Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

The first notes of the overture brought the conversation to a close. Holmes, with his keen ability to compartmentalize his mind, leaned back in his chair and became utterly absorbed in the music, his long fingers waving in accompaniment, but nevertheless remained aware of the fact that his companion was utterly insensible to what was occurring on the stage.

Wagner, as the world knows, is not succinct in his composition, and by the time the curtain came down on the first act, Holmes was grateful for a chance to stretch his legs. By common, wordless consent, he and Battle left the box and headed downstairs. Holmes waited until they were off to the side of the main vestibule, where the crowd was thinner, before he raised the subject of Thaddeus Chadwick again.

“I could not help but notice that his appearance was distracting to you. Please tell me if it is overstepping the bounds of our brief acquaintance if I ask you why?”

Battle set his jaw and answered. “Mr. Chadwick was the reason I left the police force. Or, rather, the reason I was thrown off it. I would rather not have told you this, Mr. Greaves, lest you think ill of me, for I have come to enjoy our acquaintance, but you will soon be returning to England, and your opinion of me will be of little matter.

“How could I judge you before I have heard the evidence?” Holmes said.

“How, indeed? But many have, and many who were once dear to me are strangers to me now.” He took a deep breath and began.

“Mr. Chadwick’s reputation as an attorney is above reproach, of course, and he has, in addition to Mr. Slade, many clients in the highest reaches of the city. But Mr. Chadwick is also known to the police. Threads leading back to him have been found in many unsavory schemes; and his name, through the names of those who front for him, is linked to some of the worst places, and some of the most ghastly conditions, to be found anywhere in the city.”

Battle looked squarely at Holmes. “I will be brief. I said that Chadwick is known to the police, but not necessarily as an adversary. Many of the places you’ve seen these last few days sit on land owned by Mr. Chadwick, and although he takes no part in their actual business he still makes a great deal of money from them, and his hands are stained with their filth. I was investigating some of them, some houses where children, boys and girls as young as six… I will say no more, Mr. Greaves, for you know that places such as these exist. But I could have wiped at least some of them, and those who profit from them, off the face of the earth, and I was close, very close, to having my case airtight.

“But as I said, there are things in New York… Chadwick is openhanded to those who can help him, and many in the upper levels of the police… ” He swallowed hard and wiped his face; his hands were shaking. “I was told to drop the case. I said I would not. I was told that if I did not drop it voluntarily, I would be made to do so. And still I refused.

“I took what precautions I could, but it was not enough, and those I had asked to guard me were paid to turn a blind eye. The night before I was supposed to present my evidence in court, a half-dozen men burst into my home. They overpowered me, held a chloroform-soaked cloth over my face, and dragged me out. I awoke hours later, in a room in one of the houses that I had investigated-alone, thank God-but reeking of alcohol, as though someone had emptied a bottle over me, and as I staggered to my feet I could hear whistles and screams. It was a police raid, and I was caught, just as surely as if I had been a patron there for years.”

Battle sagged and leaned against a gilded pillar. His words were quiet now and matter-of-fact. “Instead of being in court that morning, giving evidence, I was in jail, and all the evidence had been destroyed. I had hidden it under some floorboards, but they didn’t even bother to search for it… they took the quickest way, and just burned my house down, and the evidence with it. The fire was laid at my door, too… I was charged with knocking over a lamp, in my drunken state, as I left for the establishment where they found me. I’ve thanked God every day since then that no one died in the blaze, for I would have been accused of that as well.

“But the worst… I had no identification on me, you see, and to verify that I was who I said I was-even though the men who arrested me knew me-they brought my fiancée and her father down to the police station to identify me. Oh, yes, Mr. Greaves, I was engaged to be married. And there I stood, unshaven and stinking, in handcuffs and leg irons, still unsteady on my feet, and having been pulled out of that… that hell… with my beautiful Frances staring at me. And the look in her eyes… ”

Holmes guided the man to an unoccupied bench against an adjacent wall and forced him to sit. The crowds were streaming back to their seats, and the vestibule was emptying quickly.

“Promise me that you will stay here,” he said. “I will only be gone a moment.”

Battle nodded, head bowed. Holmes returned in a few minutes with a glass of water, which he held to the man’s pale lips.

“There is some whiskey in there,” he said, as the man grimaced at the taste and started to push it away. “Not enough to harm you; just enough to bring the blood back to your face.”

Battle drank again, then stood up shakily. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”

“Strangers are sometimes better confidants than friends one has known for years. But possibly you are being too hard upon your Frances. Would she not still believe in you, despite appearances?”

“I could not approach her again. Not until my name is cleared, which it never will be. How could I even dream of tying an innocent young woman to a man known as a sot and a debauchee?”

Holmes smiled. “Certainly, women are not my forte, Battle. But has she married anyone else since that night?”

“No. I have heard, through acquaintances, that she is still living with her father.”

“Then she is probably stronger in her faith in you than you have given her credit for, and perhaps you should have more faith in her. And now,” he said, as Battle set his glass on a nearby table, “the second act is well under way. Shall we return to our seats, or would you rather leave?”

“I would not cut your evening short. You wished to see the opera.”

“That is of no consequence.”

“No, I am well enough now. If you don’t mind being seen with me, now that you know, then let us go back… ”

“Well, well, Battle,” said the dry voice behind them. “I thought it was you, but I could not believe my eyes, so I came to see for myself. I really must ask the shareholders what they are thinking, allowing known degenerates in here.”

Battle jerked about so quickly that he nearly fell, and Holmes put a light hand on his arm, to steady him. Chadwick gazed at them mildly. Now face to face with the man, Holmes could see behind his spectacles. His small, eternal smile never reached his eyes, which looked Battle up and down with utter contempt.

“Still drinking, I see,” he said. He turned to Holmes. “I don’t know who you are, sir,” he said, “but I must warn you against associating with this man. His reputation is unsavory, to say the least.”

Holmes tightened his grip on Battle’s arm. “I thank you for your concern, Mr. Chadwick, but your warning is unnecessary.”

“Ah, an Englishman. A visitor, perhaps, to our great city,” Chadwick said. “Well, forewarned is forearmed, as they say. And since you appear to know my name, sir, although we have never met, may I know yours?”

“Simon Greaves.”

“Then, Mr. Greaves, I will leave you and your friend now.” He turned to go, snapped his gloved fingers as though he had forgotten something, then turned back.