Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Read Online Free Page B

yes, welcome. I see you have brought your instruments with you. Good! You are of course unfamiliar with my orchestra’s repertoire.” He paused and consulted a turnip that he pulled from a brocade waistcoat. “We have rehearsal in twenty-two and one-third minutes in the grand salon. Place your belongings in your cabin and present yourselves promptly, if you please!” He spoke with a peculiar accent, obviously Continental.
    He turned on his heel and strode away.
    He was a very strange little man.
    Because the
Great Eastern
was so huge—longer than two football fields laid end to end—and had space for so many passengers, room was not at a premium. I had expected to have to live in cramped quarters with dozens of smelly males. Instead, Sherlock and I were housed in a comfortable cabin of our own. Each of us would of course have a bunk of her or his own. And having lived for twenty-two years as Mycroft’s younger sister and for seventeen as Sherlock’s older, I was not shy about enduring the mundane presence of a male.
    We deposited our gripsacks in our cabin, found a crewman on deck, and were directed to the grand salon. This was a spacious chamber, clearly a souvenir of the
Great Eastern
’s glory days. The walls were decorated with friezes of classical scenes. Satyrs and caryatids stood in classical poses, supporting the high, domed ceiling of the salon. That ceiling was of stained glass, a magnificent design that would have done proud any architectural show-place in the land.
    The musicians assembled upon a small dais. Sherlock and I were apparently the last to arrive. Maestro Ziegfried stood before us, half hidden by a black music stand, turnip in hand. The watch buzzed audibly. Maestro silenced it by pressing a lever and returned it to his pocket. He surveyed the assembled musicians and nodded his satisfaction.
    “Gentlemans,” he announced, “we have three new musicians with us for this journey. I will introduce them to you.” He lifted a baton and tapped it on his music stand.
    “Mr. Holmes Major.”
    Sherlock bowed slightly, holding his fiddle at the height of his shoulder.
    “Mr. Holmes Minor.”
    I emulated my brother, showing my flute to my fellow musicians.
    “Mr. Albert Saxe.”
    A portly musician standing in the second row bowed slightly, holding a glittering cornet in the air. He wore a mustache and beard. How he could maneuver his cornet through that hirsute decoration was a puzzle to me.
    Speaking in his oddly accented manner, Maestro Ziegfried announced that each of us would find sheet music before us. “You will take six minutes and twenty-three seconds to acquaint yourselves with the notes. Then we rehearse.”
    What an odd man he was! Still, one followed his directions. My parents had replied telegraphically to my Cousin Inga’s wedding invitation, expressing their regrets. I had dispatched a personal message as well, telling Inga that Sherlock and I would arrive on the
Great Eastern
and that we anticipated the occasion of her nuptials with the greatest joy.
    And, of course, that I would be happy, thrilled, honored, and delighted to participate as maiden of honor. I was certain, also, that her fiancé, Mr. Van Hopkins, would prove a splendid individual whom I would be pleased to accept as a cousin-in-law, were there such a position in the rules of family relationships.
    With a blast of her whistle the
Great Eastern
pulled away from her dock and moved into the channel toward Portsmouth, rounded land, and headed in a westerly direction. By the time we passed Penzance the orchestra was warmed up. Maestro Ziegfried was astern leader. There was no concertmaster; he coached and prodded the musicians himself, shaking his head with joy or anger or passion at each passage until his long hair flew around his head like the wings of an angry black bird.
    When rehearsal ended, Maestro laid his baton upon his music stand and pulled his turnip from his pocket. He pressed a lever and the watch’s engraved