Elementary, My Dear Twain

Editor's note: Despite his worldwide fame, at the age of 58, Mark Twain was in serious financial trouble. He was obliged to close his publishing house the month before. His investments in the Paige Compositor were faring poorly, and the scheme to market the invention would finally collapse by the end of the year. The family moved abroad to live more inexpensively. He followed them on May 7, 1894, when Twain set sail from New York to Paris, stopping in Southampton on the 14th. It is at this point that the story begins.

In the late spring of 1894, Mark Twain and I were getting along about as well as two cats in a burlap bag. I was bankrupt and we were not on speaking terms. Henry Rogers, my good friend and the financial wizard behind Standard Oil, had convinced me to close my publishing concern, Webster & Co., and I was obliged to assume responsibility for its debts. I was a pauper, same as my father was fifty years before, and confirmed the old saw to those who knew the family back in Hannibal that "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." People who knew me as Mark Twain expected tall tales and japes, and what they got instead was Sam Clemens, who was in no mood for such jollity.

I had to close the house in Connecticut that I had designed and lived in for nearly 20 years, and to live more cheaply, my family was sent to Paris, and when my business with the publishing house was concluded, I followed them on the _______. The trip took a week, and I spent it in my state room, smoking cigars and immersed in my misery.

The ship stopped in England where Weatherwax shanghaied me. He was a florid bruiser I was acquainted with back in Hartford. He had read in the papers about my bankruptcy and my travel plans, and he wired me to expect him. He had a problem that needed my help.

Warned by Weatherwax's telegram, I laid low in my cabin and intended to plead ignorance of his cable, but he bribed his way on board and barged in, acting like the wretched course of my life had been taken solely for the purpose of coming to his aid. I was overcome. The fight was not in me. My bags had been packed in anticipation of leaving at Le Havre six hours later, so he ordered them bags unloaded and bundled into his carriage.

Weatherwax had spent time in the West, but, unlike me, had struck it rich in California. A decade amid Eastern society had refined him some; he bit the cigar end off and opened the window before spitting out the stub. He set fire to the remainder and said,—

"Chloe's been in a bad way since you left New York, Twain."

I winced at the mention of that cursed name. He said,—

"She's taken to her bed a week ago."

"My sympathies." I had known Chloe since she was a playmate to my daughters and thought she had the most sense in the family.

He explained that he was in England to get his only daughter knotted in matrimony to a fellow named Winthrop, a genuine copper-bottomed gold-plated English lord, only she wasn't having any of it. They were staying at Chalkhills, his lordship's estate on the coast, while the lawyers were hammering out the contract, and he hoped that I could stop by and talk some sense into her.

"I was afeared his Lordship would call it off, but he said he'd like nothing better but to carry on."

I eyed him critically. Was he a humbug or a hypocrite? I had met many aristocrats on my previous visits to the mother country, and if Winthrop was like them, he had the morals of an idiot and was chronically short of money. Even if it meant marrying a near-corpse, Winthrop wasn't about to let pass this golden opportunity. Weatherwax poured smoke like a steamship behind schedule and said,—

"You know what happens when a girl gets a notion into her head. Takes dynamite to blast it out. She's taken a dislike to his Lordship."

He prattled on in this fashion, and I regretted my decision joining this fool's crusade. The carriage filled with smoke, and I had the notion of using it to screen my exit from the vehicle, but I decided against it. I wasn't as athletic as in my youth, and leaping from a speeding carriage no longer held any charm. Weatherwax let loose another chimney full of smoke and said,—

"I told my Chloe that it was her duty as a daughter to obey. His Lordship's as good as the next man, right Twain?"

"Assuming the next man was the Marquis de Sade," I wanted to say, but the pressure in me was building like an overheated boiler. My concerns weighed heavily on my conscience, and it had been too long a voyage. Weatherwax fired another cannonade and said,—

"Don't know what to do. She's a girl, you know. We talk to her and talk to her, while Lord Winthrop pays his calls on her. The lawyers are still tussling over the contract — and won't it make your eyes start to read the details in the Herald. Sureties alone would make a Vanderbilt pause. It'll cost a mint; titled aristos are short on the market. Wouldn't believe what a mere baron would ask for; without a castle. Viscounts are holding firm and asking for the moon — and getting it! Why —"

That's when I shot myself. Unfortunately, I missed, and instead, said,—

"Yes, yes, but what about Chloe? What's the matter with her?"

"Don't know. Doc won't say. Consumption, cholera, the yim-yams." He grew silent and worked his jaw some while looking at the passing coastline. I knew he was working up a head of steam to say something, and finally, he said,—

"This is strictly between us, Twain. We didn't meet out West, but I feel I can tell you things I can't tell a man like Beecher or Howell back in Hartford. They're too refined for such sordid matters."

"And I'm a crude hayseed."

"Please! Please, Mark. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. But you know what I mean. I can tell you things."

He paused, then delivered his line like an actor on the Bowery stage,—

"Mark, I'm being blackmailed."

I gasped. I felt it was expected, but I sucked a large cloud of smoke that tickled my lungs, and spoiled the effect by hacking into my handkerchief. Weatherwax pounded my back until the spasm passed and said,—

"A week back, Lord Winthrop's house was burgled. I thought they hadn't touched us, but a few days later, I got this note." He pulled a crisp half-sheet out of his pocket.

It read,—

"We found these pretty notes on our last visit. His Lordship gets the jake unless you place £100 on the sundial at the Grecian folly at sundown. Tell no-one.

"The Whyos"

"They had taken Chloe's jewelry box. There were some letters she had written to a boy in Hartford. The affair ended three years ago and they returned each others presents and notes. But instead of burning the letters, she kept them! They sent a page from it with this demand."

"But it's no crime to fall in love," I said.

It was hard to tell in the haze, but I swear Weatherwax blushed. He said,—

"The . . . sentiments . . . were, well, I don't have to spell it out to you, do I, Twain? Even if his Lordship didn't mind, if the New York papers got ahold of these, it would cause an uproar! You remember the Martin wedding, don't you? They were forced to leave the country, with the papers hissing their spite at them."
"Did you pay?"

"Of course I paid! Cleaned me out of my ready money. I had to send to Coutt's for more. I received the rest of the letter in next day's post."

"So your troubles are over."

Weatherwax's face grew red and he said,—

"But that's just one letter! They've got the rest. This gang will either bleed me dry or expose my daughter. I'm trapped, Twain, no two ways about it."

I cheered up considerably at the prospect of extortion. I wasn't looking forward to playing Dutch uncle with the girl, but not even a broken-down pauper lecturer like Mark Twain was expected to play policeman. I said,—

"Weatherwax, I have this friend who might help . . . "

* * * * *

I laid the case before Sherlock Holmes at breakfast. We both looked like cats dragged from the coal-bin, but he was neatly dressed in his robe and slippers, while I had spent the night sleeping in my clothes.

When Weatherwax heard of my connection with the detective, he ordered the carriage turned around and put me onto an express to London. I wired my family from the station that I was delayed while he bought the ticket. It rankled me, but I swallowed the lie that he was obliged to do this because of the favor that I was doing him, not that I had no more on me than my name, a moth-destroyed purse and a stack of debts.

It was night by the time I reached that great metropolis, and the hansom cab bearing my remains to Baker Street rang on the cobblestones with that cadence familiar to all of London's visitors. The woman let me in at 221B and the moment I stood at the base of the staircase, I knew he was at home. The stench made my eyes water. My nose refused its duty. I climbed into the sulphurous haze and, at my knock, was ordered to open the door.

Holmes was deep into one of his chemical experiments. He brusquely begged me to park my corpse in the spare bed until he was finished. His rudeness when his mind was otherwise engaged was well-known to all his friends, so I took no offense. I was exhausted from my long day's journey and quickly fell asleep amid the stink of bubbling gases and the clink of test-tubes.

I dreamed of Hell.

Holmes' mood improved dramatically with the coming day, and he greeted me with the warmth born from our long association and called downstairs for breakfast.

I like and admire the English, but my affection does not extend to their cooking. It was designed by a remorseful Puritan hoping to achieve a state of grace by scouring the innards. And an English breakfast cooked by a Scot landlady must be intended as a form of revenge for the occupation of her native heath.

We ate the kippered herrings and the grilled mess of tomatoes and bread and drank the strong coffee. I laid the case before Holmes and tried to make the mystery of the case as enticing as my powers of speech could make it, but I needn't have worried. He said,—

"I have business that needs attending to in that part of the country. Are you familiar with the Whyos?"

His question startled me. Holmes has that nasty habit of asking questions to which only he knows the answer. But he couldn't dog me with this one.

"They're a gang of New York ruffians, found in the Five Points area."

Holmes nodded. He got up and searched among the line of scrapbooks along the wall until he pulled out one newspaper-sized volume. "One of the biggest," he said, opening the covers. I glanced over his shoulder and marveled at the array of stories culled from the city's newspapers. He said,—

"This concern has been in operation since your Civil War, and their have covered the range of criminal activities. One of them even went so far as to carry a menu of their services."

He pointed to a crudely-handwritten half-sheet on which could be read offerings such as "Punching $2," "Ear chawed off $15," "Shot in leg $25" and "Doing the big job $100 and up."

"They're nearly finished as a major criminal force in the city, but it appears a few of their associates are attempting to rebuild their fortunes by exporting their expertise to our country. I suspect they may have a hand in the job I was hired for. We'll go down today. You might be able to lend a hand if you wish, Clemens, if you have a mind to come along."

"Of course. Weatherwax still has my trunks. But where's Watson? Is he coming?"

He shook his head and the regret in his voice was apparent. "After my affair at Reichenbach, he returned to his practice and is there yet, dealing with consumption and dropsy and the membranous croup. Yet, if I know my man, he'll sell his practice soon and rejoin me at Baker Street."

We left Baker Street and boarded the train at Victoria accompanied only with a stack of newspapers. I never saw a man who had such an appetite for news. London was a great town for newspapers, too, with at least a dozen of them in all flavors. Our journey was quiet as we smoked and read, but presently he shoved the stack aside and we talked. He wanted to hear the news of the great financial panic of last year, when a number of railroads collapsed. Credit became as hard to find as a banker's smile, and no less than sixteen thousand businesses went under, one of them being mine. Holmes was a good listener, and when I had finished describing the panic on Wall Street, crowded with investors watching their fortunes disappear with each swipe of the chalkboard, he refilled his pipe and said,—

"A number of my countrymen had invested heavily in those railroads, and suffered severe reverses as a result. Unfortunately, I expect we'll see more of these shocks. It was a shot across our bow when in events in Argentina can cause a bank like Barings to fail. But let us turn our minds to more profitable uses. Your news about events at Chalkhills was most welcome. Several country homes in that area that have been robbed. The gang strikes when the home is empty or held by a few retainers. The valuables small and large are carried away, from the plate and paintings to furniture and statuary. This could be our best opportunity to get a line on this gang."

"How do the Whyos tie into this?"

"That remains to be seen. The Empire has enough experienced thieves for there to be no need to import more."

"And what about the extortion?"

Holmes smiled as toward a child asking where the sun goes at night. He said,—

"I won't fail you on that count. Surely a solution has already presented itself to you."

A caustic reply came to my mind about Holmes' indulgence in a stagy jim-crack, but I bit it back. I can't stand reading this supercilious claptrap, but Holmes is a genius at what he does, and genius must be served. I'm sure people thought the same about me.

Instead of a hired wagon we met last time, a cart was waiting for us at the station, and a young man in the rough clothes of the drover's trade transferred our bags and with a courtly "Arfter yew, gents," bade us to climb aboard. Holmes said,—

"You must be Rannulf, Lord Winthrop's son."

"Right as rain, sirrah. How d'yer guess?"

"The hands can tell much when one knows where to look. They are rough from use, but well-cared for. The nails are trimmed and squared, not thick and chipped. Your skin is fair, telling me that either you are not out in the sun much, or you take care to wear that wide-brimmed hat when you are. You also bear the classic Winthrop profile."

Rannulf chuckled and urged on the horses and said,—

"That's as good a trick as any I seen on the stage and you pegged me sound. Helping out on the estate helps us keep an eye on the workers."

"What do you raise?" Holmes said.

"Mostly barley and potatoes. Quite a lot for this area; we've had to set up a shipping concern to export the lot to France and other lands. I oversee that end."

I said,—

"The workers must appreciate the attention that you pay to their welfare."

"Oh they hate it. They took great offense when I took to joining them in the fields. Complained to the pater, they did, when they caught him between routs, rides and revels. Now, I don't help ‘em as much with the real work and they chalk it up as ‘the young master's queer touches.'" Here's the turn into Chalkhills. Mind your hats, the ride's going to be a little rough."

That's when the first ruts hit the axles amidships. We jostled about, our teeth banging and clashing, until a branch road turning toward some barn-like buildings took the ruts with them. Rannulf apologized; the rains recently turned the road into muck and repairs had not commenced. Emulating the great detective methods, I concluded that whatever the source of his Lordship's fortune, it did not lay with concrete or paving stones.

Weatherwax had been anxious for our arrival, and he popped out of the mansion's front door at our approach. His Lordship was out for the moment, and he was much relieved when Holmes asked him to convey us to the invalid's room at once. Weatherwax led us through a maze of corridors and great halls until we reached the bedroom wing. Before the final door, he stopped and said,—

"I'd better go in ahead of you — that harridan might be guarding the portals."

The shades were drawn and the gas lamp by the bed was the merest flicker. Chloe lay under the sheets, her eyes were closed, her cheeks were hollow and her eyes rimmed in red, her hair spread like damp seaweed across her pillow, like Ophelia pulled from the brook and only half dried-off. What a pitiable sight! A small band of gold set with a single pearl on her left hand was the lone spot of cheerful color over the dismal scene.

Holmes crept to her bedside and gazed at her in that peculiar fashion that always gave me chills. A serpent could not have been more still eyeing his prey. He said,—

"Part the curtain, Clemens, if you would."

I did, but only for a moment. A sliver of light crossed Chloe's face and she flinched and cried, "No, no, leave the oysters be, for the love of God!"

Her outburst startled me so I slapped the heavy drapes closed. The door opened behind us and a young woman, slender as a reed and quick as a whippet, strode in and hissed,—

"What is all this? Who are you?"

Weatherwax spoke harshly and said,—

"This is Mr. Holmes and Mr. Twain. I asked them—"

"Oh, for shame, Mr. Weatherwax! Don't you recall the doctor's instructions? No visitors and no disturbances. It could be fatal!" Chloe chimed in with a terrible moan and her babble pursued us as we fled the room as.

Rannulf, his face marred by fear and concern, met us in the hall. Holmes told him briefly what had happened, and the young man scowled at us. He would have stayed to upbraid us for our conduct, but his desire to see to Chloe's comfort won the struggle and he went into the sick-room. When we last left them, the woman dabbed at Chloe's forehead with a damp cloth and he caressed her hand and murmured soothing words.

Weatherwax closed the door and Holmes gently led me away. I was horrified. Chloe looked far worse than I expected, and a dread rose in me that her time was near. It brought vividly to memory the suffering and death of my son, Langdon, dead these many years.

Weatherwax fumbled with his watch and turned to view its face by the light of the window. He stood there quietly for a moment with only the ticking of the hall clock for conversation.

Then he wiped his brow with a spotted red handkerchief and said,—

"Hotter than Hades in there. Come on, let's go see his Lordship."

I linked his arm with mine and said,—

"She'll recover. She's young and vital."

Holmes — as unaffected with emotion as usual — asked,—

"Who was that young woman?"

"Her? That's Lord Winthrop's sister, Judith. She's been looking after Chloe when Dr. Conover's not here."

"Is he the local man, then?"

That roused Weatherwax. He said,—

"I should say not! He's one of the most eminent physicians in London. From Harley Street itself, with fees to match! Take a look at his latest bill."

Holmes glanced at the paper and I caught the amusement in his eye. He handed it back and said,—

"Then she must be in very good hands. Now, I think it's time to beard the lion in his den."

His lordship was seated before the library fire, fresh from an afternoon outdoors. A butler was engaged in removing a boot, which had not been scraped. He assisted by pressing his spare boot against the man's backside. We discussed our purpose in being there and he agreed to put us up for the night. He said,—

"I don't have to tell you gentlemen how anxious I am to have this wedding come off. I'm sure Mr. Weatherwax will richly reward you for your trouble."

Holmes said,—

"Your concern for your future wife is admirable, Lord Winthrop. Between the negotiations and the recent burglary, the strain must be burdensome. May I ask if any progress had been made in locating the gang?"

He shook his head and said,—

"Noakes is a good constable, but all he's really good for is chivvying the local drunks and investigating the burning of hayricks."

We were interrupted by a servant bearing a coil of paper on a silver tray. Winthrop passed the strip through his fingers and I recognized it as a stock-ticker tape with the latest prices. He frowned, then he fixed me with his eye and said,—

"Mr. Clemens, you're from New York."

I admitted some familiarity with the metropolis.

"A fascinating city. I have not been there myself, but both Rannulf and Judith have visited friends there. You know Mr. Jay Gould. His railroad stock is profitable to buy, I believe."

I cannot fathom why a foreigner would assume that a resident — or in my case, a visitor only — to a city of over a million souls would be on easy familiarity with them all. I said,—

"Men like Gould, Vanderbilt and Morgan don't enter business to lose money, but I can't say that's true for anyone who joins them."

He frowned again at this, then rose and excused himself to finish cleaning up. Judith came in, and his Lordship suggested that she show us about the place.

British mansions tend to be built on the notion that giants may someday decide to take up residence. We wandered amid soaring ceilings and oversized furniture, while Judith regaled us with the family history, mostly honest, and a complete description of the bric-a-brac. Her knowledge of furniture, its designers and provenance of the better pieces, was encyclopedic. We ended the tour in the billiard room, where she suggested we might relax here before dinner.

This suited me something powerful. I had a table installed in my home in Hartford, and there is no better exercise to be found. I'm sure there are billiard parlors in heaven.

In England's better homes, a proper billiard room contains two tables, one for snooker and another with holes in it for the honest American game. While Holmes sat in a chair and smoked his pipe, I racked the balls and Weatherwax and I stroked for lead, but I found my heart wasn't in it. My concern for Chloe affected me still, so much that my eye was off and Weatherwax — who I had never played against — was able to run the table and pocket a small side bet I could ill-afford to lose. I was almost grateful when Holmes interrupted the transaction and asked Weatherwax for a list of Chloe's complaints. He said,—

"Fever, weakness in the limbs, sensitivity to light, headache, great fatigue, cramps. You heard her babbling of oysters. She's like that when the fever's on her."

"What has Dr. Conover to say about this."

"All he'll say is that the disease will declare itself in a few days and that an effective treatment will follow. Then he presents his bill."

"Then be of good cheer, Mr. Weatherwax. I have a theory, but I need a little more time to pull it together." He sat back on the couch and relit his pipe. "Now, let us turn to this threatening letter. How did you receive it?"

"By mail three days ago. A servant from the hall fetches the bag from the post office and Judith parcels it out at lunch."

"And it contained this note," he pulled the sheet Weatherwax gave me, "and part of a letter?"

"That's right. It never occurred to me they were, well —"

"More than acquaintances. Yes, I understand. Have you talked to Chloe about it?"

"No, Judith forbade it. The doctor ordered complete rest."

"Do you still have the letter? I must see it."

The man shambled off, looking wretched. I shot a game in the ensuing silence while Holmes paced and smoked. He was cogitating hard and I knew to let him be. He stopped and said,—

"A very pretty problem this is, Clemens."

"I'm glad you think so," I said with asperity. "A girl's dying and you're entertained. Her funeral will be the high point of your social calendar."

"Oh, I don't think it'll go that far. Miss Weatherwax's illness, although serious, is not fatal."

I slammed the stick on the table.

"Confound you! Talk sense."

He put his hand on my shoulder like he was calming a skittish colt and said,—

"She's shamming, Clemens. Did you remark her face?"

"You saw her only for a moment."

"You see, but you do not think," he said in that superior way of his. "You shined a light on the truth, and a literal one at that. There was kohl under her eyes and makeup on her cheeks to emphasize the cadaverous effect. And one does not normally see smears of makeup on the pillows. You saw my Hamlet on the New York stage; I made the application of make-up a specialty of mine, and wrote a monograph on the subject. With the proper tools, Clemens, one can bring the dead to life and life to the dead."

I was so overjoyed at the news that I forgave Holmes his monstrous ego, and it was there that I blundered terribly. Weatherwax came in bearing the note and I said,—

"Put your mind at rest, Weatherwax. Holmes here has determined that Chloe's not sick at all. She's —"

And then I froze as I realized what that meant. Weatherwax thrust the note into Holmes' hand and said,—

"So that's her game. We'll see who's shamming who—"

Judith encountered Weatherwax in the doorway, and he threw her the most terrible look. She was perplexed, but recovered and came to me and apologized most prettily for ordering us out of the sick-room. I assured her that I had been thrown out of worse places with less courtesy. I introduced her to Holmes, who was studying Chloe's note by the light of a window.

Then Weatherwax returned, rubbing his hands with the air of a man who had performed a full day's work and said,—

"That's that. I conceded the last few points. Chloe is now officially betrothed to Lord Winthrop."

Judith turned pale and cried,—

"But her illness—"

"A sham, Twain assures me. Right, Mark?"

I babbled that I was guessing, but my stock sank rapidly under Judith's furious look. Holmes said,—

"I'm afraid that's true."

Judith said nothing but she played with a small pearl ring on her finger, and her look said it would please her greatly if I would fall dead of apoplexy.

"I must inform Chloe," she said and left. Weatherwax said,—

"And I must tell my wife and see to the packing. Chloe's to be married in six week and there's a mort of work to be done."

The door closed and it was left to Holmes to complete my humiliation:

"There must be something in the American character that encourages babbling. Your lack of discretion makes me long for my Watson."


Holmes abandoned me in the billiard room, saying he had work to do before dinner. I spent the rest of the afternoon playing and smoking, but my heart wasn't into either pleasure.

Dinner that evening would have tried a saint's patience. Winthrop and Weatherwax kept up a fair rumble over horses and hunting. Judith was glum, Chloe looked even worse, and her mother tried to behave civil, but failed. I couldn't bear to look at Rannulf, for he alternated between looks of comfort directed at Chloe and hatred at me.

Holmes walked in between removes and was in disgusting fine spirits. He joined in the talk about Ayeshires and Derbyshires like he had spent his life on the farm. It was a relief when the cloth was drawn and the ladies excused themselves. Using my old age as a shield, I begged off an evening of claret and cigars and tottered to bed. For once, I was happy that my reputation as a storyteller left these people unimpressed. In my shattered state, I wouldn't have been capable of raising a laugh from a hyena.

It was an unhappy Sam Clemens who sat smoking in bed that night. It seemed that everything I touched turned to ash, and I was not looking forward to resuming my journey tomorrow with Chloe stranded in an unwanted marriage. I set my cigar aside and lay back, but, as usual, sleep would not come relieve my sorrows.

Then, a woman's shriek sent lightning down my spine. I leaped out of bed and was tucking my nightshirt into my pants when Holmes burst in and said,—

"Come with me, Clemens. Chloe has disappeared."

There was a great hullabaloo going on in the girl's sick-room. The place was a mess, with clothes thrown everywhere, the furniture tumbled about as evidence of a great struggle. Winthrop was questioning the maid, who said between choking sobs that she heard the sound of breaking glass and found the room empty and the French doors shattered.

I walked to the sideboard where stood a decanter and glass next to a tray in which were floated several sheets of paper. Holmes was on his hands and knees by the French doors and inspecting the glass shards with a lens. Over him stood Weatherwax, bearing a candelabra, and he said,—

"We have to do something. We must call the police."

Winthrop sent off the maid and joined me. He picked up the glass and said,—

"It'll take an hour for Noakes to get her. We have to act now." He was about to take a drink when Holmes cried "No!" and threw his lens. It caught the glass on the stem and dashed it from Winthrop's hand, and he whipped around in anger at the affront.

"It would be worth your life to drink that," Holmes said. "Send a man to the police-station and leave the room untouched. Come, Clemens. There's not a moment to lose."

We ran onto the terrace and raced for the stables where we secured two horses. I said,—

"Holmes, what happened?"

"You just witnessed the denouement of your revelation. More fool I was not to have anticipated this, but logic cannot always deduce the ways of the heart. Let's ride, Clemens. We have to get there before it's too late."

"Too late for what? What are you on about?"

Holmes had mounted and was off down the road, and it was all I could do to stay aboard my horse and follow.

We pounded down a road that moonlight had turned into a ribbon of silver, past shrubbery and fences that glowed into fantastical shapes. I had not ridden like this for years, so the first mile was sheer torture to my bones. We reached the coast road and turned toward town. Our screws were thundering at a steady pace, and I lifted myself in the saddle and looked about. Over the cliff to one side we could hear the rumble of the surf. On the other side, the moon illuminated the rolling fields of flax.

When we reached town, Holmes slowed his horse to a trot and allowed me to catch up. The chase had proved as beneficial as any tonic. Everything had been forgotten — my decrepitude, my financial worries, my failures. I was on an adventure, and I must have sounded like a boy again when I said,—

"Where to, Holmes?"

"The wharf."

We rode past the slips and, at every boat, Holmes asked if any couples had boarded within the last half-hour. All said no until we reached the steamer Esmeralda. Smoke poured from her stacks, and the mate of the watch said she was bound shortly for America. A half-crown bought us permission to come aboard and directions to their cabin.

At the door, Holmes said,—

"Do you have your gun?"

I told him it was at the wash.

"Then be on your guard for anything. They're desperate."

He knocked and sang out in a Boston accent that the captain would like to speak with them.

The door opened to reveal a small thin man in a moustache and bowler. He gasped and tried to close the door, but Holmes pushed in. The man raced for the table and pulled a pistol from a bag, but Holmes twisted it from his hand. Then, in a single swipe, he pulled off the hat and moustache.

"Judith," I cried.

A connecting door opened and Chloe entered. It was a much-improved edition of the young woman I saw at dinner. The color was high in her cheeks and her smile of welcome was charming. Kidnappings in the nether hours of the night proved very agreeable to her. She said,—

"Hello, Mr. Clemens, Mr. Holmes. How lovely of you to see us off."

Holmes bowed and said,—

"Miss Weatherwax. You led us on a merry dance. I'm glad to see you've dropped the masquerade."

She laughed and said,—

"Oh yes! I was so looking forward to home again. How did you see through it?"

"Your extortion note spoke very clearly. A hundred pounds is far too small a figure for thieves who had stolen thousands at a go. You've insulted them dearly by asking for such a pitiable figure."

Chloe said,—

"I apologize on their behalf, Mr. Holmes. I knew it was all the cash father had at hand."

I said,—

"What did you need the money for?"

"To pay Mr. Conover," Judith said. "He helped us so much, it was only right to compensate him for his trouble. But now that we need the money for our passage, I'm afraid he'll never receive it."

Holmes said,—

"Don't worry about your friend. He's been billing Mr. Weatherwax at twice the going rate for a Harley Street physician." He pulled from his pocket the note Chloe had written. "This love note, however, confirmed the hoax. The ink is much too fresh for a three-year-old letter, and the paper bears the same watermark as the extortion note."

Chloe laughed again, and, despite the trouble she had put us through, it did my heart good to hear her. Her mood turned serious, however, when a sailor knocked at the door and said it was time to cast off. She said,—

"Must we go with you?"

Holmes said,—

"I'm afraid so."

"But we meant no harm."

"This is about more than fleeing an unwanted attachment. My job was to unmask the Whyos and their connections on this side of the Atlantic, and I have done so."

He looked at Judith, but she stood firm and straight as a willow reed with a damn-your-eyes imprudence. She said,—

"I don't know what you mean."

"There's no further need for dissimulation. The scheme was simple: the gang would steal from this country, ship it to America in the guise of lawful goods and sell it there. But they needed someone with shipping connections, someone who knew where the prime goods were located and who could be trusted not to preach on them. But the coastal connection was vital to the solution. Regular shipments to America run out of only a few ports, so I concentrated there, looking for large unexplained shipments of goods. Through various means, I eliminated all ports but this one, and Clemens' call for help gave me the ideal opportunity to visit this area.

"I must admit it was fortune that brought us to the right door. The only question was which of the family was involved. You and your brother have been to America; your father had not. You're knowledgeable about the furnishings; your brother has the shipping connections. And, just to make sure, I visited your farm buildings before dinner, and found the spoils of several recent burglaries."

Holmes' story was interrupted by another knock at the door. The sailor says,—

"Stay or leave, makes no matter to us. But if you stay, you gotta pay."


We met Holmes' compatriot from Scotland Yard, Lestrade, at the train station. He took charge of the women and went off to roust the local constabulary, while we rode back slowly to the house on horseback and smoked our cigars. In fiction, I despised this moment when the Great Detective is sitting high, wide and handsome, and prepared to reveal all, and I wasn't about to give him his opening.

But Holmes had more tricks in his bag than a riverboat gambler. He said,—

"It was a near-run thing in Chloe's bedroom, Clemens. You remark the paper in the basin? That was flypaper. Soaking it in water brings up the arsenic. His Lordship would have been dissatisfied with his drink if I hadn't intervened."

I couldn't help myself. He knew of my fondness for Chloe. I said,—

"So she meant to destroy herself."

"Until Judith interrupted. She must have encouraged her to flee, packed what they could and tumbled the room to make it look like a kidnaping. Judith probably lashed out at the French doors as a final touch of verisimilitude. But the glass wasn't crushed into the carpet, as it would have been if someone stepped into the room after the doors were kicked open."

"And the boat to America, how did you figure that?"

"Logical inference from the available data."

"You mean you guessed."

Holmes ignored my jibe. He was in full lecture mode, which cannot be interrupted by any act short of dynamiting. "They had two choices: flee into England or away by boat. The authorities will be sure to watch the roads and the railways, whereas no one would enquire after a modest couple seeking passage to the states."

"And the disguise?"

"Final proof of her criminality. She was prepared to flee. Perhaps," he mused, "she used it in her dealings with the gang. A minor point, but one worth investigating."

We smoked quietly for awhile until I said,—

"Holmes, was it necessary to call in Scotland Yard?"

"Would you rather they sailed to America?"

"I'd rather Chloe was happy and away from her family."

"With only a hundred pounds between them?"

"I would have given her Roger's address at Standard Oil. He would have seen after them on my word."

"And her brother should get away as well? Clemens, this gang robbed several mansions of tens of thousands of pounds worth of goods."

"Oh, who cares a flip about the gee-gaws of the rich. You unmasked them; they would have stopped."

"I don't believe your public would agree with your position."

I moodily thought about that. It seemed like Chloe was back where she started. Holmes — blast his genius for mind-reading — must have understood what I was getting at, for he clapped me on the shoulder and said,—

"Don't feel so bad for Chloe. She won't be marrying Lord Winthrop after all, not after word of this scandal hits the press. I would imagine that Mr. Weatherwax would be most grateful to us for having been saved from the consequences of a bad match."

"Only to make another for her; perhaps with an even worse character."

"That's a question only time will answer. Much like what we'll encounter when we return to the house with Lestrade in our wake. Will Lord Winthrop fulfill his promise to let us stay the night after unmasking his children as part of the Whyos gang, or shall we doss down somewhere else? It will be an interesting test of the British capacity for politeness, Clemens, to find out what he'll do."