Sherlock Holmes In America (21 page)

Holmes stood up.

“If we may call on you this evening, I shall have an answer to both questions. Meanwhile, if you'll excuse us, Watson and I have work to do. I suggest that you tell them to release Señor Alvarez. Unless it's against the law to walk through the streets of San Antonio with a violin.”

The hotel hired horses for us, and the cumbersome-looking saddles proved surprisingly comfortable. We rode past San Pedro Springs where we had attended our picnic, northward on a dirt track between broad and dry pastures grazed by cattle with horns wider than the handlebars of a bicycle. Holmes kept glancing from left to right and seemed to be sniffing the air like a hunting dog. Two miles or so along the track, he reined in his horse.

“Over there, in the trees.”

We followed a narrower track to the left, towards a clump of live oaks. It was a lonely spot, not a barn or homestead to be seen. When we came nearer, we saw that the leaves of one of the oaks were scorched brown, with a small pile of ash on the ground beneath them. Holmes dismounted and kneeled down by the ashes.

“Cold, but still light and dry. This fire was lit yesterday afternoon or evening.”

He picked up a stick and poked the ashes, then gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“Just as I thought. Do you recognize this?”

He was holding a piece of white Moroccan leather, singed at the edges.

“The case where Mrs. Legrange kept the violin,” I said. “So where's the violin itself?”

He gave the ashes another stir.

“Here, Watson.”

When we arrived at the Barratt house that evening, Holmes suggested to our host that we should first pay a visit to his son. Barratt took it as proper consideration for the invalid, but when we were shown into the parlor that was doing duty as a sick room, the look of alarm on the lad's face showed that he knew better.

“I'd be grateful if you'd leave us alone with Lee for a few minutes,” Holmes said.

Then the older man looked alarmed too, but he withdrew. Lee sat up against a bank of pillows, staring at us. His face was pale, with dark circles round the eyes. Holmes took a chair by the couch.

“Was it your idea or Mrs. Legrange's?” Holmes said.

The lad said nothing.

“No matter,” Holmes said. “I fancy the idea came from the lady. She stayed in the carriage and watched while you burned the violin. Then you returned home with her, as if you'd simply been on a visit, and carried out the next part of the plan. The harder part, I daresay. It must have taken some resolution on your part to kneel there and wait for the second blow.”

Lee couldn't help wincing from the memory of it. Holmes smiled.

“You told Mrs. Legrange that she must hit harder to make it look convincing, and the second time she managed it. A blow with a heavy brass poker is no laughing matter, even from a lady.”

“So she told you.” Lee blurted it out, a flush on his pale cheeks. Holmes did not contradict him.

“Does my father know?” Lee said.

“Not yet, but he must learn of it,” Holmes said. “It would come better from you than from me. Shall I send him in?”

Lee nodded, eyes downcast. We went out to the hall where Barratt was waiting anxiously, and Holmes said his son had something to tell him.

When the parlor door had closed on him, I turned to Holmes.

“How in the world did you know it was a poker?”

He smiled.

“You may have observed that I kissed the lady's hand. I could see from your face that you thought I'd fallen victim to her charms. In fact, I wanted to smell her glove. I'd already observed ash on one of Lee's boots. . . .”

“And then you smelled it on her glove. Admirable.”

“No, I confess I expected to smell it. I should have known better. She'd leave such work to her male accomplice. The smell I caught was of something quite different: metal polish. Now, a lady of her standing would hardly polish her own household utensils; therefore she'd recently handled some metal object. In view of the young man's injuries, a poker seemed a near certainty, confirmed by his reaction.”

“But why, Holmes?”

“Surely you can see. She knew I wasn't taken in for a minute by that romantic tale about the fiddle. Rather than have it lose the contest, she decided to destroy it—with the help of a besotted young man.”

After a while, the parlor door opened. Barratt came out, sternfaced and led us through to the drawing room.

“Gentlemen, I must apologise to you for my son's deception.”

“I believe it was Mrs. Legrange's deception,” Holmes said.

“Lee would not stoop to putting the blame on a lady.”

“Even a lady who deserved it?”

“I'm sure you cannot find it in your heart to blame her. She had believed in the authenticity of that violin.”

“Just as you believe in yours?”

Holmes glanced at the instrument enshrined over the mantelpiece.

“That's one good thing to come out of it at any rate,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Mr. Barratt's violin is now the only one in the field.”

Holmes and Barratt stared at each other. Barratt was the first to drop his gaze. Holmes settled himself in an armchair.

“Before we came here, Watson suggested that I should read the history of the Alamo.” His tone was conversational. “As he knows, I dislike burdening my mind with useless detail. Nonetheless, there was one aspect that interested me. The person out of step is always more interesting than the ones in step, don't you find?”

I could not see where this was leading, but Barratt evidently did.

“Rose?”

“Yes, Louis Rose. The coward of the Alamo. The man who supposedly brought your father Colonel Crockett's violin.”

“Supposedly? You doubt my father's word, sir?”

“I do not doubt that your father acquired that violin under circumstances exactly as you described. Equally, I don't doubt that he believed the vagabond at his back door to be Louis Rose. But he wasn't.”

I expected an outburst from Barratt but he said nothing.

“I've done a little reading about Rose,” Holmes went on. “One detail interested me. The man was illiterate. He couldn't read or write. You're an intelligent man. You must have done your own research. I think you knew that he couldn't have written that statement.”

Silence from Barratt.

“But why should any man impersonate a notorious coward?” I said.

“Because whoever the man was, he needed money and had a violin he could sell,” Holmes said. “He must have been sharp enough to realise that a hero's violin from the Alamo would be worth much more than any old fiddle.”

Holmes took his pipe from his pocket and asked Barratt's permission to smoke. It was given with an abstracted nod.

“I played a trick on Watson when we were walking home from your house the other night,” Holmes said. “I asked him which pocket I'd put my pipe in. He gave the matter his close attention, ignoring the obvious fact—that I hadn't brought my pipe at all.”

“Really, Holmes, I . . . ”

He ignored me, and went on speaking to Barratt.

“You take my point, I'm sure. The question you posed to me from the start was which one of two, hoping that little puzzle would distract me from other possibilities. As it happened, it was of small importance to you which I chose. The thing that mattered above all was that the violin which eventually went on display at the Alamo should be certified as genuine by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Who would question that? I believe you expected me to pick up that point about Rose and to be so pleased with myself that I would give the verdict in favour of Mrs. Legrange's instrument. Unfortunately, you neglected to inform Mrs. Legrange of your plan. Rather than have her violin slighted, she destroyed it—proving in the process that she'd never in her heart believed the family legend about it, or she couldn't have brought herself to do it.”

“So neither of you believed in your violins?” I said to Barratt in astonishment. He raised his eyes and gave me a long look.

“There are things you believe with your head and things you believe with your heart. My heart said that violin should have survived.”

Holmes puffed at his pipe.

“You remember Señor Alvarez wished to see me?” he said.

Barratt nodded, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Holmes slid a rough-looking piece of paper from his pocket.

“Do you read Spanish, Mr. Barratt?”

Barratt shook his head.

“It seemed more likely to me that if Crockett's violin had survived at all, it would be in Mexican hands,” Holmes said. “You know the saying—‘to the victor, the spoils of war.'”

Barratt snapped out of his abstraction and stared at Holmes.

“You mean, the man Alvarez and his violin? Has he proof?”

Holmes said nothing, only smoothed out the piece of paper. I could see the struggle in Barratt's face.

“Crockett's violin, in a Mexican's possession?”

Still Holmes said nothing. Barratt paced the room, backwards and forwards.

“I put it in your hands,” he said at last. “If you think the man's claim is authentic, then negotiate for us. I authorise you to go up to five hundred dollars if necessary.”

“Thank you.”

Holmes rose and thumbed out his pipe.

“You'll go tonight?” Barratt said.

“Certainly, if you wish. Come, Watson.”

From my earlier wanderings, I knew my way to the stockyards area. The house of Señor Alvarez was a white painted cube of a dwelling, sandwiched between an ironmonger's shop and a baker's shop with a galaxy of brightly sugared pastries in its lamp-lit window. The house door was wide open, cheerful voices speaking Spanish coming from inside. When Holmes called, Juan Alvarez came out to meet us, like a prince welcoming an equal. We were led to seats by an open fireplace where something savoury was cooking in a pot, and introduced to his wife, children, and grandmother. After some minutes of this, Holmes brought us to business.

“You wished to talk to me about your violin.”

“Yes, señor.”

The violin, still wrapped in the tablecloth, was lying on a shelf. Alvarez took it down and placed it in Holmes's hands.

“Colonel Crockett's violin, rescued from destruction by my father's father, an officer in the Mexican army. He found it by Colonel Crockett's body and kept it in memory of a brave enemy. No man has played it since Colonel Crockett himself. I offer you that honour now, señor.”

Holmes took the violin, nodded, and rose to his feet. A bow was produced. Holmes tightened the bow, tuned the instrument to his satisfaction, then began to play. The tune he chose was a simple melody that I had heard one of the cowboys singing, called “The Streets of Laredo.” The sight of his absorbed face in the firelight, the rapt expressions of Señor Alvarez and his family, and the thought of all that this rustic fiddle stood for brought a tear to my eye. When he'd finished there was a little silence. He bowed and handed the instrument back to Alvarez.

“Mr. Barratt is offering you five hundred dollars for the violin,” he said.

“To put in their museum?”

“Yes.”

Alvarez stood for a while, deep in thought.

“It was our victory, not theirs,” he said at last. “It was our country, not theirs.”

Then he threw down the violin to the stone-flagged floor and stamped on it time and time again, like a man performing a Spanish dance, until he'd smashed it to smithereens.

“It is the greatest of pities,” I said, still shaken
,
as we walked towards the hotel through the warm night. “To find Crockett's violin and then have it end like this.”

Holmes laughed.

“My dear Watson, why should you think that fiddle was any more genuine than the other two? I'm sure Crockett was more likely to have died with his rifle beside him than his violin. No, Alvarez's family tale was as much a fiction as the others, though I think the man himself believed it.”

“But the statement, Holmes, the paper in Spanish that you showed Barratt. Whatever it said seemed to be enough to convince you.”

He laughed.

“Did I say so? I simply showed Barratt a paper, and he chose to draw his own conclusion. I admit I took a small gamble. If he had happened to read Spanish, I should have had to do some quick thinking.”

“Holmes, what is this? What was on the paper?”

“You remember that first night, when we walked in the Mexican market, I found one of the local delicacies suited my taste. This morning, I descended to the kitchens of our hotel and was lucky enough to find a Mexican cook. She spoke few words of English but was obliging enough to understand what I wanted and write down the recipe.
Tamales
, I believe they're called.”