The Seventh Bullet

by Daniel D Victor

  As we were alone, however, I sat down in the chair beside her. About to inform her of my friend’s retirement, I began, “Sherlock Holmes, madam—”

  “Mrs. Frevert,” she informed me. “Mrs. Carolyn Frevert. In fact, Dr. Watson, I believe you knew my brother Graham.”

  I thought for a moment, but could not recognise the name.

  “David Graham Phillips,” she said slowly.

  Of course, I now saw the resemblance. It was the eyes—dark, piercing, commanding—the same keen eyes that had revealed her brother to be an inquisitive, aggressive newspaperman the first time I met him when he had come round in 1896 or ‘97 to thank Holmes for the account of the naval collision. That had been a few years before Phillips had begun writing novels and well before, as the world now so sadly knows, Phillips was shot and killed in New York by one who at the time had been described as a deranged assassin ranting of vampires.

  It had taken only a moment for these thoughts to course through my mind, but the look of concern exemplified in Mrs. Frevert’s dark-knitted brow made me feel guilty for my silence, however brief.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I was lost in memory. Do accept my apology and also my condolences on your brother’s death. Holmes and I were both deeply saddened. To think, a writer with such innate ability and promise—”

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” she broke in. “All of us at home were terribly grieved, as you can imagine.” Mrs. Frevert paused to take a deep breath. Then she continued, “I first learned from Graham’s letters how much he had enjoyed meeting you and Mr. Holmes. And once he returned to New York, he always spoke of his encounters with you both in London as the highlights of his stay in England.” It was only now that her worried expression began to fade. Indeed, the hint of a smile crept in at the corners of her red lips, and she began to slow the wave of her fan.

  “Graham never really liked leaving New York,” she explained. “I know he called it ‘the damned East’ in one of his books, but it was where so many important things were happening that he hated to be away—from them, from me. We were so very close, you see.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “In fact,” she said, as if trying to regain her earlier optimism, “to Graham, 221B Baker Street was one of the landmarks of London. He wrote about his visits there at great length.”

  Desirous of keeping her mood buoyant, I ventured recounting the rather amusing narrative of her brother’s initial encounter with Holmes. Discoursing so gaily about Phillips seemed a better tonic for his sister than those therapeutic medicines for depression we physicians sometimes have to prescribe.

  “When your brother first arrived at Baker Street, Mrs. Frevert, I must admit to being quite put off by his flamboyant manner of dress. Despite the politeness with which he introduced himself, he seemed quite the popinjay to me. Still, since I had grown accustomed to all types of visitors, I simply told him that Holmes was not in and suggested he come round at teatime as I expected my friend back by then.

  “Your brother called again just as Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper, was bringing up the tea. I offered him a chair; but not wishing to eat without Holmes, we quietly sat staring at the sandwiches and cakes, both of us eagerly awaiting Holmes’s return. At last, after an uncomfortable three-quarters of an hour, your brother rose and asked for his hat. He was in fact glancing at his pocket watch one final time when Holmes entered the room. I was about to introduce the two of them, but Holmes interrupted. ‘Allow me, my dear Watson,’ he said. My friend remained silent for the briefest of moments observing the stranger standing before him.

  ‘Regard the appearance, Watson,’ Holmes instructed as if I had not noticed the eccentric figure with whom I had just spent close to an hour. ‘The great height, the boyish grin, the hair parted in the centre. Note the distinctive apparel: the boater rakishly perched on the back of the head, the pink shirt, the cutaway suit of brightly flowered silk, the pearl-button boots. But especially note the collar.’

  “Holmes was referring to the tallest and stiffest celluloid collar that I had ever seen. Indeed, it was nearly smothering the staid dark-blue cravat below.”

  “I know, Dr. Watson.” Mrs. Frevert laughed. “Graham prided himself on having the largest collars in New York City.”

  “I can well believe it.” I chortled, and then continued my account. “Leaning forward to admire the white chrysanthemum in your brother’s lapel, Holmes glanced down at your brother’s right hand.

  ‘Indian ink on the middle finger,’ Holmes murmured.

  ‘Amazing,’ I said. I had spent all this time with your brother and never noticed the telltale smudge.

  ‘I believe, Watson,’ Holmes proclaimed with a triumphant sparkle in his eye, ‘that I have the honour of making the acquaintance of an American newspaperman. To be precise, Mr. David Graham Phillips, the celebrated journalist for Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World.’

  ‘Really, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is too much. You have been in the room mere seconds, and you have deduced his identity. Your powers never cease to amaze me.’

  ‘Watson, Watson,’ he replied, ‘surely you know my methods by now. The calloused finger stained with ink suggests a professional man of letters; the conspicuous costume typifies the writer who enjoys public attention, not the sort who honour their muse in some private writer’s den. No, I think the description quite fits a newspaper man.’

  ‘But how did you know he was American?’ I asked, still mystified by Holmes’s success. ‘He hasn’t spoken a word, and however distinctive his clothing, such apparel can certainly be bought in London.’

  ‘And was,’ your brother added.

  ‘True, Watson. The apparel, as we have just heard, was indeed bought in London, but only an American—no offence intended, Mr. Phillips—would dress so ostentatiously. Why, the most daring Englishman would consider that flowered silk for a waistcoat at best. Our American friends, not confined by British sentimental attachment to conservative taste, display themselves in all the hues of the rainbow. No, I feel quite confident in identifying our guest as the man the newspapers call “The Dandy from Manhattan” and the “The Dude from Indiana.”

  “A bright-red blush had been washing over your brother’s face throughout this discussion, Mrs. Frevert, but ‘That’s swell’ is all that he said with a self-conscious grin.

  “I, however, was not yet convinced by Holmes’s reasoning. ‘What about Oscar Wilde?’ I reminded him. ‘Whatever you may think of him, he is most certainly British.’

  “Holmes sighed in mock exasperation. ‘The watch,’ he said. ‘Mr. Phillips’s pocket watch is a Waltham, a distinctive and precise instrument made in a small town not far from Boston in the state of Massachusetts. Really, quite elementary, my dear Watson.”

  Mrs. Frevert clapped her hands in approval. “How wonderful!” she exclaimed.

  “To be sure,” I said. “By this time in our friendship, I had become used to being shown by Holmes what I myself had failed to see, but even I was not prepared for Holmes’s final display of wryness.

  ‘Anyone,’ he proceeded to explain, ‘with a modicum of knowledge about current affairs could not help identifying this most distinctive of young writers. I, Watson, who, as you know, sustain little interest in the political world, have accomplished the feat. But if such an uninformed person did exist, my good friend, he need only review our notes on the Victoria–Camperdown incident’— and here he pulled down from a shelf cluttered with files his great index volume of past cases, turned to the letter V, and extracted a likeness of your brother from within it—’to find a newspaper drawing of the Mr. Phillips in question staring right back at him. A most remarkable similarity, would you not agree, Watson?’

  “Feeling crushed, I could barely mumble a faint ‘I suppose so,’ but your brother was so taken by our familiar repartee that he broke into the richest cachinnation that I believe ever filled our rooms.

  ‘I think, Mr. Holmes,’ your brother said when his laughter had subsided, ‘that you’ve been
pulling my leg.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Watson?’ Holmes replied with a chuckle of his own. ‘It is the true man of letters who can distinguish satire from sarcasm.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Holmes,’ Phillips said.

  ‘As intended,’ Holmes countered, offering his hand. ‘Now what brings you round to Baker Street?’

  ‘Actually, Mr. Holmes,’ your brother said, accepting my friend’s grasp, ‘I’ve come here to thank you personally for your help in reporting the story you just alluded to about the collision at sea.’

  ‘Just a moment—’ I interrupted. You see, it was the first time I had learned of my friend’s complicity in securing the story. But the scowl on Holmes’s face told me he wanted no more of this conversation.

  ‘It was Dr. Harris, I presume?’ he asked of your brother, referring—I now understood—to the only man who could possibly have identified for Phillips the role of Holmes in the matter.

  “Your brother nodded.

  ‘I accept your thanks,’ Holmes said quickly to him. Addressing both of us, he added, ‘If the tragic event has led to stricter naval regulations, so much the better. But not another word on the subject.’

  “Then indicating a seat at our humble table, Holmes said to your brother, ‘Now, if you’ll be kind enough to join us for the repast you so far appear to have resisted ...,’ and the two of them seemed immediate friends. For my own part, despite my initial reluctance, I too confess to being charmed by his warm and affable manner.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Frevert said wistfully, “that was Graham. Always ready with a thank you and friendly to a fault.” Suddenly she became silent and gazed beyond my left shoulder, as if someone were standing behind me. In fact, I turned to locate what she might be staring at but saw only the familiar hat stand with my favourite bowler hanging from one of the wooden pegs. When I turned round to face my guest once again, a sombre, sober look had clouded her countenance.

  “What is the matter, Mrs. Frevert? What could you possibly want to see Sherlock Holmes about? In fact, he scarcely knew your brother.”

  Mrs. Frevert began fanning herself again. “It is about Graham’s death that I wish to speak to him, Dr. Watson.”

  “Whatever for? He learned of the events surrounding your brother’s death only through the newspapers.”

  “That is why I have come all the way from America, Dr. Watson. At Scotland Yard I was told Mr. Holmes had left London but that, since you were still in public practice, I might meet with you and appeal to your sensitivities to gain me an interview. It was from the police that I received your address; it is why I am here. I want you to take me to Sherlock Holmes, and quite frankly I’m not prepared to be turned down.”

  She spoke with such determination that it was hard to dissuade her. But ever the guardian of my old friend’s privacy, I did my utmost. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Frevert,” I protested. “Your brother was killed by a fanatic. All the papers said so, and the New York City police agreed. What mystery can there possibly be in so well-publicised a story to trouble Sherlock Holmes about?”

  “It is just because it is so well-publicised a story, Dr. Watson, that I am so concerned. The truth is, for almost a year I’d been agonising over the fact that I didn’t believe the police report about my brother’s death. As a consequence, on January 23, the anniversary of Graham’s murder, I vowed to convince Sherlock Holmes, my brother’s friend, to come to America and prove to the world that Graham was not the victim of some madman but rather the target of a cleverly conceived, nefarious plot to silence him.”

  Needless to say, I was stupefi ed. But I was not yet ready to violate the privacy of my friend’s seclusion. After all, he had left London purposely to avoid such encounters.

  “Dr. Watson,” she said, “I have read your accounts of your adventures with Sherlock Holmes. I know you are a man of conscience. I am a lady in distress.”

  Did I need to hear more? Whatever evidence or theories she possessed were not intended for me that afternoon; they were destined for Sherlock Holmes. The sincerity and determination of the dark-haired woman intensified my conviction. Whether or not Holmes was interested in hearing about such matters should not, I felt, be left up to me. We both had enjoyed Phillips for his charm and forthrightness. News of his journalistic gibes at the powerful in America had reached us in England—indeed, had affected us in England—and anyone who ever championed the cause of freedom had to respect him. Particularly reported was how President Roosevelt had tried to insult Phillips with an epithet from Bunyan. After the character in The Pilgrim’s Progress, he had called Phillips “The Man with the Muckrake” only to fi nd the label turned into a kind of meritorious badge worn with honour not only by Phillips but also by his reform-minded colleagues. In life, I reasoned, Phillips deserved his day in court; certainly, his attractive sister with her unflagging concerns about his death deserved hers. I knew not whether her hypothesis was worthy of Holmes’s time, but I did know that he should be the one to make that decision.

  It was agreed, therefore, that, following the receipt of an affirmative telegram from Holmes, Mrs. Carolyn Frevert and I would find ourselves at Victoria Station that Sunday morning two days hence where, according to my Bradshaw, at 10:45 the Eastbourne Pullman departed that would take us to Sussex and the retirement cottage of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  ________

  * Author’s note: During the period referred to by Dr. Watson, Tripoli was located in Syria. Following the geopolitical changes of World War I, however, the city found itself within the borders of Lebanon. (The Tripoli in question is not to be confused with the Libyan city of the same name.)

  Two

  A VISIT TO SUSSEX

  “It isn’t easy for an intelligent human being to say as much as three sentences without betraying his intelligence.”

  —David Graham Phillips, George Helm

  The day after my encounter with Mrs. Frevert, I exchanged telegrams with Holmes establishing our welcome at his cottage. That Sunday morning, therefore, I bade an early farewell to my wife, who, knowing as much as she did about her husband’s exploits with Sherlock Holmes, was not completely surprised by my impulsive trips to see him. Following a brief hansom ride to Victoria, I found Mrs. Frevert, attired in travelling garb of black and looking much like a bereft widow, settled in one of the handsome Pullman carriages ready for the ninety-minute, uninterrupted journey. At Eastbourne, we would catch a local omnibus for the nearby village of Fulworth, where a wagon and driver might easily be appropriated to traverse the distance between the town and what Holmes enjoyed calling his “villa.”

  Our departure from London passed uneventfully. Gently rocking and swaying its way over the points in the station, the train lumbered through a flickering display of sunlight and shadow conjured by the blackened brick arches of diverse railway bridges. Minutes later, having put behind us the waves of gabled red roofs and columns of grimy chimney pots that mark the confines of London, we began to gain speed.

  Once beyond the outskirts of the city, we easily contented ourselves by watching the countryside of southeastern England fly past. Indeed, there was much satisfaction to be gained from our vista. Although I had made this same journey to the South Downs on not a few occasions myself, I never tired of the halcyon beauty of the Sussex landscape in which Holmes had chosen to retire.

  It was an early spring that year, and a potpourri of wild-flowers greeted us with a riot of colour. Yellow primroses, blue wood anemone, purple violets, and pied wind-flowers framed rolling green fields occupied by grazing white sheep and mottled Herefords. Within minutes these pastures gave way to intermittent woods of oak, antique remnants of the mighty forests that once covered the area. Slicing through little hills and wealden valleys, the rails carried us farther south until near Lewes the earth became that more familiar greyish white that marks the chalky cliffs overlooking the English Channel.

  It is near just such a cliff that Holmes’s small house sits. He occupies
a whitewashed cottage near Beachy Head that we reached with no difficulty after making the proper connections in both Eastbourne and Fulworth. Motor cars being scarce in that part of the country, we relied on a dog cart to take us the final few miles of our journey. By the end of the bouncy jaunt, I was quite pleased to see the spiralling smoke from Holmes’s red-brick chimney and the winding path of noisy grey gravel that leads to his front door. Of his precious beehives we could see very little, for they were situated a good hundred yards beyond the house.

  “Oh, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Hudson greeted me even before the door was fully open. “It’s always a pleasure to see you again.” Beneath her grey hair pulled back into a chignon, wrinkles creased that familiar face, but the twinkle in her eyes whenever I appeared always made me think she was recalling those exciting, earlier days in Baker Street—those days in which Holmes and I so often entertained colourful personages whom she never failed to scrutinise when bringing up the tea. Indeed, as she awaited the introduction of Mrs. Frevert, I saw those eager eyes taking in the handsome figure of the American woman before her. It was more than mere feminine approval, I thought, that was responsible for Mrs. Hudson’s fulgent smile. It was the sense, so long lying dormant, that a case might yet be at hand, a case that—in addition to whatever else—might somehow transport us all back to a more youthful time.

  Mrs. Hudson led us through Holmes’s extensive library. I saw many a familiar tome of chemistry and law on the sagging shelves, not to mention the two unidentifiable books lying open on the leather desk chair or the tower of eight more volumes precariously perched at the edge of the low butler’s table. Magazine cuttings on a desk already cluttered with pens, scattered papers replete with Holmes’s precise handwriting, numerous Petri plates, and a half-dozen upright test tubes no doubt responsible for the malodorous smell of sulphur lingering in the air—all reassured me that, despite Mrs. Hudson’s repeated attempts to curb Holmes of his incredible untidiness, he still remained unfettered. It was testimony to the loyalty of his housekeeper that for so many years she had continued picking up whatever his Bohemian nature would allow.