Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

James almost said Not here in the North but remembered that they were in Washington, D.C., and that had never really been part of the North. He had a sudden and almost overpowering memory of a beautiful spring day in 1863—May 23—when James had deliberately chosen not to go watch his brother Wilkie parading down Beacon Street with his regiment, the famous black 54th Massachusetts Regiment then under the command of the young (and, of course, white) Colonel Shaw. Henry James had been wasting his time at Harvard, paying almost no attention to his courses in law and using his time to read fiction, but on that day when classes were canceled so that all the young Harvard men could go cheer on the departing Massachusetts regiments, James had stayed in his rented room and read. Later, he found out that his older brother William—also at Harvard—had done the same. James was certain that William could no more explain why he hadn’t joined family, friends, and strangers in seeing the regiment off than young “Harry” could.

For a moment, James felt guilt at using the wounding of his brothers Wilkie and Bob in his retort to Theodore Roosevelt the previous night. Wilkie’s wounds had been so terrible, his agony so great while lying for day after day on the moldy and bloody cot set near the front door where they had carried him in, and Wilkie’s courage so profound in later returning to active duty with his regiment, that the experience had changed something in the writer forever. He rebuked himself now for using Wilkie’s suffering as part of his argument.

But he also knew that if he had that May 23, 1863, to do over again, he still would not go to Beacon Street to watch Wilkie’s regiment parade, in all their radiant and masculine health and high spirits and bannered glory, to the train station on their way to war.

James was brought out of his reverie by the sharp report of Holmes striking the metal end of his cane on the lane. “We have to assume that—if Adams is playing fairly, as you say he probably is—his so-called mystery has to do with something he was talking to us about today rather than at the dinner party.”

“That seems likely,” said James, feeling suddenly weary. “But you remember that I missed several minutes of your conversation at Clover’s monument when I went for a walk.”

“Yes,” said Holmes and swerved them off the lane and onto the grass.

James saw the dense trees of the enclosure for Clover’s memorial ahead and said, “You think the monument may be a clue?”

“I think that there is a bench there on which I can sit and smoke while we think,” said Holmes.

They approached the back side of the monument in silence. Just as they got to the granite block, Holmes said, “Odd . . . Adams said to both of us that this was the important side of the monument.” He touched the granite block gently with his stick.

“Not odd at all,” said James. “As powerful as Saint-Gaudens’s sculpture is, it’s the entwined wedding rings on this side of the monument”—he had to reach on tip-toe to touch the large double rings—“that symbolizes their years of marriage, which is what this memorial piece is all about.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Holmes, resting his cane on his shoulder and squinting at the now-shadowed block of stone. James thought that the detective did not sound totally convinced.

Holmes led them around and through the narrow gap through the trees and hedges. The interior area bounded by the hexagon, benches, slab, and sculpture was quite dark. Holmes sat on a bench directly opposite the sculpture, set his heavy canvas bag down on the bench, laid his cane beside it, and crossed his legs while he relit his pipe.

“What did I miss when I left you two alone here this afternoon?” asked James.

Between puffs, Holmes said, “I showed him the picture of the actress and diva Irene Adler, who—I am convinced—played the part of Clover’s friend Rebecca Lorne in the months before Clover’s death. Adams said that he could not be sure it was the same woman. He asked me to drop this inquiry. I said that I had a debt to my client, which led to Adams cursing me and . . .”

“He cursed you?” said James, not even attempting to keep the shock and amazement out of his voice. This was not the character or behavior of the Henry Adams he had known all these years.

“He cursed me,” repeated Holmes, “and then explained that while he had loved Clover’s brother Ned, that madness ran through the Hooper family. He essentially suggested that I was on a mission designed by a madman and said flatly that it had been Ned who’d typed the cards and distributed them to the Five of Hearts every December six . . .”

“Did he have proof of that?” asked James. He’d considered that possibility and it certainly made sense . . . more sense than any other hypothesis.

“He did not,” said Holmes. “It was just his belief.”

“Was there more?”

Holmes opened his hands. James thought of white doves taking flight in the gloom. “Not really. Then he challenged me to find and solve this ‘mystery’ and you returned.”

“It doesn’t sound as if . . .”

“Silence please!” snapped Holmes. At first flush, James was certain that Holmes had heard someone approaching their enclosure and the writer prepared himself to come face to face with Henry Adams again. But no one came through the thin portal amongst the leaves and James realized that Holmes was requesting silence so that he could think.

James looked at the sculpture across from them and although it was impossible—the top of the bronze piece was lower than the top of the line of trees or the granite slab behind it—the cowled figure seemed to glow with more light than the rest of the dark enclosure.

Holmes sat smoking and thinking for at least twenty minutes. James did not mind the calm, although the settling darkness was mildly disconcerting. He was startled when Holmes finally spoke in a loud voice—“ ‘Many is the time in the past two years that I’ve sat and watched and listened, without being watched or listened to, as people encounter this piece for the first time—their comments run the gamut from interesting to cruelly puerile.’ ”

“What?” cried James. “I thought that today was the first time you’d seen this monument!”

“It is,” said Holmes. “It was. Those were Adams’s words this afternoon—to both of us.”

“Yes,” said James, casting his powerful memory back like a searchlight. “Those were his precise words.”

“ ‘I’ve sat and watched and listened, without being watched or listened to’,” Holmes again quoted Adams. In the gloom, Holmes opened his arms to take in all three of the benches that formed one half of the hexagon. “Where could he sit and listen without being seen in return, James?”

“I took him to mean that he stole glances at other people’s reactions to the monument when they were not paying attention to him,” said James. “And that he overheard their comments.”

“That is how I interpreted the words,” said Holmes, standing, “but you know even better than I that Henry Adams is not careless with language. He used those words deliberately— I’ve sat and watched and listened, without being watched or listened to . He has a place around here where he can eavesdrop without being observed in return.”

“Certainly not here at the benches,” said James.

“No, it must be outside this space,” said Holmes. “Do you remember a bench outside this enclosure, close enough to hear voices and to see anyone sitting on these benches?”

“I didn’t notice one during my stroll today,” said James, “but of course I wasn’t looking for benches. I was thinking.”

“Let’s find out,” said Holmes. “We can both go look.”