The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (94 page)

“Except for two,” I added quietly.

Mycroft Holmes turned his full attention towards me for the first time, as though I had virtually been excluded from his previous audience. But I allowed him no opportunity of seeking the meaning of my words, as I addressed him forthwith.

“I asked Holmes a question when he presented his own analysis, sir. I will ask you the same: have you in any way verified your hypothesis? And if so, how?”

“The answer, Dr. Watson, to the first part of your question is, in large measure, ‘yes.' Mr. Wyndham, in fact, has quite enough money to be in no way embarrassed by the withdrawal of Miss van Allen's comparatively minor contribution. As for the second part…” Mycroft hesitated awhile. “I am not sure what my brother has told you, of the various offices I hold under the British Crown——”

It was Holmes who intervened—and impatiently so. “Yes, yes, Mycroft! Let us all concede immediately that the, shall we say, ‘unofficial' sources to which you are privy have completely invalidated my own reconstruction of the case. So be it! Yet I would wish, if you allow, to make one or two observations upon your own rather faithful interpretation of events? It is, of course, with full justice that you accuse me of having no first-hand knowledge of what are called ‘the matters of the heart.' Furthermore, you rightly draw attention to the difficulties Mr. Wyndham would have experienced in deceiving his step-daughter. Yet how you under-rate the power of disguise! And how, incidentally, you
over-rate
the intelligence of Lestrade! Even Dr. Watson, I would suggest, has a brain considerably superior——”

For not a second longer could I restrain myself. “Gentlemen!” I cried, “you are both—
both
of you!—most tragically wrong.”

The two brothers stared at me as though I had taken leave of my senses.

“I think you should seek to explain yourself, Watson,” said Holmes sharply.

“A man,” I began, “was proposing to go to Scotland for a fortnight with his newly married wife, and he had drawn out one hundred pounds in cash—no less!—from the Oxford Street branch of the Royal National Bank on the eve of his wedding. The man, however, was abducted after entering a four-wheeler on the very morning of his wedding-day, was brutally assaulted, and then robbed of all his money and personal effects—thereafter being dumped, virtually for dead, in a deserted alley in Stepney. Quite by chance he was discovered later that same evening, and taken to the Whitechapel Hospital. But it was only after several days that the man slowly began to recover his senses, and some patches of his memory—and also, gentlemen, his
voice
. For, you see, it was partly because the man was suffering so badly from what we medical men term suppurative tonsilitis—the quinsy, as it is commonly known—that he was transferred to St. Thomas's where, as you know, Holmes, I am at present engaged in some research on that very subject, and where my own professional opinion was sought only this morning. Whilst reading through the man's hospital notes, I could see that the only clue to his identity was a tag on an item of his underclothing carrying the initials ‘H.D.' You can imagine my excitement——”

“Humphry Davy, perhaps,” muttered Mycroft flippantly.

“Oh no!” I replied, with a smile. “I persisted patiently with the poor man, and finally he was able to communicate to me the name of his bank. After that, if I may say so, Holmes, it was almost child's play to verify
my
hypothesis. I visited the bank, where I learned about the withdrawal of money for the honeymoon, and the manager himself accompanied me back to St. Thomas's where he was able to view the patient and to provide quite unequivocal proof as to his identity. I have to inform you, therefore, that not only does Mr. Horatio Darvill exist, gentlemen; he is at this precise moment lying in a private ward on the second floor of St. Thomas's Hospital!”

For some little while a silence fell upon the room. Then I saw Holmes, who these last few minutes had been standing by the window, give a little start: “Oh, no!” he groaned. And looking over his shoulder I saw, dimly beneath the fog-beshrouded
lamplight, an animated Mr. Wyndham talking to a legal-looking gentleman who stood beside him.

Snatching up his cape, Holmes made hurriedly for the door. “Please tell Mr. Wyndham, if you will, Watson, that I have already written a letter to him containing a complete recantation of my earlier charges, and offering him my profound apologies. For the present, I am leaving—by the back door.”

He was gone. And when, a minute later, Mrs. Hudson announced that two angry-looking gentlemen had called asking to see Mr. Holmes, I noticed Mycroft seemingly asleep once more in his corner armchair, a monograph on polyphonic plainchant open on his knee, and a smile of vague amusement on his large, intelligent face.

“Show the gentlemen in, please, Mrs. Hudson!” I said—in such peremptory fashion that for a moment or two that good lady stared at me, almost as if she had mistaken my voice for that of Sherlock Holmes himself.

THOMAS PERRY
(1947– ), noted for his sophisticated and humorous suspense novels, has written more than twenty books, including eight that feature Jane Whitefield and three that star the Butcher's Boy, who made his debut in
The Butcher's Boy
(1982), which won an Edgar Award for best first novel.

Jane Whitefield, Perry's most beloved character—the books in which she is featured were often bestsellers—is a powerful Seneca Indian whose great skill is helping people to disappear and create new identities as they escape violent situations. The first novel in the Whitefield saga,
Vanishing Act
(1995), was named one of the one hundred Favorite Mysteries of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association.

The three novels about the Butcher's Boy feature a nameless (or, more accurately, pseudonymous) hit man who nonetheless garners the sympathy of readers for his own code of honor, which tends to pit him and his exceptional skills against villains and gangsters.

Perry has been praised by scores of top professional writers, including Stephen King, who wrote, “The fact is, there are probably only half a dozen suspense writers now alive who can be depended upon to deliver high-voltage shocks, vivid, sympathetic characters, and compelling narratives each time they publish. Thomas Perry is one of them.”

Prior to becoming a full-time novelist, Perry was the writer and producer of numerous episodes of such TV series as
Simon & Simon, 21 Jump Street
, and
Star Trek: The Next Generation
.

“The Startling Events in the Electrified City” was originally published in
A Study in Sherlock
, edited by Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger (New York, Bantam Books, 2011).

(A Manuscript Signed “John Watson,” in the Collection of Thomas Perry)

DURING THE MANY
years while I was privileged to know the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and, I fancy, serve as his closest confidant, he often permitted me to make a record of the events in which we played some part, and have it printed in the periodicals of the day. It would be false modesty to deny that the publication of these cases, beginning in 1887, added something to his already wide reputation.

There were a number of cases presented to him by people responding to the new, larger reputation my amateurish scribbles brought upon him. There were others on which I accompanied him that I have never intended to submit for publication during my lifetime or his. The event in Buffalo is a bit of both. It is a case that came to him from across the Atlantic because his reputation had been carried past the borders of this kingdom between the covers of
The Strand Magazine
. And yet it is a case deserving of such discretion and secrecy that when I finish this narrative, I will place the manuscript in a locked box with several others that I do not intend to be seen by the public until time and mortality have cured them of their power to harm.

It was the twenty-fifth of August in 1901, the year of Queen Victoria's death. I was with Holmes that afternoon in the rooms that he and I had shared at 221
B
Baker Street since Holmes returned to London in 1894. I was glad I had closed my medical office early that day, because he seemed to be at a loss, in a bout of melancholy, which I silently diagnosed as a result of inactivity. It was a day of unusually fine late summer weather after a week of dismal rainstorms, and at last I managed to get him to extinguish the tobacco in his pipe and agree to stroll with me and take the air. We had already picked up our hats and canes from the rack and begun to descend the stairs, when there came a loud ringing of the bell.

Holmes called out, “Hold, Mrs. Hudson. I'm on sentry duty. I'll see who goes there.” He rapidly descended the seventeen steps to the door and opened it. I heard a man say, “My name is Frederick Allen. Am I speaking to Mr. Holmes?”

“Come in, sir,” said Holmes. “You have come a long way.”

“Thank you,” the man said, and followed Holmes up the stairs to Holmes's sitting room. He looked around and I could see his eyes taking in the studied disorder of Holmes's life. His eyes lingered particularly on the papers spread crazily on the desk, and the very important few papers that were pinned to the mantel by a dagger.

“This is my good friend, Dr. John Watson.”

The stranger shook my hand heartily. “I've heard of you, Doctor, and read some of your writings.”

“Pardon, Mr. Allen,” Holmes said at this juncture. “But I wish to use this moment for an experiment. Watson, what would you say is our guest's profession?”

“I'd guess he was a military man,” I said. “He has the physique and the bearing, the neatly
trimmed hair and mustache. And I saw the way he looked at the manner in which you've arranged your rooms. He's a commissioned officer who has inspected quarters before.”

“Excellent, my friend. Any further conjecture?”

“He's American, of course. Probably late of the conflict with Spain. American army, then, judging from his age and excellent manners, with a rank of captain or above.”

Mr. Allen said, “Remarkable, Dr. Watson. You have missed in only one particular.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “The branch of service. Mr. Allen is a naval officer. When I heard his accent, I too knew he was American, and said he'd come a long way, implying he'd just come off a transatlantic voyage. He didn't deny it. And we all know that the weather the past week has been positively vile. Yet he didn't think it worth a mention, because he's spent half his life at sea.” He nodded to Allen. “I'm sorry to waste your time, sir. Watson and I play these games. What brings you to us, Captain Allen?”

“I'm afraid it's a matter of the utmost urgency and secrecy, gentlemen.”

Holmes strolled to the window and looked down at the street. “I assure you that I have been engaged in matters of trust many times before. And Dr. Watson has been with me every step in most of these affairs. He is not only an accomplished Royal Medical Officer who has been through the Afghan campaigns, he is also a man of the utmost discretion.”

“I believe you, Mr. Holmes. I have permission from the highest levels to include Dr. Watson in what I'm about to impart.”

“Excellent.”

“No doubt you know that in my country, in the city of Buffalo, New York, the Pan-American Exposition opened on the first of May. It's been a highly publicized affair.”

“Yes, of course,” Holmes said. “A celebration of the future, really, wouldn't you say? Calling the world together to witness the wonders of electricity.”

“That's certainly one of the aspects that have made us most proud. It was hoped that President McKinley would visit in June, but he had to postpone because of Mrs. McKinley's ill health. At least that was the public story.”

“If there's a public story, then there must be a private story,” said Holmes.

“Yes. There were indications that there might be a plot on the president's life.”

“Good heavens,” I said.

“I know how shocking it must be to you. Your country is renowned for its stability. Not since Charles the First in 1649 has there been the violent death of a head of state, and when your late, beloved Queen Victoria's reign ended a few months ago, it had lasted nearly sixty-four years. In my country, during just the past forty years, as you know, there have been a civil war that killed six hundred thousand men, and two presidents assassinated.”

“It's not a record that would instill complacency,” I admitted, but Holmes seemed to be lost in thought.

He said, “Who is suspected of plotting to kill President McKinley?”

“I'm afraid that I've reached the limit of what I'm authorized to say on that topic at present,” Captain Allen said.

I felt the same frustration I often have at official obfuscation in my own military experience, where a doctor is outside the chain of command. “If your business is a secret from Holmes, then how can you expect him to help you?”

“I spoke as freely as my orders allowed. My mission is to deliver a request that you two gentlemen come for a personal and private meeting with the President of the United States, who will tell you the rest.” He reached into his coat and produced a thin folder. “I have purchased a pair of tickets on the SS
Deutschland
of the Hamburg Amerika line. The ship is less than a year old, a four-stack steamship capable of twenty-two knots that has already set a record crossing the Atlantic in just over five days.”

“Very fast indeed,” I conceded.

Holmes lit his pipe and puffed out a couple of times to produce curlicues of bluish smoke. “How did the President of the United States come to think of me, when he can have many capable men at his command within minutes?”

“President McKinley is an avid reader. I gather he's read of your accomplishments in
The Strand Magazine
.”

I confess that when I heard those words, I found that my ears were hot and my collar suddenly seemed to have tightened around my neck. Vanity is a powerful drug, able to strengthen the heartbeat and circulation extraordinarily.

Holmes said, “I can answer
for
myself, because I only have to answer
to
myself. I shall be happy to meet with the president. When does the
Deutschland
weigh anchor?”

“High tide is tomorrow at nineteen hundred.”

Holmes turned to me. “And you, Watson?” It was not the first time when I thought I detected in Holmes a slight resentment of my relationship with the lovely creature who was, within the year, to become my second wife. It seemed to me a tease, almost a challenge, an implication that I was no longer my own man and able to have adventures.

I did not take the bait and say something foolish in an attempt to save face. “I must speak with a dear friend of mine before I give you my word. But I'm almost certain I will join you.”

Allen smiled and nodded. “I thank you both, gentlemen. I'll leave the tickets with you. Once again, I must bring up the uncomfortable issue of secrecy. I must adjure you both to absolute silence about the nature of your voyage.”

“Of course,” I said, since the request was clearly addressed to me. Holmes could never have been prevailed upon to reveal anything he didn't wish to. I, on the other hand, was about to go to Queen Anne Street to speak to a beautiful and loving woman, and get her to agree I should go to another continent without being able to tell her which one or why.

What was said during that night's discussions, and what inducements were offered to break my oath of silence I leave to the reader's own experience. I did present myself on the London docks at nineteen hundred the next evening with my steamer trunk packed. Holmes, upon seeing me arrive in a carriage, merely looked up and said, “Ah, Watson. Prompt as always.”

We sailed on the tide. The steamship
Deutschland
was a marvel of modern design, but also of modern impatience. The powerful engines in the stern below decks could be heard and felt without difficulty anywhere on board at any hour of the twenty-four, despite the fact that the bow was more than six hundred feet from them. I had been accustomed after several tours in India to long voyages under sail. The old, graceful, and soothing push of wind, where the only sound is the creaking of boards and ropes as they stand up to the sea is disappearing rapidly. Even HMT
Orontes
, which brought me back to Portsmouth after my last tour of duty, had its three masts of sails supplemented by steam power below deck. Some day, no doubt, travel by sail will be a pleasure reserved for the leisured rich, the only ones who will be able to afford the time for it.

Our enormous steamship pushed on at full tilt, regardless of the weather. Holmes and I walked the deck and speculated on the true nature of our enigmatic invitation. Rather, I speculated, but Holmes maintained the irritating silence into which he often retreated when a case began. It was something between a boxer's silent meditation before a match—among Holmes's several skills was a mastery of the pugilist's art—and a scientist's cogitation on a natural phenomenon. Long before the ship steamed its way into New York harbor, I was grateful that its soulless speed would deliver me of the need to be with a man who neither spoke nor listened.

It was late afternoon when the crew tied the bow and stern to cleats, and stevedores hauled our steamer trunks from our cabin. We were on the main deck prepared to step down the gangplank to the new world. Captain Allen joined us, and he engaged a closed carriage to take us to a different dock. “Have either of you been to the United States before?” Allen asked.

“I have,” Holmes said. “In 1879 I traveled here with a Shakespeare company as Hamlet. I hope to play a less tragic part on this visit.”

When we arrived at the new jetty, we found that all the sailors there were in military uniform. They rapidly loaded our trunks aboard
a much smaller craft, a Coast Guard vessel of some fifty feet in length, with a steam engine. Once we were aboard, the vessel was pushed from the dock, oriented itself due north, and began to move across the harbor. The air was hot and humid that afternoon, and I was grateful when the vessel began to lay on some speed. I came to understand from one of the crew that the purpose of the vessel was to outrun the craft of smugglers and other miscreants and bring them to a halt, so its speed was considerable. Before long we were out of the congested waters of the harbor and heading up the majestic Hudson River.

Much of the land along the river was wooded, but here and there on the shore we could see charming villages, most of them apparently supported by a combination of agriculture and light manufacturing. I could see growing fields of maize and other vegetables on the distant hillsides, but nearer the water were smokestacks and railroad tracks.

As I explored the Coast Guard cutter, I happened upon Allen and Holmes at the bow. “Excellent means of travel,” Holmes said, and Allen replied, “It's not the usual way, but it was determined that a government vessel would not be suspected to be smuggling two Englishmen to Buffalo.”

“Is the secrecy warranted?” Holmes asked.

Allen said, “If all goes well, we may never know.”

“Indeed.”

We disembarked at a city called Albany. I found all of the names of British places in America—York, Albany, Rochester—disturbing in some fundamental way. It was like emerging from a wilderness trail and hearing that I had arrived at Charing Cross. But I said nothing. At Albany we were transferred to a railroad train, and moved on at still greater speed. We followed roughly the course of a narrow, straight waterway called the Erie Canal, which had for the past seventy years or so brought the natural resources and products of the western parts—lumber, produce, and so on—back to the ports like New York. I found the vastness of the place a bit unnerving. By the time we reached Buffalo we had gone more than the distance between London and Edinburgh, and not left the state of New York, one of forty-five states, and by no means the largest.

The next day at four in the afternoon, we arrived at the train station in Buffalo. It was an imposing piece of architecture for such a distant and provincial place, with patterned marble floors and high stone galleries like a church. There I received my introduction to the peculiarity of the American mind. In the center of the large marble floor was a statue of an American bison covered in a layer of what I believe to be polished brass. Although this beast is commonly called a “buffalo,” it is nothing of the sort, not at all like either the Asian buffalo or the African. The Americans simply like to call it a buffalo, as they like to grant the name “robin” to a native migratory thrush that is not a near relative of a British robin. Further, although the bison posing as a buffalo is the informal mascot of the city, the city's name has nothing to do with animals. It seems that Buffalo is a corruption of the seventeenth-century French name for the place, “
Beau fleuve
,” beautiful river, an accurate description of the Niagara, on whose banks the city is situated. The logic was all virtually incomprehensible, but even the dimmest visitor could see that the inhabitants of the place had built themselves what looked like a golden calf and placed it in the station. As I was soon to learn, this was a city that worshipped industry, technological progress, and prosperity as fervently as the biblical sinners worshipped their own false deities. Holmes and I were about to happen upon one of their greatest pagan celebrations: the Pan-American Exposition was a festival of electrical power.