my direction, which I returned with a show of injured innocence.

  “No, Armitage didn’t say you were coming. But he has mentioned that he knew you, and when he telephoned this morning that he was bringing to campus someone I would want to meet, your name immediately sprang to mind. Now, what can you deduce about me?”

  “Apart from the fact that you are suffering from sciatica and are troubled by some sort of mystery, I can deduce little.”

  “How in the world do you know I have sciatica?”

  “My friend Watson has schooled me in the diagnosis of limps.”

  “Maybe if the good doctor were present, he could suggest a cure,” Stagg said ruefully. “I have covered the map of the United States seeking treatment, from Colorado to Arkansas to Indiana to Florida, with no lasting result. Laying that painful matter aside, what about this mystery you believe is troubling me?” Now it was Stagg’s turn to look pointedly in my direction. “What has Armitage been telling you?”

  “I’ve told him nothing,” I said, “apart from the population, mean temperature, and annual meat-packing production of the city of Chicago.”

  “Then how did you know, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Armitage must have mentioned many of his friends and acquaintances to you at some time or other. Why would the name of a detective spring to your mind if you were not in need of one?”

  Stagg nodded. “It’s true I could use your help. But I haven’t adequate money to pay for your services, and anyway, time is too short.”