Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Read Online Free

behalf of Elisabeth and Sherlock.” Father seldom makes jokes, but I believe he thought he had just done so.
    “Please trust me, father. I make no promise, but I venture that Elisabeth and Sherlock will be at Inga’s wedding.” He reached intohis vest pocket and extracted a turnip. After consulting it he shook his head. “Too late this evening,” he said. “Give me twenty-four hours, Father. I ask no more.”
    The next morning found our bakeshop fully stocked as usual, the product of Father’s industry. I took my place at the counter; Sherlock, his in the area reserved for handling goods; and Mycroft, at his desk, tending to his administrative duties. Nothing further was spoken of last night’s family conference.
    At noontime Mycroft rose, took hat and walking stick, and strode from the shop. He disappeared into the pedestrian traffic on Old Romilly Street. He did not appear again until the family had gathered at the dinner table.
    Mother had roasted a chicken and small potatoes, and there were hot and cold greens and of course dinner rolls and butter. She assumed her place at the head of the table; Father, at the foot; Sherlock and I, facing each other across the cloth and dishes. Father had just taken carving implements in hand and reached for the brown-crusted bird when Mycroft entered the room. He rubbed his hands together, smiled at each family member in turn, and took his place.
    He spoke at length during the meal, but his sole topic was the excellence of Mother’s cooking and Father’s baking. “We are not the possessors of financial wealth,” he stated, “but we are a fortunate family to have a comfortable home, a successful business, one another’s company, and the finest cuisine, in my humble judgment, in all the realm.”
    He may have exaggerated but none at the table chose to dispute him. Not even Sherlock.
    Following our meal the family assembled in the parlor, atwhich time Mycroft actually stood rather than sitting, and made his announcement.
    “All is arranged,” he said. “I met this afternoon with certain persons, and it is done.”
    “You have tickets for us?” Sherlock asked. His voice is less discordant and irritating than his playing upon the fiddle, but not much so.
    “Tickets? No, Sherlock. You will not need tickets.”
    “Oh, a riddle, is it, Mycroft?” Sherlock ground his teeth audibly.
    “If you wish, stripling. Or if you would rather, I will simply explain matters in words comprehensible even to so mean an intellect as yours.”
    “Please,” I put in. “Mycroft, do not lower yourself to the child’s level.” Even though, I thought, the scrawny beanpole is already the tallest member of our household. “Just tell us what you have done.”
    “Very well.” Mycroft did lower himself now into his chair. Mother had served coffee and sweet pastries from the shop and Mycroft placed an apricot confection upon his tongue. He chewed and swallowed with evident pleasure. “As you may know,” he said, “the
Great Eastern
departs from London on the twenty-fourth of May. She crosses the Atlantic in eleven days, arriving in New York on the fourth of June. I believe that will provide ample time for you and Cousin Inga to work with Aunt Tanner upon the trousseau.”
    “Yes, yes, Mycroft. But how can Sherlock,” I shuddered at the thought, “and I travel on the
Great Eastern
when we have no tickets and no money with which to buy them?”
    “Dinner music and entertainment is provided aboard the
GreatEastern
by the orchestra of Mr. Clement Ziegfried. You are an accomplished flautist, dear sister, while young Sherlock,” and Mycroft shuddered visibly, “does on occasion manage to scrape a recognizable melody from his instrument. I have arranged for you both to become members of Mr. Ziegfried’s orchestra. Passage and meals will be provided, and a modest stipend will be paid.”
    There was a silence in the room, broken at last by Mycroft himself, “There is one minor consideration,