by Marvin Kaye
Mrs. Alva turned and saw me, lurking, as it were, in the shadow of the grand staircase. She smiled, and turned those remarkable eyes in my direction. “Why, Mr. Escott . . . it is Escott, isn’t it? I thought I recognized you. You were in that amusing play . . .”
“I am delighted to know that my performance was so memorable.” I began to edge towards the door.
Alva’s smile became almost fierce. “Actors lead such difficult lives, I hear. Audiences are so fickle. Why, someone who was enormously popular one day can be cast aside the next. All it takes is a word or two in the right ears . . .”
I suddenly realized what she was driving at. She could destroy, not me, but the entire company, with a whispering campaign that would turn our success to a miserable failure. If I voiced my suspicions about her inciting Charles to his robbery, or implicating Magill, she would see to it that everyone connected with me suffered. I understood that much well enough, Watson. That woman was positively demonic! She would let nothing and nobody stop her from attaining her ends, no matter how petty they may be.
I reached the front door. Without another word, I bolted! I practically slid down Fifth Avenue until I caught up with Hargreave, who was watching Charles being stowed into the Black Maria, to be hauled off to the Tombs in place of Mike Magill.
“Had enough of Alva, younker?” Hargreave chuckled, as we began the walk downtown.
“Then you agree that it was she who spurred Charles on?”
“Had to be,” Hargreave said. “But he’ll never rat on her. He’ll do his time and there’ll be a nice job waiting for him somewhere. Unless he’s sent out West. I’m still not sure what he was after, though.”
“The Will,” I said suddenly.
“Eh?” Hargreave looked sharply at me.
“Was there not some difficulty about the terms of the old Commodore’s Will?”
Hargreave chuckled. “You bet there was, younker. A whale of a scandal. Lawsuits and everything. After all that, no Vanderbilt will ever dare question a Will again!”
“So that if Mr. William Henry Vanderbilt were to die tomorrow . . .”
“Whatever they find in his safe will stick!” Hargreave shook his head at the audacity of it. “And Mrs. Alva wanted to see how much she would get—”
“And possibly take steps to correct any ‘error,’ ” I concluded. “But we have no proof of any of this, Mr. Hargreave, and the Vanderbilts are not about to let two private inquiry agents—”
“One agent, one actor,” Hargreave reminded me.
“I stand corrected,” I said. “This will never be made public.” We walked along for a few more minutes. Then I said, “I am intrigued that you actually make your living investigating crimes that have baffled the police. As far as I know, there is no such creature in England.”
“Well, kid, if you want to give it a whirl, I say, go to it,” said Hargreave genially. “Only not in my town! New York is mine!”
“At the moment, sir, you can have it,” I said. “May I tell Miss Magill that her brother will soon be a free man?”
“I think she knows,” Hargreave said. I realized that we had already reached the theatre, where I saw Miss Magill throw her arms around her brother, who was stepping out of a horse-car. I was pleased, but not satisfied, for Justice had not truly been served.
Our train pulled into the station, and Holmes began to wrap himself into his famous tweed greatcoat and deerstalker cap.
I followed him through the station to where our local transportation, a farmer’s dray, stood waiting. “But, Holmes . . .” I said, puffing a little. “I don’t understand the secrecy. Surely, you could have spoken out when Mr. William Vanderbilt died, and his Will was read.”
“That was in 1885,” Holmes said. “As you may recall, we were extremely busy that year. By the time I knew anything about it, Mr. Vanderbilt’s Will had been read and probated. According to its terms, his fortune was divided more or less evenly between Mr. Cornelius and Mr. William Kissam Vanderbilt, with Mr. George Washington Vanderbilt and the various Vanderbilt daughters getting substantial, but not extravagant bequests. Mrs. William Kissam—Alva—became a leader in what passes for Society in America, and did make her daughter a duchess . . . as you have seen. I was quite surprised that Her Grace recalled my face. I have changed somewhat since then.”
“But . . .” I still protested. “You could have come forward with your suspicions.”
“To what end?” Holmes asked wearily. “After the scandalous trials of the Commodore’s Will, none of the surviving Vanderbilts would question another Will. Without proof, there was nothing I could do. The case of Vanderbilt and the Yeggman was closed. It was one of my earliest successes, and one of my greatest failures. I still am chagrined when I think how I cravenly ran from that woman. It is the only time I ever ran from anything, and I can only excuse myself by recalling how many others she managed to ride over in pursuit of her goals. She bullied her way into that Society that rejected her, and married her daughter into the highest circles of our aristocracy.”
“Yes . . . the Duchess of Marlborough,” I said.
“You are right, Watson. I was abominably rude to her. I shall write to her and apologize, explaining that the pressure of a case vital to the Empire prevented me from assisting her. I cannot possibly explain that her whole marriage might have been based on a fraud.”
“Might have been?” I echoed.
“Watson, don’t you see? Mr. William Henry Vanderbilt could have altered his Will any time between the robbery in 1880 and his death in 1885. It is possible that Alva Vanderbilt merely influenced her father-in-law, rather than actually inserting a clause into that in-famous Will, but without proof, I can say nothing. Nevertheless, when Miss Consuelo Vanderbilt married the Duke of Marlborough last year, it was with the understanding that a large part of her fortune would revert directly to him. His title, bought with her money. A dreadful bargain, Watson; I do not think the Duchess of Marlborough is a happy woman. I shall not add to her unhappiness by accusing her mother of theft and possible forgery. No, Watson, I must insist that you keep this case confidential. Now, let us be off!”
AFTERMATH:
It was indeed rumoured that William Henry Vanderbilt’s will was tampered with by Alva, or at least that she influenced him to divide his enormous estate between his two eldest sons. A third son, George Washington Vanderbilt, was given a substantial bequest, but nothing like the fifty million or so that Cornelius and Willie K. Vanderbilt inherited. Consuelo Vanderbilt’s marriage to the Duke of Marlborough was stage-managed by her mother, although both parties were attached to other people. (They separated in 1909, and were finally divorced in 1920.) As soon as her daughter’s engagement was announced, Alva divorced her husband and proceeded to marry one of his best friends, Oliver Perry Belmont. As Mrs. Belmont, she spearheaded the drive for woman’s suffrage and the Nineteenth Amendment.
As stated earlier, Sherlock Holmes was presumed dead, smashed at the foot of Reichenbach Falls along with his archenemy Professor Moriarty, from 1891 until 1894, when he finally revealed himself to Dr. Watson. When his friend asked Holmes what he’d been doing during this undercover period, the detective spoke of time spent in Tibet, Persia, Mecca and Khartoum, and some months spent in research at a laboratory in the south of France. But he neglected to mention the diplomatic mission undertaken for his brother Mycroft that led to this supremely unromantic sleuth’s . . . marriage?!!
The Secret Marriage of Sherlock Holmes
BY SHARIANN LEWITT
The mission was an imposition, but I could not say no to Mycroft. Usually his inquiries were of an intriguing as well as important nature, and provided an opportunity to serve the Queen in a unique capacity.
Still, I did not desire to go to Arabia in 1893. Work on the laboratory was progressing nicely in France, and my mind was on research for my own edification. There was much promise in some recent work in Germany that I wished to pursue, and I had spent some time and a good portion of fun
ds to obtain the equipment and supplies I would need.
It was with great regret that I boarded the ship at Marseilles and watched green France recede from the rail. In my pocket I carried the sealed leather envelope that Mycroft had given me to deliver in Mecca to a representative of the Ottoman Turks, along with several other missives that were destined for officials stationed throughout Arabia.
There was little employment for my talents in this mission. Mycroft could not send a courier from the Foreign Office, as the contact was not a public one, but he had no need of my skills and abilities.
“Nonsense,” he replied when I told him that any one of a dozen Orientalists could fulfill the task better than I. “None of them have the nerve for it. And you do have the language and knowledge of the culture to enable you to penetrate the forbidden city of Mecca as Burton did. No one else exists who is better suited.”
So now I was sailing away from the work I found so fascinating in France in order to deliver the mail in fancy dress. When I could tolerate looking at the shore no longer, I retired to my cabin to read yet again the exploits of Sir Richard Burton, the great Orientalist, in Mecca some forty years earlier.
But I was not to travel the usual Pilgrimage route. The delivery in Mecca was but the last of several interviews and letters to be given to Arabs and Egyptians as well as Turks in various parts of Arabia. Not only was this to be a dull task, but an uncomfortable one as well. The itinerary that Mycroft had prepared would require me to cross the Empty Quarter if I were to make the timetable so subtly included in the list of addresses where I was to call.
Mycroft knew perfectly well that the Empty Quarter is the most inhospitable and barren desert in the world. There are no wells and what few sources of water there are are poisoned. Even among the Arabs there are few who can survive there, let alone track across the moving dunes and guide a traveller to the other side. Only one or two of the fiercest Bedouin tribes would undertake the journey. It sounded quite unpleasant in the comfort of Mycroft’s club; in the full furnace heat of Jedda I wished for a moment that I had argued more fiercely against taking the mission.
The aridity of the peninsula was worse than the heat. Simply disembarking from our ship was a nightmare. My suit was soaked through with sweat and my mouth was dry before I even picked up my bags to walk down to solid land. The stench hit before I stepped into Arabia proper, the unwashed throng of beggars and porters and navvies all crowded on the narrow accessway, each of them yelling for work or alms. There were also water sellers festooned with grimy bottles half-full of water, which they were hawking for prices that would buy two pints of ale at any pub in London. And yet I was so thirsty that I contemplated the price and mentally sifted through my change to see if I had the sum at hand.
Before I could purchase the water, my bags were snatched out of my hands by a wiry young man with dark skin and a scowl. “Give those back,” I ordered, but he did not stop until he had reached the street. Or the poor excuse for one, since it was not decently paved.
He dropped my things on the hard-packed dirt and started yelling and waving his arms to every vehicle that moved. Finally a small cart drew up. “You are going to Riyadh, sir?” the porter asked as he handed my cases over to the driver. “This is my cousin Salah, he will take you to Riyadh. Only two pounds, is very cheap.”
“No, sir, it is very expensive,” I replied in Arabic. “I will not pay more than one and a half.”
The porter grinned broadly and his white teeth blazed in his leathered face. Then he touched his heart, his lips and his forehead with the fingers of his right hand and held it open to me. “Why did you not tell me you were a believer, sir?” he asked in his own language, his tone conveying just a hint of petulance. “I would not charge you as I do an infidel. Salah will take you for half that price, unless you wish to go to the Pilgrim’s area. Then he will take you for nothing, and our honour to welcome you to the holy places.”
It was quite evident how Sir Richard Burton had managed to enter the city closed to all but Muslims. Though, indeed, he knew more of the customs and religion of Islam than any man in Britain before undertaking the Pilgrimage himself. This was going to be even less interesting than I had first thought.
“Thank you, I am going to Riyadh first,” I said. “So your offer will be fine. Good day.” I gave him tuppence and climbed into the cart, which smelled of camel milk and old wool. I steeled myself for the long journey to the capital, which turned out to be only a full day’s ride. We approached just at sunset, as the muezzins chanted the call to prayer from all the minarets in the town. To see those dizzying white towers against the darkening sky and hear the call echoed and repeated all around reminded me that this was truly an alien place. The stars were clear and bright, outlining the graceful towers in the falling darkness. It was very beautiful in a foreign way, but also brought home to me how much I would prefer at that moment to be sitting in a clean sitting room in a comfortable wing-back chair.
The air chilled rapidly but there was no comforting moisture in the coming night. Indeed, my throat was dry and rasping and I would have happily paid for another sip of water had there been any left in the canteen. My guide, Salah, stopped the cart, took out his prayer rug and began to pray. He looked askance at me, as if expecting me to join him, but I wandered far enough to give him privacy in his devotions.
Darkness falls rapidly this near the equator. The long gentle twilight full of pinks and ambers is a stranger to this place of harsh contrasts, of endless desert and fervent faith. When Salah had finished at his prayers, we both climbed back into the cart and rode the last two miles to the outskirts of town in much less time than I had expected. With the darkness came cool air that seemed to breathe life into the one sorry roan gelding hitched to the cart, and he picked up his ears and started to move with something that approached vigour. No longer beaten down by the anvil of the sun, he showed himself to be a fine animal, alert and ready to go home.
“It is too late,” Salah protested when we found the gates of the city closed for the night. Riyadh is the center of a very strict sect of Islam, and its gates are shut after evening prayers. “We shall have to find the camp where my brother-in-law lives. They are close to here, I have gone with them often. We are not entirely soft city folk, no, we are proud of our Bedouin family. Now two of my nephews are with the band as well, learning the ways of the desert so they do not grow up to be spoiled, lazy, irreligious city boys. When my sons are thirteen I will send them to their uncle in the desert to train them.”
As there was no choice in the matter, I was quite content to let Salah drive until he found a ragged outcropping of tents along a ridge. I had noticed the irregularity of shape in the shadows, but would not have immediately recognized this as a Bedouin encampment. The fires were all well hidden by the deep sand pits, around which men sat on fine carpets and smoked a water pipe.
Salah approached one of the elders, a gentleman with skin as dark and lined as the waterskin that lay empty under the driver’s seat. Under his keffiyah his hair was no doubt as white as his long desert robe, and his nose was a monument to both the size and sharpness of the organ. Indeed, it looked more like a beak than anything human.
The old man rose with grace that belied his years and welcomed us among the Murrah tribe of the Bedouin. “We are happy to fulfill the obligation of hospitality that is the law of the desert, and in so doing to give of charity as we are commanded as believers. For did not the Prophet say that to remove the obstructions in the way of true belief is itself a form of charity? That to smile at someone is charity, to give greeting is charity. And so we are honoured to welcome you to our fire and conversation.”
Salah bowed and introduced us. “This gentleman is a European who has need to travel. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he serves his ruler, the Queen of England.”
The old man jutted his chin with approval and pointed his nose to a place that had been made on the carpet next to him. “I am Bader ibn Abdullah of the Murra
h Bedouin. We await the arrival of a young man of Riyadh who wishes our escort to cross the Empty Quarter.”
Immediately my interest was aroused. “You cross the Empty Quarter? I had heard that even the Bedouin prefer to go around that place.” For it is surely the most desolate spot on the earth, I added mentally, with perhaps the exception of the South Pole. There is no water there, nothing at all grows in the shifting dunes, and it is full of treacherous quicksand and springs where the water is tainted with toxic chemicals leached from the sands.
Ibn Abdullah smiled as if what I said had pleased him greatly. “This is so indeed, Mr. Sherlock. Of all the Bedouin, only the Murrah will make the crossing more than once. We know the ways of the Empty Quarter, and we can take anyone across it for a price.”
The young man who was serving Salah coffee made a face. Then he offered me a thimble-sized glass edged with gold on an ornate brass tray. I sniffed at it slightly; the beverage was heavily laced with cardamum but from the way the men regarded me it was obvious that I was required to drink. Not to do so would be an insult to my hosts. I quaffed the whole in a single mouthful, and while the strangely spiced coffee was odd it was also decidedly appealing and refreshing.
“Delicious,” I said quite honestly to my host, and added a smile to the young man serving. He smiled back brilliantly and immediately poured me another cup. This one I savoured slowly.
“When do you think you shall leave across the Quarter?” Salah asked.
Ibn Abdullah shrugged. “In a day and a night, maybe two nights, God willing. But we cannot wait much longer. In two weeks it will be too late to attempt to cross before the windstorms become too dangerous. Then we shall have to wait until the end of the windstorm season, which will not suit our customer in Riyadh.” Then the old man’s face broke into a deep smile. “But there will be good hunting along the way for the falcons, and I am sure that this fat, Western-taught Rasheedi will not be up to the hunt. I do not think he can handle birds at all.”