Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (13 page)

Father silenced him with a rap of his cane on the floor and one low but steely “
Turnbull
.”

The Turnbulls turned toward us looking too agitated to even be angry that we’d entered their sanctum uninvited.

“What’s this all about?” Father asked.

“Burglary, that’s what,” Mr. Turnbull fumed, and he locked a smoldering glower on Sasanoff. “
Someone
has helped himself to my wife’s jewelry.”

I felt my face flush. Of course, Sasanoff or one of his company would be blamed. Who else could be so dishonorable, so ungrateful, so lacking in morals as a lowly
actor
?

“Take care with your implications, sir,” Sasanoff bluffed weakly, voice cracking. The only grand gesture he seemed capable of now was jumping out the nearest window. “Slandering me and my players—” Here he acknowledged Escott with a sulky nod. “—won’t bring back your wife’s baubles.”

“Slandering
you
? Ha!” Mr. Turnbull jeered. “I didn’t think the likes of you had reputations to soil!”

“
Turnbull
,” Father growled again. “Close your mouth and collect your wits.”

Mr. Turnbull whirled on the Old Senator, scowling. Yet even in his weakened state, Father can outglower any man alive. Mr. Turnbull realized what he was—a terrier barking at a lion—and forced himself to take a deep, calming breath.

“That’s better,” Father said. “Now . . . tell me what happened.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Eleanor came up here and found all her jewelry gone.”

“Oh?” Escott said, and when I looked at him I found that his whole countenance had changed. His eyes were alight with a fervor
and purpose his earlier sermon about acting had only hinted at. Far from being ill at ease to find himself in this scandalous scene, he seemed excited by it—even grateful for it. He looked for all the world like an eager actor waiting in the wings knowing his cue was coming soon.

“Surely not all the jewelry was gone,” he said to Mrs. Turnbull.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, rousing herself from the appalled catatonia that had fallen over her the past few minutes.

“The pearl necklace you were wearing earlier this evening,” Escott said. “It couldn’t have been stolen, too.”

I looked at the dangling wattles of Mrs. Turnbull’s bullfrog throat—usually something I avoid gazing upon at all costs, you understand—and noted that the wrinkled flesh was bare. No necklace was there.

“The pearls are safe,” Mrs. Turnbull said. “The clasp broke. That’s why I came up here—and found my jewelry box like that.”

“Exactly like that?” Escott pressed. “With the drawers pulled out?”

Mrs. Turnbull’s upper lip curled ever so slightly into the hint of a sneer.

“No. Empty is what I meant. The jewelry box was closed.”

“Ahhhh,” Escott sighed, nodding with a satisfaction no one else there shared.

“Honestly, I don’t know why we’re wasting our time on all this blather.” Mr. Turnbull jerked his head at Sasanoff so forcefully his considerable jowls didn’t stop jiggling for what seemed like the next minute. “We all know who’s to thank for this.”

“Sir!” Sasanoff protested with a stomp of his little foot. “You go too far!”

I had to agree. Condescension toward actors I’d been able to weather—for I’ve had much practice. But the suggestion that a life on the stage somehow equates a life of crime was too much.

“You keep insisting your
guests
had something to do with this, Turnbull, yet you offer no proof,” I snapped. “Did you see any of the actors in this part of the house? Or even on the stairs? Or are your accusations as empty as your—”

The Old Senator went into a sudden—and suspiciously well timed—coughing fit that blotted over my last words (which were, by the way, “big, fat head”).

“No, I didn’t see any of the actors on the second floor,” Mr. Turnbull grated out once Father was through hacking into his fist. “I was too busy playing host.”

His expression shifted then, going from sour to sly, almost triumphant.

“In fact, now that I think of it, everyone was distracted for a moment there,” he said to me. “When you and Mr. Sasanoff had your little tiff. What a convenient opportunity for someone to slip upstairs and do some quick burgling.”

A jolt ran through me, as from a shock of static electricity or a slap to the face, and I found myself stepping angrily toward Turnbull just as Sasanoff did the same.

“Outrageous!” the actor howled.

“If you’re implying that I had something to do with this, Turnbull—!”

“My, there are a lot of moths in here,” Escott said blandly.

The statement was so matter-of-fact yet so clearly apropos of nothing, it stopped me and Sasanoff in our tracks.

“What?” we said as one.

Escott nodded at the gaslights along the walls. Each one had at least three small, brown-gray shapes fluttering around it.

“So many moths,” he said. He turned to the Turnbulls. “Are they a problem for you?”

“They get in sometimes, as one might expect,” Mr. Turnbull replied warily, as if speaking to a bomb somehow set to explode should the wrong words leave his mouth. “I wouldn’t call it a problem.”

“I see.”

Escott turned his attention to the nearest window. Outside were several more moths flapping against the glass, drawn by the light of the room’s lamps.

Escott started for the door.

“I hope you’ll excuse me. I have a . . . theory I should like to test.”

“See! See!” Mr. Turnbull cried out. “He’s making his escape!”

Escott slowed, but the Old Senator waved him on.

“ ‘Making his escape’?” Father said once the actor was gone. “Really, Horace. Have you taken to reading penny dreadfuls? Now, tell me . . . what is it you propose to do?”

“Why, throw the rascals out of my home, of course!”

“And which ‘rascals’ might you be referring to?” Sasanoff asked, putting clenched fists to his hips and opening his eyes wide. He was getting better at feigning effrontery, yet still I could sense his panic. Even a hint of scandal would stain his entire tour—probably his entire career.

“Assuming they are rascals . . . and I don’t make that assumption,”
Father said to Mr. Turnbull, beetling his formidable brow, “why would you throw them out when one of their number might have Eleanor’s jewelry on his person?”

“Those actors, with their stage tricks . . . ,” Mr. Turnbull muttered. “They’ve probably already hidden the spoils where we’ll never find them.”

“I’m afraid I must disagree with you there,” Escott said. “On more than one count.”

And he stepped back into the room carrying a bulging white bag.

Only
not
a bag, I saw when he walked over and placed it on the bed. It was a nightcap tied shut.

Escott undid the knot, upended the cap . . . and dumped out rings, chokers, bracelets, brooches, and other assorted bangles.

“My jewelry!” Mrs. Turnbull exclaimed (more than a little needlessly), and she darted up next to Escott to hover joyfully over her trinkets. It almost looked like she wished to scoop them up and hug them to her breast like a mother reunited with a lost child. “Wherever did you find them?”

“They were but twenty feet away,” Escott told her. “In the rosebushes below one of the bedroom windows.”

I gaped at the man as if he were not an actor but the most accomplished magician I’d ever seen, for it felt as though he’d just conjured the missing treasure out of thin air.

“But how did you know to look for them there?”

“The moths, of course,” Escott said, smiling primly at the irony of his own “of course.” There was no “of course” about it for the rest of us, as was all too clear after a moment of dumbfounded silence.

“They came in when the thief opened the window?” I finally ventured.

Escott inclined his head, tilting it to one side in that way that says, “Just so.”

“Hogwash!” Mr. Turnbull roared. “He knew they were in the bushes because he dropped them there himself!”

Escott’s self-satisfied little smile never even wavered.

“But why should I—or anyone—do that?”

“So you could sneak back and collect the loot later, of course!”

Escott shook his head and clucked his tongue.

“No, no, no. There would be no need for that, so far as our burglar knew. Remember, the theft would not have been discovered for hours—after the reception was over and you were turning in for the night—if not for your wife’s trouble with her pearls. Had the guilty party been one of the guests, he simply could have stuffed his pockets and strolled off with ‘the loot,’ as you so colorfully put it. There would be no need for him to complicate his plan with a risky return to the estate
after
his crime had been found out.”

“But, then . . . I don’t understand,” I said. “If the thief wasn’t one of the guests, then who—?”

The Old Senator cleared his throat.

“Your valuables have been recovered, that’s the important thing,” he said to Mrs. Turnbull. “And even if they hadn’t been, I assume Horace took the precaution of having the entire collection insured.”

“Why, yes. He finally broke down and purchased a policy . . .”

Mrs. Turnbull’s eyes went wide as she—and we—at last realized who the culprit really was.

“. . .last month,” she finished in a whisper.

“Right around the time Mr. Sasanoff’s visit to Hartford was announced,” I said. “How ironic.”

“I don’t think that’s quite the word for it,” Escott said dryly.

The word, from Mr. Turnbull’s perspective, would have been “convenient,” of course. Fate seemed to have delivered to him the perfect scapegoats for a swindle that would double the value of his wife’s jewelry—once the insurance money was collected and the curios themselves were quietly sold off out of town.

We all turned to look at Mr. Turnbull—who couldn’t meet our eyes, for he was staring straight down.

“Well, thank goodness there’s no need to involve the insurance company—or the authorities—now,” Father said. “No need for a scandal. Not if we all go downstairs and laugh off this little misunderstanding . . . right, Horace?”

“Quite right, quite right,” Mr. Turnbull said, still addressing himself to the floorboards.

“Yes. A misunderstanding, that’s all it was,” Mrs. Turnbull added. And she gave her husband a look that made it quite plain he wouldn’t be escaping justice of the harshest kind—that dealt out by an embarrassed and enraged wife.

Father turned to Mr. Sasanoff. “So we’re all agreed, then? This matter is settled?”

“I shall not be indiscreet, if that’s what you mean,” the actor said, and he raised his chin, puffed out his chest, and assumed the noble, lordly bearing of his Orsino or Henry V. “For
I
am a man of honor.”

The Old Senator didn’t bother making the same inquiry of Escott—an indication, I’m sure you’ll recognize, of how quickly the young Englishman had won his respect.

Instead, Father simply seemed to shrink in upon himself, like a ripe fruit that shrivels and wrinkles before one’s very eyes.

“Fine,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse and weary. “Now I believe it is time for me to go.”

Soon, we were all downstairs again, and with a few chuckles and winks the myth was born that has probably reached your ears already: that the Turnbulls, tipsy at their own affair, became convinced they’d been raided by gypsies . . . when, in fact, a maid had simply set aside the lady’s favorite baubles for polishing. The story had spread throughout the house before Father and I even reached the front door.

Escott escorted us out, and as we waited for Jason to bring around the rockaway, he remained with us on the edge of the gravel drive.

“Well done, young man. Well done,” Father told him. “Your application of logic was most impressive.”

Escott offered us a bashful little bow.

“And yet I can’t help thinking, Senator,” he said, “that you somehow knew the truth of things even before the lady’s valuables were recovered.”

“I had my suspicions, yes. The way Horace reacted to news of the ‘theft,’ raging and stomping and generally making a fuss. It was as if he
wanted
a scandal.” Father glanced over at me, and even in the dim light I could see his tired eyes take on a little sparkle. “It put me in mind of something a wise man once told me about
the fine art of acting. That a good, truthful performance emphasizes believability over bombast.”

“So Turnbull’s scheme was foiled because he overacted,” I said. “Watch out, Mr. Escott. Sasanoff may recruit him to be the troupe’s new Malvolio.”

It was a weak jest intended to distract from the gleam in my own eye—a shimmer of moisture that suddenly threatened to pool there.

“Ah,” I said, turning away. “Here comes our coach.”

Father and Escott shook hands as the rockaway rumbled toward us.

“Good-bye, Mr. Escott. I have a feeling we’ll be hearing your name again one day.”

“I doubt it, sir. Not ‘William Escott,’ at any rate. It’s merely a stage name—and one I don’t think I’ll have need of much longer, whether Sasanoff sacks me or not.” The Englishman offered me his hand. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes,” I said.

“Likewise, sir. I have little doubt I’ll be hearing
your
name again one day.”

“You’re very kind,” I said, thinking his words mere flattery at first. Yet Holmes held my gaze so intently, even after our hands unclasped, that I felt as though some sincere connection between us lingered on—something Holmes would take with him from Hartford.

He stayed to help Father up into the coach, and even as the rockaway rolled off, he remained outside, alone, to watch us go.

“What an extraordinary man,” I said.

Father had slumped into his seat, formless and slack, and for a moment I assumed he’d fallen asleep the second he was off his feet.

“ ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ‘em,’ ” he said, quoting one of Escott/ Holmes’s own lines from the play that evening. “Our young friend there, I think, is very close to achieving his.”

He stretched out a wavering hand and placed it on my shoulder.

“As are others.”