Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (14 page)

My throat and chest tightened, and despite all my training, I found I couldn’t speak a word. All I could do was put my hand over his and keep it there until he wearied and his arm dropped and he was asleep.

The next day, he seemed to wake from some years of slumber, for he was heartier and in higher spirits than he’d been in months. Yet it couldn’t last. By nighttime, he looked haggard, and the next morning he did not leave his bed at all. The days that followed brought a steep decline.

If the excitement I exposed him to did damage to his fragile health, I must shoulder that blame. Yet I cannot regret that night—nor, I truly believe, would Father have me.

The Old Senator will be laid to rest soon, I know. And what’s more,
he
knows. That the last vestiges of acrimony between us have been laid to rest first is a comfort we all share, Father and Mother and Eliza and I. I hope you will find some solace there, too, for surely my next communication to you will be infinitely shorter and sadder.

Until then, know this: Nothing save Death can split the Gillettes again, and even then the division will be—as it proved now—only temporary.

Your devoted brother,
William
September 27, 1879

Mr. Lovisi here offers an alternate theory as to how Holmes reached the United States. Here you will meet the model in whose image Sherlock Holmes was cast: Dr. Joseph Bell.

by

GARY LOVISI

PART I
:
London, 1876

H
e’ll be here soon, so please do try to make a good impression,” Mycroft Holmes said in warning to his younger brother, “at least for my sake. This is a great opportunity for you.”

“Very well, then,” Sherlock replied, as their guest was escorted into the Visitors’ Room of the Diogenes Club.

Dr. Joseph Bell was a lean, tall man, with the sensitive fingers of a musician. His steel-gray eyes had a sharp focus to them; they could twinkle with mirth and good fellowship or become cold with stark shrewdness. Bell had an angular nose and a chin that matched. He was the type of man who commanded immediate respect.

“Mr. Holmes,” Bell acknowledged Mycroft, though his eyes darted to the young man who stood nearby waiting to be introduced.

“This is my brother, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, presenting the young man to the doctor for the first time. The two shook hands.

“It is good to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I have heard interesting things about you from Mycroft,” Bell said pleasantly.

“And I about you, Dr. Bell,” the younger Holmes replied.

“Well, now,” Mycroft interjected, “I am afraid I must take my leave. Please excuse me, but feel free to remain in the room to discuss your business.”

A moment later the two men stood face to face alone in the room.

Dr. Bell cleared his throat preparatory to speaking but it was the lad who spoke first.

“I have been led to believe that you require my services?”

“That is correct,” Bell answered. “The mission however, is quite unofficial.”

A thin, almost imperceptive smile came to Holmes’s lips.

“Well now, Mr. Holmes . . . Sherlock,” Bell began slowly, “I have a problem. Someone very dear to me is in trouble in a foreign land and I am the only person she can count on for help.”

“Who is this person?”

“My sister, Diana Strickland. She is an actress, far away in America—in New York City, to be exact.”

“And what do you require of me, Doctor?”

“Your assistance, your companionship in my journey to America,” he said softly. “I need someone I can rely on, someone I can trust—not averse to action if necessary. Can you use a revolver?”

“I am adequate with a pistol.”

Bell nodded slowly, “And as for my choosing yourself for this deed, you must know my first choice was your brother, Mycroft.”

Holmes laughed now. “Who quite strenuously refused you!”

“Quite so,” Bell admitted, somewhat taken aback. “However, he heartily recommended you, and now that I have met you in person, I admit I am not disappointed.”

Holmes nodded, “All right then, Doctor, when do we start?”

“Arrangements have been made, we leave tomorrow from Liverpool . . .”

PART II
:
Aboard the Oceanic, 1876

“This is quite an impressive vessel,” Holmes said, as he and Dr. Bell strolled the deck of the mighty steamship.

The
Oceanic
was a beautiful three-masted ocean liner built for the White Star Line in 1870 and the first ship to carry transatlantic passengers in luxury and grace.

Bell and Holmes strolled the promenade deck. The rough sea and rain of the previous two days had finally abated, giving them this first opportunity to enjoy the ship’s sunny and peaceful deck.

Sherlock Holmes smiled and nudged Bell softly. “Well, there is certainly an unsavory character, if ever I have seen one,” he said, as they passed a nefarious-looking fellow limping along the ship’s rail.

“Oh, I don’t believe so, Sherlock,” Bell answered.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the man’s obviously a pensioned soldier,” Bell said simply. “He was a sergeant by the looks of him, fought in India, no doubt wounded in the mutiny and has been sadly cast aside like
too many of our heroic old veterans. He deserves our pity and favor, not scorn. Now he’s seeking a new life in America, and I, for one, applaud his industry.”

Holmes stopped and looked at the doctor squarely. “So you know the fellow?”

“Why, I never saw him before this moment.”

“Upon your word?”

“Upon my word, Sherlock,” Bell replied seriously.

Holmes shook his head slowly. “Then how do you explain all you have said about him? How can you know such things are correct by guessing?”

“I never guess!” Bell returned sharply, obviously offended.

“I meant no insult,” Holmes quickly corrected. “I just want to understand.”

“Well, it is all quite elementary,” Bell replied as they continued walking.

“You are seeing the fellow with your emotions and most superficially, I might add. Doing so gives you a false picture of him. Rather, you must strip away all emotions and feelings and observe only facts. Observe the details. Only by gathering facts can you ever deduce truth. Feelings will betray you every time, my young friend. I see that, like many your age, you wallow in your feelings and emotions.”

“The poets tell us to indulge our emotions and to trust our feelings,” Holmes countered.

“The poets? Ah, yes,” Bell said with a wry grin, “but the poets are wrong.”

“How can you say that?”

“Feelings will betray you, mark my words,” Bell said more forcefully.

“Well,” Holmes said softly, “I’m afraid I do not agree.”

Bell laughed indulgently. “As you enjoy the intoxicating scent of the rose, never fail to notice the stinging thorns.”

Holmes nodded, then said eagerly, “Teach me your methods. Tell me about that soldier.”

Bell smiled, happy to take on the role of teacher. “It is all quite simple, really. His clothing contains small articles of his past military uniform, I believe the Forty-sixth Regiment of Foot.”

“Ah, yes, I see the badge now on his belt,” Holmes said softly. “I did not notice it before, it is such a trifling thing.”

“That’s just it, Sherlock, you must always notice the little things.”

The young man nodded, looking at his older companion in a new light. “Tell me more.”

“Well, if I am not mistaken, the history of that regiment includes the fact that it served during the Indian Mutiny in 1857. Where, no doubt, our fellow received his wound. Note the limp in his right leg? The man appears almost twenty years past retirement age, so it is logical to assume he has been pensioned off since that time. Furthermore, he is apparently alone and without family.”

“How do you know he has no family?”

“None aboard, certainly. Look at the fellow, his ragged clothing, his ill manner. No loving wife, dare I say it, no wife at all, would allow her husband to be seen in such condition. Do you see a wife anywhere? No, he is a lone fellow, long ago cast off,” Bell said simply.

Holmes thought it over. “What about the fact that you said he was a sergeant?”

Bell laughed. “The right sleeve of his battered old jacket still contains the shadow of his stripes, long since removed.”

Holmes suddenly walked over to the limping man and engaged him in conversation. When he returned his face was flushed with excitement. “You were correct in every instance!”

“So what do you think of my methods now?” Bell asked.

Holmes was about to answer when a man’s shouts attracted their attention.

“Doctor Bell!” It was Thorson, the ship’s purser, running down the wooden deck toward them, out of breath and obviously frantic.

“Here, Mr. Thorson,” Bell shouted. “What is it?”

“You are needed at once!” he shouted. Then, lowering his voice, he carefully added, “There’s been a terrible accident. A man is dead!”

“Lead the way, my good man,” Bell said, as he rushed off with Holmes following quickly behind him.

When they reached the ship’s upper level, they were greeted in the passageway by a grim Captain Charles Morrow. “Nasty business, and on my own ship. I thank you for coming, Doctor.”

“What is it?” Bell asked.

“Over there, inside.” Morrow pointed into a nearby stateroom. The door was open and Bell entered.

“His name is John Martin, a Yank returning to America. He has hanged himself.”

Bell and Holmes walked into the room and carefully approached the body, where it dangled from a chandelier. Neither man touched anything, but each stood and observed the body intently, transfixed.
A belt had been hooked to the chandelier and was wrapped around the man’s neck. His body, slack, swayed gently with the rhythm of the ship.

“Jackson here found the man,” Morrow explained, pointing to a steward, who stood nervously behind him.

Captain Morrow then motioned to the purser. “Cut him down, please, Mr. Thorson.”

“No, wait!” Bell blurted suddenly. He took out a large magnifying glass and observed the corpse closely, then the floor and the rest of the room, and finally he stood on a chair and examined the belt around the dead man’s neck. Holmes watched intently.

“Really, Dr. Bell!” Morrow exclaimed, his temper growing short. “This is all very unseemly.”

“All right, Captain, you may cut him down now, but do so carefully, and have your men place the body upon the table here. I need to examine it more closely.”

Captain Morrow gave the order, and John Martin’s body was placed on the stateroom’s short dining table.

Now Bell got to work, performing a minute medical examination upon the corpse.

“Sherlock, come here, look at this,” Bell said.

When Holmes approached, Bell took the young man’s hand and placed it under the dead man’s head, just above the back of the neck. The area was covered with Martin’s long black hair.

“Notice anything?” Bell asked.

Holmes nodded, his eyes open wide in surprise. “It’s sticky—wet. Blood?”

“Yes, but not enough to notice without close examination,”

Sherlock Holmes looked at the doctor and then back to the body on the table.

Captain Morrow’s face blazed and he quickly ordered his men from the room. When they were gone he closed the door and looked at Bell. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Bell just grunted, examined Martin’s clothing, then stated, “This man was hit on the back of the head. It was such a powerful blow that it killed him instantly.”

“That’s impossible!” Captain Morrow shouted. “The man clearly hanged himself. He is a suicide and shall be listed as such in the log.”

“The man was struck and died almost instantly,” Bell insisted. “Then he was strung up to make it
look
like a suicide.”

“Mr. Martin was clearly murdered,” Sherlock Holmes stated.

“That’s outrageous!” Morrow barked, aghast. “It’s a suicide, I tell you.”

“What is truly scandalous, Captain Morrow, is that you refuse to admit you have a murderer among your crew who needs to be brought to book for this crime before he kills again. Think about that,” Bell said, his high-pitched voice exuding confidence.

Holmes looked at his companion curiously. “What makes you think the murderer is a crewman?”

“If the captain will call in Mr. Jackson then I shall demonstrate.”

Captain Morrow fumed; he was already measuring the implications of such a scandal to his career with White Star.

“Call the man!” Bell demanded.

The captain reluctantly walked to the door, opened it, and called for his men to come back into the room.

When Jackson entered Bell called him over. “You say you found
Mr. Martin hanging here when you came to perform your attendant duties?”

“Aye,” Jackson replied, stiff-lipped.

“And you say that he was dead when you entered the room?” Bell asked as he slowly walked around the man, his shrewd eyes examining the attendant minutely.

“Aye, I’ve plainly said as much,” Jackson said nervously.

“Then where, may I ask, did you get
this
!” Bell thrust his hand into the man’s jacket pocket and withdrew something bright and shiny.