with the Texas flag above it and swords with tasseled hilts flanking it on either side. Benjamin Barratt stood on his hearthrug, brandy glass in hand.
“I’m sure you gentlemen know the story. When he knew the case was hopeless, the commanding officer of the defenders, Colonel Travis, offered all his men a free choice: stay with him and die or leave without any reproach from him. Only one man chose to leave. His name was Louis Rose. Travis kept his word and did not reproach him, but the other men were naturally contemptuous. Colonel Crockett could not express his contempt directly, in the face of what Travis had said, so he did it another way. He gave his violin to Rose, with these words: ‘Well, Rose, it seems you’re no soldier after all, so maybe you’d better get practicing so you can make your living with this.’ Rose took the violin, but he knew that San Antonio would be no place for him. My father had a reputation as a charitable man. Rose came to him at dead of night, begging for a loan of money to get away, offering the violin as security. My father gave him the money, on condition that he wrote a statement of how the violin came into his possession. He did so, exactly as I have told it to you. I have the statement in my desk, signed by Rose and witnessed by my father’s servant. I shall show it to you. My father knew the money would never be repaid. We have guarded Colonel Crockett’s violin ever since.”
While Holmes was reading the document, our hostess, Mrs. Barratt, did her best to make polite conversation with me, but she seemed uneasy and kept glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Please excuse me, but I’m anxious about Lee. Mrs. Legrange was going on after our picnic to visit some friends who have a ranch north of San Pedro Springs. Lee offered to ride with her, which was only right and proper, but he should have been home long ago.”
I wondered whether she was concerned for her son’s safety or the effect of the lady’s charms on the lad. An unworthy thought, as it immediately proved, because a clamour broke out in the hall. We all dashed out, to see Lee, with a bloodied bandage round his head, being supported by two of Mrs. Legrange’s servants. Behind them was Mrs. Legrange herself, tears streaming down her cheeks, trembling like a trapped sparrow.
“It’s my fault, my fault entirely. How can you ever forgive me?”
Barratt took charge of events with efficiency and had a couch made up in the parlour. I offered my services but also suggested sending for the family doctor, as a matter of professional courtesy. He arrived in a short time and confirmed my diagnosis of concussion as a result of two blows to the head with a heavy object, the patient’s life not in danger, but absolute quiet and rest prescribed.
I returned to the drawing room, where Mrs. Legrange was huddled deep in an armchair, taking delicate sips of brandy, and Holmes sitting opposite her.
“Here’s a how-d’you-do, Watson. It appears that some villain has snatched Mrs. Legrange’s violin.”
“The lad Lee kept trying to talk about the violin,” I said.
“It’s all my fault,” Mrs. Legrange said again. “I should never have left him to carry it up. But here at home on my very doorstep, how was I to know?”
Between sobs and sips, she repeated the account for me. The visit to the ranching friends had lasted longer than expected, so it was dusk before she returned to San Antonio, with Lee riding alongside her landau. She’d gone straight upstairs, leaving the coachman to stable both horses and Lee to follow her with the precious violin in its case. Startled by a cry from below, she’d gone back downstairs to find Lee semi-conscious on the pavement and the violin gone.
“The coward had come up behind him. He never even saw his face. Did you ever hear of such villainy? And if poor Lee dies… ”
I assured her that there was no fear of that, provided he was kept quiet.
With Barratt and his wife both occupied by their son, it fell to Holmes and myself to take Mrs. Legrange home in a hack and see her into the care of her housekeeper. Holmes behaved with unexpected courtliness, jumping ahead of me to hand her down from the hack, and even raising her gloved wrist to his lips as we left her in the hall. I smiled to myself, thinking that southern air and manners had made my old friend more susceptible than usual. We walked the short distance back to the hotel.
“If somebody went to such lengths to steal her violin, that must be because he believed it to be the authentic one,” I ventured.
“A false conclusion, Watson. Might it not have been any sneak thief?”
“You surely don’t believe that?”
“No, a thief bold enough to commit a violent robbery in a public place would choose some more disposable booty.”
“So is Mrs. Legrange’s the real Crockett violin? It surprises me, I must confess. I found Barratt’s story far more convincing.”
Instead of responding, he clapped his left hand to the pocket of his jacket.
“A one pipe problem. Now, which pocket did I put my pipe in?”
“Your right, surely.”
At home, it always weighed down the right pocket of his dressing gown. He patted his other pocket, frowning.
“Not there.”
“Surely it’s not in your waistcoat pocket. Or did you somehow manage to slip it in my pocket by mistake?
I started slapping my own pockets. He laughed.
“My dear Watson, I may not have the polished manners of our Texans, but you surely don’t think me barbarian enough to take my pipe to a dinner party with a lady present. It’s where it should be, on the table back at the hotel.”
“But… ”
I stared at him.
“Think about it, Watson. By the by, you mentioned that young Lee had suffered two blows to the head. As far as you could tell, was one more violent than the other?”
“Yes, but that’s not unusual. We may suppose that the thief’s first blow was not hard enough to fell the young man, so he struck again.”
“We may suppose anything we like, Watson. It’s still only supposing.”
I could get no more out of him that night.
The next day, Barratt had arranged to take us to lunch at his club, which occupied the same building as the opera house, opposite our hotel. The news of his son was encouraging: the young man had woken with a sore head but was rational and showing no signs of permanent damage. Holmes asked if he had any memory of his attacker.
“None whatsoever,” Barratt said. “But at least we have the rascal in custody.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed. Has he confessed?”
“No, but he was actually seen half a mile away from Mrs. Legrange’s home soon after the attack, carrying a violin.”
“And he was arrested there and then?”
“No. The gentleman who saw him did not hear about the theft until this morning. Naturally, he remembered what he’d seen and as it happened, he knew the fellow by sight, a Mexican tradesman. Our sheriff’s officer went straight to the thief’s home this morning and arrested him.”
“And the violin?”
“Found in his house.”
“What’s the name of this Mexican?”
Barratt looked surprised, clearly thinking that such details could mean nothing to Holmes.
“His name’s Juan Alvarez. He lives on South Flores Street, down by the stockyards.”
By this time, we’d arrived at the club. While our host was turned away, Holmes slid a piece of paper from his pocket and quickly showed it to me, his finger to his lips. I had to suppress a gasp of surprise. It was the slip of paper the Mexican had given him the night before last and the name and address were those of the man under
