Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (6 page)

“Surely he means that as a jest,” I put in.

“I think not. Have you seen his conduct? He became so agitated that he knocked over a bottle of wine and ruined my poor darling’s frock.”

“He is serious, then?”

“Very.”

“Upon what does he base his claim?”

“He says that he is the legitimate heir of the Plantagenets. That each monarch since Henry the Seventh has been a usurper and a
fraud. That upon the death of Richard the Third the crown should rightfully have passed to Margaret Pole, Eighth Countess of Salisbury. That her beheading in 1541 was an unforgivable crime and that only the recognition of this fellow, this—what was his name again, darling?”

“John Gaunt Beaufort,” Bonnie Boatwright dutifully supplied.

“Yes, this Beaufort fellow claims that the crown is rightfully his and that once he is recognized as rightful monarch of Great Britain and her empire, he will take the name Richard the Fourth.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Kept muttering about houses. Do you think he’s a real estate developer?”

Bonnie Boatwright said, “No, dear.”

Bertram Boatwright ignored her. “Don’t know why a real estate developer would complain about kings, eh, Holmeses?”

I felt compelled at this point to give the poor overlooked Mrs. Boatwright her due respect. Calling upon the authority of my faux manhood I interrupted. “Mrs. Boatwright, what was your point regarding real estate?”

Her gratitude at even this small recognition of her worth was manifest. She said, “Beaufort’s reference to houses was directed at the dynasties of the British monarchy. At least, such was my education, even in Boston. He mutters about the Angevins, the Lancasters, and the Yorks. He is quite opposed to those who came later. To the Tudors, the Stuarts, and the Hanovers.”

Bertram Boatwright said, “Quite right, my dear, quite right.” Then he shook his head. “My manners, my manners,” he exclaimed, patting himself on the chest. From an inner pocket he drew an elaborate cigar case of yellow metal and green stone—I guessed, gold and jade—and opened it. “Will you have a smoke, Mr. Holmes? I
prefer the torpedo myself, but you may prefer a smaller and milder product. Perhaps this panatela.”

He extended the cigar case to Sherlock and to me. It contained a variety of smokes. We each extracted a cigar from it.

“The finest Havana,” Bertram Boatwright announced. He drew a packet of lucifers from another pocket and struck one to light.

Sherlock bit the tip from his panatela, bent toward the flaring lucifer that Mr. Boatwright held for him, and drew a flame into the cigar.

This, I thought, will be the supreme test of my masquerade. I imitated my brother and managed to get the cigar going. I had expected to collapse upon the deck in a coughing fit, but instead I found the flavor of the smoke not unpleasant.

We soon parted from the Boatwrights and returned to our cabin. Sherlock sat upon his bunk, making arcane computations in a notebook while I penned another missive to our parents in London.

I made it my business to arrive early that evening at the grand salon. Our voyage was drawing to a close. We expected to make land on the second day following, and a peculiar air had descended upon the ship. It was an amalgam of melancholy and excitement; the former, I suppose, deriving from the imminent dissolution of the little aquatic community that had formed on our ship; the latter, as women and men thought of the homes that awaited them or of the adventures they might experience in an exotic and undeveloped nation.

Mr. Beaufort made his entrance as usual. I thought that the night before he had drunk almost to the point of unconsciousness, and I rather expected him either to miss tonight’s meal altogether
or to arrive shaken and contrite. No such symptoms, however, were visible.

The Boatwrights of Boston and the other couples who shared their table arrived in turn. They exchanged greetings with one another and even ventured a polite nod to the self-styled monarch who favored them with his company.

Maestro’s selections of music for the evening were subdued for the most part, although the performance climaxed with a chamber arrangement of Peter Illich Tchaikovsky’s
Pathétique
symphony—not the lugubrious piece that its title implied, but in fact a rousing composition.

Mr. Beaufort—I still thought of him as “the man with the metal teeth”—managed to avoid any outbursts, and retired even before coffee and brandy had been served.

The next day was to be our last full day at sea. The
Great Eastern
had performed admirably and I was saddened to think that this would, in all likelihood, be her last oceanic crossing save one. That, of course, would be her return journey to England. I stayed up late composing another missive to my parents, then lay in my bunk, imagining the wedding to which I was journeying.

If I was in truth to serve as my cousin’s maiden of honor I would of course need a suitable costume. Knowing my Cousin Inga from a lifetime of correspondence, I was aware that she and I are of similar proportions. Inga would have served as a draper’s model in my stead, and a lovely gown would await me. Of this I was certain.

I passed from wakefulness into the land of sleep without being aware of the transition, and dreamed pleasantly of the experiences that lay ahead of me in the company of the wonderful cousin
whom I had known all my life through the medium of correspondence but whom I had yet to meet
in propria persona.

The morning of our planned arrival in New York dawned hot, with a brilliant sun, a lovely blue sky, and even a great white albatross circling above our ship, the traditional symbol of good luck to all nautical enterprises. I breakfasted in company of my brother and several other members of Maestro Ziegfried’s ensemble.

It was, perhaps, an indication of nervousness on my part that I was able to take only a cup of fragrant Indian tea and a half slice of toast lightly coated with orange marmalade for my meal. Need I describe the quantity of scrambled eggs, the slab of broiled ham, the potatoes and biscuits with warm honey that Sherlock consumed, accompanied by a series of cups of rich, steaming hot chocolate
mit Schlagsahne.

My traveling gear was small and so I was able to pack everything into my gripsack quickly enough. I spent the next hour strolling on Oxford Street. At one point I had the misfortune to cross paths with the terrible Mr. Beaufort. Clearly, he recognized me, certainly because of my appearance each night with the
Great Eastern
’s orchestra.

He tipped his hat and offered me one of his metallic smiles. In that moment I felt a chill as I feared that he had penetrated my disguise and recognized me as a member of the female sex. Should this be the case, a most unpleasant conversation might all too easily ensue.

But he merely bowed slightly as we passed, walking in opposite directions. “Mr. Holmes,” he hissed.

“Mr. Beaufort,” I returned.

I walked on as rapidly as I could, hoping that he would not turn and follow me. Fortunately, he did not.

The hours seemed to drag that day, and yet I was taken by surprise when I realized that night had fallen and it was time for me to repair to my cabin and don my evening outfit.

As is traditional, the last evening of the voyage was observed with a gala dinner. Captain Halpin and his officers were present, each wearing a splendid uniform. The captain’s lady and their three daughters were gowned in the most charming fashion. The passengers who filled the salon were similarly garbed in their finest.

The meal featured cold lobster, roasted squab, lamb chops with fresh mint sauce, baby peas, and carven potatoes. Champagne flowed freely. The repast ended with coffee and brandy and portions of trifle.

Toasts were offered to Her Majesty, to Mr. Disraeli, to the American president, Mr. Grant, and to Vice President Wilson. A special toast was offered, to the memory of the great Isambard Kingdom Brunel. A resolution of thanks to Captain Halpin and his officers and crew was proposed and adopted by acclamation by the passengers.

Maestro Ziegfried’s orchestra performed a series of numbers alternately stirring and amusing. Our American passengers were clearly pleased to hear the jaunty “Carve Dat Possum,” by Messers. Lucas and Hershey. A great cheer greeted the
Water Music
of George Frideric Handel. The maestro had chosen to end the program with a salute to the United States of America and to our own blessed isle. Alas, the Americans have no accepted national song. Many of them, I have been led to understand, enjoy singing a set of lyrics by the poet F. S. Key, set to the tune of “The Anacreontic
Song,” but those very words are deemed to be anti-British. Instead, there was an instrumental rendering of their so-called “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Mrs. Howe’s reminder of their own Civil War.

At last came the great moment, the orchestral rendering of our own glorious anthem. For this occasion the maestro elected to add his pianistic talents to those of the rest of the orchestra, whilst conducting, as the expression has it, “from the keyboard.” All present, further, were invited to give voice to the patriotic words.

Throughout the evening I had cast an occasional glance at Mr. John Gaunt Beaufort, the man of the gleaming teeth. He had drunk a great deal, this much was obvious, but to this moment had behaved himself in an acceptable manner.

All rose.

Maestro raised his hand in signal and the first notes rang out stirringly.

I could see Mr. Beaufort leave his party and stumble drunk-enly toward the front of the grand salon. He climbed clumsily onto the vacant conductor’s podium and began to wave his arms as if conducting the orchestra.

Four hundred voices rang out:

God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen.

Mr. Beaufort reached inside his evening jacket and drew an old-style, two-barreled pistol. He pointed it upward and fired.
There was a single loud report. Shards falling, colliding, tumbling, red, green, purple, yellow, glittering, reflecting flickering gaslight, crashing to
the parquet, all against the sounds of the orchestra playing, four hundred voices in anthem raised . . .

Half the orchestra ceased playing. Half the room ceased to sing. The other half, perhaps unaware of what had transpired, perhaps too stunned by the suddenness of Beaufort’s act, played or sang on:

Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us.

Beaufort lowered his pistol, pointed it before him. He shouted, “
Deo, regi, patriæ
! Bow before your rightful monarch, Richard the Fourth, Rex Anglorum!”

Mr. Albert Saxe, our cornetist, stood forward, his massive chest expanded like the breast of a pouter pigeon. He spread his arms, the salon’s lights glinting from his silver cornet. “Shoot,” he commanded, “if you must. I am your target. Aim well!”

But the delay had given Sherlock time to raise his fiddle and bow, and I, my flute. At his grotesque signal I breathed into the airhole of my instrument, and he drew his bow across the strings of his. The two sounds converged upon Mr. John Gaunt Beaufort. He screamed in pain and tossed his pistol into the air. As it crashed to the parquet he tumbled from the conductor’s dais and rolled on the floor, clutching his jaw in agony as smoke rose from his mouth.

In moments he had been seized by crewmen and hustled from the room to end the voyage in irons, as he well deserved.

An hour later I sat upon my bunk, trembling. I had decided to end my charade a day early and was garbed in comfortable female
costume. Sherlock had doffed his performer’s finery and donned his tweeds.

There was a knock upon the door. Sherlock rose and answered it. Standing in the doorway we beheld the rose-cheeked Mr. Jenkins, my fellow flautist. He nodded, smiling, and said, “Mr. Holmes, and”—he hesitated but for a moment—“may I presume, Miss Holmes. Would you be so kind as to accompany me.”

Mr. Jenkins offered no explanation, but there was something in his manner that persuaded my brother and myself to comply.

Without further speech we accompanied Mr. Jenkins to a suite guarded by two armed ship’s officers. At Mr. Jenkins’s knock the door was opened and we were ushered into the presence of two bearded, portly gentlemen. They were remarkably similar in appearance. One was Captain Robert Halpin, master of the
Great Eastern.
The other was Mr. Albert Saxe, the talented cornetist.

Mr. Jenkins addressed the latter personage. “Your Highness, may I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Holmes.”

“Elisabeth, please,” I corrected.

Sherlock and I were in the presence of none other than the prince of Wales, the heir apparent to Victoria’s throne. Sharing the suite were Mrs. Halpin and the three Misses Halpin, and a woman whom I recognized as a leading beauty of London stage.

The prince shook Sherlock’s hand heartily, then reached and embraced me in his great arms. I was bereft of words.

“How can I thank you both,” His Highness said. “My equerry, whom you know as Mr. Jenkins, was kind enough to tell me who you both are. Your courage and resourcefulness are quite amazing.”

Not one to hold his tongue at a moment like this, Sherlock asked, “Who was that drunken fool, Your Highness?”

The prince uttered half a laugh, then became more serious. “Apparently he is a Plantagenet pretender.”

“A criminal!” Sherlock expostulated.

“Perhaps,” said the prince. “Or more likely a madman. It is not for me to say. Everything will be sorted out in due course, I am certain.” He issued a sigh. “I wish I could reward you both suitably but at the moment I am traveling incognito and any ceremony would be unsuitable. But when we return to England, rest assured, you shall hear from me.”

Sherlock scrabbled in his tweed jacket for pencil and paper. “Here, Your Highness, I’ll give you the address.”

The prince waved his hand. “No need. No need, young man. I well know your older brother.”