The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 3
I write of this late in life, because I feel some record must be left of the astounding events of April 1912. I am aware that prior attempts to record my adventures personally have suffered when compared to those of my old and good friend Watson, but following my retirement from active practice as a consulting detective late in 1904 I saw very little of him. There were occasional weekend visits when he was in the area of my little Sussex home overlooking the Channel, but for the most part we had retired to our separate lives. It was not until 1914, at the outbreak of the Great War, that we would come together for a final adventure.
But that was more than two years away when I decided, quite irrationally, to accept an invitation from the president of the White Star Line to be a guest on the maiden voyage of RMS Titanic across the Atlantic to New York. He was a man for whom I had performed a slight service some years back, not even worthy of mention in Watson’s notes, and he hardly owed me compensation on such a grand scale. There were several reasons why I agreed to it, but perhaps the truth was that I had simply grown bored with retirement. Still in my mid-fifties and enjoying good health, I had quickly learned that even at the height of season, the physical demands of beekeeping were slight indeed. The winter months were spent in correspondence with fellow enthusiasts, and a review and classification of my past cases. What few needs I had were seen to by an elderly housekeeper.
My initial reaction upon receiving the invitation was to ignore it. I had never been much of a world traveler, except for my years in Tibet and the Middle East, but the offer to revisit America intrigued me for two reasons. It would enable me to visit places like the Great Alkali Plain of Utah and the coal-mining region of Pennsylvania, which had figured in some of my investigations. And I could meet with one or two American beekeepers with whom I’d struck up a correspondence. I agreed to the invitation on one condition—that I travel under an assumed name. For the voyage I became simply Mr. Smith, a name I shared with five other passengers and the ship’s captain.
Early April had been a time of chilly temperatures and high winds. I was more than a little apprehensive as I departed from London on the first-class boat train to Southampton, arriving there at 11:30 A.M. on Wednesday the 10th. Happily, my seat companion on the boat train proved to be a young American writer and journalist named Jacques Futrelle. He was a stocky man with a round, boyish face and dark hair that dipped down over his forehead on the right side. He wore pince-nez glasses and flowing bow tie, with white gloves that seemed formal for the occasion. Because of his name I took him to be French at first, but he quickly corrected my misapprehension. “I am a Georgian, sir, by way of Boston,” he told me, “which might explain my strange accent.”
“But surely your name—”
“My family is of French Huguenot stock. And you are—?”
“Smith,” I told him.
“Ah!” He indicated the attractive woman seated across the aisle from us. “This is my wife, May. She is also a writer.”
“A journalist like your husband?” I asked.
She gave me a winning smile. “We both write fiction. My first story appeared in The Saturday Evening Post some years back.” She added, “The maiden voyage of the Titanic might provide an article for your old employer, Jacques.”
He laughed. “I’m certain the Boston American will have any number of Hearst writers covering the voyage. They hardly need me, though I do owe them a debt of gratitude for publishing my early short stories while I worked there.”
“Might I be familiar with your books?” I asked. Retirement to Sussex had left me with a mixed blessing, time to read the sort of popular fiction which I’d always ignored in the past.
It was May Futrelle who answered for him. “His novel The Diamond Master was published three years ago. I think that is the best of his romances, though many people prefer his detective stories.”
The words stirred my memory. “Of course! Futrelle! You are the author of ‘The Problem of Cell 13.’ I have read that gem of a story more than once.”
Futrelle smiled slightly. “Thank you. It has proven to be quite popular. My newspaper published it over six days and offered prizes for the correct solution.”
“Your detective is known as The Thinking Machine.”
The smile widened a bit. “Professor Augustus S.F.X. Van Dusen. I have published nearly fifty stories about the character in the past seven years, and I have another seven with me that I wrote on our journey. None has equaled the popularity of the first, however.”
Fifty stories! That was more than Watson had published about our exploits up to that time, but Futrelle was correct in saying the first of them had been the most popular. “Have you two ever collaborated?” I asked.
May Futrelle laughed. “We swore that we never would, but we did try it once, in a way. I wrote a story that seemed to be a fantasy, and Jacques wrote his own story in which The Thinking Machine provided a logical solution to mine.”
The talk shifted from his writing to their travels and I found him a most pleasant conversationalist. The time on the boat train passed quickly, and before long we were at the docks in Southampton. We parted then, promising to see each other on the voyage.
I stood on the dock for a moment, staring up at the great ship before me. Then I boarded the Titanic and was escorted to my cabin. It was suite B-57 on the starboard side of Bridge Deck B, reached by the impressive Grand Staircase or by a small elevator. Once in the cabin I found a comfortable bed with a brass and enamel head- and footboard. There was a wardrobe room next to the bed and a luxurious sitting area opposite it. An electric space heater provided warmth if needed. The suite’s two windows were framed in gleaming brass. In the bath and WC there was a marble-topped sink. For just a moment I wished that my old friend Watson was there to see it.
I had been on board barely a half-hour when the ship cast off, exactly at noon. As the tugs maneuvered it away from the dock and moved downstream into the River Test, I left my stateroom on the bridge deck and went out to the railing, lighting a cigarette as I watched our progress past banks lined with well-wishers. Then we stopped, narrowly avoiding a collision with another ship. It was almost an hour before we were under way again, and the next twenty-four hours were frustrating ones. We steamed downstream to the English Channel, and then across to Cherbourg where 274 additional passengers boarded by tender. Then it was a night crossing to Queenstown, Ireland, where we anchored about two miles offshore while more passengers were brought out by tender.
When at last the anchor was raised for the final time, Captain Smith posted a notice that there were some 2,227 passengers and crew aboard, the exact number uncertain. This was about two-thirds the maximum capacity of 3,360 passengers and crew.
As I watched us pull out at 1:30 P.M. on Thursday, April 11, I suddenly realized that an attractive red-haired young woman had joined me on deck.
“Is this your first trip across?” she asked.
“Across the Atlantic, yes,” I said to discourage any discussion of my past.
“I’m Margo Collier. It’s my first, too.”
Women seldom have been an attraction to me, but there were exceptions. Looking into the deep, intelligent eyes of Margo Collier I knew she could have been one of them had I not been old enough to have sired her. “A pleasure to meet you,” I replied. “I am Mr. Smith.”
She blinked, or winked, at me. “Mr. John Smith, no doubt. Are you in first class?”
“I am. And you are an American, judging by the sound of your accent.”
“I thought you could tell from my red hair.”
I smiled. “Do all Americans have red hair?”
“The ones that are in trouble seem to. Sometimes I think it’s my red hair that gets me into trouble.”
“What sort of trouble could one so young have gotten into?”
Her expression changed, and in an instant she was coldly serious. “There’s a man on board who’s been following me, Mr. Holmes.”
The sound of my own name st
artled me. “You know me, Miss Collier?”
“You were pointed out by one of the ship’s officers. He was telling me about the famous people on board—John Jacob Astor, Benjamin Guggenheim, Sherlock Holmes, and many others.”
I laughed. “My life’s work has hardly been comparable to theirs. But pray tell me of this man who follows you. We are, after all, on shipboard. Perhaps he only strolls the deck as you do yourself.”
She shook her head. “He was following me before I boarded the ship at Cherbourg.” She grew suddenly nervous. “I can say no more now. Could you meet me in the first-class lounge on A deck? I’ll try to be in the writing room tomorrow morning at eleven.”
I bowed slightly. “I’ll expect to see you then, Miss Collier.”
There was a chill in the air on Friday morning, though the weather was calm and clear. Captain Smith reported that the Titanic had covered 386 miles since leaving Queenstown harbour. I ate an early breakfast in the first-class dining saloon, and, after a stroll around the deck, spent some time in the ship’s gymnasium on the boat deck. The idea of using a rowing machine on this great ocean liner appealed to me, though I’m certain Watson would have groused about it, reminding me of my age. Finally, shortly before eleven, I went down one flight of stairs to the writing room.
Margo Collier was seated alone at one of the tables, sipping a cup of tea. The reading and writing room adjoined the first-class lounge. It was a spacious, inviting area with groups of upholstered chairs and tables placed at comfortable intervals. I smiled as I seated myself opposite her. “Good morning, Miss Collier. Did you have a good night’s sleep?”
“As well as could be expected,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying across the table. “The man who’s been following me is in the lounge right now, standing by that leaded glass window.”
I turned casually in my chair and realized that Jacques Futrelle and his wife were seated with an older man in a black suit. Seeing them gave me an excuse to walk into the lounge and get a better look at the man she’d indicated. I paused at their table with a few words of greeting, noting that the man with them was studying the tea leaves in one of the cups.
“Mr. Smith!” May Futrelle greeted me. “You must meet Franklin Baynes, the British spiritualist.”
The man eyed me solemnly as he stood up to shake my hand. “Smith? What is your line of work?”
“I am retired from a research position. This voyage is strictly for pleasure. But I see you are at work, sir, attempting to divine the world in a teacup.”
“The Futrelles asked for a demonstration.”
“I will leave you to it,” I said, continuing on my way into the wood-panelled lounge. The man Margo Collier had indicated now stood a few paces from the window. He was almost bald, with a growth of greying beard along his chin, and his left hand was clutched around the knob of a thick walking stick. As I approached, he turned on me with blazing eyes.
“Has she sent you to confront me, sir?”
“Miss Collier says you have been following her since Cherbourg. You are frightening the poor woman half to death. Would you care to identify yourself?”
The bearded man drew himself up until he was almost my height. “I am Pierre Glacet. Cherbourg is my home. I am like yourself.”
“And why do you follow her?” I asked, not quite understanding his remark.
“Because she runs away from me. Margo Collier is my wife.”
I cannot pretend that the news did not astound me. I had noticed the faint indentation on her ring finger, but I assumed it was only the sign of a broken engagement in one so young. Likewise, the manner in which she approached me had seemed quite sincere.
“I find that difficult to believe,” I told Glacet.
“Ask her! We have been married for more than a year, though we are living apart at the moment.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“That is a personal matter, sir.”
“How were you able to obtain a booking on the voyage at the last minute in order to follow her?”
“The ship is not fully booked at these prices.”
“Forgive me, sir, if I have done you an injustice.” I retreated back to the writing room where Margo Collier was waiting.
“Did you confront him, Mr. Holmes?” she asked immediately.
“I did. The man claims to be your legal husband. Is that true?”
“We are separated. He has no business following me about!”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Glacet. I am, or was, a consulting detective. I have never been a marriage counsellor.”
“Mr. Holmes—”
“Pardon me, madam. I can no longer help you.” I turned and walked away.
For the rest of the day and the next, I managed to avoid both Margo Collier and Pierre Glacet. The Titanic covered 519 miles on its second day, though it received several warnings of heavy pack ice from other ships. Captain Smith assured us via his posted notices that ice warnings were not uncommon for April crossings.
On Saturday evening, I dined with the Futrelles and the spiritualist Franklin Baynes in the first-class dining saloon. He was an interesting gentleman, well steeped in occult lore. Futrelle seemed especially taken with him, and I could only assume that the author was researching a possible idea for one of his detective stories. It developed that the spiritualist was travelling to America for a series of lectures and demonstrations.
“You are a showman, then,” I proposed, as much to bait him as anything else.
“No, no!” he insisted. “Spiritualism is as much a science as Madame Curie’s radiology.”
May Futrelle spoke. “Mr. Baynes has invited us to his cabin after dinner for a demonstration of some of his devices. Perhaps you could join us, Mr. Smith.”
“By all means, do so!” Baynes urged.
I agreed with some reluctance, and, following dessert, we took the elevator up three floors to his stateroom on the promenade deck. It was even larger than my cabin, and I wondered if this, too, might be a reward from the White Star president. The spiritualist went directly to his steamer trunk and opened it. He removed a crystal ball some six inches in diameter, mounted on a wooden base with an electrical cord attached. Quickly unplugging the cabin’s electric space heater by the bed, he plugged his device in its place. The crystal ball sprang to life with a bright intense light.
“Look in here, Mr. Smith, but not too long, or you will be blinded.”
“What am I supposed to see?” I inquired.
“Perhaps those who have gone before you into the great beyond.”
I glanced at the brightly glowing filament for an instant and then looked away, its image burnt into my retina. “I see nothing of the past,” I told him, “though something of the future might be had in lights like this.”
Franklin Baynes unplugged the crystal ball and brought out an oversized deck of cards. I began to suspect he was more magician than spiritualist. “You are not a believer in the hereafter, Mr. Smith, in that other world where our ancestors await us, where it is always spring and the fairies and elves flit across the meadow?”
I smiled slightly. “I have my own vision of the hereafter, Mr. Baynes. It is not the same as yours.”
May Futrelle seemed to sense that the visit to his cabin had been a mistake. “We really should be going, Jacques,” she told her husband.
The spiritualist shook their hands. “Thank you for dinner. It was most delightful. And you, Mr. Smith. I trust we can discuss our differing views before the ship docks in New York.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed.
I left the cabin in the company of the Futrelles and walked a few steps to the elevator. “Obviously the man is something of a charlatan,” May said, “but Jacques thinks he might get a story idea out of this.”
“It’s always possible,” I agreed.
The elevator arrived and I opened the folding gate for them. Jacques peered at me and asked, “If it’s not too personal a question, Mr. Smith, are you a detective?”
“Our steward told us you were the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
I laughed as I stepped into the elevator with them and closed the gate. “My secret seems to be a secret no longer. You’re the second person who has confronted me about my identity.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” May promised, “though Mr. Baynes has heard it, too. Certainly it’s an honour to meet you. Jacques was inspired to write his stories after reading Dr. Watson’s accounts of your cases.”
“Watson glamourizes me, I fear.”
“How is the old fellow?” Futrelle asked.
“Fine. He comes to see me on occasion, though it’s been some time now since I’ve had the pleasure of his company.” I got off one flight down on the bridge deck. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told them.
Futrelle grinned. “Good night, Mr. Smith.”
Sunday, April 14—the longest day of my life—began with divine services held in the first-class dining saloon. I had overslept and when I went for breakfast at 10:30 I found the service in progress. That was how I happened upon Margo Collier again. She spotted me at once, standing in the back of the room, and pushed through the late arrivals to join me. “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”
“Hello, Mrs. Glacet.”
“Please don’t call me that. If you would grant me time, I could explain the entire matter to you.”
Something in her desperate tone made me regret the harshness of my earlier dismissal. “Very well,” I said. “Join me at dinner tonight in the first-class saloon. I will be in the outer reception room at eight o’clock.”
“I will be there,” she promised, brightening at once.
During the day I continued to hear reports of ice sightings from the other passengers. In the twenty-four hours since noon Saturday, we had covered another 546 miles, and the map showed us approaching the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. The temperature had remained in the forties much of the afternoon, but after 5:30, as darkness descended it plunged quite quickly to 33 degrees. Captain Smith altered the ship’s course slightly to the south and west, possibly as a precaution to avoid icebergs. Lookouts in the crow’s nest would remain on duty all night watching for ice. Looking up at them from the top deck, I decided it must be the loneliest of shipboard tasks, even though there were two men up there.