Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (23 page)

When we arrived, I introduced Holmes to the assembled company with a story about knowing him from my youthful days in California. Everyone appeared quite pleased that we had a new Horatio so soon—except for Geoffrey Simmons, our Polonius, who frowned and pulled at his beard. Geoffrey was a fine actor but an odd fellow. He was short and round, so corpulent that he appeared almost as wide as he was tall. His skin was pink and smooth as a baby’s, and with his small, bright blue eyes and mane of white hair, he rather resembled a cherubic Santa Claus. He was a moody and private man, and did not socialize much with the rest of the company; no one could claim to know him very well. But he was a great favorite with audiences; his Polonius was both a comical bumbler and an oddly touching father figure to Laertes and Ophelia.

The rehearsal went smoothly; Holmes was an even better Horatio than I had imagined—noble, resolute, and sensitive, all the qualities the character should have. He also possessed a darkness that contrasted wonderfully with the upright, steadfast Horatio. He was very effective in his closing speech at the end of the play. Several of the actors congratulated him on it—but Geoff Simmons continued to scowl and pull at his beard.

However, our Laertes, young Nate Carlisle, seemed much taken with him. He watched Holmes with great interest during his scenes, and made a point of talking to him during breaks. Nate was a lively, nervous young man with golden curls and intense, deep-set eyes of the palest blue. His Laertes was fiery and passionate, and he was an excellent swordsman, equally skilled with the epée and the
rapier. I am no mean swordsman myself, but the final duel scene with him was a challenge that kept me on my toes. I had never acted with him before; he had come to me with a recommendation from a theatre manager in Savannah.

He reminded me of my younger self—energetic, eager, and athletic, full of desire to light the world on fire. By the time rehearsals began he had his lines completely memorized. I watched him during rehearsals somewhat wistfully, knowing that those days were behind me.

But though age has much to tell youth, remembering too well what it was to be young, youth has little interest in listening, because it does not believe it will ever be old. But I knew that one day he would look back, as I have, and wonder where it had all gone—the promise, the adventure, the glamour of a life just beginning, a career on the verge of glory. The sweetest moment of all is the one just before the doing—the breath taken before the fulfillment of a long-sought dream. The savoring afterwards is always tinged with sadness, with a bitter aftertaste, and is never as sweet.

At our first break Nate stood in the wings, conversing with Holmes, his face eager and flushed with the excitement of youth.

“Have you acted in London?” he asked Holmes.

“Only at university, when I was in school—and not very much; I was more interested in other things,” Holmes replied.

“I would love to go to England—I want to see how the English do Shakespeare!” Nate exclaimed as Geoff Simmons sauntered up to them.

“It’s highly overrated, my boy,” Simmons remarked, never taking his eyes off Holmes.

“I quite agree,” Holmes replied, turning a level gaze upon Simmons. “Your Polonius is as good as any I’ve seen in England.”

Simmons was utterly flustered by this, and before he could respond, the bell rang to resume rehearsal.

To my distress, I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the play. I was now in the uncomfortable position of watching everyone around me, studying them and wondering what grudge they might possibly hold against me, what the content of our last exchange was, had I ever slighted them, and so on, as my thoughts circled through the past hunting for any motive one of them might have for taking my life.

During the break Holmes and I sat in my dressing room talking quietly, and Holmes remarked that we had better keep an eye on Simmons.

“Do you know him from elsewhere?”

“I have never laid eyes on him before,” Holmes replied calmly, lighting a cheroot. He seemed to smoke as much as I did—my doctor had warned me about it, but I found it even more difficult to give up than alcohol.

“He doesn’t appear to have taken a shine to you,” I observed.

“Yes, I noticed that.”

I rose from my chair and began to pace the dressing room. It was a nervous habit I inherited from my father, who would often pace when he was ill at ease. I had spent my childhood years following him from town to town, trying to soothe his restless spirit with my banjo playing or storytelling—anything to keep him away from the bottle. Most people regarded him as the greatest American actor of his generation, but even as a young boy I saw that the gift of genius could exact a terrible price.

“Well, Holmes, have you seen anyone whom you suspect?”

He shook his head. “It is early yet. Is there anyone who would benefit monetarily from your death?”

“Not especially. I am worth much more alive; as I said, there are a great many people who depend upon me for their livelihood.”

He blew a smoke ring into the air above his head; it curled and dissipated into a thin gray mist. “If we rule out money as an explanation, then we are left with more personal motives.”

“But who would hate me so much that they want to kill me?”

“Oh, it is not at all necessary that they should hate you personally in order to want to kill you—only that they hate someone or something.”

“What do you mean?”

“The mind is a curious thing,” he replied slowly. “Once a diseased thought has taken hold, the symptoms may present in a variety of ways. In that respect it is not unlike the body, actually, in which the same disease may present with radically different symptoms in different people.”

“That’s true,” I said. “When my brother John and I got chicken pox as children, all I had were a few spots and a mild fever, whereas Johnny nearly died . . .” I fell into silence, suddenly struck by the disturbing thought that it might have been better for the world if he had died.

“Exactly,” Holmes replied. “And there are even more bizarre cases than that in the medical literature—which is why diagnosis of disease is so much more of an art than a science. Likewise, the diagnosis of crime has its challenges . . . in this case, for example, several things present themselves to me. Firstly, the would-be killer is very patient. Secondly, he or she is equally determined. That
would most probably rule out a crime of passion—though not necessarily. Are there any ladies in your company who are especially smitten with you?”

I sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.” (Some have described me as handsome; I do not agree with them. It is true that I have my father’s dark eyes—critics are fond of using such words as “luminous” and “lustrous” to describe them—but I think my nose is too prominent and my lips too thin to rank me as truly handsome. I would reserve that description for my brother John, whose high forehead, strong jaw, and noble profile made him a great favorite with the ladies.)

“Do you have a particular admirer in mind?” Holmes inquired.

I sighed again. “Her name is Kitty, and she is a perfectly nice young woman, but not much of an actress, I’m afraid. I also suspect that her admiration is not for my person so much as my position, to be quite honest.”

Just then there was rapid, lively knock on the door; and, as if responding to a cue, Kitty’s voice sounded in the hallway.

“Edwin!” she sang out in her high, bell-like voice. “May I come in?”

“That’s her now,” I whispered to Holmes. “Should I—?”

He nodded, and I rose to open the door.

Kitty was standing in the hall, dressed as a lady-in-waiting in the Danish court. It pleased the gentlemen of New York when I sprinkled the stage with comely young women, and I had no objection to bringing in more audience members, even if they were not there to admire Shakespeare’s verse.

“Hello!” Kitty said brightly. Her blond hair bounced in tight ringlets around her face, and her blue eyes were cheerful as
spring daisies. “Oh,” she said, peering around my shoulder to spot Holmes. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you had company!”

“Not at all,” I said. “Please come in.”

“Hello, Mr. Helms,” Kitty said.

“Holmes,” I corrected.

“Yes, yes—I am sorry, Mr. Holmes!” Kitty corrected herself, blushing prettily.

“This is Kitty Trimble,” I said to Holmes.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said graciously.

She gave a little curtsy in response; she came from the slums of the Lower East Side, and was forever at pains to behave like a lady. As she entered the room, her fluffy white terrier, Prince, trailed behind her, his sharp little eyes just visible under the shaggy fur on his head. When he saw Holmes, he gave a high, piercing bark, wagging his stub of a tail.

“Stop it, Princey!” Kitty cried, picking him up and cradling him in her plump white arms.

“Your dog does not appear to like me,” Holmes commented.

“Oh, no—he
does
!” Kitty protested. “He only barks at people he likes.”

“Curious,” said Holmes. “He wouldn’t be much use as a watchdog.”

Kitty erupted in peals of silvery laughter. “He’s not a watchdog, silly! Did you hear that, Princey? Mr. Holmes thinks you’re a watchdog.”

She hugged the dog close to her lilac-scented bosom and fluttered her eyelashes at us. I mused that she would be more attractive if she didn’t overplay her hand; as for Holmes, he seemed immune to her charms.

“What can I do for you, Kitty?” I asked.

“I was just wondering if perhaps it might be a good idea to have more of the members of the court onstage for the final scene,” she said, putting the dog back down and twirling a lock of golden hair between her dainty fingers. “It would heighten the tension to have more spectators onstage.”

I smiled. Kitty was always anxious to spend more time onstage.

“You may be right,” I replied, and her already pink cheeks reddened even more.

“Thank you for the idea,” I continued, ushering her to the door.

“You’re welcome,” she said with a charming smile. “Goodbye,” she called to Holmes. “Welcome to the company!”

“Thank you very much,” he replied.

With a rustle of skirts and a flash of yellow hair, she turned, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume, her little dog trotting obediently after her.

“A very cheerful young woman,” Holmes remarked dryly when she had gone. “And a very ambitious one.”

I stared at him. “You don’t suspect—”

He smiled grimly. “My dear Booth, I suspect everyone.”

“But surely—” I began, reddening.

“Your gallantry toward the fairer sex does you credit, but one of the most charming women I ever knew drowned all three of her children in a bathtub.”

I shuddered.

“Really, Holmes, I am not sure I would care to have your perspective on humanity.”

“I can quite understand that,” he replied evenly. “However, if
one wants to engage in solving crimes, one must not shy away from the truth.”

I was just about to turn my attention to a platter of cold roast beef that had been delivered to my dressing room when the bell rang to resume rehearsal. Disappointed, I gazed longingly at the beef for a moment before we hurried off to the stage.

We were approaching the gravediggers scene when I realized I had left Yorick’s skull in my dressing room. I hurried back to retrieve it, hoping to grab a piece of roast beef before returning.

The door was ajar, and when I opened it, I saw Kitty’s little dog Prince lying on the floor, unnaturally still. I knelt beside him; he did not appear to be breathing. I felt for a pulse but could find none. There was white foam clinging to the corner of his mouth. I also saw that a chunk had been bitten from the thick slice of roast beef on the table.

My head began to spin and my knees suddenly went weak. I realized immediately what had happened: the poisoned meat was meant for me. Taking several deep breaths in an attempt to steady my nerves, I leaned against the dressing room wall and ran a hand across my clammy forehead; I had broken out into a cold sweat.

There was a quick, light knock at the door. I hesitated for a moment.

“Who is it?”

“Holmes.”

Relief flooding my veins, I opened the door to admit him to the room. He took one look at the poor dog and grasped the situation immediately.

“Dear me,” he said, frowning. “This is very bad indeed.”

“What should we do?”

“We must remove the dog from here immediately—the killer must not know we are on to him.”

“Poor Kitty,” I said as we lifted the small, lifeless body.

“Yes; it will go hard with her when she discovers him in her dressing room.”

“But shouldn’t we tell her—”

Holmes shook his head. “It is most regrettable, but also vital that the dog appear to have died of natural causes.”

We took the poor creature down the hall to the dressing room Kitty shared with the other ladies-in-waiting, and left him next to her chair. I felt my throat thicken as we closed the door behind us, and my forehead burned with shame at the ruse we were perpetrating on poor Kitty.

“And now?” I said.

“Now we return to rehearsal as though nothing happened.”

And so we did.

We had just begun Act II when a bloodcurdling wail came from the direction of the dressing rooms. Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened, horrified. It was a woman’s voice, and the chilling sound made my skin prick out all over in goose bumps.

Of course, I knew only too well who it was, and why she was crying. Moments later one of the other young actresses, Carolyn Maloney, rushed into the room, tears streaming down her face.

“It’s Kitty!” she wailed. “Her poor little Prince is dead!”

Moments later Kitty appeared, carrying the inert body of her pet dog, her pretty face swollen from crying. I admit my own eyes
did not remain entirely dry—the sight was so piteous that I doubt if any of us were unmoved by it.

Kitty was petted and hugged and made much fuss over, but she was inconsolable. No one was more solicitous than young Nate Carlisle, who took her hand in his and, with a trembling voice, expressed his sincere regret. When Kitty wouldn’t stop crying, he looked beseechingly at the rest of us.