Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

“I sent her a telegram that we would be arriving within a day or two, so she should not be entirely surprised to see us. Of course, I do not know what she has told her fellow men and women about engaging my services, but I understand her to be in a place of authority within the group.”

  We made our way along the dusty road without being accosted, in fact without seeing anyone, deeper into the heart of the village. I was just thinking that the structure to my right resembled a schoolhouse when a group of children emerged, a small woman behind them.

  “Good afternoon,” said Holmes, affecting his usual pleasant demeanour when addressing members of the female sex. “Could you tell me where we might find Victoria Gratia?”

  The girl had straight dark blond hair and freckled features. She could not have been much more than one and twenty. “You see that building, the large house? That’s Koresh’s,” she said, pointing up the road. “She’s probably there, pottering around. You can also try the meeting house, there on the other side of the street. I doubt Victoria is there, though. She’s fallen a little out of favour with the community.” The girl hesitated a moment and then asked, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have come to investigate your founder’s death,” Holmes said smoothly, meeting her appraising gaze.

  “Too bad,” she replied with a scowl. “I was hoping you were Koresh, returned in a different form.”

  Even Holmes didn’t seem to have a ready answer to this. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said courteously and then proceeded in the direction the girl had indicated.

  “Already I am a disappointment,” said Holmes, sounding quite delighted. “This will help me seem less threatening, always an advantage in situations of this nature.”

  “I suppose so,” I said dubiously, “but I wonder how such a group truly views the involvement of outsiders. I am a little concerned about our general welcome.”

  “This is an extraordinarily practical, modern sort of sect, as I understand it,” Holmes said. “They use the money of outsiders liberally and are therefore inclined to be more accepting than otherwise. Teed himself, of course, claimed to be a messiah of science.”

  “It’s a strange science that requires a messiah,” I murmured.

  Holmes nodded towards Teed’s house, to which the schoolteacher had pointed. It was one of the biggest in the entire village, from what I could see, a two-storey affair with a large porch and many windows. As we approached, a middle-aged, heavyset woman rounded one of the corners. She wore black of a fine material and appeared so lost in thought that she did not notice us.

  “Victoria Gratia, I believe,” said Holmes.

  She startled and then slowly focused her gaze on us. “Who are you?” Her face was that of a Hapsburg princess, I thought, strong-featured but not entirely uncomely.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Dr. John Watson, whom I mentioned in my correspondence.”

  “What correspondence?” she asked blankly. “I haven’t written to anyone. I’ve been too busy caring for Koresh before and after his going.”

  Holmes studied her for a moment. “Someone wrote to me in your name,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I was asked to come here and investigate.”

  The woman stared at him. “I can’t imagine there’s much to discover. Our founder and messiah was done to death by the law, who have always distrusted men of science and faith.”

  Holmes stroked his chin. “If you will allow me to remain here,” he said, “I will offer my services to you without requiring compensation, and will investigate the full circumstances of Dr. Teed’s demise.”

  “Koresh,” she answered reflexively and then continued rather as though she were reading from a script. “It is not in our nature to refuse anyone a place here who wishes it.”

  “Thank you. Might I be allowed to see the interior of the Founder’s home?”

  “What?” She cast him a withering glance. “I haven’t the slightest idea who you are, sir, and Koresh’s home is not a museum.”

  “Very well,” Holmes answered with pleasant smoothness. “Come along, Watson.”

  We moved off, crossing the dusty street in the direction of the meeting house which the schoolteacher had likewise mentioned.

  “I take it this is an unexpected turn of events?” I enquired, not entirely sure if Holmes had been taken by surprise or not.

  “Indeed,” he said, sounding more intrigued than annoyed. “Letters can make the detection of falsehoods easier, but in this case the opposite appears true. Knowing that I had no first-hand knowledge of Victoria Gratia, the writer was able to misrepresent herself.” He reflected for a moment and then continued, “The real writer is also female, of that I’m sure, probably younger, however. She expressed herself as I have been accustomed to seeing young women do, though the unusual community might have had an effect on her psyche.”

  “How do you expect to find the real writer?”

  “If my knowledge of humanity, and womankind specifically, holds, Watson, she will find us. It would certainly be peculiar to lure me here only to ignore my presence.”

  “Do you believe there was foul play?”

  “Possibly. I despise speculation, Watson, but the town of unbelievers apparently disliked the man. Also, within such an organisation as this one, a streak of jealousy would not be unusual.”

  * * *

  The meeting house was a wide, wooden structure, unostentatious in design. Holmes pushed open the door, and immediately a wiry woman in a plain black dress loomed up in front of us.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, come to investigate the unfortunate passing of Dr. Teed.”

  Behind the woman, the long room, which was hung about with really quite excellent Impressionist paintings, was filled with people. A hush came over them after Holmes had spoken.

  “Koresh,” someone finally said. “His name is Koresh.”

  “I know who you are,” said a man. “You’re from the English detective stories.”

  My friend cleared his throat and addressed the crowd of twenty or so, mostly women and all in mourning black. “I am indeed. If anyone wishes to speak to me, I will be conducting interviews from the Founder’s house.” With that, he turned and left.

  Bewildered at the rapid turn of events, I followed, trusting that Holmes had a plan, as usual. “How are we to access the house with Victoria Gratia guarding it?” I asked quietly.

  “With the onslaught of the entire leadership of the Unity upon her, she can hardly fail to grant us access now,” Holmes said. “Of course, the house has been cleaned and gone over more than once since the man’s death. But I still want to see the place. I also wish to speak to the membership.”

  Holmes was in his element now, completely focused on the task at hand. I looked behind me and realised he had not been mistaken. It seemed all the attendees in the meeting house were spilling out en masse to follow us to the unfortunate leader’s house.

  “Was Teed a painter?” I asked. “Those were quite good back there.”

  “His son,” Holmes replied. “Douglas Teed. He is famous, but did not convert to his father’s sect, and we are unlikely to encounter him here. He was kind enough, though, to give his work to his father’s followers.”

  As we approached the house again, Victoria Gratia stood in front of the door with her arms folded. Black-clad and sombre, she looked like some sort of portent.

  She held her ground as the group assembled, glowering at Holmes, at me, and at anyone who dared to come close. “Do you dare to breach the Founder’s house?” she asked in impressively stentorian tones. “Even now we await his return.”

  As dramatic as this question was, it caused no dispersal in the crowd. Instead, a woman’s voice called from somewhere behind me, “You’re no different from any of us, Victoria Gratia, and if Koresh returns, he’ll have no kind words for your meddling. Let these men do their work, and let us answer to the Founder if he ever returns.” This voice appa
rently belonged to a figure of some authority, for by the time she had finished speaking, the whole group had turned towards her and was listening.

  Turning back, I saw Victoria Gratia move away from the door without a word, her features clouded in fury. The speaker, a woman in her mid-forties, stepped forward and opened the door. “Please come in, Mr. Holmes.”

  I followed Holmes into the house. We found ourselves in a spacious front room, which was furnished in a style far more suggestive of obvious, flaunted wealth than I had previously seen in our brief time at the Unity.

  “I think it would be best if you conducted your questioning in another room,” said the woman, “while the others wait out here.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I wouldn’t like anyone to feel compelled. Please announce that I will interview anyone who wishes to speak to me about the death of your leader and any of the details surrounding it, as far back as the incident of two years ago.”

  The woman nodded. She was more serene than Victoria Gratia, but looked tired and downcast. “I fear you may find our ways strange and your trouble of coming here unrewarded.”

  “I would not have come if it had not been worth my while,” said Holmes, and the woman smiled gratefully, though I could tell that my friend had meant no flattery. He was simply being truthful, as he usually was.

  She showed us into the office of the man who had considered himself the messiah of the Koreshan Unity. “If you will take your seats,” she said, “I will have the members who wish to speak come to you one by one.”

  The office had three identical-looking chairs of a comfortable design. One was pulled up to a large, ornate desk and faced a window looking out upon the street; two stood somewhat to the side, presumably for visitors of the Founder. Holmes turned the desk chair around to face the room, while I took one of the others.

  “Do you suppose she was the one who wrote the letters?” I asked Holmes in a low voice once we were alone.

  “No,” said Holmes. “She showed no sign of recognition of me beyond general knowledge, and she did not avail herself of the opportunity for self-revelation. More importantly, she is left-handed, and the letter writer favours the right.”

  I nodded and leaned back. Holmes glanced around the room. “Even police evidence would be better than this,” he grumbled. “A crime two years in the making, with nothing to go on.” His eyes darted around the room and alighted on well-executed paintings on the walls, as well as stationery on the man’s desk that even my untrained eyes noted was of exceptional quality.

  I had not seen him so discouraged about the case before. “I thought you had hopes for this case,” I said, somewhat surprised.

  “I will solve it, but not without considerable—”

  His piqued remark was interrupted by a knock at the door and the entry of a middle-aged man.

  “Mr. Holmes,” he said, bowing his head, “I’ve come to speak to you about our leader. You should know that it’s no use investigating his murder.”

  “Oh, and why is that?”

  “Because he’s coming back any day,” said the man, fingering his hat brim. “The murder was all part of his plan.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Well, if he appears, please direct him to me. I’d very much like to meet the man at the centre of a society such as this one.”

  “When Koresh returns, he will bring you into his fold,” the man stated with artless conviction, before departing the room with a quiet tread. I looked at Holmes to find a smile at the corner of his mouth.

  “Civil,” he said, “if deluded.”

  The next person, ushered in by our hostess, was a young woman in an ill-fitting black gown. I fancied the mourning suited her as poorly as the dress.

  She sat gingerly on the edge of her chair and clenched the coarse lace at her sleeves.

  “Good day,” Holmes said. “What have you come to tell us?”

  “My name is Louise,” she replied, her soft voice suiting my overall impression of her youth and innocence. “I don’t know that I know anything, but the others said I should speak to you.”

  “Excellent. How did you come to know the Founder?”

  The girl’s eyes acquired a beatific expression. “When I was a little girl, my mother took me to a meeting in Chicago. He spoke there, and he said he was making a new world. Mother followed him after that. You see, my father died when I was a baby. Koresh said women could do everything men could, and he taught us how to do things we’d never done before.”

  “Very well, Miss Louise. What do you know of his death?”

  Her face fell. “I wasn’t with him, but Sister Victoria says he was in a state of peace and contemplation.”

  “I mean,” said Holmes, and I could tell he was making an effort to be patient, “what do you know of the events that led to his injury?”

  “Oh,” said the girl, “I was there.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes, we went into town because the Founder had friends coming to see him from Baltimore, and he thought they might join us here. He said we could come along, those of us who were of a good outlook and would be pleasant company – he was always very inviting to everyone, no arrogance about anyone’s position. And then, well, there’s not much to tell. As soon as we got to town, Mr. Sellers started pummelling the Founder in the face, along with Mr. Gray and Mr. Wallace.”

  “Who is Mr. Sellers?” Holmes rubbed his forehead in slight vexation at the lack of context in the recitation.

  “He owns a hotel in Fort Myers. He thought Mr. Wallace had insulted Mrs. Sellers on the telephone, but Sister Victoria says it was really because of politics, as Mr. Wallace was trying to become county commissioner. I don’t know about that so much, but they all looked very angry, and the Founder was frightfully injured. He was just trying to break up the fight, you see.”

  “Please don’t agitate yourself. We’re beginning to have at least a rudimentary outline of events. Is there anything else you wish to tell?”

  “Marshal Sanchez stood as still as a statue. He didn’t do anything at all at first, but then he started helping the other men from town hit our Founder and Mr. Wallace, before he arrested Koresh.”

  The girl had little else to say and left us quickly, but this time when our hostess returned, Holmes had the eagerness about him of a hound on the scent. “Are any of the men who were involved in the fight two years ago willing to speak to me?” he asked.

  “I can find them, but Miss Owens is asking to come next. We don’t care for her, city reporter trash, but Koresh was against turning anyone away, even those who mean to exploit us. I suppose her help with the newspaper has been repayment of some kind.”

  “Very well. Bring her in.”

  This time the hostess ushered in a more forceful person than our previous specimen, a woman who looked to be in her early thirties, well-built and with brown hair, wearing the usual mourning black but cut to suit her robust figure.

  She smiled, something we had not seen thus far in our time at the Unity. “Good afternoon,” she said, sitting down. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

  “I suspect you are,” said Holmes, “given your efforts at luring me here.”

  Miss Owens continued smiling. “Please don’t think ill of me for intercepting your telegram and correspondence, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, the strangeness of the case will prove irresistible.” She reached into a black handbag and pulled out a thin newspaper. “This is the Unity’s paper, The American Eagle. In this issue you will find statements by the Founder and others concerning the incident.” She handed the paper to Holmes.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Where is the paper produced, and are all back issues retained?”

  “The press is in a white building down the road from here and to the left. And yes, you will find copies there of each issue.”

  Holmes laid the paper aside. “And you are involved in the publication of this paper?”

  “I am,” she answered. “I wish to explain myself. I wrote to you as Vict
oria Gratia because I believed that one of the Planetary Court, a true believer, would have more success in convincing you to come here. The truth is, I believe Cyrus Teed was a charlatan, a confidence man, and perhaps deranged. But I also believe he was murdered.”

  She spoke this last part in a near-whisper. If Holmes had begun the interview with interest, he was now positively intrigued, as I deduced from the tilt of his head and a deep breath he took.

  “If you didn’t care for the man, why take an interest in the investigation?”

  “I dislike injustice, Mr. Holmes. I came here because I was curious about this ideal of a world where men and women were equal and all could work peacefully together. My intention was to pose as a new member of the Unity, which I did, and write a book about my experiences. When I arrived, I found what I still believe to be a mostly harmless community of those who have been otherwise disappointed by life and society. My cause, once I understood these people, was to oppose the abuses against them. The local prejudice I found to be ridiculous at best and abhorrent at worst. It contributed to Teed’s death.”

  “You did consider him a charlatan and liar, though?”

  “I realise my opinions are complex. Teed was anything but the Messiah; in fact, I think the idea as ludicrous today as the first day I heard it. But he inspired people toward a better society. The Unity has been a happy and peaceful place up to now, for the most part. I pity these people the loss of the man who led them.”

  Holmes nodded. “Tell us what you know of the case.”

  “As you will recall from my letters, I wasn’t in town the day Sellers attacked Teed. I wish I had been, because the Koreshan accounts of the matter are coloured by adoration of the man, while the official record is marred by the city’s hatred of Teed and his followers.”

  “The religiously eccentric are often disliked,” said Holmes, “but I have yet to understand what Koreshan practices gave rise to this violent hatred.”

  “It wasn’t always this way,” she answered. “Many in Fort Myers used to trade with the Unity and acquire its farm products, and the ladies would come to theatricals and concerts. But things changed when Teed sought to make the Unity itself into a town and became involved in politics. If you ask me, it was the politics that did it. Teed grew too powerful for Fort Myers’s comfort. The hatred extended to the Unity, but it was Teed who held the power.”