“Very well then. How might we contact you with further questions?”
I was a bit surprised at the abruptness with which Holmes brought the conversation to a close. The woman, however, seemed to consider this acceptable from one of Holmes’s stature in investigative matters and responded cordially.
“I live in a blue house in the city, Fort Myers, the only blue house on Main Street.” She rose and looked at both of us. “Thank you again for coming. I hope you will solve this atrocity once and for all.”
The door closed behind her and I looked at Holmes in surprise. “I thought you would want to question her for longer.”
“I may still. But I would like to see if she comes to me again. I purposely gave her little indulgence.”
“You disbelieve her?”
“She considered Teed somehow both a terrible fraud and a great leader. I find it hard to believe that a person as obviously intelligent as she is would hold such conflicting opinions.”
“I once met an atheist who said the same of Jesus.”
Holmes smiled without conviction. “It’s no more logical an argument, regardless of the example. Normal humans do not consider goodness and fraud compatible. Her statement might be a smokescreen to hide some other knowledge. It is also possible that she simply wishes to capitalise on my fame and the strangeness of the whole affair.”
* * *
Holmes interviewed half a dozen more of the Unity’s curious inhabitants before darkness fell outside and I began to think that we ought to consider the pressing issues of food and lodging. My friend, I knew, would hardly have those concerns at the forefront of his occupied mind, but I did not lose the need for human comforts during a case as he appeared to do.
“What of the men who participated in the fight?” I asked.
“I will look at the accounts in the paper, and then I will pursue these men if I must.” My friend sighed. “Two years, Watson. Even if I do speak to them, they have had two years to decide what their story should be and two years to convince themselves of it.”
A quarter of an hour later, our hostess came into the room as a nervous young man with nothing of interest to say was leaving. She was accompanied by Victoria Gratia herself, looking no less severe than she had previously.
“I’m told you need lodging,” Victoria Gratia said abruptly. “You can stay in my home, though I’ve nothing to promise you that equals the finery of London.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes, rising. “We will be obliged for your consideration.”
I followed, wondering if Holmes’s gallantry would thaw the woman’s icy exterior. If it did not, I thought that perhaps I might attempt to engage her in conversation.
She led us to another home very near Teed’s, a large, grey house with an airy porch. Inside, the furnishings, while not austere, were richly sparse. Perhaps this reads like a contradiction in terms, but like most of what we had encountered in the Unity, there was a strange air of wealth blended with asceticism, as if the rich had not so much forsaken their capital as diverted it into Unity-approved projects and elegant simplicity.
Victoria Gratia, reluctant as she seemed, produced a suitable dinner of pot roast and bread rolls. I did not know of her life before the Unity, but it had certainly encompassed serviceable culinary instruction. Holmes barely ate, but I relished what was set in front of me.
“I wonder if you would consent to answer a few questions,” Holmes said courteously, once the mostly silent meal was concluding. Our hostess, sitting opposite us at the table, continued to stare at her plate and to finish mechanically generous portions of each item.
Now she raised her tired eyes. “I suppose. Though I don’t see the purpose of this investigation. I’d do anything to help the Founder, but he is on his way now, and we can only wait.”
I wondered if Holmes would disclose the identity of the letter writer to her. I did not particularly care for our hostess and her churlish demeanour, but sometimes Holmes believed that people deserved to know the truth, on principle.
Victoria Gratia led us to a comfortable, drab sitting room with a sofa and two chairs. She gestured to the chairs, and I was struck by how much like an interview in Baker Street this conversation would be, despite the many miles and experiences that now separated Holmes and me from those memories.
“Please,” said Holmes, “tell me how you came to the Unity.” The low lamplight rendered the woman’s features less harsh than they had previously appeared.
“A long time ago, my name was Annie Grace,” she said. “I had what I thought was a husband and a life, but that was before the Founder showed me my true purpose.”
“And what is that?”
“Divinity,” she answered without hesitation. “The divine was given to our Founder and from him was to pass on to me. As he has left us, perhaps it has already come, but I confess my grief makes it difficult to ascertain.”
“Is the divine to bring forth your own enlightenment?”
She shook her head. “No, I am to lead the Unity onward toward a more perfect realisation of the New Jerusalem. The Founder always said he would be resurrected, but perhaps he meant he would live on in the divine light as it passed into my care.”
I tried not to look incredulous. Holmes was characteristically neutral in his expression, listening quietly.
“And you are unsure if it has passed to you?” he asked.
The woman’s expression was sober. “Sometimes I think it has; at other times, I feel as ordinary as Annie Grace. If the divine becomes vested in me, I will take up the Founder’s mantle, no matter how heavy it is. If he’s not coming back, I wonder if he will send me more of his divine light.”
I felt a bit woolly-headed at this. I could not figure out what Holmes was trying to extract, and I began to think a bed would not be unwelcome after the wearying events of the day.
Of course, this was not lost on Holmes, who suddenly turned to me. “Watson, you are exhausted. You must go to bed, or Mrs. Watson will be accusing me of making you ill. I will sit up, as is my custom.”
I wanted to remonstrate, but years of experience had shown me how useless it was to challenge Holmes when he was determined to cogitate upon a case. Victoria Gratia rose and led the way along a dark hallway.
“This is the room my dear Lucy used to stay in before her sudden departure,” our hostess commented, a little wistfully, as she opened a door. “I suppose being so near the Founder’s home was just too much for her. She has a remarkably sensitive and perceptive disposition, and it pained her to leave me.”
The question of who this Lucy might be crossed my mind. We had encountered so many people in the course of the day and her identity escaped me. I did not ask, as tiredness was quickly overtaking me. The room, like the rest of the house, was modest, yet comfortable. Our hostess left me, and I stretched out upon the bed without the coverlet over me, for there was barely a breeze.
I had just begun to slip into restful sleep, when I heard knocking at the door. “Watson,” came a low voice that I would have recognised anywhere, “surely you are not yet asleep?”
I rose wearily and opened the door. Holmes looked as bright-eyed as ever as he stepped inside, taking his place in the lone wooden chair by a small writing desk.
He lit his pipe and stretched out his long frame, lounging on the chair. The sight was somewhat comical to behold.
“Curious place, isn’t it?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said, mildly annoyed at being deprived of rest. “I can’t even decide if I think the man was murdered. Two years and some witnesses to a fight seems a dubious basis for an investigation.”
“The lapse of time is unfortunate,” agreed Holmes, “but can be surmounted by examination of what and who remains here. Victoria Gratia stood to gain from the man’s death. Perhaps she wanted to get rid of the one whose ‘divine light’ was stronger than her own and usurp the Koreshan throne by using the fists of others.”
“Throne?” I asked. “This place
is comfortable enough, but would you consider it worth a murder?”
“Power, Watson,” he answered. “Power is an intoxicating drug for some.”
“Do you think she’s that sort of person?”
Holmes took a contemplative breath. “She is a woman of strong personality and self-interested perspective. I know that you are a devotee of women’s dress, Watson. You’ve often described it in detail in your stories. You must have noticed hers.”
I thought back to my observations. “She is wearing black to honour the dead,” I answered. “Good-quality fabric, well made.”
“More than that,” said Holmes, growing animated. “It’s fully three times as expensive as the clothing of any other woman we’ve encountered here, judging by the cut and fabric, and many Koreshans appear far from austere in their supposed asceticism.”
“That’s true.”
“She is clearly someone who wishes to be seen, to be noticed. I dislike psychological conjecture, but this leads me to wonder if the divine light Teed promised came from like calling to like – one man who wished to be powerful recognising the same qualities in a woman and wanting to have her by his side.”
“By his side?” I mused. “Do you suppose they really practise celibacy as they claim?”
Holmes subsided into deep silence, and I wondered if he intended to remain in the room all night. Then he rose, stretching his bony limbs, and without reference to my question said, “I will leave you, Watson, to the sleep you clearly need.”
I wondered if I had imagined the slight air of disdain in his tone, faulting me for being susceptible to the demands of the physical self. Still, I was glad when the door closed behind him and I could again lie back upon the comfortable bed.
I had been living away from my friend for quite some time, and I was no longer accustomed to the spontaneous privations and vagaries to which his occupation had always subjected me. However, whilst I greatly enjoyed my peaceful daily existence, my wife and my modest home, I could not deny that at times I still craved the adventures that friendship with Holmes had always brought. Try as I might to be irritated with him, I could not remain so for long. I was too pleased to be doing what I had loved and missed, and I had no doubt he knew it, perhaps even felt so himself.
* * *
The next morning, I rose late and found Victoria Gratia in the kitchen, looking haggard, as if she had not slept. Nevertheless, she produced a simple breakfast and coffee. Holmes did not emerge until I had nearly finished eating, looking as fresh as one who had taken a complete rest, though in all likelihood he had taken none at all. He paid no heed to the food, and I knew that this would remain so until his body absolutely insisted on sustenance for continued function.
Within a few minutes, we were on our way to the Unity’s publishing house, pointed in the correct direction by our hostess, who showed no inclination to accompany us or any concern about what we might or might not do.
As we passed a few people along the way, it became clear that our presence was generally known to the population. We received curious but not surprised stares and a few politely terse greetings.
The atmosphere of the Unity was strange. While not exactly threatening, the trees’ low-hanging foliage and the stagnant heat produced an oppressive effect. I knew that Holmes would tell me my mind was playing tricks on me, but I felt as though the entire place were watching us, listening to us, actively marking our presence.
From its modest outward appearance, in keeping with the rest of the community, the home of The American Eagle might have been just another house. It was a square, simple building painted an off-white colour and rising solidly out of the ground to an average height. No one might have guessed that we were facing an institution for the dissemination of socialist convictions melded with eccentric religious views.
We found Miss Owens inside, seated at a small, square desk with a typewriter before her.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said, as soon as we entered. “I thought you would come by today.”
She was much smoother in her address than she had been the previous day. It took me a moment to work out why, but I soon realised I could hear the clacking of a typewriter in an inner office and conjectured that she was putting on a show for the Unity members who were also employed here.
“I would like to see all the papers you have,” said Holmes simply, “whether related to the attack on Koresh or not.”
“Very well,” she said affably, “we’ll accommodate any whim of the great Sherlock Holmes.”
She led us to a small back room, lined with wooden shelves, neat stacks of papers on each.
“This is the archive,” she said. “The Unity has been publishing since the 1880s. We have every issue of every Unity publication, except for an unfortunate few that were lost in a fire seven years ago.” She pointed to different locations in the room. “The shelves on the far wall are for The Eagle. The others are for miscellaneous documents that may or may not be of interest. Please do call me if I can assist.” As if to belie her own words, she quickly left the small, overly warm room.
Holmes crossed to the wall with the shelves that held copies of the Unity’s paper. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully, the presence of potential clues raising his spirits.
Holmes pulled yellowed copies of The American Eagle from the stacks and began leafing through the pages. “Watson, find papers from the last months of 1906.”
The organisation of the archive was such that we laid hands on the relevant documents within minutes. Soon Holmes let out a triumphant “Aha!” as he held a sheet aloft that contained another account of the fight between Teed and the town ruffians. My friend sat down at the table in the middle of the room.
“Watson, this article has more to say than the one Miss Owens showed us yesterday. It mentions a Miss Mary Mills, who was once secretary to Victoria Gratia. We have been introduced to no such person. I need to speak with her.”
Holmes made a list of relevant witnesses and jotted down a few words in his notebook. I supplied him with all the relevant documents from the period I could find, but it seemed as if the accounts of Teed’s fight with his assailants held little information beyond what we already knew.
Nevertheless, the investigation of documents required several hours. We took a break at lunchtime to eat sandwiches at a small restaurant across from the paper’s office and then returned to the archive for more research. The sun was already sinking when we at last returned to Victoria Gratia’s home. I had not been sure we would find her in, but she was, and her reddened eyes suggested that she had been crying.
“I apologise for my condition,” she said. “I have found it doubly difficult to contend with the Founder’s death since Lucy has left me.”
“You mentioned her last night,” I said. “Who is she, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“You must have met her,” she answered. “She’s the serious little slip of a girl who is the teacher at our school. The room you slept in, Dr. Watson, is the one she used to occupy. She was a great help to me, and Koresh was fond of her. She used to wait on him hand and foot when he was unwell – before the end, I mean. She would come in during lunchtime, then rush back after school was out to make him tea and attend to him. Not divine, but certainly devoted.” Victoria Gratia lapsed into a silent reverie for a moment. “I often wonder how far she might go in our faith, for she is a true believer. Her mother, who was with us before, was less resolute – always going back and forth, wishy-washy, not prepared to leave everything else truly behind. But our dear Lucy is different, determined. A true Koreshan.”
I thought of our chance encounter with the teacher when we had first entered the community, and I surmised that Victoria Gratia was probably correct in her assessment of the girl’s character.
“What happened to the mother?” Holmes asked, and Victoria Gratia replied in a rush, clearly feeling a need to speak, as Holmes had no doubt perceived.
“She died, unfortunately, after travelling he
re. That was before Lucy came. Lucy followed her here and embraced the faith. She took the Founder’s death very hard, and she withdrew from my house to her old quarters in the cabin nearest the school. I don’t blame her. The loss must have been terrible for one so young and devoted.”
* * *
Once again, our grim hostess produced a simple meal, and I began to think that, unfriendly manner aside, I could not hold an ill opinion of a woman who was so forthcoming with appetising victuals. She served with no grace, but appeared to consider our well-being her duty.
“Miss Gratia, are you unwell?” I could not help asking, as she sat silently, not touching the food on her plate.
“I have had some news today,” she answered after a moment’s thought. “Miss Mills, my former secretary – she left the Unity some time ago – has returned to Fort Myers and written to our mayor, making claims about the fight two years ago. She has claimed that I am responsible for Koresh’s death, that the fight was my fault. This information has spread.”
She looked at Holmes for a long moment. “I do not blame you or this investigation. In fact, you have been extremely civil. But the others have begun to reject me as their divine light, and I do not know if I will be able to convince them.”
Holmes did not question her about her precise meaning, and I fancied I knew why. He had already expressed to the reporter, Miss Owens, his wish to speak to Miss Mills, and I imagined that his wish was now even stronger than before.
* * *
That night, once Victoria Gratia had retired to her room, Holmes again came quietly into mine. The excited look in his eyes did not suggest that he wished to have a leisurely conversation.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“I must search this room, of course.”
“Whatever for?” I was genuinely astonished. “If Victoria Gratia has hidden something, wouldn’t it be in her own chamber?”
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