Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (16 page)

“To protect me from that beast,” she said.

Holmes hadn’t really thought things through that far ahead yet, and he cursed himself for a fool. He had to do something to meld Diana to him and so considered the question now. Apparently Strickland wouldn’t try anything while he and Bell were here. However, once they left New York and went back to England, Diana would once again be in danger. So the solution was simple; Diana must go back to England with them. He told her this now.

Diana did not take it well. “I don’t think so, Sherlock,” she said adamantly. “I am not going back to England. Maybe some day, but not now.”

“Well, you cannot stay in New York, it is much too dangerous for you,” Holmes said. “And we cannot stay here and protect you indefinitely.”

Diana looked at him with a deep smile. “Dear Sherlock, you do care about me, don’t you?”

Holmes looked hurt. “Of course, Diana.”

Diana walked over to him and slowly wrapped her arms around his neck as she brought her face down to his lips. The moment was everything Sherlock had ever dreamed it would be. They kissed long and passionately before she suddenly broke the connection.

“Oh, my,” she giggled, “I don’t know what made me do that. I’m so sorry . . .”

“I’m not . . .” Holmes replied quickly.

“Well, I just . . . oh, Sherlock, I do feel a bond between us. Don’t you feel it also? It is so strong, like a power over me. We should not deny these feelings.”

“Yes, Diana, I feel it too.”

Then she suddenly moved away from him again. “Perhaps we should not become . . . involved? It may only complicate the situation.”

“No, Diana, you said so yourself we should not deny our feelings,” Holmes heard himself say.

Diana smiled. “Joseph will be here soon and I don’t want him to see us like this. Come back later tonight, after my last show. Meet me in the alley by the stage door.”

Holmes looked up, unable to hide his disappointment.

“Cheer up, Sherlock, dear,” she said with a promising wink, “we shall have plenty of time together tonight. Remember, meet me at the stage door in the back alley, and bring flowers, Sherlock. A girl so does love to have a handsome beau bring her flowers. Now be gone, love.”

Holmes walked out of Diana’s dressing room in a delirious fog. Love and lust jousted within, and Diana was the prize. Forgotten was the fact that she was a married woman, and that she was his friend and mentor’s sister. Forgotten also were the questions he had wanted to put to her.

Holmes looked for Bell but was told he had since left the theater, so the young man walked back to his hotel alone, his mind a whirlwind of emotions he’d never experienced before. Emotions he knew even less how to deal with. All he could do was count the hours until the end of Diana’s show tonight, when he would see her again.

Bell wasn’t in his room at the hotel when Holmes returned. The doctor came back a few hours later and the two men went out to Delmonico’s for dinner and to compare notes.

The show later on was as delightful as Holmes had expected, and Diana was indeed a goddess onstage. After the final curtain Holmes and Bell said good-bye, and Holmes quickly exited the theater and walked into the side alley. At the end a stage door stood open, the light from inside illuminating the area.

Here he found a small group of well-dressed men, each, like himself, holding a bundle of flowers. Holmes watched as they greeted the young actresses who emerged, talking excitedly and
dressed for a lively evening on the town. A moment later Holmes found himself alone.

“Hey, Johnny. Who you waiting ‘round for?”

Holmes
thought
he had been alone, but now saw a skinny boy sitting on a crate, the stage-door boy, no doubt.

“What did you call me?” Holmes asked sharply, knowing very well he had been the butt of some unsavory American slang.

“I called you a Johnny,” the youth replied boldly, with a derisive laugh. “Just another stage-door Johnny come to see the gals. They’re all gone by now and I reckon you’re plum outta luck. Well, who you waiting for?”

“Diana Strickland.”

“Oh, the princess herself!” the boy laughed knowingly. “You’ll not win the likes of her with just flowers . . .”

“Impertinent wretch!”

The youth only laughed, “She’s long gone, mister, off with her professor friend.”

Holmes looked at the boy. “She’s . . . not here?”

“Gone a good ten minutes ago, saw her myself.”

“I was to meet her here, we had an appointment after the show,” Holmes said softly, more to himself than to the boy. Suddenly his face flushed and he felt like a fool. The red roses he held so proudly in his arms had now become a flag to that foolishness.

Before the boy could utter a word the bundle of flowers was thrust upon him and Holmes was gone.

That night Sherlock Holmes walked the streets of New York alone. His thoughts made for ill company indeed. His passion had been stoked and his feelings were hurt. Why had she done this to him? Arranged a meeting and then gone off with another man!
The analytical part of his mind was truly amazed at the amount of pain this caused him. He wished he could talk to Mycroft about it. Surely his more worldly older brother knew how to deal with such things.

“Where were you last night?” Bell asked when they met for breakfast the next morning. He knew his young assistant had been out almost all night. “You had me worried. This city can be quite dangerous after dark.”

“I was out walking,” Holmes replied guardedly.

“All night?”

“I was thinking,” Holmes replied, and Bell could feel the pain in his young companion’s voice and so did not press him.

“I also was doing some thinking, Sherlock,” Bell admitted, changing the subject now. “In fact, I did quite a bit more. I went around to my sister’s room at Mrs. Shay’s early this morning to speak to her. You’ll never guess what I saw there.”

“The professor?” Holmes blurted.

“The professor? No, no professor, it was Strickland.”

“Really?” Holmes said, surprised now in spite of his dark mood.

“For a couple whose relationship has been complicated by accusations of attempted murder, they seemed to be quite fond of each other. I watched as Diana kissed Rupert good-bye. I heard her tell him she loved him dearly.”

A dark cloud covered the young man’s face. He could not respond.

Bell noted his companion’s dark look. “My feelings exactly,” he stated. “Something is not right here.”

Holmes nodded. “I think we need to speak to Strickland and get the truth out of him.”

Bell was about to reply when there was a loud knock upon the door. He answered to find a hotel bellboy framed in the doorway and behind him another boy in working clothes. Holmes recognized the second boy at once as being from the Criterion.

The bellboy moved out of the way and the other boy spoke up, “Begging your pardon, sir, but are you Doctor Bell?”

“Yes, I am Bell,” the doctor said impatiently.

“I was sent by Mr. Jacobs of the Criterion. He said to fetch you at once. There has been a killing.”

Bell looked at Holmes frantically. Each feared to utter what was uppermost in his thoughts. “Do you know who it was?”

“No, sir,” the boy replied nervously.

“Was it a woman?” Holmes asked sharply.

“Don’t know, sir, I wasn’t there. Mr. Jacobs told me to run and fetch you. All I know is that it happened in Mrs. Strickland’s dressing room.”

Bell let out a muffled curse. “My God, he’s finally done it, Sherlock!”

Holmes said not one word, but his soul was drowning in a sea of desperation.

Bell and Holmes rushed to the Criterion, where they were met by Jacobs, the director, who quickly led them to Diana’s dressing room.

They gasped in surprise when they saw Rupert Strickland lying on the floor, a bullet hole in his chest. He was obviously dead. Diana was crying at her dressing table, two detectives
standing over her, their hands thrust in their pockets, the cigars in their mouths unlit, their faces noncommittal.

“What happened here?” Bell ran to his sister and they embraced. She was still sobbing when they parted. Then she saw Holmes and quickly embraced him as well. “Oh, Sherlock!”

“What happened, Diana?” Holmes asked.

“Oh, it was terrible,” she cried.

One of the detectives said that he was satisfied with Diana’s explanation of the events, and since the witnesses all backed up her story she was free to go.

“Thank you,” Diana stammered as the police left the room.

“Tell me what happened here,” Bell insisted.

Diana nodded and took a deep breath. “Rupert contacted me through a friend of his, a visiting professor, who convinced him that he should attempt to reconcile. It was the professor who came to see me last night and escorted me to Rupert. Sherlock, I know you were disappointed, but I had to take this last chance to save my marriage. The professor brought me to see Rupert and we met at a neutral location—Delmonico’s.”

Holmes felt a twinge somewhere deep inside him.

“You met Rupert alone? Was that wise?” Bell asked.

“Maybe not, but we talked and after a while it was like all the trouble between us had been set aside and ended. Finally, Joseph, things looked bright after so much darkness. Rupert came with me to my room. Mrs. Shay would never have allowed it had she known, but we were discreet. We are married, after all . . . and he stayed the night with me. It was like a . . . second honeymoon.”

Bell nodded. Holmes remained quiet, outwardly stoic, but the knowledge was tearing him apart inside.

“I really thought all was finally well between us. I sent him off this morning with nothing but love in my heart,” Diana added.

Bell turned to Holmes and caught his eye. Any suspicions he had were gone now that he understood what he had seen early in the morning outside Mrs. Shay’s.

Diana began speaking again. “But Rupert’s anger and violence could not be contained. He came here demanding I leave the theater again. I told him we could talk about it later, but he would hear nothing of it. We argued . . . he hit me.”

Bell noticed new bruises on his sister’s arms and neck.

“He hurt me, Joseph.” The pain in her face was mirrored in the faces of Bell and Holmes. “Then he took out a gun and pointed it at me. He told me he’d rather see me dead than have to share me with other men when I was on the stage. Some of the stagehands rushed in, attracted by the shouting, no doubt. They pushed Rupert from behind, and he dropped the gun. It slid over to me and I picked it up and pointed it at him. I told him to stay away, pleaded with him to leave me alone, but he just kept walking toward me with that bestial look in his eyes. His arms reached out for my neck. He was going to kill me, strangle me right there, I was sure of it. I don’t think he believed I could pull the trigger, neither did I, but when I looked into the cold blackness of his eyes I knew I had no choice. It all happened so quickly. I pulled the trigger and sent the bullet that killed him into his heart.”

They were all quiet for a moment.

“Who are these witnesses?” Holmes asked carefully.

“Two stagehands, and the professor was here. They saw it all and back up my story,” Diana said confidently.