Sherlock Holmes In America (19 page)

“She was clever,” Malloy said.

“She had to be to escape from those two,” Holmes said.

But not more clever than Sherlock Holmes.

Gillian Linscott

Gillian Linscott is the author of the Nell Bray crime series, featuring a militant suffragette detective in Britain in the early years of the twentieth century. One of the series,
Absent Friends
, won the CWA Ellis Peters Dagger for best historical crime novel of 2000 and the Herodotus Award. She has worked as a news reporter for the
Guardian
and a political reporter for BBC local radio stations. She lives in a threehundred-and-fifty-year-old cottage in Herefordshire, England, and in addition to writing, now works as a professional gardener. Interests include mountain walking and trampolining.

“A
dmit it, Watson. Texas has not come up to your expectations.” My old friend lounged in a cane chair on our hotel balcony, the hint of a smile on his lips. Our days at sea had done wonders for his health and spirits. His face was lightly tanned, shaded by the brim of a Panama hat.

“It's not as I'd imagined,” I agreed.

He laughed.

“You'd hoped for cowboys with lariats and six shooters, Indian chiefs in war bonnets.”

Since that was pretty well the vision that had come to my mind when the unexpected invitation arrived on a drizzly day at Baker Street, I tried to hide my irritation.

“Certainly San Antonio seems peaceable enough,” I said.

Two floors below, in the courtyard of the Menger Hotel, broad leaves of banana trees shifted gently in the breeze. Our suite, with its lounge, two bedrooms, and bathroom, was as clean and comfortable as anything you might find in London, perhaps more so. From where I was standing I could glimpse a corner of the town's plaza, with men crossing from shade to sun and back, looking much like men of business anywhere, though moving at a leisurely pace in the heat. A neat landau, drawn by a grey pony and carrying a woman in a white dress, trotted briefly into sight and out again.

“We've come too late for the wild days, Watson. Seventy years ago we might have arrived in a covered wagon, pursued by as many braves or Mexicans as your warlike heart could wish. I confess my preference for the Mallory Line.”

We'd traveled in comfort down the coast from New York to Galveston on Mallory's three-thousand-ton steamer, SS
Alamo
, then on by Pullman car. The letter of invitation had implored us to make all convenient speed and spare no expense—both admonitions quite wasted on Holmes, who would spend time and money exactly according to his opinion of what was necessary and nobody else's. He stood up and joined me at the rail of our balcony, looking down at the courtyard. A gentleman in a white suit and hat had appeared from the reception area and was walking towards the foot of our staircase. Holmes gave a chuckle of satisfaction.

“Unless I am mistaken, Watson, here comes our client now.”

Benjamin Austin Barratt was a gentleman of fifty years or so, still vigorous, straight-backed, and broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair and a small moustache on an otherwise clean-shaven face. His manners were courtly, asking after our health and our journey, as if his only purpose were to make us welcome in his native town. It was Holmes who cut short the preliminaries and brought us to business.

“You mentioned in your letter that you were writing on behalf of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas. Do we take it that you are their representative?”

“Indeed so, sir. You will surely be aware that before Texas became part of the United States of America it was an independent republic in its own right by virtue of—”

“We are aware of it, yes.”

Holmes spoke with some impatience. Almost everybody we'd met, from our fellow passengers on the voyage down, to the lad who'd carried our cases to our rooms on arrival, had offered this fact as soon as setting eyes on us. Barratt showed no annoyance and went on with his explanation.

“The ladies thought it preferable that you should be approached by a businessman with some standing in our community. Since I have the honour to be one of the benefactors of their Alamo project and have an interest in the matter under discussion, it was agreed that I should write to you. You will have gathered something of our dilemma from my letter.”

“The case of Davy Crockett's superfluous fiddle,” Holmes said.

His tone was light. He'd responded to the letter in something of a holiday spirit because it piqued his curiosity. Barratt's posture stiffened for a moment and there was a hint of reproach in his tone.

“Colonel Crockett's violin, yes indeed, Mr. Holmes. The most famous musical instrument in our country's history. That it should have survived the battle is miraculous. That there are two of them is a matter so embarrassing that the ladies decided it could only be settled by the greatest detective in the world, who also happens to be an amateur of the violin.”

Holmes nodded at the tribute, as no more than his due.

“Your letter spoke of urgency.”

“Yes, sir. This year the Daughters of the Republic of Texas took on responsibility for safeguarding what remains of the old Alamo mission building, where the battle took place sixty-nine years ago. They plan to open it as a national shrine and a museum. Naturally, the very violin that Colonel Crockett carried with him when he brought his men of the Tennessee Mounted Rifles to join the defenders in the Alamo, the violin he played to hearten them all during the siege, will be its most precious exhibit.”

“It is a fact that Davy . . . that is, Colonel Crockett, had his violin with him in the Alamo,” I said. “There was one evening when he had a competition with a man who played the bagpipes and . . . ”

I'd done some reading on the subject before we left London. All it brought me was an impatient look from Holmes.

“We can take that as established. But is there any explanation of how such a fragile thing as a violin escaped the destruction of everything else when the Mexicans stormed the Alamo?”

“One of the violins is in my possession,” Barratt said. “I look forward to telling you its story when I hope you will do us the honour of taking dinner with us tomorrow night, but I believe its history is as well-authenticated as anybody could wish.”

“And the other violin?” Holmes asked.

“I'm sure Mrs. Legrange will tell you that hers has a well-authenticated history too. I know she plans to meet you. One thing I should like to make clear.”

For the first time in our conversation, his voice was hesitant. Holmes raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

“There is no enmity between Mrs. Legrange and myself, none whatever,” Barratt said. “She is a very charming and patriotic lady and we all admire her very much. We have both agreed that this business must be settled in a quiet and peaceable manner as soon as possible, and we shall both abide by your verdict. May I send my carriage for you two gentlemen at six o'clock tomorrow?”

Holmes told him that he might.

As Barratt crossed the courtyard, one of the hotel's messenger boys passed him in the opposite direction and came up the stairs to our suite carrying an envelope.

“I believe we are about to receive an invitation from the owner of the second fiddle,” Holmes said.

A knock sounded at the door. I answered it and was handed an envelope by the messenger boy.

“Pray open it and read it aloud, Watson,” Holmes said.

The signature was
Evangeline Legrange
, with as many curls and loops to it as a tangled trout line. I read:

My dear Mr. Holmes,

I hope you will excuse this informality of approaching you without introduction, but I wonder whether you and Dr. Watson would care to join us on a picnic luncheon outing to San Pedro Springs tomorrow. If I may, I shall send a gig for you at eleven.

Holmes told me to ask the boy to wait while he dashed off a polite line of acceptance on hotel notepaper.

“She gives no address,” I objected.

“She has no need,” he said. “If you look out of the other window, you'll see she's waiting outside in the landau with the grey pony.”

And I thought he hadn't noticed.

I spent the rest of the day exploring San Antonio, while Holmes refused to be drawn from our shady balcony, smoking his pipe and reading a book that had nothing whatsoever to do with the subject under investigation. The town proved to be every bit as calm and prosperous as on first acquaintance. In whatever direction you might stroll, you were never far away from a river bank. Breezes rustled the groves of their strange twisted oak trees and freshened the southern heat. To my pleasure, I even saw several unmistakable cowboys in broad-brimmed hats and leather chaps, lounging on their raw-boned horses in saddles as large and deep as club armchairs. I climbed the hill to the barracks in the hour before sunset to watch the soldiers drilling, then walked back down to try to persuade my companion to take a stroll before dinner. There was no sign that he'd stirred all the time I'd been away and I might have failed in my purpose if his eye had not been caught by a flare of fire in a corner of the wide plaza.

“Good heavens, Holmes, has a building caught fire?” I cried.

“Nothing so calamitous. Shall we go and see?”

His keen senses had caught, as mine soon did, the smell of spices and the scent of charred meat. We strolled across the plaza in the dusk and found that part of it had been taken over by dozens of small stalls with charcoal braziers, tended by Mexicans. A band was playing jaunty music on accordions, violins, and a kind of rattling object, a woman singing in a plaintive voice that cut across the music and gave it a touch of sadness and yearning. We were surrounded by brown smiling faces with teeth very white against the dusk, women with silver ornaments twined in their black hair, and voices that spoke in murmuring Spanish. It was as if our few steps across the plaza had taken us all the way to the far side of the Rio Grande and we were in Mexico itself. Holmes seemed delighted, as he always was by things unexpected. He even allowed a woman to sell him something that looked like a kind of rolled up pancake.

“Good heavens, Holmes, what are you eating?”

“I've no idea, but it's really very good. Try some.”

Its spiciness made me gasp and cough. As we were walking back towards the hotel, a Mexican man came towards us out of the shadows. He was perhaps thirty years old or so, a handsome fellow and respectable in his manner.

“Excuse me, señor, you are Sherlock Holmes?”

He spoke in English. Holmes nodded. The man passed him a piece of paper.

“My address. I should be grateful if you would call on me.”

He wished us good evening and stepped back into the shadows as smoothly as he'd stepped out of them.

“So you've got yourself a new client,” I said, laughing. “He probably wants to consult you about a missing mule.”

“Very likely,” Holmes said.

But he seemed thoughtful, and I noticed he put the piece of paper carefully into his pocket.

Next morning, the gig arrived to carry us a mile or so north of the town to San Pedro Springs. It was as pleasant a park as I've ever seen, with three clear springs trickling out of a rocky hill and running between grassy slopes and groves of pecan nut trees. Our hostess had established camp in one of the groves, surrounded by preparations for an elaborate picnic luncheon, with folding chairs and tables loaded with covered dishes and wine coolers. Four black and Mexican servants were in attendance, serving drinks to guests who had arrived before us. Evangeline Legrange was sitting on a bank of cushions, leaf shadows flickering over her pale blue dress and white hat with a blue ribbon that tied in a bow under the chin. She jumped up with a cry of pleasure and came tripping over the grass towards us.

“Mr. Holmes . . . so kind . . . I can hardly believe it. And you must be Dr. Watson, such a pleasure.”

Her small white-gloved hand was in mine, the scent of jasmine in the air around us. Her hair, worn loose under the hat, was the colour of dark heather honey and her skin white as alabaster. Close to, if one must be ungallant, she was older than she had looked under the shade of the tree, perhaps in her late thirties, but she moved and spoke with the freshness and impetuosity of a girl. She set her gentlemen guests to pile up cushions for us beside her, calling on one of the servants to bring us iced champagne. California champagne, as it turned out. Several people assured us that it was vastly superior to the French article. When we were settled, she clapped her hands at guests and servants alike.