Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

“Nothing whatever.”

“Then I repeat… what do you get from all this? You have said that it is not money that you want. But what matters, then, if not money? I, unlike Battle, can pay you a very great deal for the return of those papers. I see that I was mistaken, thinking you a fool. You and I are both intelligent men. What is it you want? Name your price.”

Holmes laughed and returned to his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and knitting his fingers across his vest. “As I said, I have no intention of extorting money from you. Those papers are merely a pledge of your good behaviour. Give Battle back his good name, and no one will ever know you to be the owner of a half-dozen of the worst hells in this city.” His smile faded.

“But, since you asked, I do want more. You will close those places down, Mr. Chadwick, and see that they remain shut, forever. Not just sell them to someone else, who will continue to ply the same, age-old trade, but end them, for good and all.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I am not naïve enough to believe that their elimination will stop this traffic. But at least, for a while, there will be fewer of them.”

“Others will take their place,” Chadwick said.

“Undoubtedly. But they will not be yours, and you will not be profiting from them. And please understand me… I will be leaving New York in a few day’s time. Should something happen to me between now and then, or should I not return safely to England for any reason, the individual who will be receiving your deeds will know what to do with them. And,” he said, rising from his chair, and walking to the door, “Robert Battle is under the same protection, except that for him there is no limit on the time.

“Pray that he remains safe and healthy, Mr. Chadwick. Should he be run down by a carriage, slip on the pavement and break his skull, or succumb to a sudden case of pneumonia, I will see to it that you are exposed.”

“Who are you?” Chadwick, too, rose from behind his desk, and pointed a shaking finger at Holmes. “Who are you?”

“I will happily tell you, Mr. Chadwick, once I have reached London. Expect a telegram from me, informing you that I have arrived unharmed. You will, in fact, be the first to receive the news. In the meantime, I should waste no time in restoring Mr. Battle’s good name.”

The spring of 1894 was one of the busiest of Sherlock Holmes’s long career. As the world knows, his return to London was heralded by the brilliant exercise that both solved the inexplicable murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair, and brought the infamous Colonel Sebastian Moran, the foremost of Moriarty’s gang, to final justice. The news of Holmes’s reappearance was met with universal elation by the highest in the land, as well as by the ordinary people whom he had so long aided, and the next few months were a blur of cases, with more petitions delivered to Baker Street than he could possibly accept.

My own domestic circumstances having altered during his absence, Holmes invited me to take up lodging with him once more in our old quarters, to which I gladly agreed. A crisp and clear January evening, the following year, found us ensconced before a pleasant fire, Holmes adding to his voluminous scrapbooks, and I reading. The sound of the doorbell, and voices in the hallway, caused Holmes to throw down his paste-brush with an air of distraction. So busy had he been, that his carefully organized reference works were beginning to suffer.

“Who on earth might that be?” he said. “I had hoped not to be disturbed tonight.”

His irritation turned to intense pleasure, however, when he caught sight of the man whom Mrs. Hudson showed in a few moments later.

“Robert Battle!” cried Holmes, striding forward with his hand outstretched. “How very good to see you again! And it takes no great feat of detection,” he said, turning to a darkly pretty woman that Battle drew forward, “to know that this must be Mrs. Battle. My hearty congratulations to you both. What brings you to London?”

“We are on our honeymoon, Mr. Holmes,” Battle said as we took our visitors’ things and made them welcome. “Our ship docked this afternoon, and we have just settled into our hotel. And then Frances and I could think of nothing, and no one, that we wanted to see more than you.”

“Watson,” said Holmes, as the introductions were made, “you remember that I told you of Robert Battle, and my little adventure in New York.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, shaking Battle’s hand. “It is very good to meet you. And you, Mrs. Battle.”

“I have waited for this moment,” Mrs. Battle said, as Holmes took her hand, and her husband smiled at her fondly. “It is to Mr. Holmes that we owe all our happiness.”

“It is, indeed.” Battle’s handsome face shone as he looked at his blushing wife. “She had waited for me, you see, just as you had said she would, and had never lost faith.”

“You both chose wisely and well, then, in choosing each other. Watson, some glasses… we must toast Mr. and Mrs. Battle, and their happiness. Sherry for Mrs. Battle, please. Whisky or brandy for you, Battle?” he said, then stopped me as I reached for the tantalus. “Ah, but I remember. Mr. Battle does not drink. Forgive me.”

Battle shook his head. “When we met in New York, I would have none of it,” he replied, “because I had been tarred as a drunkard the night of my arrest, and I wanted no stink of the stuff on me, ever again. But since I am among the living once more, I do indulge on occasion. And I can think of no occasion more appropriate than now. Brandy, please.”

With all four glasses filled, Battle rose to his feet and raised his glass, but was stopped by his wife’s hand upon his arm.

“May I, Robert?”

Her husband looked at her, surprised, then yielded to her with a smile, and she, too, rose, as did Holmes and I. Her bright brown eyes were shy, but she lifted her glass high nevertheless.

“The first toast must be to you, Mr. Holmes, because you are the reason for all our joy. Like a magician or a guardian angel, you appeared and our gladness appeared with you. We can never thank you enough.”

“Amen to that!” Battle cried. “To Sherlock Holmes!”

“To Sherlock Holmes!” I echoed.

Holmes lifted his glass next. “To Mr. and Mrs. Robert Battle. A most deserving couple!”

After we had drunk, Battle laughed, as we seated ourselves once more. “Actually, it’s Captain and Mrs. Battle. I’ve been restored to my rank, and both my name and my record cleared. That’s how I was able to call upon my Frances again. And speaking of names, had I but known, one year ago, that Mr. Simon Greaves was really Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “I would have been much more circumspect with my professional advice during his visit to New York.”

“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “You know your city as I know mine, and your guidance gave a stranger invaluable assistance… and allowed us to rid the world of some places it can well do without.”

“Some people, too,” Battle replied. “You’ll be interested, I know, to learn that Thaddeus Chadwick died this past October. Murdered,” he added, “and not by me, though I certainly would have shaken the killer’s hand, had I been able.”

“Now that is news, indeed.” Holmes gestured to the nearby table with its glue-pot and scissors and the substantial pile of newspapers on the floor. “I have had little time to read in the past several months, and have only begun to catch up. How did that come about?” He leaned forward, keenly attentive.

“He was stabbed, in his own home, by a young woman of his acquaintance.”

“The motive?”

“None that we were able to ascertain.” He smiled. “Yes, I worked on the case. I was back on the force by that time. But I must admit to not trying too hard to solve the matter. It seemed a straightforward enough domestic matter. The young woman was living with him at the time. And she died in the fire that resulted from their struggle, and had no relatives who might have shed any light on the situation… ” He shrugged his shoulders.