Plain as a Pikestaff

“Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?” [Inspector Gregory said.]

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.”

—Dr. John H. Watson, “The Adventure of Silver Blaze.”

Saturday morning, Holmes and I met Lestrade at the Yard. He lined up four PCs for us.

“Constables, do any of you remember anything out of the ordinary on your beat the night of Saturday last or Sunday morning, immediately before the unfortunate Priory Church incident? Did you observe one or two gentlemen in an unusual part of the churchyard or St. Bart’s Hospital? It was a clear night,” said Holmes.

Three shook their heads but number four said, “Very early Sunday morning, I apprehended two drunken men. They were leaning on each other just outside the Priory wall. They were so drunk they couldn’t see a hole in a ladder. Started joking with me, you know, to see how far they could go? It was minutes from the end of my shift and we went across to the Sun Court Pub for a last bingo. Good souls, full of spirit and fun. I got in a game of darts so they left before me. I didn’t worry they had each other to get home.”

“What is your name?”

“Plummer, sir.”

“Constable Plummer, what were they wearing? How tall were they, hair, eye colour, facial hair, and their shoes?”

“Medium height, workers’ clothes, one had a beard the other was clean-shaven like you, Mr. Holmes,” said Plummer.

“Were there stains on their clothes or their shoes? Did they have blood on their hands, did they leave unusual footprints, what colour was the beard, their clothes? You’re sure they were the same height?” said Holmes.

“Blond beard, don’t remember their shoes, probably work boots. I didn’t see any bloodstains, sir, but it was still dark,” said Plummer with an apologetic smile.

Holmes swiftly stepped up to him so his face was in Plummer’s. “You fool! I hope you had no aspirations towards a detective’s position because with observational skills and reasoning like that get used to wearing blue!” He thumped Plummer’s chest. “Those women were someone’s daughters!”

“Holmes!” I warned.

“Do you have children, Plummer? When you see them tonight, think of the two you might have saved and the others these killers will destroy because you let the murderers go!” Holmes voice rang through the yard.

Lestrade pulled him away from Plummer and with my help advanced him towards the door. “Mr. Holmes, you’re lucky I’m a father, too. Go home and cool off!”

He looked at me, I nodded, and we left in our cab.

“Watson, think! If someone has Scotland Yard hunting suffragists and also decided beating them to death is the best deterrent, it is violence upon violence. The killers must have been roused by that idiot Plummer from whom they staged their drunken escape. The fool! The case would be over, and young women would be safe from their murderous clutches.” Holmes held his hands open before us. “He had them in his hands!” He punched his right hand into his left with such force that I worried for his healing stitches.

“Holmes, Rachel is the safest person in all London. She lives at No. 221B Baker Street, with the foremost champion of the law of our generation and I’m not a bad shot, myself.”

He patted my back. “Thank you, my dear friend.”

“Holmes, he had it coming!”

In our flat, there were three telegrams waiting for him, he pounced on them.

“Watson, yesterday at the British Museum I found what could be a clue to her parent’s disappearance and these telegrams may hold more threads to our other little mystery.”

I had been with Holmes all that day. Yet clearly, the excitement that had carried him through it was about the threads he had been following to our mysteries. Unbeknownst to me he had gathered the facts that might now bring him close to the solution of Rachel’s parents and her background. Patience is something I have learned through my long acquaintance with him. Knowing full well he will share them with me once he has all the threads in hand. But, he will keep them close to his vest until then.

Holmes in his basket chair, lit his pipe, and read the telegrams.

“The first is from Giuseppe:—

VERY SHIFTY MR SHERLOCK HOLMES! DOES VASSAR KNOW WHO YOU ARE? STEAMING TO RACHEL’S AID FOR HER SAFE RETURN! GIUSEPPE MARCELLO.

“The second is from Rita:—

ALBERT SAID RACHEL’S PARENTS WERE IN LABOR MOVEMENT DISAPPEARED AGE 19 OR 20 RACHEL 2 OR 3 YRS. BEWARE GIUSEPPE ON WARPATH. MISS YOU BOTH. RITA.

“Don’t look so concerned, ole boy, his bark is worse than his bite.” He put the telegrams in his pocketbook. “Well, things are looking up, Watson.” He chuckled. “Within a fortnight, we may anticipate a rare visit from the worthy Mr. Giuseppe Marcello.”

“Miss Rita has mentioned twice that she misses you, was there something between you?”

“Oh, Watson, yes, there was the tie between a knight and his damsel in distress. Together we shared both the horror and the deliverance.” He puffed on his pipe with a faraway look in his clear grey eyes. “But it was her younger sister, Marietta, who trifled with my heart.”

“The third is from Marietta:—

SHERLOCK HOLMES! DOES THE DOCTOR KNOW YOU HAVE A HEART? IT IS CLEAR NOW WHY LONDON IS WHERE YOU MUST BE. WISH I COULD SHARE YOUR ADVENTURES WITH YOU—ALAS ONE WAS ENOUGH FOR ME. CALIFORNIA IS MY SUNNY AND WARM ADVENTURE. WISH YOU WERE HERE. MARIETTA

“She sounds quite the charming and sensible young lady, Holmes.”

“American women are disarming. From young Marietta to the elder Mrs. Stanton they are delightfully impossible to ignore.”

“I must read your journal.”

“Dinner is ascending our stairs and we will have this conversation after Rachel’s bedtime.” She came in with covered serving trays. “What a divine aroma. Thank you, child.”

“Mmm, Romano’s bouquet.” We both stood with interest and moved to the table. “Rachel, what have you and Mrs. Hudson concocted for our dinner tonight?” I said.

“Simple fare, it’s spaghetti with Italian sausage and meatballs, plus my aunt’s delicious tomato sauce recipe,” Rachel said as she stirred and tasted it with her spoon. “Mrs. Hudson broke open her paraffined tomatoes from last season’s garden for this.”

“Rachel, your Uncle Giuseppe is presently steaming here as the Marcello’s representative to investigate your London life.” Holmes said, “I wonder why he was chosen?”

“Uncle Giuseppe? Oh, they’re all going west to the fair.”

Mrs. Hudson arrived with sharp cheese and a red wine. “Rachel is a compendium of her aunt’s recipes. The amount of garlic in this meal should keep us healthy throughout the summer.” She sat next to Rachel and passed the spaghetti to Holmes.

I opened the wine, “And you, Rachel?”

“Watson, the Marcellos honour the Italian custom.”

“Half a glass, please,” she said.

“I think as soon as they are offered, you might take the entrance exams for Oxford. Pass the polpette.”

Later, alone in our sitting room, I lit my pipe and sat at the fireplace. It burned steadily after Mrs. Hudson’s expert ministrations. I heard Holmes quietly playing an improvisation on Mendelssohn upstairs. I have never known him to follow any schedule yet he never missed Rachel’s bedtime. He gently exited and lightly trod the second floor stairs.

“That was an insightful improvisation, Holmes.”

He put his violin in its case. “Mendelssohn opens the doors to the soul.”

I had spent my evening reading his American journal. He approached and packed his pipe. “Holmes, what an adventure, how did you fit it all into six weeks? Thank you for your heartfelt letters to me. I am glad I was able in some small way to help you through your ordeal. Yet, in the midst of that horror-filled adventure, a woman’s love healed what those battles took from you, my friend. It is always the best way.” I patted his back. “Your writing is fairly good. You may want to continue. I dare say it would excite the reader to find your actual words.”

“Doctor, how do you manage to shoot so straight with romance foremost on your mind? There is only one Boswell at No. 221B.” He sat and lit his amber pipe and got a good start on the wreath of smoke he enjoyed creating. “It’s too much to lead the adventure and chronical it too. I should spend half my life doing it. Your natural proclivities in this area are much anticipated on two continents. My intuition must be free to solve murderous problems.” He pointed his pipe stem to the door. “Would you be open to discussing our little case?”

“Yes, of course.”

In his cross-legged pose, he spoke through his smoke. “Watson, since my return, I have endeavoured to be as transparent as is possible. I realize now the frustration you have tolerated at my side, your ability to wait indefinitely for some bit of plot is remarkable. Clarity is now my gift to you, my friend.” He turned and favoured me with the briefest of smiles. His face then assumed the look of the professor expounding to a favoured student as he gave the facts he had gleaned.

“From her family, we know her parents perished under sudden and mysterious circumstances when they were nineteen or twenty. Also, that they were involved with the American Labour Movement. That two or three-year-old Rachel arrived at the Marcellos’ home Sunday, the thirtieth of April 1886. At the Museum yesterday that date, led me to a coincidental event. Rachel’s parents dropped her off, in Poughkeepsie, New York and never returned. On Saturday, the first of May 1886, 80,000 workers marched non-violently in the Haymarket district of Chicago to support a nationwide movement for the 8-hour workday. Sunday, another peaceful march of 35,000 workers took place. The next day, Monday, the third of May, the peaceful scene turned violent when the Chicago Police Force attacked and killed picketing workers. On the evening of Tuesday, the fourth of May following a day of meetings, a group of 200 workers were attacked by 176 policemen carrying Winchester repeater rifles. It was here that the first dynamite bomb went off on American soil during peacetime.

“Chicago is about the same distance from New York as London is from Montpellier and may be traversed by railroad and carriage in a day or two. I have sent to Chicago for the names of the dead from the Haymarket affair and to the Marcellos for her parents’ surnames. This may be the answer, or a dead end, we won’t know until it’s verified.”

“Holmes, could it be her parents were anarchists? Haymarket was a flame to international anarchism.”

“As the critic Chesterton put it, ‘Art, like morality, consists in drawing the line somewhere.’ I have no answer to your question, Doctor, except that not one of the labour unionists was seen to be violent. It has never been proved which side threw the explosive that was so well publicized.”

“Holmes, you sound as if you side with them!”

“Not at all Doctor, understanding does not signify affiliation. My association with Rachel and the Marcello family led to my surmise that her parents were two of those 35,000 non-violent labour unionists. And they may have been there during Monday’s or Tuesday’s violence. As we observe in our own great country, anarchists and labour are quite dissimilar groups.”

I now understood all too clearly the nightmare which had awakened Rachel; I immediately grasped the horror of this discovery, and its probable effect upon her.

“Holmes, would this three-year-old-child have been able to discern the danger her parent’s faced? Would you have?”

He nodded slightly, “Perhaps.”

“Will you tell her? She is highly intelligent, but I am not sure the little girl who woke us yesterday morning would be able to accept this.”

“Precisely my thoughts, my friend, yet I am convinced she would want the truth. It may be terrible to hear, but she will know it Watson, she will know.”