Chapter 3

I brooded over the Hamtramck article for the rest of the day and finally finished it before the deadline. When it got to be time to leave, my stomach was tied up in knots. Charlie might think I was over-reacting, but he wasn’t the one who had to face Violet.

She had fixed an excellent piece of Coho salmon for supper, broiled in the oven and served with a baked potato and tossed salad with mandarin orange slices.

I finally gathered up my courage while washing dishes.

She gave me a slant-eyed look as she passed me a plate to wipe, “And just who is this Trevor Claybrook I’m supposed to meet at the station?”

I took a deep breath before. “Trevor Claybrook is the name Mr. Holmes used to book passage from England. From what I had been told, it might even be his real name. He’s a very old friend I’ve known all my life.”

“Are you sure he’s not the great detective Sherlock Holmes?”

At the words, the plate slipped out of my hand and shattered on the floor. “What?”

“Sorry. I should have told you I found your diary. I thought you were writing a novel. It’s so good I was sure you’d get it published some day when you finished it. Then I discovered your first edition A Study in Scarlet. Autographed to Timothy by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Imagine my surprise to find your name in the story. I had no idea Vicar Douglas and his wife let you live on the street when you were a child.”

She already knew! And she was smiling. I could barely believe my fortune. “You’re not angry?”

“Of course I am. I’m absolutely furious. What if you discovered I’d been a lady-of-the-night twenty years after you married me? Wouldn’t you be mad, too?”

“No. Then I’d know how you learned your tricks.”

She kicked my shin. Hard. It hurt, but it seemed to be small enough punishment for twenty years of deception.

We’d met in a nineteenth-century English lit class at the university. She came into the auditorium late one spring day and the only vacant seat near the door was next to me. I liked the wavy blond hair under the bonnet, and the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled. She slipped out of her sandals to show off her very small feet. Noticing my interest, she brazenly asked me to have coffee with her in the union after class. We married in our senior year. She proposed to me.

“I’m sorry I deceived you. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to marry me if you knew my real background. I’m certain your parents would never have approved.”

“I wouldn’t have cared how you grew up unless you had robbed a bank or killed someone.” She stopped. In a worried voice she said, “You didn’t, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you had nothing to worry about. I love our life, and I couldn’t care less what my parents might have thought of you.”

“Um,” I said. Not knowing what else to do or say, I stooped on my haunches to pick up the pieces of the plate.

“Don’t. You’ll cut yourself.” She handed me a broom and dustpan. “None of this makes any sense whatsoever to me. How can Sherlock Holmes be a real person? Everyone knows he’s just a fictional character.”

“Everyone else is wrong. He’s very real. It’s just that Sherlock Holmes is not his real name. No one knows what it is. Not even Sir Arthur himself. He invented the name when he wrote his stories telling about the real detective’s assistance to the police.”

“What about Dr. Watson?”

“That dear fellow also exists, but the chronicler in the Sherlock Holmes stories was Sir Arthur himself.”

She dug her fists into her hips and cocked her head. “You’re just teasing me, aren’t you? Why would anyone go to all the trouble to change names? Is Holmes a spy or something?”

“No, but his brother Mycroft was, and still is, a high-ranking member in the Admiralty Office. He feared that if his brother’s exploits were publicized, his own identity would become known. The Office learned of Sir Arthur’s plans to publish the great detective’s adventures and demanded that the names in the stories be changed. Sir Arthur agreed. The Diogenes Club is the name the Admiralty Office took for itself. They were always looking for credible information from reliable sources. In other words, honest men.”

Her scowl gradually disappeared as I finished sweeping up the shards of the plate. “Were you as good a detective as you appear to be in your diary?”

I unintentionally broke into a grin. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Holmes about that. All I know is that he always relied on my information when he was involved in a case. He and his brother provided most of the money that sent me to the University of Michigan.”

The scowl returned. “I can’t believe you never told me this. It sounds as if you have as many secrets as the Holmes brothers themselves.”

I wondered if she knew how close to the truth she had come. “Not nearly as many, my dear. All I’m asking you to do is meet Mr. Holmes at the train station and see he gets to the Royal Palm Hotel.”

“How will I know him? Will he be wearing a cape and deerstalker cap?”

“I doubt it very much,” I said with a laugh. “He’ll recognize you. You’ll be carrying one of Cameron’s U of M pennants and wearing a beanie. I wired the train office to pass on the message, so he’ll know what to look for. Go Wolverines.”

She giggled. “Then you’ll have to leave the Chevrolet for me.”

“Not on your life,” I said. “You don’t even know how to signal your turns and someone will crash into you. I have the trolley schedule.”

“I do too know the signals. Arm up is right turn, arm straight is left turn, and arm down is stop. So there.” She stuck her tongue out at me.

“N-O.”

“Spoil sport,” she said. Unlike every other woman I knew, Violet wanted to drive. She pestered me about it. Only one of the unfortunate consequences of her being a feminist I had to endure. “Oh, all right.”

I gave her a hug. “Thanks m’dear.”