Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (17 page)

By the time I had packed and found a local doctor who was willing to see to my patients in my absence, I realised I had but twenty minutes to return to Baker Street. I took my wife by one hand and my case in the other, and asked her to come with me to Baker Street and see us off from there.

***

Mary and I found Holmes standing by the window, smoking a pipe while he waited for me in the study. “Ah, Mrs Watson,” said Holmes, turning towards us as we walked inside.

“Hello, Mr Holmes. I see you are taking my husband away from me yet again,” Mary said with a smile.

“I did send him to get your permission. I would not dare take him away without it,” said Holmes.

“All I ask is that you both be careful. America is such a rugged land, and lacks the civility that we have obtained here in Britain.”

“Fear not, my dear,” said I, “Holmes and I will be safe and back soon enough,”

“I swear to keep your husband safe, Mrs Watson, and perhaps bring him back a few pounds lighter. Your cooking has certainly wreaked its havoc.”

“I take it you've made arrangements for any clients that come to you while we're away?” said I, diverting Holmes and Mary's conversation from my stomach.

“I have. There is an Investigator by the name Hewitt near the Strand. He will stand in for me in my absence.”

“Very well,” said I, “I think we should be off if we want to arrive in Southampton in time to board
The Eagle
.”

“Correct, Watson.”

Mary and I descended the stairs, and Holmes followed behind with his luggage. We loaded our cases into a cab, and I embraced Mary before taking my seat next to Holmes inside.

“My dear Mrs Watson,” said Holmes, leaning over me and poking his head through the open door of the cab. “Do keep an eye on Mrs Hudson while we are away. She worries far too much, and your company would be most welcome.”

“I will,” Mary replied. She blew me a kiss, and with the crack of the driver's whip, we were on our way.

***

The journey from London to Southampton was not thrilling in any sense; rushed for time, but nothing more. Holmes was captured in thought and spoke little. He held the letter from Irene Adler, and skimmed over it repeatedly.

“She wrote this the day Godfrey died. Her handwriting is rushed. I suspect that the local authorities brushed off her case rather quickly,” said Holmes towards the end of our train journey.

“Is there any chance Mrs Adler has let her emotions get the better of her?” I asked.

“I trust you have not forgotten our first encounter with her, Watson. She is quick, and not one to be played as the fool,” said Holmes. “A woman like her would not ask our aid if it was not needed.”

“Do you suspect the police?” I asked. “If they brushed it off so quickly, are they hiding something?”

“I haven't the facts to back the theory, but that is not an outlandish assumption. Ah, we are pulling in to the station. Let us hurry.”

Holmes and I quickly made our way to the docklands where we found
The Eagle
waiting. It was a large and remarkable piece of steamboat engineering. Holmes acquired our tickets while I stood with our luggage. Looking at the ship, I judged that the length of this vessel was close to six hundred feet. There were two massive cylinders which expelled a cloud of steam as it prepared to leave the dock. Crowds of people were rushing by with their luggage and racing up onto the deck. I looked at my watch and saw the time was a quarter to six. If Holmes did not hurry, we would miss the boat. My worries were quickly settled when I saw Holmes push through the hordes of people with two tickets in his hand.

We made our way onto the deck, through a door, and down some stairs. We descended a couple of levels and squeezed through narrow corridors before we reached our shared room. There were two single beds, a table with two small chairs, a dresser, and a shower room. “Come, Watson,” said Holmes, “let us leave our luggage and watch the ship depart from the dock.”

With not a moment to lose, Holmes and I made our way atop. It seemed that all the passengers had the same idea we did. We pressed through and stood against the railing, and looked down below as the flocks on the dock waved at us. The ship let out a great blast, and with a jerk and a tug, the great vessel pulled away.

Holmes and I stood there for some time, watching our island grow further and further away before he said: “Thank you for coming with me, dear Watson.”

Arrival In New York City

The journey across the Atlantic was filled with peaceful relaxation. At times, during this venture, I forgot my true reason for even being on the ship. The sea air, the bright blue sky, the star filled nights, it was all most refreshing to the mind and body.

Irene Adler's case was far from my thoughts. Holmes, however, spent a great deal of time locked away in the room. He would often come out in the morning for a bit of fresh air before going into the dining hall, which was eloquent with its large glass ceiling, crystal chandeliers, bright gold trimmings, wonderfully crafted pillars with intricate patterns, firm oak tables with shining silver cutlery, and crystal glasses.

I found myself wandering the deck and leaning over the rails watching the water splash as this mighty vessel ploughed onwards. On a few occasions, I witnessed dolphins leaping out and racing along with the ship, the creatures letting out cheerful chirps as they exploded out of the water.

I rose early on the day we arrived in New York City. The sun itself had but only begun to rise and sparkle off the glass-like water as I came out upon the deck. I could see land in the distance.

“Marvellous, is it not?” said Holmes as he walked towards me.

“It is,” I returned.

We stood there together as
The Eagle
made its way from the open sea into the bay. With astonishment, we gazed upon the great copper Statue of Liberty, now starting to turn a teal-green from weathering, erected high with its torch raised into the heavens. We approached the Island of Manhattan, which was cluttered with immense towering buildings, much taller than any one would see in London.

“There is certainly a desire for grandiose designs, wouldn't you say, Watson?” Holmes chuckled.

“How right you are.”

“Let us retrieve our luggage and be ready to vacate the ship as soon as possible. We will need to get a train as close as we can to the address Miss Adler gave us.”

I accompanied Holmes to our room, and we gathered our belongings before returning to the deck. When
The Eagle
docked, we were one of the first to alight. With a few directions, Holmes and I wandered into the jungle of Manhattan. Holmes often referred to London as a jungle, a reference I wholeheartedly understood, but if London was a jungle, New York was the wild Amazon. Though the atmosphere was not entirely foreign to us, the locals were an unusual breed. The chatter of men and women with harsh, bitter accents made some of the strongest cockney or Irish accents seem almost poetic.

Holmes did not have any trouble blending in. He approached a young man who was sitting atop a barrel eating a banana, and asked, in a perfect American accent, mind you, where we could find a cab. Holmes thanked the man and shook his hand, then signalled for me to follow by a slight tilt of his head. We passed between two brown brick buildings, and found ourselves on a busy street. Holmes whistled, and hailed a cab to stop.

“Where'm I takin' ya?” asked the driver.

“To the nearest railway station by which we can travel to Westchester,” Holmes replied.

“Boy, them are a lot of words just to be going to the train station,” remarked the driver. “Where's that accent from? You an England man?”

“Yes, we're
English
,” I replied rather sternly.

“Well, boys, I hope you got the grit to last here in these United States of America! God's Land, it be,” he replied with a devilish grin, and let out a howling laugh. “Well, whatcha waitin' for? Get in!”

“As you wish,” Holmes said. He looked at me with a humorous glance as we stepped inside the cab and pressed on with the next leg of our venture.

After a shaky journey through the streets of Manhattan, Holmes and I found ourselves at a train station where we bought return tickets taking us to Salem where Irene Adler had told us to find her. We boarded the carriage, and from Manhattan to Salem Holmes took the time to read the letter aloud to me and I postulated, further, the cause of Mr Norton's death.

“What of the Bohemian king?” I remarked. “Might he have gone to extreme measures to retrieve, or force the hand of Irene Adler, so to get the scandalous photograph back?”

“Ha! Watson, my man, you really are quite remarkable and imaginative,” said Holmes. “The Bohemian King has long since forgotten that once royal scandal. Preoccupied with his country and his own children and wife.”

“Well, Ms Adler was prone to scandal. Perhaps her affections swooned a local boy...” we continued for some time in discussion as the green landscape that was not unlike our very own English countryside dashed passed us.

When we arrived in Salem, we found that the station was a wobbly wooden platform, void of shelter or benches. Surrounding us was a deep green wood that I assumed, at one point, would have been home to many natives. Holmes and I walked up a long dirt road, kicking up dust with every step. As we carried on, my thoughts turned towards my wife and her wellbeing. She was strong; I had no reason for concern, but this was the first time that the two of us had been separated by such a great distance.

“Here we are,” said Holmes, cutting off my train of thought.

We stood before a tall iron gate with pillars of bricks to each side, connecting a stone fence that surrounded the home. I pushed the gate, it was locked. Holmes withdrew his burglar kit and in a matter of moments opened the lock and the iron doors swung open with a loud creak. We followed a pebbled path up to the front door of the large two-story colonial home which was painted as dazzling white. I went to knock on the door, but Holmes abruptly stopped me, grabbing my arm.

“Holmes?”

“Something is wrong,” he said in a quiet voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Here,” he replied, and pointed to the door handle and the crevice where the lock would have bolted into the frame. “These markings. You see them, Watson?” Holmes pointed out very small indentations in the wooden frame.

“Yes, I see them.”

“Someone has already been here and pried the lock. See here, flakes of paint by your shoes. This is recent.”

I set my luggage down and quickly opened it up, pulling my service revolver out.

“We need to make sure Miss Adler is safe!”

Holmes nodded, and with a slight push of the door, it opened, creaking at the hinges. We slowly crept inside. Directly within was a staircase. To our left was a passage, which led into a conjoining lounge and dining hall. The air inside was stagnant and stale. I could hear Holmes repeatedly sniffing the distasteful odour that permeated the air.

“What do you suppose that smell is?” I asked.

“Not entirely sure,” whispered Holmes, “but I wager it is a type of tobacco.”

“A type of tobacco you can't recognise?” said I.

“Come now, Watson,” said Holmes as we continued to search the rooms.

The house had been ransacked, as if someone had been hurriedly looking for something. We walked quietly up the stairs, doing our best to not creak the wooden steps. It did not take much time to poke inside each room and realise we were alone and void of immediate danger.

I found Holmes shuffling through some clothes inside a bedroom that I believed to be Irene Adler and Godfrey Norton's. On the wall, decorated in frames, were posters of various plays and operas which she had performed in since our encounter with her in ‘88.

“What do you think, Holmes, was she taken by whoever dismantled the house?”

My friend did not respond at once but walked about the room quietly. I stepped into the room and pulled the door to see what was behind it.

“Aha!” exclaimed Holmes.

“What is it?” I asked, turning towards him.

“Watson, look around. Tell me what you see!”

“I see a bed, which has been torn apart and cut at by a sharp object. I see a closet, which has been expelled of everything inside. I see a vanity with drawers hanging out, and cosmetics and powders over the floor and,” I paused to look behind me, “a dresser that has also been rifled through.”

“Tell me more about the dresser, Watson.”

“Is this the time for games?” I asked.

“Irene Adler is safe, fret not. We have time.”

“Safe, how can you possibly know that?”

“The dresser,” Holmes said.

I looked at it thoroughly for any clues, any signs that she might have left, but saw nothing but clothes and garments hanging out of the drawers.

“I see nothing,” I admitted.

“On the contrary, you see everything I see, but you fail to pick up on one thing. In a house where everything is tousled, what stands out? Do not strain yourself, Watson, I'll tell you. A vase of flowers filled with fresh water that has not been knocked over.” I then saw what Holmes had seen. Upon the dresser on the corner nearest the door, was a glass vase of flowers. The water inside was indeed clear, and the flowers, too, were fresh.

“You think this is a message from Adler?”

“No, the message is underneath. From where you stand, the white card hidden under the vase is blocked by the stems, but from where I stand, I can see its reflection where the glass bends.”

I picked up the vase, and sure enough, there was a small card under it. Handwritten upon the card was this message:

227 Lenox Ave, Harlem. Third Floor.

“Let us be off, Watson!” said Holmes, taking the card and tucking it into his pocket; and we, as rapidly as we could, made our way back to Manhattan where we hoped to find Irene Adler.