Sherlock Holmes In America

THE CASE OF COLONEL CROCKETT’S VIOLIN by Gillian Linscott

Gillian Linscott is the author of the Nell Bray crime series, featuring a militant suffragette detective in Britain in the early years of the twentieth century. One of the series, Absent Friends, won the CWA Ellis Peters Dagger for best historical crime novel of 2000 and the Herodotus Award. She has worked as a news reporter for the Guardian and a political reporter for BBC local radio stations. She lives in a threehundred-and-fifty-year-old cottage in Herefordshire, England, and in addition to writing, now works as a professional gardener. Interests include mountain walking and trampolining.

“Admit it, Watson. Texas has not come up to your expectations.” My old friend lounged in a cane chair on our hotel balcony, the hint of a smile on his lips. Our days at sea had done wonders for his health and spirits. His face was lightly tanned, shaded by the brim of a Panama hat.

“It’s not as I’d imagined,” I agreed.

He laughed.

“You’d hoped for cowboys with lariats and six shooters, Indian chiefs in war bonnets.”

Since that was pretty well the vision that had come to my mind when the unexpected invitation arrived on a drizzly day at Baker Street, I tried to hide my irritation.

“Certainly San Antonio seems peaceable enough,” I said.

Two floors below, in the courtyard of the Menger Hotel, broad leaves of banana trees shifted gently in the breeze. Our suite, with its lounge, two bedrooms, and bathroom, was as clean and comfortable as anything you might find in London, perhaps more so. From where I was standing I could glimpse a corner of the town’s plaza, with men crossing from shade to sun and back, looking much like men of business anywhere, though moving at a leisurely pace in the heat. A neat landau, drawn by a grey pony and carrying a woman in a white dress, trotted briefly into sight and out again.

“We’ve come too late for the wild days, Watson. Seventy years ago we might have arrived in a covered wagon, pursued by as many braves or Mexicans as your warlike heart could wish. I confess my preference for the Mallory Line.”

We’d traveled in comfort down the coast from New York to Galveston on Mallory’s three-thousand-ton steamer, SS Alamo, then on by Pullman car. The letter of invitation had implored us to make all convenient speed and spare no expense-both admonitions quite wasted on Holmes, who would spend time and money exactly according to his opinion of what was necessary and nobody else’s. He stood up and joined me at the rail of our balcony, looking down at the courtyard. A gentleman in a white suit and hat had appeared from the reception area and was walking towards the foot of our staircase. Holmes gave a chuckle of satisfaction.

“Unless I am mistaken, Watson, here comes our client now.”

Benjamin Austin Barratt was a gentleman of fifty years or so, still vigorous, straight-backed, and broad- shouldered, with thick dark hair and a small moustache on an otherwise clean-shaven face. His manners were courtly, asking after our health and our journey, as if his only purpose were to make us welcome in his native town. It was Holmes who cut short the preliminaries and brought us to business.

“You mentioned in your letter that you were writing on behalf of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas. Do we take it that you are their representative?”

“Indeed so, sir. You will surely be aware that before Texas became part of the United States of America it was an independent republic in its own right by virtue of-”

“We are aware of it, yes.”

Holmes spoke with some impatience. Almost everybody we’d met, from our fellow passengers on the voyage down, to the lad who’d carried our cases to our rooms on arrival, had offered this fact as soon as setting eyes on us. Barratt showed no annoyance and went on with his explanation.

“The ladies thought it preferable that you should be approached by a businessman with some standing in our community. Since I have the honour to be one of the benefactors of their Alamo project and have an interest in the matter under discussion, it was agreed that I should write to you. You will have gathered something of our dilemma from my letter.”

“The case of Davy Crockett’s superfluous fiddle,” Holmes said.

His tone was light. He’d responded to the letter in something of a holiday spirit because it piqued his curiosity. Barratt’s posture stiffened for a moment and there was a hint of reproach in his tone.

“Colonel Crockett’s violin, yes indeed, Mr. Holmes. The most famous musical instrument in our country’s history. That it should have survived the battle is miraculous. That there are two of them is a matter so embarrassing that the ladies decided it could only be settled by the greatest detective in the world, who also happens to be an amateur of the violin.”

Holmes nodded at the tribute, as no more than his due.

“Your letter spoke of urgency.”

“Yes, sir. This year the Daughters of the Republic of Texas took on responsibility for safeguarding what remains of the old Alamo mission building, where the battle took place sixty-nine years ago. They plan to open it as a national shrine and a museum. Naturally, the very violin that Colonel Crockett carried with him when he brought his men of the Tennessee Mounted Rifles to join the defenders in the Alamo, the violin he played to hearten them all during the siege, will be its most precious exhibit.”

“It is a fact that Davy… that is, Colonel Crockett, had his violin with him in the Alamo,” I said. “There was one evening when he had a competition with a man who played the bagpipes and… ”

I’d done some reading on the subject before we left London. All it brought me was an impatient look from Holmes.

“We can take that as established. But is there any explanation of how such a fragile thing as a violin escaped the destruction of everything else when the Mexicans stormed the Alamo?”

“One of the violins is in my possession,” Barratt said. “I look forward to telling you its story when I hope you will do us the honour of taking dinner with us tomorrow night, but I believe its history is as well-authenticated as anybody could wish.”

“And the other violin?” Holmes asked.

“I’m sure Mrs. Legrange will tell you that hers has a well-authenticated history too. I know she plans to meet you. One thing I should like to make clear.”

For the first time in our conversation, his voice was hesitant. Holmes raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

“There is no enmity between Mrs. Legrange and myself, none whatever,” Barratt said. “She is a very charming and patriotic lady and we all admire her very much. We have both agreed that this business must be settled in a quiet and peaceable manner as soon as possible, and we shall both abide by your verdict. May I send my carriage for you two gentlemen at six o’clock tomorrow?”

Holmes told him that he might.

As Barratt crossed the courtyard, one of the hotel’s messenger boys passed him in the opposite direction and came up the stairs to our suite carrying an envelope.

“I believe we are about to receive an invitation from the owner of the second fiddle,” Holmes said.

A knock sounded at the door. I answered it and was handed an envelope by the messenger boy.

“Pray open it and read it aloud, Watson,” Holmes said.

The signature was Evangeline Legrange, with as many curls and loops to it as a tangled trout line. I read:

My dear Mr. Holmes,

I hope you will excuse this informality of approaching you without introduction, but I wonder whether you and Dr. Watson would care to join us on a picnic luncheon outing to San Pedro Springs tomorrow. If I may, I shall send a gig for you at eleven.