Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (4 page)

Mother reached for the envelope and I extended it toward her. As I did so a slip of paper fell from it, barely missing the vegetable bowl and landing in front of the bony Sherlock. He snatched it up and refused to surrender it until Father commanded him to do so. Even so, I had to tug at the slip before he would release it.

The note was written in the familiar hand of my cousin.
Dearest Elisabeth
, I read silently,
My Jonathan is the most wonderful man. He is a skilled printer and editor and we plan to move to the West once married. Please, please, cousin dearest, do find a way to come to my wedding. I shall be heartbroken if you do not. I want you there as my maiden of honor.
The note was signed, in my cousin’s customary manner, with a cartoon drawing of the two of us, our arms linked familiarly.

Although we have never met, I believe that we have had a psychic link throughout our lives. My mother and Inga’s father were twins. Mother remained here in England while her brother emigrated to the United States, where he married an American woman, Miss Tanner. We two cousins were born on the same day and, as far as we have been able to determine, at the same moment. My cousin was named Inga Elisabeth and I was named Elisabeth Inga.

The invitation to my dear cousin’s nuptials was confirmation of a knowledge that I had carried for weeks.

Gathering my courage, I announced that, in view of my parents’ inability to do so, I would represent the English branch of the family at Inga’s wedding.

Father shook his head. “Out of the question, Elisabeth. We shall obtain a suitable gift for your cousin and dispatch it by transatlantic transport. You will not travel to America, certainly not alone.”

Mother fingered the strings that held her apron in place, tying
and untying them in distress. “Inga is my brother’s only child, Reginald. She is Elisabeth’s only cousin. It would be sad if she could not be present on this occasion.”

“No,” Father insisted, “a young woman traveling alone under these conditions would be most improper.”

“Perhaps her brother could go with her, then. Mycroft is a responsible young man. Surely he would be a suitable chaperone for Elisabeth, and I have no doubt that my brother and sister-in-law would welcome him into their home.”

I will confess that even in this moment I found it amusing to think of Mycroft boarding a ship and traveling to America. Mycroft, whose daily movements seldom vary in route from bedroom to office, from office to dinner table, from dinner table to parlor, and from parlor to bedroom.

With a single word Mycroft rejected our mum’s suggestion, nor was any further discussion useful.

Following dinner and coffee we retired to the parlor for our customary family hour. Some evenings Mother will read aloud from a popular work of fiction. Others, I play familiar airs on my flute, on occasion accompanied by Sherlock’s execrable fiddle-scratching. Rarely, Mycroft deigns to entertain us with a recitation. He has committed to memory the complete
Dialogues
of Plato, Plutarch’s
Lives
, the scientific works of the great Mr. Charles Darwin, and the Reverend Dodgson’s
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
, a favorite of my own.

But this evening there was but a single topic of conversation. It was the wedding of my cousin.

Mother and Father having ruled out their own presence at the nuptials, Father having forbidden me to travel alone, and Mycroft
having refused to contemplate the journey, there remained but one possible solution to the puzzle. I swallowed my pride and proposed that Sherlock accompany me.

I half hoped that he would reject the idea. To be honest, I more than half hoped as much. But my dear younger sibling took this occasion to torment me by giving his assent. Of course he did so with a demonstration of reluctance bordering upon martyrdom.

Mother seemed ready to give her blessing to this plan when Father raised the question of money. Fare for two persons traveling from England to America and back would come to a substantial amount. It might be possible to run the bakeshop without Sherlock and myself for a time. But there were simply not sufficient funds in the till to provide passage for Sherlock and myself.

Father rose from his chair and stated, “We will send a suitable gift, perhaps a gravy boat or salver, to the happy couple.”

“Not yet.” Mycroft’s words, spoken in the same rich voice that he used for his learned recitations, brought Father to a halt.

“Not yet?” Father echoed.

“Sir,” Mycroft replied, “do not be so quick to give up on our family’s being represented at the wedding. Remember that Inga is my cousin as well, and I would wish to see my sister and her cousin together on the happy day.”

Father reached for his spectacles, unfolded their arms, and placed them on his face to get a better look at his elder son. “I trust you do not plan to rob a bank, Mycroft, an behalf of Elisabeth and Sherlock.” Father seldom makes jokes, but I believe he thought he had just done so.

“Please trust me, father. I make no promise, but I venture that Elisabeth and Sherlock will be at Inga’s wedding.” He reached into
his vest pocket and extracted a turnip. After consulting it he shook his head. “Too late this evening,” he said. “Give me twenty-four hours, Father. I ask no more.”

The next morning found our bakeshop fully stocked as usual, the product of Father’s industry. I took my place at the counter; Sherlock, his in the area reserved for handling goods; and Mycroft, at his desk, tending to his administrative duties. Nothing further was spoken of last night’s family conference.

At noontime Mycroft rose, took hat and walking stick, and strode from the shop. He disappeared into the pedestrian traffic on Old Romilly Street. He did not appear again until the family had gathered at the dinner table.

Mother had roasted a chicken and small potatoes, and there were hot and cold greens and of course dinner rolls and butter. She assumed her place at the head of the table; Father, at the foot; Sherlock and I, facing each other across the cloth and dishes. Father had just taken carving implements in hand and reached for the brown-crusted bird when Mycroft entered the room. He rubbed his hands together, smiled at each family member in turn, and took his place.

He spoke at length during the meal, but his sole topic was the excellence of Mother’s cooking and Father’s baking. “We are not the possessors of financial wealth,” he stated, “but we are a fortunate family to have a comfortable home, a successful business, one another’s company, and the finest cuisine, in my humble judgment, in all the realm.”

He may have exaggerated but none at the table chose to dispute him. Not even Sherlock.

Following our meal the family assembled in the parlor, at
which time Mycroft actually stood rather than sitting, and made his announcement.

“All is arranged,” he said. “I met this afternoon with certain persons, and it is done.”

“You have tickets for us?” Sherlock asked. His voice is less discordant and irritating than his playing upon the fiddle, but not much so.

“Tickets? No, Sherlock. You will not need tickets.”

“Oh, a riddle, is it, Mycroft?” Sherlock ground his teeth audibly.

“If you wish, stripling. Or if you would rather, I will simply explain matters in words comprehensible even to so mean an intellect as yours.”

“Please,” I put in. “Mycroft, do not lower yourself to the child’s level.” Even though, I thought, the scrawny beanpole is already the tallest member of our household. “Just tell us what you have done.”

“Very well.” Mycroft did lower himself now into his chair. Mother had served coffee and sweet pastries from the shop and Mycroft placed an apricot confection upon his tongue. He chewed and swallowed with evident pleasure. “As you may know,” he said, “the
Great Eastern
departs from London on the twenty-fourth of May. She crosses the Atlantic in eleven days, arriving in New York on the fourth of June. I believe that will provide ample time for you and Cousin Inga to work with Aunt Tanner upon the trousseau.”

“Yes, yes, Mycroft. But how can Sherlock,” I shuddered at the thought, “and I travel on the
Great Eastern
when we have no tickets and no money with which to buy them?”

“Dinner music and entertainment is provided aboard the
Great
Eastern
by the orchestra of Mr. Clement Ziegfried. You are an accomplished flautist, dear sister, while young Sherlock,” and Mycroft shuddered visibly, “does on occasion manage to scrape a recognizable melody from his instrument. I have arranged for you both to become members of Mr. Ziegfried’s orchestra. Passage and meals will be provided, and a modest stipend will be paid.”

There was a silence in the room, broken at last by Mycroft himself, “There is one minor consideration, however.”

Sherlock grinned.

I waited.

“A small cabin will be made available for your use, but you will have to share it. In the interest of propriety you will be expected to travel as brothers.”

I moaned.

Sherlock laughed.

“Why not as sisters, then?” I asked.

Mycroft grinned. He has a most adorable, winning grin, has my elder brother. “A splendid thought, Elisabeth. Most amusing.” He paused to sip at his coffee. “Alas, it is already arranged that the Holmes Brothers, Sherlock and Ellery, are to perform with the Ziegfried orchestra.”

Eleven days, I thought. The voyage would take eleven days. That would mean eleven days of passing for a male and eleven nights of sharing a stuffy ship’s cabin with the noisome Sherlock. I shuddered.

And so it was settled. I persuaded my good friend Clarissa Macdougald, who lives two houses from us and with whom I attended school for many years, to take my place in the shop. Her brother would substitute for Sherlock. Father approved the arrangement. I
take pride in my skill with needle and scissors, learned from Mother. The two of us altered male clothing to fit my needs and to conceal my gender.

Sherlock and I arose long before dawn on the twenty-fourth of May and made our way by rail from London to Southampton. Once in that southerly city it would have been impossible not to find our destination.

To me the
Great Eastern
was a great and famous ship, but to Sherlock, of course, she provided an occasion to deliver a learned lecture.

“The
Great Eastern
is undoubtedly the greatest nautical achievement since Noah’s ark.” Oh, that nasal voice! “Her designer, the genius Isambard Kingdom Brunel, perished at an early age, doubtless due at least in part to the stress of his enterprise. The ship’s bottom was ripped by a hitherto unknown underwater mountain on one of her early voyages, and only Mr. Brunel’s brilliant design of a double hull saved her from sinking. She was designed to carry as many as four thousand passengers but, alas, has never been a commercial success.”

Thank you, dear brother. I restrained myself from throttling the weedish know-it-all.

Even so, and despite my having seen many images of the nautical behemoth, my first sight of her took my breath.

Sherlock and I were clothed in similar garments. We wore tweed suiting, elasticized knee breeches and long stockings, plain cravats, caps on our heads, and brogans on our feet. I found the male garb uncomfortable and impractical. I yearned for a proper frock and flowered spring hat, even an outfit of blouse and jumper. But if this unpleasant costume was the price of my being
accepted as Ellery rather than Elisabeth, it was a price I was willing to pay.

While Sherlock was in fact my junior by some five years, whiskers were already beginning to make themselves visible upon his upper lip, while my own countenance, of course, was unblemished by such excrescences. Thus, it had been decided that Sherlock Holmes would pass as the older of the musical siblings while Ellery Holmes would be the younger. A further insult to me, I felt.

Sherlock and I each carried a gripsack containing toiletries and changes of costume, and a separate case containing our respective musical instruments. We had been warned that the ship’s orchestra were expected to appear in proper dinner costumes, and with Mother’s deft management and my own long hours of sewing, Sherlock and I had so furnished ourselves. We made, I am sure, a picturesque pair.

We were met at the head of the
Great Eastern
’s gangplank by a ship’s officer, who directed us to our quarters. There we met Mr. Clement Ziegfried, our maestro. He was a harried-looking person. He wore his dark hair quite long, as was, I believe, not uncommon among members of the musical fraternity, and a luxuriously drooping mustache that seemed too heavy for his small face and thin neck.

He smiled and shook Sherlock’s hand and my own. He said, “Holmes Major and Minor, yes, welcome. I see you have brought your instruments with you. Good! You are of course unfamiliar with my orchestra’s repertoire.” He paused and consulted a turnip that he pulled from a brocade waistcoat. “We have rehearsal in twenty-two and one-third minutes in the grand salon. Place your belongings in your cabin and present yourselves promptly, if you please!” He spoke with a peculiar accent, obviously Continental.

He turned on his heel and strode away.

He was a very strange little man.

Because the
Great Eastern
was so huge—longer than two football fields laid end to end—and had space for so many passengers, room was not at a premium. I had expected to have to live in cramped quarters with dozens of smelly males. Instead, Sherlock and I were housed in a comfortable cabin of our own. Each of us would of course have a bunk of her or his own. And having lived for twenty-two years as Mycroft’s younger sister and for seventeen as Sherlock’s older, I was not shy about enduring the mundane presence of a male.

We deposited our gripsacks in our cabin, found a crewman on deck, and were directed to the grand salon. This was a spacious chamber, clearly a souvenir of the
Great Eastern
’s glory days. The walls were decorated with friezes of classical scenes. Satyrs and caryatids stood in classical poses, supporting the high, domed ceiling of the salon. That ceiling was of stained glass, a magnificent design that would have done proud any architectural show-place in the land.