Sherlock Holmes In America (33 page)

“But Mr. Holmes, you were able to identify the murderer without looking at his face! I could hardly believe it!”

“Detective Dugan, I did this not to put on a spectacle, but because I knew nothing of what George Fitzbeck, or George Smith, looked like. A forger, by rule, is quite skilled at changing his appearance through small adjustments in habits of grooming and hygiene. However, knowing that he had fooled the police in Maine into transferring him to an insane asylum, I examined his hands and arms. Criminals wishing to appear insane will usually chew off their fingernails or make cuts across their wrists that appear to be suicidal marks but in fact remain superficial and harmless. These marks could not be concealed even three or four weeks later. Our man, I found, had both of these on him, and was taken in as a horse thief. Concluding that while in prison he had not yet heard that his encounter with Mary had left her dead, I counted on further confirmation of his identity on my mention of Mary's decease—as you saw with your own eyes.”

“There is one point I don't understand,” I interjected, turning to our hostess. “Mrs. Smith, when we arrived here you were quite adamant that a cat could not be taken out of this building unless it is to a permanent home. Yet, you allowed Mollie to come with us to be used as an accessory in this case.”

“I am not deaf to reality, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Smith replied forthrightly. “Our donations in these first months have been far more modest than we will need for our organization to survive more than a year. There are men and women standing high in religious and charitable enterprises who would celebrate our demise, who say that caring for animals is an affront when so much money is needed for men, women, and children. Even though when we receive a gift of one hundred dollars it is considered news, but if the new library or an institution of art receives ten thousand dollars, it is met with a shrug. But we will pass that by. Mr. Holmes assuring me that the League would be publicly credited with helping to save an innocent man from prison and capture a murderer, I agreed to his bargain. If the public can see the cause of an animal helping people, and the cause of people helping animals, we shall one day find our acceptance.”

The two kittens, Miss Puff and Mollie, were now rolling around wildly and batting each other's heads with their paws. Mrs. Smith picked them up, one in each hand.

“I should think, Mrs. Smith, that Dr. Lavey will be quite pleased to take good care of Mollie, seeing that she helped save him from the gallows. And that his jail stay has released him from the demon grip of opium,” Holmes said. “I shall make Mollie's good care our only fee to him for our services.”

Carolyn Wheat

Carolyn Wheat's short stories have won her an Agatha, an Anthony, a Macavity, and a Shamus Award. Her book
How to Write Killer Fiction
(Perseverance Press, 2003) is a must-have addition to any writer's bookshelf. She teaches writing at the University of California, San Diego extension school and offers freelance editorial consulting services. She makes her home in San Diego and has added yoga and meditation to her teaching repertoire.

T
he Hotel del Coronado's young bellboy was clearly overawed. Swallowing hard, he managed to squeak out the words, “Mr. Spalding would be grateful if you could spare him a moment, Mr. Holmes.”

The mulish look on Holmes's face told me he had no intention of sparing Mr. Spalding, or anyone else, a moment. “We are here on holiday,” he said curtly. “I do not wish to be disturbed.” Holmes had taken against San Diego when he discovered that one of its more famous denizens, the legendary American lawman Wyatt Earp, had not gunned down evildoers in its city streets, but had instead opened an ice cream parlor. Holmes had formed his ideas of the American West from the pages of dime novels and seemed affronted at every sign of gentility.

The boy said, “But it's Mr.
Spalding,
sir.”

Holmes raised a single eyebrow. “I have no memory of that name,” he said slowly, “which means Mr. Spalding is not a member of the criminal classes.”

The boy gasped. I stifled a laugh and put an end to Holmes's ignorance. “In fact, Holmes, you have already made Mr. Spalding's acquaintance. Don't you remember the baseball game we saw in 1889? Mr. Spalding organized the tour and was the chief bowler. We were introduced to him at the reception following the game.”

“Pitcher,” the boy said with an air of reverence. “Mr. Spalding pitched for the Chicago White Stockings. He invented the Spalding twister.” At our blank looks, he explained, “It's a curve ball. The batters never figured out how to hit it.”

“A googly,” I murmured. “I remember thinking the American game was faster than cricket. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed our exposure to the American pastime.”

“I vaguely recall some outlandish sporting event you insisted I attend with you,” Holmes replied. He still lay at his ease on the chaise longue nearest the window, where the balmy Pacific breeze blew the sheer curtains to and fro. “I found it tedious in the extreme.”

“Mr. Spalding is not only well known as a player,” I said, realizing that I at least looked forward to meeting our visitor, “he is also the chief manufacturer of the balls used in the sport. He is, in short, a rich man and a leading citizen of San Diego.”

“Very well, Watson,” Holmes cried, leaping up from his place on the couch. “If it pleases you, we shall see this plutocrat.” He exchanged his smoking jacket for proper afternoon wear and we made our way from our room to the magnificent Otis lift that would whisk us to the lobby floor. The Hotel del Coronado was as up to date as any resort in Europe, a fact that Holmes found intensely annoying, as he'd been looking forward to swinging saloon doors and sawdust on the floor. Ridiculous, of course, in the second year of the twentieth century.

A waiter led us through the wood-paneled lobby to the terrace where tea was being served. It was open to the ocean breeze and looked out over the Pacific. I wondered at first that we were not shown to the bar, and then realized the reason: Mr. Spalding had brought his wife. Albert Spalding was a solid man with a bushy moustache and hair parted in the center. He wore a black suit with a high collar and a thickly knotted tie. His wife wore a walking suit of lavender festooned with ecru lace. Together they looked the picture of well-to-do American respectability.

We made introductions and ordered tea. I mentioned the historic baseball game in which I had seen Spalding play. He nodded perfunctorily, as if to indicate that sport was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Mr. Holmes,” he began after his wife had poured tea into each cup, “I am here on a matter of utmost importance. I would not dream of interrupting your holiday for anything less, I assure you. At first, I thought the matter was, well, a figment of my wife's imagination, but of late I have come to agree with her. Something is amiss at the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood?” Holmes looked as puzzled as I felt.

Spalding opened his mouth to reply, but his wife's words came first. “The Universal Brotherhood and Theosophical Society,” she explained in a loud voice that would have been more appropriate on the lecture circuit. “Albert and I live on the grounds. I am very active in the Society.”

I had heard that a branch of the Theosophical Society made its home in San Diego. Strands of gossip, such as one overhears in hotels, came back to me. “Godless heathens,” I'd heard a woman say of the colony on Point Loma, “all dressed in white, dancing under the trees, speaking Greek.”

I realized I'd stopped listening and came back to Mrs. Spalding's penetrating voice. “There have been incidents undermining Mrs. Tingley's excellent administration,” she said. “Heinous acts designed to ruin the Brotherhood and bring disgrace to our Society. First, it was the silkworms, then the avocados, and finally, the disappearance of the queens.”

I was about to ask what an avocado was when Spalding said, “I cannot agree with you about the silkworms, Elizabeth. I'm afraid they committed suicide. But those honeybees,” he added in a firm voice. “I'd stake my life those bees were murdered.”

I dared not look at Holmes. I had persuaded him to see the Spaldings, and now we were trapped at a tea table with two mad people.

To my surprise, the look on Holmes's face was one of rapt interest. “This Brotherhood,” he asked. “Is it anything at all like the Mormons of Salt Lake?” Holmes had a fascination for secret societies and arcane religions, particularly those that found a congenial home in the former colonies.

Spalding hastened to reassure us that male Theosophists were content with a single wife. Mrs. Spalding added, “The chief goal of the Brotherhood is spiritual education, Mr. Holmes. We maintain a very successful school called the Raja Yoga Academy, and Mrs. Tingley has plans to open a college for the Revival of Lost Mysteries.” She said the last with capital letters, and I sensed an excitement in Holmes. Perhaps this exotic Brotherhood would make up for the regrettable lack of gunfights.

Her husband continued the theme. “The Brotherhood has pioneered modern farming methods in California, Mr. Holmes,” Spalding said. “We have a thriving apiary, and we are experimenting with the use of honeybees to pollinate avocado trees. It is most unfortunate that our experiment was undermined, as I am certain we would have revolutionized the burgeoning industry.”

“Tell me more,” Holmes said, choosing a tea sandwich and leaning back in his chair, clearly prepared to be entertained by our visitors. “I remember as a boy spending hours watching the bees on my grandfather's smallholding. Bees are fascinating creatures, are they not, Watson?”

I had few opinions on the subject of bees and had never heard Holmes speak of them before. He seldom mentioned his boyhood and I found myself wishing he would reveal a bit more to his biographer.

The Spaldings took turns explaining that they suspected a prominent member of the Theosophical Brotherhood of deliberately undermining the avocado experiment and the excellent apiary, which provided the group with a tidy profit as well as supplying honey and beeswax to the community.

“And I'm convinced she killed the silkworms, too,” Elizabeth Spalding said with a stubborn set to her mouth.

“Silkworms are delicate creatures, my dear,” her husband replied in a mild tone. “Give them one brown mulberry leaf, and they die. Let the temperature drop by one single degree, and they die. We are not the only community that has failed to bring the silk industry to these shores. I hardly think Mrs. Imbler can be blamed for the silkworms.”

“Mrs. Imbler is the lady you suspect?” Holmes asked.

“She is the chief beekeeper,” Spalding said. “It would be the easiest thing in the world for her to destroy the hives upon which our avocados depended.”

“But why would she destroy the hives?” I asked.

Mrs. Spalding leaned forward in her chair and opened her blue eyes wide. “She wants to supplant Mrs. Tingley. I'm certain of it. She has made cutting remarks about the way things are run and hints that she could do better. She has even dared to challenge Mrs. Tingley on matters of Theosophical thought.” She lowered her voice and almost whispered, “I fear for her life, Mr. Holmes. It pains me to say it, but I fear for Mrs. Tingley's very life.”

This struck me as a wild exaggeration, but Holmes seemed entertained by the prospect of a visit to the Theosophists' frontier utopia, so we agreed to set off the next morning.

We could see the outline of Point Loma from the pavilion at the Hotel del Coronado. It was a peninsula that jutted out from the mainland and curved southward like the trunk of an elephant. Our peninsula, Coronado, was the bulbous end of a long narrow sand spit nestled under the elephant's trunk. Between Point Loma and Coronado, a sparkling bay separated the two land masses and opened out to the Pacific.

Our trip from Coronado to Point Loma required a train, a ferry, and a hired hack.

We bumped along a winding, dusty road in an open carriage drawn by a plodding horse, passing few cottages, several species of cacti, and huge swaths of scrubland. On the way, our driver regaled us with stories about Lomaland, as he called the Theosophical colony.

“Children torn from their parents, brought up by strangers,” he'd said, in between copious spittings of tobacco juice. “The parents worship Hindu gods. But that's not the worst of it, sirs,” he said, lowering his voice. “It's run by women, run by the Purple Mother, so called because she dresses in purple robes like a pagan priestess. It would be a disgrace—if it wasn't such a popular tourist attraction.” He said the last with a tobacco-stained grin, and I realized with a start that we were no longer the only conveyance on the road. In the distance, charabancs and public omnibuses, filled with chattering visitors, stood in a line awaiting entrance.

“Some of them are staying at Camp Karnak,” the driver said, and explained that the Society operated a tent city similar to the one next to the Hotel del Coronado. I marveled at the ingenuity of these Americans, who offered lodging at budget rates to travelers who enjoyed the same magnificent views and ocean breezes as the wealthy, the only difference being sleeping under canvas instead of a roof.

Beyond the line of carriages, I could see a sliver of the blue Pacific. The carriages entered the grounds through a magnificent gate decorated in Egyptian motifs. To our right, inside the gate, several large white buildings with colored domes gleamed in the bright California sun. One dome was covered in purple tile, another in aquamarine. Atop the domes were smaller globes of tinted glass. It was a fairyland, reminiscent of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, where I'd been taken on holiday as a child. I wondered what it was about the seaside that brought out the fanciful in architects.

The cabbie stopped the hack at the gate and asked directions to the Spalding house. The guard pointed to a structure I'd taken for one of the temples. Like the largest building, it had a purple dome topped with a purple glass globe; it also boasted a circular staircase on the outside of the building next to a portico. Spalding was, I decided, the most uxorious man I'd ever met. Few husbands would have indulged a wife to the extent of living in such a monstrosity.

The cabbie pulled in the reins with a flourish next to a walkway lined with stone urns filled with geraniums. I alighted and knocked on the front door, noting the lavender stained glass blocks in the upper section of the windows. A servant answered, and before I could announce myself, she welcomed us and bade the driver bring in our Gladstone bags.

Inside, the sun's brightness was muted, and the large circular foyer glowed pale amethyst from the purple glass. Exotic bas-relief carvings decorated the columns in the foyer, which was circular and dominated by the rise of the dome.

Mrs. Spalding appeared on the landing and beckoned us upstairs to our rooms. We cleaned the dust of our journey from our persons and clothing and accepted our hostess's offer of a light lunch with Mrs. Tingley. We were to meet the Purple Mother in the flesh.