Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Read Online Free PDF Page B

speculating upon the availability of scientific instruments in the savage streets of New York. I listened patiently, or half listened, pretending a greater interest in his monologue that in truth I felt. The
Great Eastern
must have been breasting awarm Atlantic current, perhaps the fabled Gulf Stream, for the air was warm and so moist that it seemed almost to hold a heavy mist. Figures appeared and disappeared as they approached or distanced themselves in what I finally came to think of as a displaced London fog.
    A well-dressed couple approached us. The gentleman bowed politely. “Mr. Holmes and Mr. Holmes, is it not?”
    My brother and I conceded that we were indeed the Holmses.
    “You are not really named Major and Minor, however?” Apparently these people were Americans, returning to their homeland. Had they been British they would have been familiar with the customary identification of elder and younger brothers.
    “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” my beanpolish sibling explained. “My little brother is Ellery.”
    “Boatwright. Bertram and Bonnie Boatwright, of Back Bay, Boston,” the gentleman said.
    There followed much tipping of hats and shaking of hands. I had to remind myself that I was one of three males in the presence of but one female. I would have liked to identify myself by my gender; I could imagine how Bonnie Boatwright must yearn for the companionship of a fellow woman, but I determined to maintain my disguise.
    The Boatwrights invited Sherlock and myself to join them in their stroll along “Oxford Street.” Both of these Bostonians were kind enough to compliment me at length upon my rendering of the Mozart flute duets with Mr. Jenkins. No mention was made of Sherlock’s violin performances. It was well, I thought, that Maestro had not singled my brother out for any solo.
    The prow of our great ship split the waters gracefully. A thinspray on occasion rose above the ship’s railing, reminding one and all that we were not in truth at home, but many hundreds of miles from the nearest land.
    At length our conversation, which had consisted for the most part of what is sometimes known as small talk, turned to the Boatwrights’ dinner companion.
    “It is a good thing that we are Americans,” Mr. Boatwright announced. “That fellow—what is his name, darling?”
    “Beaufort. John Gaunt Beaufort, or so he fancies himself.”
    “Thank you, my dear. Beaufort. Yes. As I was saying, it is a good thing that we are Americans, and your English politics with your dukes and princes and suchlike don’t mean much to us.”
    “And why is that?” piped Sherlock in his irritating voice.
    “Why, young fellow, this Beaufort pipsqueak seems to think he’s the king of England.”
    There was a shocked silence.
    Then Sherlock and I exclaimed simultaneously, “What?”
    “Yes, that’s what he says.”
    Mrs. Boatwright nodded agreement with her husband. “Yes, he claims to be the rightful king of England.”
    “Surely he means that as a jest,” I put in.
    “I think not. Have you seen his conduct? He became so agitated that he knocked over a bottle of wine and ruined my poor darling’s frock.”
    “He is serious, then?”
    “Very.”
    “Upon what does he base his claim?”
    “He says that he is the legitimate heir of the Plantagenets. That each monarch since Henry the Seventh has been a usurper and afraud. That upon the death of Richard the Third the crown should rightfully have passed to Margaret Pole, Eighth Countess of Salisbury. That her beheading in 1541 was an unforgivable crime and that only the recognition of this fellow, this—what was his name again, darling?”
    “John Gaunt Beaufort,” Bonnie Boatwright dutifully supplied.
    “Yes, this Beaufort fellow claims that the crown is rightfully his and that once he is recognized as rightful monarch of Great Britain and her empire, he will take the name Richard the Fourth.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Kept muttering about houses. Do you