Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (18 page)

“My E-flat did not soar as highly as I would have liked, but I did nothing to disgrace myself,” he replied. “The fact that one of my adjudicators was positioning his head in such a way as to indicate he was slightly deaf in his right ear may work to my advantage.”

I had by this time become accustomed to such pronouncements from Sherlock Holmes, who tended to observe people the way Babylonian astronomers observed the heavens, and
then deliver astounding conclusions based upon what he saw. Although no more than three years above my own age of twenty-one, Holmes nonetheless managed to carry himself as though he had walked the earth for decades and had acquired the wisdom of the ages as a result.

He had come to New York at the invitation of the newly formed Symphony Society of New York, which, having been apprised of his virtuosity on the violin from his Austrian fiddle master back home (a man whose name I could not begin to pronounce), had asked him to audition. My presence on the trip was twofold: I was helping Holmes share the not inconsiderable expenses of an ocean voyage from England while at the same time satisfying my long-held curiosity about the biggest city in America.

Holmes set his violin case down on the room’s one chair and rested himself on one of the beds, which groaned in protest. “This is the most taxing part of all, Stamford, doing nothing but waiting to hear their decision.”

I knew from the experience of our sea voyage that boredom was anathema to my companion, and I did not savor the thought of seeing him through the waiting period. I attempted to think of some way to distract him during it, but as luck would have it, he found one on his own.

Holmes had gone out to purchase a local newspaper, leaving me in the room (for better or worse, I have never considered idleness an enemy). Upon his return, he fairly burst into the room, the newspaper held open in front of him. “Listen to this, Stamford,” he said. “It says, ‘A very rare white elephant will be placed on public display in Bridgeport the morning of Thursday, May ninth,
at the Went Field site of Mr. P. T. Barnum’s circus storage compound.’ ”

“
The
P. T. Barnum?” I asked.

“It is unlikely there is a surfeit of them,” he said, then continued his reading:

Mr. Barnum is taking the unusual step of publicly exhibiting the creature free of charge to the customer, between the hours of ten o’clock and eleven o’clock. The elephant, upon which the name “Xanthippe” has been bestowed, after the wife of Socrates, is a gift to the Sovereign of the Independent Kingdom of Upper Burma, and almost immediately after its display here it will be transported across the ocean to Mandalay. White elephants such as this one are extremely rare in nature, so much so that they are considered legendary and even sacred in many countries of the Orient.

Well, Stamford, what do you think of that?”

“Sounds like a white elephant, if you ask me,” I told him.

Holmes did not laugh. “I think it sounds like something definitely worth investigating,” he countered, “particularly since the public showing is tomorrow and we have nothing else on our social calendar.”

“You mean you want to see this creature? Where is Bridgeville?”

“Bridge
port
. It is a town in Connecticut, and I believe it is easily accessible by train.”

I knew that seeing such a rarity as a sacred white elephant is precisely the sort of thing in which Holmes reveled, so I acquiesced.

The next morning I found myself accompanying Sherlock Holmes on the early (
too
early, in my opinion) train for Bridgeport, Connecticut. Holmes spent the journey poring over more American newspapers, while I simply watched the scenery go by. I was particularly amused when the train stopped at a town called
Stamford
and fought the desire to leap off the train and engage a local photographer to take a picture of me standing under the station sign, which I could then send to my father as proof that I was, despite his worst fears, making my way in the world.

True to its name, Bridgeport was a seaport of sorts, situated along both a sound and a river, nowhere near as large and bustling as New York, but still an active town. My fondest wish as we detrained was that we could find a place that served breakfast, for I was quite famished, but after a quick glance at his watch, Holmes proclaimed there was not enough time. While he was querying the stationmaster as to the location of P. T. Barnum’s compound and the elephant exhibition, however, I spotted a nearby small café with a quasi-Parisian atmosphere, where I was able to obtain a baguette and a piece of cheese.

I nibbled on the bread and cheese as we walked through the city, following the directions, and on the way I noticed that Holmes appeared unusually interested in the windows of the stores we passed. “Shopping?” I asked.

“Hardly,” he replied, examining the window. “The goods on display are of little concern to me, unlike the man across who is reflected in the glass. When we walk, he walks. When we stop, he stops. Clearly, we are being followed. I am merely trying to ascertain why.”

“Followed?”

“Do not look at him, Stamford,” Holmes cautioned. “Whatever his game is, it is best that he not realize we are on to him. Let us continue walking.”

We continued our trek to Went Field, which was on the outskirts of the town. It held a series of large, flat-roofed buildings that were certainly big enough to house an entire circus. An assembly of people was already gathering, directed to the largest of the buildings by a series of roughly painted signs that read,
This Way to the Sacred White Elephant
. We took our place in the line, but before we could actually enter the building, a voice behind us called: “Holmes!”

My companion spun around and I with him, and we now found ourselves in the company of a well-dressed man with a natural air of authority about him. The man said something that I did not fully catch but finished once more by addressing my companion by name.

“He recognizes you!” I gasped.

“And I him,” Holmes said. “This is the man who was following us.”

The fellow began to speak again, and now I understood his words to be in a different language. “I assure you, I understand English perfectly,” Holmes told him.

“Good,” the man replied. “You will come with me.”

“We shall do no such thing!” I protested.

The man then opened his coat and revealed a pistol tucked inside his belt, which he deftly removed and pointed in our direction.

“It appears that we are to go with him,” Holmes said. We were marched away from the building at gunpoint and to a waiting hackney cab and instructed to get inside, which we did, since it would
have been folly to do otherwise. “Please don’t try to jump out of the cab,” the man said, stepping inside with us, and keeping his gun pointed in our direction. “You won’t get far.”

“Where are you taking us?” I demanded.

“Waldemere. Perhaps there we can put an end to this dirty business.”

As it turned out, Waldemere was not far away, and while it sounded like another town, it was in reality the name of a fantastic mansion, an imposingly huge structure that was gabled like a manor house, but with a high tower at its center. It sat in the middle of a large open green that overlooked the water, and was crisscrossed with carriage drives and dotted with fountains. “Who lives here?” I asked, taking it in through the window of the cab.

“Really, Stamford, who else
would
live here?” Holmes said. “Obviously we are being invited, so to speak, to have a personal audience with Mr. P. T. Barnum.” Turning to the man with the gun, he added: “Since we have accommodated you thus far, may I ask who you are?”

“My name’s Weymouth,” the man said. “I work for Mr. Barnum.”

The cab pulled up in front of the house and stopped. Weymouth got out first and, keeping his pistol trained on us, instructed us to exit the vehicle. We were escorted inside the place, whose interior was just as impressive as its exterior, though much of the main entryway area was obscured by scaffolding and drop cloths. The smell of fresh plaster and paint permeated the area, and various workmen could be seen bustling about, at least one of whom wore a hat and kerchief over his face as protection against the dust. “A bit of remodeling?” Holmes asked, surveying the work.

“Mr. Barnum is never satisfied with the place,” Weymouth
replied, “not that it’s any of your concern. We’re going this way.” He walked us to one door in particular, but before he could open it we heard a woman’s voice call out behind us: “Charles, is that you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Barnum,” Weymouth called back, hiding his gun from view.

Upon hearing the name “Mrs. Barnum” I expected a matronly woman of somewhat advanced age. I was therefore surprised to see a comely dark-haired woman who appeared barely older than either Holmes or myself approach us.

“Are you gentlemen here to see my husband?” she asked us, pleasantly.

“So it would appear, madam,” Holmes said.

“Is it about the problem in the drawing room?”

“No, not at all,” Weymouth said, nervously. “Now, if you would please excuse us . . .”

Holmes faced the young woman. “What is the problem in the drawing room, madam?” he asked, and Weymouth fired him a look that could have etched glass. Even Mrs. Barnum seemed to notice it, for she replied: “Oh, well, perhaps I should not say.”

She took her leave and Holmes and I were walked across the entryway to a door, upon which Weymouth rapped loudly. “Come in!” a voice boomed from the other side. Opening the door, we found ourselves entering a large oak-paneled library that was filled with bookshelves and decorated with glass cases containing stuffed birds. The centerpiece of the room was a large, heavy desk that was overburdened with papers and objects (one of which looked like a miniature head in a jar!). Seated behind the desk was a man on the far side of sixty who studied us for a minute before rising and stepping toward us. He was of medium height, heavily built, and clad
in a long dressing gown, pantaloons, and bedroom slippers. A diamond stickpin adorned his shirt. His features were blunt to the point of being bulldoggish, and while his pewter-colored hair was quite sparse on top of his large head, the sides and back were ringed with a natural laurel of curly locks that gave him the appearance of a Roman bust come to life. “I am Phineas Barnum,” he announced redundantly, in a voice that filled every cranny of the room.

“How do you do, sir?” Holmes said, giving him a respectful nod. “My name is—”

“You do not sound French,” Barnum interrupted, “you sound English. Charles, why is this man not French?”

“I addressed him in French, Phineas, and he responded,” Weymouth said. “I had been watching the train depot, as you suggested, and saw them arrive. Their clothes are European and they clearly acted like strangers to the city. I followed them to the compound and when I spoke, this one . . .” he jabbed a finger in my direction “. . . acknowledged that the other one had been spotted.”

“I was startled that you called my companion by his name, is all,” I protested.

“Name?” Weymouth said. “I used no name.”

“I distinctly heard you say ‘Holmes!’ ”

Holmes was now smiling. “I believe I can clear up at least this part of the little drama into which we have all been cast,” he said. “While I am less than expert at the French tongue, I clearly heard Mr. Weymouth call ‘
Voux hommes
?,’ which translates to ‘You men.’ What startled my friend was the use of the word
hommes
, which sounds nearly identical to my surname, Holmes, particularly when pronounced by someone even less expert in the language than I.”

“So you are Holmes,” Barnum said, then turned to me and demanded my identity as well.

“My name is Stamford, sir.”

“Like the town down the road?”

“Quite.”

“And neither one of you has ever sent me a letter?”

“I assure you, sir, that we have not.”

Barnum scrutinized both of us and then turned his gaze to Weymouth, who appeared to flinch. “Phineas,” he began, “I would have put money on one of them being our man.”

“You know what they say about a fool and his money,” Barnum fired back. Then, shaking his head, he said: “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Stamford, it appears I owe you an apology and so does Mr. Weymouth. I am not in the practice of inconveniencing visitors to such a degree. I am also, I fear, rather preoccupied, so please tell me how I might recompense you for the trouble we have put you through, and then be on your way.”

“Well, I for one should very much like to see the white elephant,” Holmes said. “Not the one on exhibition back in that animal storage building, which I assume to be a fake, but rather the real one you are concealing in your drawing room.”

The mouths of both P. T. Barnum and Charles Weymouth dropped open. “How in blazes did you know about that?” the showman sputtered.

Holmes smiled. “The very fact that Stamford and I were brought to this house at gunpoint—”

“
Gunpoint
, Charles?” Barnum said.

“A precaution, Phineas.”

“If I may continue,” Holmes said. “We are here because you were clearly expecting someone in particular to arrive today, a Frenchman apparently. Why would he be coming today? To see the elephant, of course. But many people came today to see the elephant, we included. So the question stands, why were you waiting for this particular Frenchman, and why were you willing to abduct him when he arrived? The obvious inference is that he posed some sort of threat to the elephant. In fact, I would argue that the decision to exhibit the elephant was really an attempt to draw this man out into the open. That being the case, you would hardly be expected to risk the actual white elephant. I imagine that the creature on display is most likely a common elephant painted white for the occasion.”

“It is covered in plaster dust, not painted,” Barnum said, “but otherwise you are alarmingly correct.”

“The rest is simplicity itself. Once we have established that the real elephant is not in the field building, the question remains, where is she? The agitation that Mr. Weymouth displayed when Mrs. Barnum began to speak of the ‘problem’ in the drawing room indicated that there was something in there that he wished us not to see. Given the rest of the facts, the obvious conclusion is that the so-called problem was Xanthippe herself, hidden from view in the last place anyone would expect to find an elephant.”