Voyage of the Lucania

“There is a strong family resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can’t unravel the thousand and first.”

—Dr. John H. Watson, A Study in Scarlet

24 March, 1894.

Racing from New York to Liverpool, the steamship Lucania, fastest in the fleet, began this week’s exceptional contest. Her decks filled with well-wishers, passengers, and crew excited by the onset of their adventure. Her ship’s bell echoed through the city’s docks. Visitors waved handkerchiefs, and hastened to the gangplank. Into this confusion, an assassin aimed and fired. As a flock can turn instantly in mid-flight, a wave of terrified passengers bolted to the Dining Saloon.

Alone, Sherlock Holmes advanced towards the intruder. Swift as a serpent’s strike, a crack of his cane sent the pistol seaward. He seized the villain at the rail, and subdued him with a mighty uppercut. The passengers shouted their approval. Captain McKay locked the intruder in his brig and alerted the New York City Police Department.

Passengers flooded the promenade deck, but Holmes was no longer there. A visitor, Miss Rachel Marcello, had fled to the safety of his stateroom. The police departed with their prisoner, and the Captain immediately blew Lucania’s whistle. Passengers cheered as the ship moved into the Hudson River. Holmes rushed from the Captain’s chartroom to her side.

Miss Rachel threw her arms around him, “Thank God you’re all right! I’ve been praying for you, Mr. Holmes. Who was that man, and why was he shooting at us?”

He gently exited her hug, took his short-nosed revolver from his pocket, and laid it on the table.

“A lone assassin hunting me—he is no longer a problem.”

Holmes’ eyes scrutinized the peaceful stateroom, and returned to rest on this girl standing in the centre of his carefully devised plan. He acknowledged her quick mind and her courage, lit a cigarette and smiled. “Miss Marcello, this is a unique situation which requires some solution. No doubt you are aware that the ship has left port?” He loaded his gun, pocketed it, offered his arm, and escorted her from the cabin.

Telegrams were sent to her family. Holmes took her hand as the ship rocked through swells. “Miss Rachel, the State of New York presently believes me to be an escaped lunatic. No doubt Doctor Josiah Simons will eventually clear that up,” He chuckled. “Alas, I may neither secure nor escort you to a pilot boat for your return to shore. Similarly, your Aunt Rita cannot receive you at the New York docks. What’s more, we are passing through the Narrows and in minutes, Captain McKay’s Atlantic race will begin.”

“Hooray!” she said, “I’m going to London!”

They went aft and descended to the main deck library, to ride out the pass to open ocean. He lit a cigarette and pointed it at her.

“Child, you are presently a stow-away, and I intend on finding you another, more appropriate cabin.”

She said, “Why, when a simple game like playing your daughter sounds right for both of us?”

The ship’s bell rang, and officers announced, “Clear the Weather Decks!”

“Farewell, then, I will engage the purser and find you your own cabin.”

“No, it’s out of the question!” She stamped her foot.

“As a minor, it is not your decision.”

“Then whose is it, the escaped lunatic?”

Holmes laughed heartily, invited her to join him in a settee. “My alias on this ship is Robert Vernet. One thing that criminal took from me is my disguise, so I must remain as you see me. Your familial solution is a worthy one. Who would suspect I have an American daughter? As we are family, and aboard ship, we will no longer use appellations like Miss or Mr. when addressing each other—or our shipmates for that matter.”

“Thank you, sir, you heard me, it’s one of many reasons why I like you. You know, there are hundreds of ladies on board, when I drop a hint that my trunk was lost on the way, I’ll have all the clothing I want and more. Then in London when I move into 221B, I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would like some help and has an extra room to lend in return. Then you can teach me to be a consulting detective!”

“Ha! Mrs. Hudson will be twice surprised when she meets you, child.” He chuckled, crushed out his cigarette and pulling his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket, he packed it tightly. “I have no doubt that Doctor Watson will be enchanted by your American ways. You may wear my old uniform jacket tonight. It should prove truth to the rumour.” He lit his pipe, drew the smoke through its stem. “I will set things straight for the voyage.”

“Thank you.”

“Capital, we adjourn until dinner. Beware! There are serious seas ahead. Stay below deck. Once we pass the Ambrose Channel Lightship, the weather deck ban will end.” He went out.

Rachel pulled a book from the library shelves, curled up on the settee and wrapped herself in a blanket. Her quiet edification was interrupted as she was joined by a group of gossiping and laughing women coming in from the promenade deck.

“Hello, I’m Rachel, how do you do?”

“Oh, forgive our intrusion, Rachel, I’m, Bernice.”

“New friends are always welcome.” She stood and shook her hand.

“That was some show your companion put on before we left dock! Is he always so entertaining?” Aileen said.

“He saved us all, Aileen! Where did he learn to do that, my dear?” said Bernice.

“Oh, his hobbies—my Papa is a master swordsman and boxer. He is also a widower.”

“Pleased to meet you, Rachel, I’m Maggie, so sorry to hear of your loss, child. Are you from New York?”

“Thank you, yes.” She looked down at her hands. “We’ve had a tough year. But now I’m on my way to London.” Rachel put on a worried look. “I am in a state. My trunk was lost and I don’t know what to do. It’s my first crossing and this dress is all I have.” She opened her blanket to show off her sailor suit and then wrapped it tightly around herself.

“Oh, poor dear, we’ll have to find you something to wear, can’t have you swathed in blankets for the voyage!” Bernice said.

“Thank you, Bernice, what a wonderful idea. I hear it gets cold at night.” She jumped up and waved to Holmes, who had appeared in the passageway. “That’s my Papa. Do they always blow a bugle for meals? Sounds like dinner time. See you inside? Nice meeting you all.”

Holmes draped a two-stripe deck officer’s jacket around her shoulders. They moved to the Dining Saloon and were shown to their table.

“Sir, those wonderful ladies are going to find me a suitable wardrobe for the voyage. Isn’t that a splendid idea?” She waved to Bernice. “You should know that I told them you are a widower. Shouldn’t we wear armbands? Also, that you are a swordsman, a boxer, and that these are hobbies.”

Holmes smiled. “Excellent, child, this problem just might prove to be the best solution. Armbands are worn for the first year which has recently ended for us. As far as our story goes, this is the reason we are on this ship at this time. My wife was an American, now a name.”

“I know, how about Violet?”

“Hmm. Child, you seem to have adapted extremely well to your circumstances, but are you not missing your family?”

“Terribly, but this is so much fun! They know I’m safe. And I feel completely secure in your famous company.” He laughed.

The chef was Continental, and his shipboard fare simple and light. This was welcome as the great ship had navigated from the river through New York Harbour, passed over the New York Bight, and through Ambrose Channel into the open sea. It had pitched and rolled from side to side, or heaved fore and aft in the changing currents as it presently travelled over some of the hundreds of miles of the great sunken Hudson Canyon. The motion of the ship, and the now constant vibration of the twin screws, kept more than a few passengers in their cabins.

Capt. McKay ordered his triple expansion engines to full steam as the ship left the American coast. His race for the fastest passenger liner afloat had begun. Led by leaping dolphins, the Lucania entered into the incomprehensible vastness of the sea.

A soft-spoken, woman, on the cusp of thirty, with clear and penetrating eyes approached their table. Holmes pulled out a chair. “Rachel, this is Ruth, she has offered to share her cabin with you.”

“Hello dear, I understand you were looking forward to Vassar College, will it now be Cambridge?” She put out her hand and Rachel shook it.

“Ruth is a decorated markswoman, swordswoman, and equestrian. I’m sure you will enjoy each other’s company for the rest of the voyage,” Holmes said.

Suddenly distressed, Rachel blurted, “But I thought we would share the voyage!”

“Absolutely, we will meet at meals, and I am at your disposal any time I am not performing with the orchestra. I also plan to tuck you in each night at 9 p.m.

“That would be lovely, Robert. What do you play?” Ruth said.

“Violin!” said Rachel.

After dinner they approached Rachel’s new friends. “I understand you’ve met my daughter. I appreciate your help with her little problem.”

“We’re sorry to hear of your loss, Mr. Vernet,” said Bernice.

“Thank you, Robert, please, we’re shipmates.”

“Nice to meet you, Robert, thank you for subduing that gunman, we were terrified,” Maggie said.

Holmes half-bowed in reply. “My pleasure, I get so few chances to exercise my hobbies in a real fight.”

“Is that so?” She held out her hand. “Aileen Lambert and this is my husband, Frank. One would think you seek a more adventurous life, Mr. Vernet?” Frank stood and shook Holmes hand.

He laughed, “Do you know Beethoven’s, Violin Sonata in C? At present, it is my most challenging adventure. Frank, possibly we’ll meet later in the smoking room, do you play chess?”

“I’m the chess master in our family, since my father’s death, Robert. He taught me everything he knew,” Aileen said.

Frank put his arm around her shoulders and smiled. “I don’t stand a chance; she beats me every time.”

Holmes said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Aileen.”

Ship’s bell rang, officers declared, “Weather Decks are open!”

“Thank you for your kindness, goodnight.”

They left for the cabins as Bernice said, “Tomorrow’s Easter, let’s pass the word around.”

Amidships, outside their staterooms, Holmes took hold of a bow rope. “Child, you have rather good sea legs. Yet it’s important to always remain aware that you are on a ship in the middle of the sea.” She grabbed the rope. “The ocean moves constantly, as does the ship. Her depth is unfathomable, miles deep.” He took her hand and placed it on the rail. “Our universe ends here.” He threw his handkerchief into the water. “Observe the speed with which that handkerchief disappears behind us.”

“It’s gone! That’s fast, if it were a person, they’d be lost!”

“Exactly, add weather and it is dangerous to be on deck. People are swept overboard. Whenever you are caught on any weather deck and the ship is acting peculiar, a rope will anchor you until help arrives.”

Holmes knocked on Ruth’s door.

“Come in Robert.”

“How did you know?”

“Oh, I have excellent hearing. Well, Rachel, I am very glad you can stay with me.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“Oh, I’m not married. On a ship at sea we are informal. Call me Ruth. Rachel, this closet is for your things. How lucky we are to have six days to get acquainted.”

“Child, the ship’s store has toothbrushes and powder, also hair brushes, extra towels, and robes. Order more whenever you require.”

She put the items in her closet.

“We will meet tomorrow at breakfast, yes? Now to bed.”

Rachel went into the bathroom. With her mouth filled with toothbrush, “Will you play me a lullaby, sir?”

He tuned his violin.

She yawned and climbed under the sheets.

He brought the covers up to her chin and then improvised a lullaby based on what would soon become the ocean’s gentle movement. He played quieter, more measured and she was asleep. Exiting, he left his violin in his cabin and walked to the smoking room. The Lucania rocked as it negotiated a strong current.

Holmes enjoyed a brandy and cigar at the fireplace. He had expected Frank, but Aileen appeared. He felt a ripple of unease move through the card players.

“Robert, I can’t sleep, how about a game of chess?” She sat in the chair next to him, linked her arm in his. “Harrumphs” were heard from the denizens of the smoking room. In a voice more suggestive of the boudoir she said, “I think we should take the game and move to a private corner, don’t you?” She took his hand and led him to a table deep in the now empty Saloon.

“Aileen, what is this? I’m a plain man, mystery is not my forte.” He smiled while he set up the board. “The tale of white’s advantage, I know, is a popular theory, but it is delusion nonetheless—black or white?”

She grabbed his hand and held it more powerfully than he would expect of a woman. “Au contraire, you are a supreme solver of mystery.” She laughed. “In person, you are just like Mr. Brookfield played you, more parody than reality!”

Aileen stared closely into his eyes and in an altogether too familiar aspect she brushed his blond hair with her hand.

“Your costume is first-rate, Robert. You’re right handed, yes?” She smiled. He took his eyes from her for a moment to set the pieces. With lightning speed she pulled a hatpin from her hair grabbed with both hands and stabbed his: “Bloody Hogmagundy!” The force of it was enough to impale him. There was no way to safely twist free. He was bleeding all over the chessboard.

She sneered. “Now that I’ve gotten your attention, I admit I am grateful for Doctor Watson’s most recent story, the one where you and the Professor fell to your deaths at the Reichenbach Fall.” Her voice rose. “Imagine my surprise to find you here and alive.”

“Is the Professor alive, too?” Her scream echoed in the empty hall, “You are nothing but a common assassin! How did it feel to a man in his prime, a master of hand combat, when you saw the fear in my elderly father’s eyes, and the push that caused him to fall into the abyss? Was it justice or murder?

“As his daughter, I charge you, Sherlock Holmes, with the cold-blooded killing of Professor Moriarty,” She laughed. “But since you are already dead, this is not murder!” She pulled a gun.

In one movement Holmes unpinned himself and dropped the bloody table onto her gun hand. She screamed as the shot she loosed grazed her own foot. He kicked the pistol to the other side of the hall, then focused his revolver on her, sat her down, used his jacket to tie her to the chair.

Aileen shouted, “Die, you must die! Why won’t you die, Sherlock Holmes?”

The smoking room occupants entered to discover what the “hell” was going on. “Ring for the Deck Officer!” Holmes ordered.

She continued her high-pitched declaration, “At least they will all know that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is aboard this ship. Your anonymity is gone, Sherlock! Maybe the next assassin will get you, Sherlock Holmes!” Aileen’s maniacal laughter rose as the deck officer arrived, and called for another who picked up her gun. She was handcuffed, her wound bound, and they escorted her to Captain McKay. After Holmes’ account, she was ordered confined to the brig for the rest of the journey.

The Captain said, “Mr. Holmes, once again you arrive bleeding in my chartroom. The Lucania is safer with you aboard. Ship’s surgeon will care for your hand.”

“Captain, her husband must be questioned immediately, to determine whether he is an accomplice. I would like to lead that interview,” said Holmes.

McKay called to his mates, “Bring in Mr. Frank Lambert and go armed.”

“And do not alert him to what has happened.” Holmes turned back to the Captain, “I would be grateful for the ship’s barber, also.”

Doctor Pointon, cleaned the deep puncture, stitched it on both sides and bandaged Holmes’ bruised hand. Then he checked the work he had performed on his arm eight weeks ago, slapped him on the back and said, “Good job, Adam, er, Sherlock.”

“I would desire Doctor Watson’s knowledge of that.”

“Oh, I’ll draft a letter for his follow-up care.”

“I can still hold my bow, Doctor, I feel no pain, my fingers move well?” He demonstrated.

“It’s lovely how the body anaesthetizes itself immediately after an injury. Try your bow tomorrow, but for the next few weeks handling a revolver is out of the question.”

“That’s all right, Watson’s will do. And boxing?”

“I don’t know why you would choose to cause further damage to your fine musician’s hands, but after three months you should be sufficiently healed to box.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” He lit a cigarette.

Frank Lambert was brought in. He was in his night shirt and hastily donned robe, trousers and slippers.

Lambert began, “Captain, what is this all about? Robert, good, maybe you can clear this up? What happened to your hand?”

Holmes said, “Frank, would you please tell the captain who I am and what I do for a living?”

“You’re Robert Vernet, and you play first violin with the Sussex Chamber Orchestra. Are you having problems, Robert? I’ll help in any way I can. Sir, I can vouch for Mr. Vernet, he is a gentleman of his word. Why is he being questioned?”

The captain began to speak, but Holmes discreetly waved him to silence. Holmes offered his case and lit Frank’s cigarette.

“Frank, how do you think Aileen might describe me?”

“Oh, Aileen, I don’t know, since she’s come on board, she’s like a different person. I thought it seasickness. My bright, happy angel was suspicious and brooding. And she seems angry with you, Robert. Is that what this is about?”

“Frank, do you have good relations with her family?”

“What family, Robert? Her brother died in Afghanistan; her mother died when she was young, and her father died in a horrible accident a few years ago. She is still so upset over his loss and I honour her silence, so other than her maiden name. I know little of her family.”

“But surely as a Londoner, that name meant something to you, especially the recent accounts of his death.” He smoked.

“Yes, I know what they said about him, but following his death, his brother, the Colonel, published a letter which I thought stated it well and cleared the name of Moriarty beyond a doubt. Surely this can’t be about an old letter?”

“Nevertheless, it is about Aileen.”

“No, she is all right, is she not? I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her.” Lambert put his face in his hands.

“She is alive. Her foot was grazed by the bullet she meant for me, a flesh wound, nothing more.” Holmes doused his cigarette, looked to the captain and nodded.

“Oh thank God!” said Lambert, looking up hopefully. “But why would she do this to you, Robert?”

Captain McKay said. “Mr. Lambert, first you should know that this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” Frank blanched and dropped his cigarette. “Your wife threatened, assaulted, and attempted to take his life. He had been living under an alias for three years after surviving her father’s attack. Further he was repeatedly ambushed by her father’s associates during that time, including the man who so perilously fired on my ship. Mrs. Lambert has been locked in the brig.”

Doctor Pointon said, “The last time I saw Mr. Holmes, he was in serious danger of losing his magnificent bow arm as the result of one of those vicious attacks!”

The Captain said, “Your wife, Aileen, also uncovered his alias. Now gossip has announced that Mr. Holmes is aboard ship, and he and his daughter are no longer safe. Mrs. Lambert will sit out the remainder of the trip in the brig, and then be remanded to Scotland Yard.”

The barber arrived and made quick work of Holmes facial hair. And through the liberal application of Morgan’s Hair Darkening Pomade, Sherlock Holmes stood before them once more.

“How can I help her? She didn’t hurt you, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes held up his mangled hand. “I’m sorry, Frank, she pulled a gun and I defended myself.” He turned to the Captain. “I will go down to the Saloon and see what I can do to repair my dignity.” He patted his shoulder on the way out. “Frank, you are a good man. I have always held that good is stronger than evil.”

It was 2 a.m. when Holmes walked into the smoking room. He found it and the saloon filled with the buzz of conversation, and many of his shipmates in robes and nightgowns. His smoking room compatriots handed him a drink and a cigar, thumped him on the back. The story had passed quickly from person to person. Holmes sipped his brandy as if he were one of my patients and smiled at that thought. He then leaped onto the stage, puffing on a Havana.

“Well, I see my unmasking has led to a pyjama party. That’s the spirit!” He bowed, and smoked, waiting for the questions.

“Mr. Holmes, are you on a case?”

“Mr. Holmes, are we in danger on this ship?”

“Mr. Holmes, The papers said you died three years ago?”

At mention of the Reichenbach, Holmes answered, “The danger is past and my attacker is in the brig. That is the last mystery for this voyage. For the rest of the journey, I intend to play my violin for your entertainment. I am not on a case, and as you can see, I am very much alive. Presently, my daughter, Rachel, and I are traveling home to England. I will join my associate in London and once again begin my consulting practice. If you require an independent consulting detective for any reason, I am at your service. Thank you.”

He threw back his drink. “And now, sleep.” He yawned. “I recommend you do the same.”

He watched as his yawn passed through the crowd as he hoped it would. Then stepped off the stage and was warmly received by his fellow passengers, hand in his pocket to ward off handshakes.

Ruth greeted him, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it seems you and I have more in common besides your intelligent daughter.”

“And what is that?”

“Oh, love of a good mystery, of course!”

“You have mistaken me for my partner, Doctor Watson. Justice is my only interest. Ruth, I am glad you are here, and I have a favour to ask. I’d like to look in on Rachel.”

“Yes, especially after your ordeal. Please feel free to do so at any time. I am usually up late, with my journal. Just knock!”

They approached the dark and quiet stateroom, and entered noiselessly. He stood listening, and could hear regular breathing but he lit a match to make sure. He knew tomorrow would be occupied with cataloguing the lists of people on this floating town, but for now he was supremely grateful that the child was safe. He thanked Ruth and left. In his cabin, he smoked a final cigarette then jettisoned it through the porthole, checked his pistol, dressed in his night shirt, and slept.

25 March, 1894, Easter.

Holmes was awakened by squeals of delight outside his cabin. He stretched, was reminded of his wound, reached for a cigarette, put on his dressing gown, and started his second day aboard the good ship Lucania.

Rachel burst in and spoke without a pause, “Papa, look at this! My patronesses brought so many splendid dresses. Everything I need is here, even slippers. All in a trunk outside Ruth’s door with a ‘Happy Easter’ note slipped underneath. Do you know that Easter custom about wearing new clothes? How do we thank them all? I have to think of something. Oh, maybe I can work something out with the chef?”

Holmes laughed. “Good morning, child.”

She ran to him. “Good morning, Papa!”

“Sit down.” He pointed to the stuffed armchairs. “Something rather serious happened last night. Did Ruth tell you about it?”

“She’s asleep.” She bounced into a chair swinging her feet.

He closed the door and joined her. “Aileen is Professor Moriarty’s daughter.”

Rachel whistled!

“Not only did she uncover our aliases, but she attempted to kill me. I subdued her, but not before she stabbed me with a hatpin. As a hidden weapon it is something you may want to add to your private arsenal.”

“Are you okay, can you still play your violin? Tell me what happened and leave nothing out.”

He disclosed the facts and ended with, “I imagine Frank will reside in the brig with his wife until we reach port. He is completely innocent. I can still play, it’s not serious.”

“So where does that leave me?”

“The same story as before, child, only now the ship’s complement is aware Sherlock Holmes is aboard. And that we were traveling under aliases for obvious reasons.”

“So, you’re still Papa, not Mr. Holmes? We were living in New York with my mother and are now returning to London? And I am Rachel Holmes?”

“Yes. This morning’s breakfast has commenced. I will spend much of the day examining the passenger lists. You may bring your gift trunk in from the passageway. Hang your clothes in your cabin when Ruth is available.” He dressed and exited the lavatory.

She said, “Sir, I’m glad you shaved. Now you look like Sherlock Holmes. But, let’s go, I’m starving.”

The air was filled with the cinnamon of freshly baked hot cross buns, and the traditional egg hunt was announced as following breakfast on the afterdeck.

Rachel table-hopped and thanked her friends. She explored some of the children’s on deck games as Holmes approached the concertmaster. Wilhelm clucked like an old hen while he tested Holmes’ fingers and playing ability. The Saloon filled again. At a wink from Wilhelm, the band struck up, God Save the Queen, and Captain McKay joined them on stage.

“Mr. Holmes, you have rescued us all. Twice you put yourself in harm’s way for the safety of my ship. I am exceedingly grateful for your quick thinking and much-practiced skill. You defused the dangerous situations and protected us from harm. You are the hero of the Lucania!” The crowd applauded. “We wish to entrust to you our highest honour, the Lucania medal for bravery and valour.” He pinned it on Holmes’ lapel, and saluted him. The room exploded in applause and well wishes. And he was toasted by the entire saloon.

“Thank you,” Holmes said.

Rachel and a young man, standing at the door, lifted their glasses in a toast.

At dinner he played with the orchestra and over dessert sherry met Godfrey and Isabella Broome, and their son, Sean.

“But of course, you are the famous Mrs. Broome. Your gossip column in The Chronicle is well done and has been of service to me. You’re using your writer’s wiles for a good story. How lucky we are to be shipmates.”

“Sherlock, we would like to have the jump on all the London periodicals. Might you grant us an interview?”

“I will gladly do so but with a caveat. I immediately discerned Aileen’s utter rage when she challenged the decorum of the smoking room. When she moved me to a back table in the empty saloon I knew I was the focus of that rage but didn’t as yet know why. I recognized she was at the edge of her control when she pinioned my right hand to the table with her hatpin. Her complete loss of emotional balance was clearly evident when her soliloquy led to her own unmasking as Professor Moriarty’s daughter. At which point she threatened me with a gun and I had to forget I was a gentleman and she a gentlewoman in order to save both of us. I easily disarmed her using the art of baritsu. Her wild shot grazed her own foot.”

“Do you think she is crazy?”

“Isabella, that is conjecture, I deal in fact. It is for a doctor to decide.”

“My caveat is this: To refrain from publishing until after the arrest of Moriarty’s principal henchman in London. Similarly it would be a sin for my dear friend Watson to read of my return in your account, before he heard it from my own lips.”

“It’s a deal, Sherlock!” She tapped the table as if we were sealing a bet. “I will be writing it up on-board, so a preview is easily arranged.”

He knocked and Ruth opened as before, calling their names.

She was sitting at the desk, writing. She waved to them as they entered, and returned to her writing.

“Papa, there is something about Sean, I feel different around him.”

“This trip is improving, child.”

She brushed her teeth and he picked up his violin. “I am confident you will find dining with the Broomes entertaining. They publish a magazine. Don’t be too candid with them. It is time for bed.”

“Hug first, Papa!”

“Child, I am unaccustomed to such displays. Further, it is not proper for us in the circumstances we find ourselves aboard ship.”

He tucked her in and improvised a lullaby. “I love you, Papa,” Rachel whispered as she drifted off.

He stepped quietly out. In the passageway he lit a cigarette and entered his stateroom. He thought, I felt a connection from the first, what was that connection? Her intelligence shone like a jewel in her commonplace surroundings. There it was and I picked it up. When did I begin thinking of her paternally? As soon as I discerned her singular intelligence, in this we were related as closely as by blood. Something happened ten (?) years ago to rip her parents out of her life. Once the villainous hunter I pursue is brought to proper London justice, solving the child’s mystery will commence.

26 March, 1894, Easter Monday.

On their third day at sea, Rachel put her gratitude plan into action. Holmes gained access to the chef and left them to it.

Ruth in a sundeck chair, dressed in an Irish tweed suit, her watch pinned to the left side, and a scarf of Indian design, gestured him over to an adjacent chair.

Her intelligent eyes held him, as she spoke in her usual susurration, “Like everyone else who read Doctor Watson’s account, I thought you had died at the falls and am grateful you are floating on the sea with us instead.”

He smiled. “As am I, thank you once again for offering Rachel the comfort of your stateroom, Ruth. I couldn’t ask for a more perfect solution to our conundrum.”

“Excuse me, Sherlock, but you seem to be more accepting of a women’s intelligence than your biographer has stated. If I may ask, how was this accomplished in you?”

He was taken aback by her directness, yet chuckled. “Two of the most intelligent and fearless women, Miss Anthony and Mrs. Stanton, were kind enough to join me on a case of mutual interest. And it is my practice to follow blindly where the facts lead.”

“Of course.” It was clear she wanted more.

“My fundamental view of women was exceptionally adjusted and my clarity of vision enhanced.”

“How fortunate for the ladies, but, Sherlock, I’m afraid you were a little quick in your earlier pronouncement—there is something mysterious happening on this ship. Have you noticed? No? Passengers are disappearing into their cabins.”

“Do you have a rationale? What aspects of the ship are involved? Is it illness, artifice, deception, or merely seasickness?”

“It’s rumour. But you know how important gossip may be for some situations. This has me searching for the actualities.”

“Please keep me apprised, Ruth.”

After dinner, Holmes packed his violin. Rachel ran up to him clearly upset, “Mrs. Broome tricked me! She didn’t even ask my permission and wrote down our conversation for an article she’s writing! She was supposed to care for me, not fool me. I hate this feeling! I hate it! Is it possible to throw feelings away, Papa? Doctor Watson shows you capable of that. Can you teach me how?”

“Child, I am not always the man in the stories. Watson is an author and does his best to illustrate our cases. Occasionally his portrayal is more the character he created and less me. I cannot relinquish my senses or subjugate them with my mind. I have trained myself to drop a case once completed. To remain exclusively focused on fact, to involve my thoughts in other pursuits instead of theorizing when I have none. As most adults, I am capable of putting my feelings aside for an instant to take the actions necessary for survival. So, no, I may not impart the knowledge you request.”

“I told her I didn’t like it and that I would decide if I wanted to be in her magazine.”

He laughed. “Child, you stood your ground against the famous Mrs. Broome and she’s an institution. I am proud of you.”

They entered her cabin. Ruth addressed her meeting with the steward. “He would tell me anything I wanted to know about anyone on the ship. But he was closed mouthed on this one point. I’ll go interview them in their locked cabins. It may be revealing,” she said.

29 March, 1894.

The passengers glimpsed the coast of Ireland and spirits ran high through breakfast. But, during lunch Doctor Pointon announced he had found and segregated twenty passengers with cholera and the ship had been quarantined by the Port Sanitary Authority.

The travellers did their best to enjoy their extra days on-board as the Lucania steamed around the southern end of Ireland through the Celtic Sea to St. George’s Channel. Wilhelm created diversions to occupy their time. But they watched downhearted as the ship passed through Liverpool Bay and moored in the Mersey River off New Ferry to be inspected by medical experts. The telegraph office was busy day and night as passengers contacted their households.

31 March, 1894.

On the fourth day of quarantine, Ruth, and Isabella approached Holmes before breakfast. Ruth said, “Sherlock, the shut-a-ways are twenty ladies of similar age. They won’t open their doors. All became sick on the same night.”

“That is highly suggestive.”

“Sounds like a party to me,” Isabella said.

“Did you knock on every door?”

“Most of them.”

“Which ones did you not?”

“I made a list. The tick marks are the ones I have already examined,” Ruth said as she handed it to Holmes.

“Thank you. Do you know who officiated this gathering?”

“No. But there are six to go, we’ll divide them.”

“It would be preferable at this point to progress together. We will meet in the Saloon following lunch.”

When they gathered in the Dining Saloon, Murray joined them.

“Isabella, Ruth, this is Mr. Murray, he is the Assistant Medical Officer on the ship. I met briefly with the Steward this morning and expect one door is all we will require—now to it!”

Murray knocked on the stateroom door and announced himself as a medical officer. The woman allowed them to enter.

“Miss Antonia, I am Sherlock Holmes, this is Medical Officer Murray, Mrs. Broome, and Miss West. We are here to uncover the truth and put an end to this counterfeit quarantine. Now tell us exactly how you poisoned nineteen of your friends at your birthday celebration?”

She collapsed into a chair. “It was just a party.”

“Look dear, I have a magazine to run, and no time for your foolishness! What did you feed them that caused this abdominal curse?”

“I just made zabaglione with the eggs and cream I brought with me. Its custard made with wine. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“Do you have a sample?” Murray said.

“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone.”

Holmes said, “My dear with your cooperation, I am sure the consequences, if any, will be slight.”

“Your friends’ ire is quite another matter,” said Ruth.

As they exited the cabin, she shook his hand, Holmes said, “A pleasure working with you, Ruth.”

Mrs. Broome presented Pointon with the research and demanded he immediately end the quarantine. He summoned the Port Sanitary Authority Medical Officer. To loud cheers the Lucania sailed downriver to Liverpool. At dinner, Captain McKay announced “We will land at the Port of Liverpool early tomorrow morning. Please be ready to disembark following breakfast.” He was applauded and meal discussions were full of homecoming.

1 April, 1894.

Breakfast was an Italian feast created by Rachel and Chef Michel. “Thank you for coming to my aid. Your generosity turned my loss into a celebration!” she said.

She knocked and entered Holmes stateroom. He was ready to disembark.

“Rachel, I leave immediately.”

“I wish I was going with you.”

“This is detective business, child. Discover London with Sean and the Broomes. There are sufficient funds in your trunk and a telegram will always reach me. I am a dangerous chaperone now, and we will not travel together on the train. I will free London from Moriarty’s final henchman. As soon as it is safe for you to join me I will send word. Au revoir, Rachel, be brave!” He looked to her with a silent, “Trust me!”

Violin in hand, in his formal black city wear, scarf flying, he sprinted across the deck and disappeared down the gangplank. She curled up in his chair. Sean knocked on the open door, she was crying.

“Rachel, I’m so glad you—are you all right?”

“He is going to face the worst murderer in London!”

Sean sat next to her and took her hand.

“What if he’s killed? I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Rachel, I will be here.” He patted her hand.

“He showed up just when I really needed him, but an assassin’s bullet could end his life today. How do I live with that?”

“Rachel, those two killers could have hurt a lot of people on this ship, but he subdued them both. Mr. Holmes has the knowledge and ability to walk into darkness and vanquish it. There aren’t many we might call heroes. But your Papa is one and heroes are victorious. Besides, he won’t be alone.”

She kissed him and they walked down the gangplank. From the newsstand, Holmes watched as Rachel stepped onto British soil for the first time, holding tightly the hand of the boy she loved.

Sherlock Holmes filled his London and North-Western Railway compartment with smoke and newspapers. The accounts of the Adair murder case drew his interest, yet they were sketchy.

Daily Chronicle

1st April 1894

The Tragedy of Honourable Ronald Adair

On the night of March 30, 1894, at 427 Park Lane, under unusual and inexplicable circumstances, Ronald Adair was brutally murdered in his bedroom.

An interview with the maid led her to admit she had opened a window to air his room. She also informed me he had returned from his club and retired to bed. And did he lock himself in his room? A few hours later the unfortunate young man was found lying on the floor near his desk, his head horribly mutilated, in a pool of his own blood. “The carpet will not be saved,” she said. No weapon was found. As Adair was a gentleman there seems to be no motive.

Suppose the deadly shot had been fired through the open window? From my research of the site, the murderer would have to be standing on the top level of a double-decker bus to do so. An impossible shot! There was no explanation for this horrible tragedy, all appeared to be inadequate. Let’s hope the coroner’s court finds more.

This reporter feels a duty to decry such horror! If our noblemen are not safe in our city—who is? This strange business has all the earmarks of the anarchist! Have the Fenians returned to London?

Holmes knew the weapon and the only man capable of this crime. He packed his pipe, savouring the knowledge that his long-awaited trap was about to be sprung.

At Euston station, he bounded into the first cab, “Baker Street with dispatch, cabbie!” He travelled the few miles by way of Drummond Street West, onto Albany Street, and around the greening southern end of Regent’s Park. An upsurge of excitement invaded his demeanour as the pageantry of London revealed itself to him once more. Holmes leapt out on the corner of Park Square East to ensure he was observed by the watchers he knew awaited him. He was happy to find his key still fit and as he opened his Baker Street windows the curtain came up on a new adventure.

Here, dear reader is where my story, “The Adventure of the Empty House,” commences. One most eventful day in the life of Sherlock Holmes and myself—I invite you to read it.