SEPTEMBER 23, 1894
Discretion is required in describing the events of the last few hours. A request has been made to me for assistance. Having served the interests of the Crown on more than one previous occasion, I have remained ever willing to lend my services to that royal office again in whichever way circumstances describe. Suffice it to say that should the Queen herself have appeared in my cabin to make this appeal, it would have carried no greater influence upon my sympathies.
The facts are these: A book has been stolen. A book of enormous significance to the Church of England and consequently the throne. The Latin Vulgate Bible, the oldest biblical manuscript in the Anglican Church. Vanished from the Bodleian Library at Oxford six weeks ago. Public announcement has been withheld; the Vulgate was kept in a vault, not on display—the only persons likely to miss it to this point are scholars. It is hoped the manuscript can be recovered before such an announcement becomes necessary; however, as yet no requests for the ransom of its return have been received. As more time passes, it seems increasingly unlikely that a ransom is the thieves' objective. A secret investigation by a friend of mine on behalf of the Crown has been under way since the crime occurred and it has led him to this same ship making its crossing to America.
That this incident is central to the difficulties we have experienced since boarding the Elbe is unmistakable. I have set down elsewhere the events of the past few days surrounding
Lionel Stern, the attempted robbery of the Book of Zohar, and the murder of Mr. Rupert Selig. Three of the men responsible for those crimes are now themselves dead; a fourth man has either flung himself overboard, as did another of his accomplices, or is still in hiding somewhere on board; an exhaustive search is even now under way. The sabotage these men brought against the ship's engines has been discovered—an explosive charge detonated in the electrical generators—and thanks to the due diligence of the engineering crew its damage already repaired. We will arrive in New York tomorrow only hours later than originally scheduled and that due as much to the rough weather we have passed through as to the sinister efforts of these villains.
The man I mistakenly took for their ringleader was, as I suspected, posing as a Catholic priest— this concluded from observing an accumulation of small, troubling details: odd boots, rosary beads hanging off the wrong pocket, a ring bearing a Masonic design—but neither is he a criminal. He is, in fact, a man previously well known to me, whose credentials as an agent of the Crown are, or at least once were, beyond reproach.
We have spoken only briefly, and that has been taken up with the urgencies of our situation: His unexpected appearance foiled a potentially deadly attack against me by turning the assassin's own weapon against him. No opportunity for us to discuss the events of the ten years passed since we last saw one another has presented itself; he seemed reluctant to part with any details during the short time spent together; we have agreed to find time for that discussion once the ship has made port. In the interim, I have confided in no one, not even Innes, about his true identity.
The rest of our passengers remain uniformly unaware of the difficulties we have been through on the Elbe, due in part to the storm which confined them to quarters during the critical hours, and not a little to our effective muzzling of the American newshound Pinkus, who remains at this hour under something approaching house arrest. My friend is even now visiting privately with Pinkus to ensure his silence on these matters after we reach New York. A daunting task given Pinkus's propensity for blab, but if any man could persuade Pinkus to, as they say, keep his trap shut, my money is on JS.
I am saddened to report that my friend is dreadfully altered since I last saw him. In truth, even beyond the effectiveness of his disguise, he is hardly recognizable. Whatever damage he has endured, whatever dark corners of the human spirit he has visited, I am afraid the effect has not been at all to the good.
In this instance, I fervently hope the keenness of my observations, a habit of mind which he helped so much to instill in me, is entirely wrong.
A dense, multispired skyline poked through the morning mist and announced to the brothers Doyle their first glimpse of New York; from this vantage point, the city threatened to burst the seams of the slender island on which it rested. The Elbe's passengers clustered around them on the upper deck, marveling at the wonders of this muscular continent.
What prodigious energy, thought Doyle. What enormous concentration of ambition. And what proud testimony it offered to the potential of man's creative vitality. He wiped a tear from his eye, stirred to his soul by the magnificence of imagination that could result in such a city.
Completely unaware of the depth of his brother's feeling, and loathe to appear the bumpkin, as they sailed by her Innes feigned indifference to the epic dimensions of the Statue of Liberty, although his heart secretly raced with hormonal agitation at the irrational image she inspired; an entire nation populated by towering, voluptuous women wearing nothing but diaphanous, loosely draped robes.
When Pinkus finally appeared on deck in the company of Father Devine, Innes thought he looked remarkably subdued, shaken really, his bouncy canine readiness displaced by a pale, apologetic rue.
'What's the matter with old Pinkus?' he wondered.
'I don't know,' said Doyle. 'Perhaps he found confession to be bad for the soul.'
A stately turn up the Hudson brought the Elbe into the company of tugboats flocking to nose her gently into mooring at the West Side docks. Captain Hoffner invited Doyle onto the bridge for the final approach, taking him aside to offer formal thanks and to let him know their search of the ship had failed to uncover a fourth assassin. The five coffins had been confiscated and extra security arranged at the customhouse to ensure that this last man, if he was still on board, did not slip off in the guise of an officer or passenger. Doyle once again politely turned away the Captain's inquiries about Father Devine, saying only that in the heat of the moment his original negative assessment of the man had turned out to be unfounded. With that they shook hands, respected equals, and exchanged their good-byes.
As Doyle and Innes cleared customs and stepped through the doors into America, a brass marching band stationed in the foyer ripped into 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.' Festively decked out in red, white, and blue bunting, the entrance hall sported a field of hand-painted signs welcoming the famous author—many of which seemed to have been crafted with the impression that Doyle was, himself, Sherlock Holmes—dancing above the heads of an alarmingly large and demonstrative crowd.
Good Christ; they're chanting my name as if I were a football team. The epidemic of overfamiliarity in individual Americans had never troubled Doyle before, but encountering it at this mob level gave it the appearance of a prelude to human sacrifice.
Arrayed in front of police department sawhorses that restrained the masses was a constellation of greater and lesser lights from the firmament of Manhattan celebrity—luminaries from the publishing and newspaper worlds, dashing matinee idols, plump haberdashers, slick-haired restaurateurs, and a squadron of obscure city officials, interwoven throughout by a comely brood of decorative chorus girls; apparently Pinkus had not overstated this one critical aspect of his story, realized Innes ecstatically.
A gigantic, loose-limbed mountain of a man in riding boots, jodhpurs, a canary-yellow cutaway jacket, and a beaver hat perched on a shaggy head half the size of a buffalo's broke out of the pack and clapped a smothering bear hug onto Doyle before he could defend himself.
'Bless my soul! Bless my soul!' bellowed the man in a deep, creamy Virginia accent.
I must know this man, thought Doyle, thoroughly panicked. Considering the way he's greeting me, we must be first cousins at the least.
The giant stepped back and shouted into Doyle's face, 'Proud, sir! It does my heart proud to see you here!'
Doyle searched desperately for some clue to his identity— surely he would have remembered someone this size. Over the giant's shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Innes, who had decided his dress-blue Royal Fusiliers uniform the only appropriate outfit for their arrival, being sucked into a cloud of perfume, feminine ruffles, and gargantuan floral hats.
