Sherlock Holmes In America

THE CASE OF COLONEL CROCKETT’S VIOLIN by Gillian Linscott

Gillian Linscott is the author of the Nell Bray crime series, featuring a militant suffragette detective in Britain in the early years of the twentieth century. One of the series, Absent Friends, won the CWA Ellis Peters Dagger for best historical crime novel of 2000 and the Herodotus Award. She has worked as a news reporter for the Guardian and a political reporter for BBC local radio stations. She lives in a threehundred-and-fifty-year-old cottage in Herefordshire, England, and in addition to writing, now works as a professional gardener. Interests include mountain walking and trampolining.

“Admit it, Watson. Texas has not come up to your expectations.” My old friend lounged in a cane chair on our hotel balcony, the hint of a smile on his lips. Our days at sea had done wonders for his health and spirits. His face was lightly tanned, shaded by the brim of a Panama hat.

“It’s not as I’d imagined,” I agreed.

He laughed.

“You’d hoped for cowboys with lariats and six shooters, Indian chiefs in war bonnets.”

Since that was pretty well the vision that had come to my mind when the unexpected invitation arrived on a drizzly day at Baker Street, I tried to hide my irritation.

“Certainly San Antonio seems peaceable enough,” I said.

Two floors below, in the courtyard of the Menger Hotel, broad leaves of banana trees shifted gently in the breeze. Our suite, with its lounge, two bedrooms, and bathroom, was as clean and comfortable as anything you might find in London, perhaps more so. From where I was standing I could glimpse a corner of the town’s plaza, with men crossing from shade to sun and back, looking much like men of business anywhere, though moving at a leisurely pace in the heat. A neat landau, drawn by a grey pony and carrying a woman in a white dress, trotted briefly into sight and out again.

“We’ve come too late for the wild days, Watson. Seventy years ago we might have arrived in a covered wagon, pursued by as many braves or Mexicans as your warlike heart could wish. I confess my preference for the Mallory Line.”

We’d traveled in comfort down the coast from New York to Galveston on Mallory’s three-thousand-ton steamer, SS Alamo, then on by Pullman car. The letter of invitation had implored us to make all convenient speed and spare no expense-both admonitions quite wasted on Holmes, who would spend time and money exactly according to his opinion of what was necessary and nobody else’s. He stood up and joined me at the rail of our balcony, looking down at the courtyard. A gentleman in a white suit and hat had appeared from the reception area and was walking towards the foot of our staircase. Holmes gave a chuckle of satisfaction.

“Unless I am mistaken, Watson, here comes our client now.”

Benjamin Austin Barratt was a gentleman of fifty years or so, still vigorous, straight-backed, and broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair and a small moustache on an otherwise clean-shaven face. His manners were courtly, asking after our health and our journey, as if his only purpose were to make us welcome in his native town. It was Holmes who cut short the preliminaries and brought us to business.

“You mentioned in your letter that you were writing on behalf of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas. Do we take it that you are their representative?”

“Indeed so, sir. You will surely be aware that before Texas became part of the United States of America it was an independent republic in its own right by virtue of-”

“We are aware of it, yes.”

Holmes spoke with some impatience. Almost everybody we’d met, from our fellow passengers on the voyage down, to the lad who’d carried our cases to our rooms on arrival, had offered this fact as soon as setting eyes on us. Barratt showed no annoyance and went on with his explanation.

“The ladies thought it preferable that you should be approached by a businessman with some standing in our community. Since I have the honour to be one of the benefactors of their Alamo project and have an interest in the matter under discussion, it was agreed that I should write to you. You will have gathered something of our dilemma from my letter.”

“The case of Davy Crockett’s superfluous fiddle,” Holmes said.

His tone was light. He’d responded to the letter in something of a holiday spirit because it piqued his curiosity. Barratt’s posture stiffened for a moment and there was a hint of reproach in his tone.

“Colonel Crockett’s violin, yes indeed, Mr. Holmes. The most famous musical instrument in our country’s history. That it should have survived the battle is miraculous. That there are two of them is a matter so embarrassing that the ladies decided it could only be settled by the greatest detective in the world, who also happens to be an amateur of the violin.”

Holmes nodded at the tribute, as no more than his due.

“Your letter spoke of urgency.”

“Yes, sir. This year the Daughters of the Republic of Texas took on responsibility for safeguarding what remains of the old Alamo mission building, where the battle took place sixty-nine years ago. They plan to open it as a national shrine and a museum. Naturally, the very violin that Colonel Crockett carried with him when he brought his men of the Tennessee Mounted Rifles to join the defenders in the Alamo, the violin he played to hearten them all during the siege, will be its most precious exhibit.”

“It is a fact that Davy… that is, Colonel Crockett, had his violin with him in the Alamo,” I said. “There was one evening when he had a competition with a man who played the bagpipes and… ”

I’d done some reading on the subject before we left London. All it brought me was an impatient look from Holmes.

“We can take that as established. But is there any explanation of how such a fragile thing as a violin escaped the destruction of everything else when the Mexicans stormed the Alamo?”

“One of the violins is in my possession,” Barratt said. “I look forward to telling you its story when I hope you will do us the honour of taking dinner with us tomorrow night, but I believe its history is as well-authenticated as anybody could wish.”

“And the other violin?” Holmes asked.

“I’m sure Mrs. Legrange will tell you that hers has a well-authenticated history too. I know she plans to meet you. One thing I should like to make clear.”

For the first time in our conversation, his voice was hesitant. Holmes raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

“There is no enmity between Mrs. Legrange and myself, none whatever,” Barratt said. “She is a very charming and patriotic lady and we all admire her very much. We have both agreed that this business must be settled in a quiet and peaceable manner as soon as possible, and we shall both abide by your verdict. May I send my carriage for you two gentlemen at six o’clock tomorrow?”

Holmes told him that he might.

As Barratt crossed the courtyard, one of the hotel’s messenger boys passed him in the opposite direction and came up the stairs to our suite carrying an envelope.

“I believe we are about to receive an invitation from the owner of the second fiddle,” Holmes said.

A knock sounded at the door. I answered it and was handed an envelope by the messenger boy.

“Pray open it and read it aloud, Watson,” Holmes said.

The signature was Evangeline Legrange, with as many curls and loops to it as a tangled trout line. I read:

My dear Mr. Holmes,

I hope you will excuse this informality of approaching you without introduction, but I wonder whether you and Dr. Watson would care to join us on a picnic luncheon outing to San Pedro Springs tomorrow. If I may, I shall send a gig for you at eleven.

Holmes told me to ask the boy to wait while he dashed off a polite line of acceptance on hotel notepaper.

“She gives no address,” I objected.

“She has no need,” he said. “If you look out of the other window, you’ll see she’s waiting outside in the landau with the grey pony.”

And I thought he hadn’t noticed.

I spent the rest of the day exploring San Antonio, while Holmes refused to be drawn from our shady balcony, smoking his pipe and reading a book that had nothing whatsoever to do with the subject under investigation. The town proved to be every bit as calm and prosperous as on first acquaintance. In whatever direction you might stroll, you were never far away from a river bank. Breezes rustled the groves of their strange twisted oak trees and freshened the southern heat. To my pleasure, I even saw several unmistakable cowboys in broad-brimmed hats and leather chaps, lounging on their raw-boned horses in saddles as large and deep as club armchairs. I climbed the hill to the barracks in the hour before sunset to watch the soldiers drilling, then walked back down to try to persuade my companion to take a stroll before dinner. There was no sign that he’d stirred all the time I’d been away and I might have failed in my purpose if his eye had not been caught by a flare of fire in a corner of the wide plaza.

“Good heavens, Holmes, has a building caught fire?” I cried.

“Nothing so calamitous. Shall we go and see?”

His keen senses had caught, as mine soon did, the smell of spices and the scent of charred meat. We strolled across the plaza in the dusk and found that part of it had been taken over by dozens of small stalls with charcoal braziers, tended by Mexicans. A band was playing jaunty music on accordions, violins, and a kind of rattling object, a woman singing in a plaintive voice that cut across the music and gave it a touch of sadness and yearning. We were surrounded by brown smiling faces with teeth very white against the dusk, women with silver ornaments twined in their black hair, and voices that spoke in murmuring Spanish. It was as if our few steps across the plaza had taken us all the way to the far side of the Rio Grande and we were in Mexico itself. Holmes seemed delighted, as he always was by things unexpected. He even allowed a woman to sell him something that looked like a kind of rolled up pancake.

“Good heavens, Holmes, what are you eating?”

“I’ve no idea, but it’s really very good. Try some.”

Its spiciness made me gasp and cough. As we were walking back towards the hotel, a Mexican man came towards us out of the shadows. He was perhaps thirty years old or so, a handsome fellow and respectable in his manner.

“Excuse me, señor, you are Sherlock Holmes?”

He spoke in English. Holmes nodded. The man passed him a piece of paper.

“My address. I should be grateful if you would call on me.”

He wished us good evening and stepped back into the shadows as smoothly as he’d stepped out of them.

“So you’ve got yourself a new client,” I said, laughing. “He probably wants to consult you about a missing mule.”

“Very likely,” Holmes said.

But he seemed thoughtful, and I noticed he put the piece of paper carefully into his pocket.

Next morning, the gig arrived to carry us a mile or so north of the town to San Pedro Springs. It was as pleasant a park as I’ve ever seen, with three clear springs trickling out of a rocky hill and running between grassy slopes and groves of pecan nut trees. Our hostess had established camp in one of the groves, surrounded by preparations for an elaborate picnic luncheon, with folding chairs and tables loaded with covered dishes and wine coolers. Four black and Mexican servants were in attendance, serving drinks to guests who had arrived before us. Evangeline Legrange was sitting on a bank of cushions, leaf shadows flickering over her pale blue dress and white hat with a blue ribbon that tied in a bow under the chin. She jumped up with a cry of pleasure and came tripping over the grass towards us.

“Mr. Holmes… so kind… I can hardly believe it. And you must be Dr. Watson, such a pleasure.”

Her small white-gloved hand was in mine, the scent of jasmine in the air around us. Her hair, worn loose under the hat, was the colour of dark heather honey and her skin white as alabaster. Close to, if one must be ungallant, she was older than she had looked under the shade of the tree, perhaps in her late thirties, but she moved and spoke with the freshness and impetuosity of a girl. She set her gentlemen guests to pile up cushions for us beside her, calling on one of the servants to bring us iced champagne. California champagne, as it turned out. Several people assured us that it was vastly superior to the French article. When we were settled, she clapped her hands at guests and servants alike.

“Now, leave us alone while I tell Mr. Holmes about my violin. You all know the story in any case.”

They melted obediently away and this is the story she told us, in a voice as pleasant to hear as the stream flowing beside us.

“As everybody knows, the men in the Alamo were under siege with Santa Anna and his Mexicans camped outside. But for the local people, who knew the old building, there were secret ways in and out. Naturally, our brave defenders wouldn’t use them. But people who were daring enough could get in to the fort, to bring food or nurse the wounded. Some of those daring people were women, and I’m proud to say that one of them was my grandmother on my mother’s side, Marianne. She was only nineteen years old, and one of the defenders was her sweetheart. Five times that brave girl climbed out of her bedroom at night and carried food and water to him in the Alamo. The sixth time, they knew the end must be near. Colonel Crockett himself took Marianne aside and told her she must not come again. I can tell you the very words he said to her, as Marianne told them to my mother, and my mother told them to me. He said, ‘I honor you for what you have done, but in the future, Texas will need its brave wives and mothers. Our duty is to die for Texas and yours is to live for Texas. Go and tell all the ladies that.’”

Mrs. Legrange’s voice faltered. She wiped a tear from her cheek with her gloved finger.

“And the violin?” Holmes said brusquely.

He never did like to see tears. She smiled at him, disregarding his tone.

“Yes, his violin. That was when he gave it to Marianne. Again, I’ll quote his exact words: ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be much occasion for music in here from now on. This violin’s been through a lot with me, but maybe it will enjoy a gentler touch.’ So Marianne took it away with her and it’s been the precious treasure of our family ever since. Here it is.”

She reached into the cushions behind her and brought out a rectangular case, covered in white Morocco leather, tooled with gold. When she undid the gold clasp and opened the lid, we saw a violin and bow nestled in blue velvet. She signaled with her eyes that Holmes was to pick up the violin. He turned it over in his long-fingered hands, carefully as one might handle any musical instrument, but with no particular reverence. It was the copper-red colour of cherrywood and looked to me like the kind of country fiddle you’d expect a frontiersman to possess.

“Nobody has played it since Colonel Crockett,” she said.

When Holmes simply nodded and handed the violin back to her, I caught a shadow of disappointment in her eyes. It was gone in a moment. She put the instrument carefully away and became instantly the gracious hostess, necessarily so because more guests were arriving. It seemed that most of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas and their friends and families had been invited to the picnic to meet Holmes and the grove was soon full of laughing and chattering people. They included Benjamin Barratt and his family and I noticed that Mrs. Legrange paid them particular attention, as if to emphasize to the world that there was no quarrel between them. From the way Barratt looked at her, I guessed there might have been some feeling of tendresse between them a long time ago. If so, it seemed to be replicated by Mr. Barratt’s son Lee, a good-looking military cadet of twenty or so. He was always at Mrs. Legrange’s side or running errands for her. When we left, Lee Barratt was even allowed to carry the precious violin to her landau.

That evening, we had the history of the other violin in the drawing room of the Barratt’s fine home, after dinner. In this case, the instrument was a deep mahogany colour, on display above the marble fireplace in a glass case, with the Texas flag above it and swords with tasseled hilts flanking it on either side. Benjamin Barratt stood on his hearthrug, brandy glass in hand.

“I’m sure you gentlemen know the story. When he knew the case was hopeless, the commanding officer of the defenders, Colonel Travis, offered all his men a free choice: stay with him and die or leave without any reproach from him. Only one man chose to leave. His name was Louis Rose. Travis kept his word and did not reproach him, but the other men were naturally contemptuous. Colonel Crockett could not express his contempt directly, in the face of what Travis had said, so he did it another way. He gave his violin to Rose, with these words: ‘Well, Rose, it seems you’re no soldier after all, so maybe you’d better get practicing so you can make your living with this.’ Rose took the violin, but he knew that San Antonio would be no place for him. My father had a reputation as a charitable man. Rose came to him at dead of night, begging for a loan of money to get away, offering the violin as security. My father gave him the money, on condition that he wrote a statement of how the violin came into his possession. He did so, exactly as I have told it to you. I have the statement in my desk, signed by Rose and witnessed by my father’s servant. I shall show it to you. My father knew the money would never be repaid. We have guarded Colonel Crockett’s violin ever since.”

While Holmes was reading the document, our hostess, Mrs. Barratt, did her best to make polite conversation with me, but she seemed uneasy and kept glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Please excuse me, but I’m anxious about Lee. Mrs. Legrange was going on after our picnic to visit some friends who have a ranch north of San Pedro Springs. Lee offered to ride with her, which was only right and proper, but he should have been home long ago.”

I wondered whether she was concerned for her son’s safety or the effect of the lady’s charms on the lad. An unworthy thought, as it immediately proved, because a clamour broke out in the hall. We all dashed out, to see Lee, with a bloodied bandage round his head, being supported by two of Mrs. Legrange’s servants. Behind them was Mrs. Legrange herself, tears streaming down her cheeks, trembling like a trapped sparrow.

“It’s my fault, my fault entirely. How can you ever forgive me?”

Barratt took charge of events with efficiency and had a couch made up in the parlour. I offered my services but also suggested sending for the family doctor, as a matter of professional courtesy. He arrived in a short time and confirmed my diagnosis of concussion as a result of two blows to the head with a heavy object, the patient’s life not in danger, but absolute quiet and rest prescribed.

I returned to the drawing room, where Mrs. Legrange was huddled deep in an armchair, taking delicate sips of brandy, and Holmes sitting opposite her.

“Here’s a how-d’you-do, Watson. It appears that some villain has snatched Mrs. Legrange’s violin.”

“The lad Lee kept trying to talk about the violin,” I said.

“It’s all my fault,” Mrs. Legrange said again. “I should never have left him to carry it up. But here at home on my very doorstep, how was I to know?”

Between sobs and sips, she repeated the account for me. The visit to the ranching friends had lasted longer than expected, so it was dusk before she returned to San Antonio, with Lee riding alongside her landau. She’d gone straight upstairs, leaving the coachman to stable both horses and Lee to follow her with the precious violin in its case. Startled by a cry from below, she’d gone back downstairs to find Lee semi-conscious on the pavement and the violin gone.

“The coward had come up behind him. He never even saw his face. Did you ever hear of such villainy? And if poor Lee dies… ”

I assured her that there was no fear of that, provided he was kept quiet.

With Barratt and his wife both occupied by their son, it fell to Holmes and myself to take Mrs. Legrange home in a hack and see her into the care of her housekeeper. Holmes behaved with unexpected courtliness, jumping ahead of me to hand her down from the hack, and even raising her gloved wrist to his lips as we left her in the hall. I smiled to myself, thinking that southern air and manners had made my old friend more susceptible than usual. We walked the short distance back to the hotel.

“If somebody went to such lengths to steal her violin, that must be because he believed it to be the authentic one,” I ventured.

“A false conclusion, Watson. Might it not have been any sneak thief?”

“You surely don’t believe that?”

“No, a thief bold enough to commit a violent robbery in a public place would choose some more disposable booty.”

“So is Mrs. Legrange’s the real Crockett violin? It surprises me, I must confess. I found Barratt’s story far more convincing.”

Instead of responding, he clapped his left hand to the pocket of his jacket.

“A one pipe problem. Now, which pocket did I put my pipe in?”

“Your right, surely.”

At home, it always weighed down the right pocket of his dressing gown. He patted his other pocket, frowning.

“Not there.”

“Surely it’s not in your waistcoat pocket. Or did you somehow manage to slip it in my pocket by mistake?

I started slapping my own pockets. He laughed.

“My dear Watson, I may not have the polished manners of our Texans, but you surely don’t think me barbarian enough to take my pipe to a dinner party with a lady present. It’s where it should be, on the table back at the hotel.”

“But… ”

I stared at him.

“Think about it, Watson. By the by, you mentioned that young Lee had suffered two blows to the head. As far as you could tell, was one more violent than the other?”

“Yes, but that’s not unusual. We may suppose that the thief’s first blow was not hard enough to fell the young man, so he struck again.”

“We may suppose anything we like, Watson. It’s still only supposing.”

I could get no more out of him that night.

The next day, Barratt had arranged to take us to lunch at his club, which occupied the same building as the opera house, opposite our hotel. The news of his son was encouraging: the young man had woken with a sore head but was rational and showing no signs of permanent damage. Holmes asked if he had any memory of his attacker.

“None whatsoever,” Barratt said. “But at least we have the rascal in custody.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed. Has he confessed?”

“No, but he was actually seen half a mile away from Mrs. Legrange’s home soon after the attack, carrying a violin.”

“And he was arrested there and then?”

“No. The gentleman who saw him did not hear about the theft until this morning. Naturally, he remembered what he’d seen and as it happened, he knew the fellow by sight, a Mexican tradesman. Our sheriff’s officer went straight to the thief’s home this morning and arrested him.”

“And the violin?”

“Found in his house.”

“What’s the name of this Mexican?”

Barratt looked surprised, clearly thinking that such details could mean nothing to Holmes.

“His name’s Juan Alvarez. He lives on South Flores Street, down by the stockyards.”

By this time, we’d arrived at the club. While our host was turned away, Holmes slid a piece of paper from his pocket and quickly showed it to me, his finger to his lips. I had to suppress a gasp of surprise. It was the slip of paper the Mexican had given him the night before last and the name and address were those of the man under arrest. Over the soup Holmes asked if he might have a word with the prisoner. Barratt was surprised.

“I hardly think it’s a case worthy of your attention, but if it amuses you, by all means.”

An hour later, the three of us were sitting in a small room in the county jail, with Señor Alvarez handcuffed to a chair in front of us. In spite of his predicament, there was nothing hangdog about the man. He met Holmes’s eye and nodded recognition as if meeting an old acquaintance. Barratt started saying something about a cowardly attack, but Holmes held up a hand to silence him and spoke directly to the prisoner.

“I’m sorry I was not in when you called at our hotel last night,” he said. “It might have saved you some unpleasantness.”

Alvarez replied in the same civil tone.

“You had not called on me, as I hoped, so I came to call on you.”

“Bringing the violin?”

“Yes, señor, bringing the violin.”

Barratt almost exploded.

“You rogue, I suppose you were trying to get a reward from Mr. Holmes for bringing back Mrs. Legrange’s violin. The nerve of the man.”

“Except it wasn’t Mrs. Legrange’s violin, was it?” Holmes said.

“Well, whose else would it be?”

“I suggest we take a look at it. I assume it was brought in as evidence.”

Barely restraining his annoyance, Barratt went to the door and called for a sheriff’s officer. The violin was brought, wrapped loosely in a tablecloth, and handed to Holmes. He unwrapped it and held it up for us to see.

“You see, nothing like Mrs. Legrange’s.”

It was true. This was an entirely different fiddle, made of some pale wood and varnished the colour of light amber.

“Then what the thunder has happened to Mrs. Legrange’s violin?” Barratt said. “And who attacked my son?”

Holmes stood up.

“If we may call on you this evening, I shall have an answer to both questions. Meanwhile, if you’ll excuse us, Watson and I have work to do. I suggest that you tell them to release Señor Alvarez. Unless it’s against the law to walk through the streets of San Antonio with a violin.”

The hotel hired horses for us, and the cumbersome-looking saddles proved surprisingly comfortable. We rode past San Pedro Springs where we had attended our picnic, northward on a dirt track between broad and dry pastures grazed by cattle with horns wider than the handlebars of a bicycle. Holmes kept glancing from left to right and seemed to be sniffing the air like a hunting dog. Two miles or so along the track, he reined in his horse.

“Over there, in the trees.”

We followed a narrower track to the left, towards a clump of live oaks. It was a lonely spot, not a barn or homestead to be seen. When we came nearer, we saw that the leaves of one of the oaks were scorched brown, with a small pile of ash on the ground beneath them. Holmes dismounted and kneeled down by the ashes.

“Cold, but still light and dry. This fire was lit yesterday afternoon or evening.”

He picked up a stick and poked the ashes, then gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“Just as I thought. Do you recognize this?”

He was holding a piece of white Moroccan leather, singed at the edges.

“The case where Mrs. Legrange kept the violin,” I said. “So where’s the violin itself?”

He gave the ashes another stir.

“Here, Watson.”

When we arrived at the Barratt house that evening, Holmes suggested to our host that we should first pay a visit to his son. Barratt took it as proper consideration for the invalid, but when we were shown into the parlor that was doing duty as a sick room, the look of alarm on the lad’s face showed that he knew better.

“I’d be grateful if you’d leave us alone with Lee for a few minutes,” Holmes said.

Then the older man looked alarmed too, but he withdrew. Lee sat up against a bank of pillows, staring at us. His face was pale, with dark circles round the eyes. Holmes took a chair by the couch.

“Was it your idea or Mrs. Legrange’s?” Holmes said.

The lad said nothing.

“No matter,” Holmes said. “I fancy the idea came from the lady. She stayed in the carriage and watched while you burned the violin. Then you returned home with her, as if you’d simply been on a visit, and carried out the next part of the plan. The harder part, I daresay. It must have taken some resolution on your part to kneel there and wait for the second blow.”

Lee couldn’t help wincing from the memory of it. Holmes smiled.

“You told Mrs. Legrange that she must hit harder to make it look convincing, and the second time she managed it. A blow with a heavy brass poker is no laughing matter, even from a lady.”

“So she told you.” Lee blurted it out, a flush on his pale cheeks. Holmes did not contradict him.

“Does my father know?” Lee said.

“Not yet, but he must learn of it,” Holmes said. “It would come better from you than from me. Shall I send him in?”

Lee nodded, eyes downcast. We went out to the hall where Barratt was waiting anxiously, and Holmes said his son had something to tell him.

When the parlor door had closed on him, I turned to Holmes.

“How in the world did you know it was a poker?”

He smiled.

“You may have observed that I kissed the lady’s hand. I could see from your face that you thought I’d fallen victim to her charms. In fact, I wanted to smell her glove. I’d already observed ash on one of Lee’s boots…”

“And then you smelled it on her glove. Admirable.”

“No, I confess I expected to smell it. I should have known better. She’d leave such work to her male accomplice. The smell I caught was of something quite different: metal polish. Now, a lady of her standing would hardly polish her own household utensils; therefore she’d recently handled some metal object. In view of the young man’s injuries, a poker seemed a near certainty, confirmed by his reaction.”

“But why, Holmes?”

“Surely you can see. She knew I wasn’t taken in for a minute by that romantic tale about the fiddle. Rather than have it lose the contest, she decided to destroy it-with the help of a besotted young man.”

After a while, the parlor door opened. Barratt came out, sternfaced and led us through to the drawing room.

“Gentlemen, I must apologise to you for my son’s deception.”

“I believe it was Mrs. Legrange’s deception,” Holmes said.

“Lee would not stoop to putting the blame on a lady.”

“Even a lady who deserved it?”

“I’m sure you cannot find it in your heart to blame her. She had believed in the authenticity of that violin.”

“Just as you believe in yours?”

Holmes glanced at the instrument enshrined over the mantelpiece.

“That’s one good thing to come out of it at any rate,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Mr. Barratt’s violin is now the only one in the field.”

Holmes and Barratt stared at each other. Barratt was the first to drop his gaze. Holmes settled himself in an armchair.

“Before we came here, Watson suggested that I should read the history of the Alamo.” His tone was conversational. “As he knows, I dislike burdening my mind with useless detail. Nonetheless, there was one aspect that interested me. The person out of step is always more interesting than the ones in step, don’t you find?”

I could not see where this was leading, but Barratt evidently did.

“Rose?”

“Yes, Louis Rose. The coward of the Alamo. The man who supposedly brought your father Colonel Crockett’s violin.”

“Supposedly? You doubt my father’s word, sir?”

“I do not doubt that your father acquired that violin under circumstances exactly as you described. Equally, I don’t doubt that he believed the vagabond at his back door to be Louis Rose. But he wasn’t.”

I expected an outburst from Barratt but he said nothing.

“I’ve done a little reading about Rose,” Holmes went on. “One detail interested me. The man was illiterate. He couldn’t read or write. You’re an intelligent man. You must have done your own research. I think you knew that he couldn’t have written that statement.”

Silence from Barratt.

“But why should any man impersonate a notorious coward?” I said.

“Because whoever the man was, he needed money and had a violin he could sell,” Holmes said. “He must have been sharp enough to realise that a hero’s violin from the Alamo would be worth much more than any old fiddle.”

Holmes took his pipe from his pocket and asked Barratt’s permission to smoke. It was given with an abstracted nod.

“I played a trick on Watson when we were walking home from your house the other night,” Holmes said. “I asked him which pocket I’d put my pipe in. He gave the matter his close attention, ignoring the obvious fact-that I hadn’t brought my pipe at all.”

“Really, Holmes, I… ”

He ignored me, and went on speaking to Barratt.

“You take my point, I’m sure. The question you posed to me from the start was which one of two, hoping that little puzzle would distract me from other possibilities. As it happened, it was of small importance to you which I chose. The thing that mattered above all was that the violin which eventually went on display at the Alamo should be certified as genuine by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Who would question that? I believe you expected me to pick up that point about Rose and to be so pleased with myself that I would give the verdict in favour of Mrs. Legrange’s instrument. Unfortunately, you neglected to inform Mrs. Legrange of your plan. Rather than have her violin slighted, she destroyed it-proving in the process that she’d never in her heart believed the family legend about it, or she couldn’t have brought herself to do it.”

“So neither of you believed in your violins?” I said to Barratt in astonishment. He raised his eyes and gave me a long look.

“There are things you believe with your head and things you believe with your heart. My heart said that violin should have survived.”

Holmes puffed at his pipe.

“You remember Señor Alvarez wished to see me?” he said.

Barratt nodded, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Holmes slid a rough-looking piece of paper from his pocket.

“Do you read Spanish, Mr. Barratt?”

Barratt shook his head.

“It seemed more likely to me that if Crockett’s violin had survived at all, it would be in Mexican hands,” Holmes said. “You know the saying-‘to the victor, the spoils of war.’”

Barratt snapped out of his abstraction and stared at Holmes.

“You mean, the man Alvarez and his violin? Has he proof?”

Holmes said nothing, only smoothed out the piece of paper. I could see the struggle in Barratt’s face.

“Crockett’s violin, in a Mexican’s possession?”

Still Holmes said nothing. Barratt paced the room, backwards and forwards.

“I put it in your hands,” he said at last. “If you think the man’s claim is authentic, then negotiate for us. I authorise you to go up to five hundred dollars if necessary.”

“Thank you.”

Holmes rose and thumbed out his pipe.

“You’ll go tonight?” Barratt said.

“Certainly, if you wish. Come, Watson.”

From my earlier wanderings, I knew my way to the stockyards area. The house of Señor Alvarez was a white painted cube of a dwelling, sandwiched between an ironmonger’s shop and a baker’s shop with a galaxy of brightly sugared pastries in its lamp-lit window. The house door was wide open, cheerful voices speaking Spanish coming from inside. When Holmes called, Juan Alvarez came out to meet us, like a prince welcoming an equal. We were led to seats by an open fireplace where something savoury was cooking in a pot, and introduced to his wife, children, and grandmother. After some minutes of this, Holmes brought us to business.

“You wished to talk to me about your violin.”

“Yes, señor.”

The violin, still wrapped in the tablecloth, was lying on a shelf. Alvarez took it down and placed it in Holmes’s hands.

“Colonel Crockett’s violin, rescued from destruction by my father’s father, an officer in the Mexican army. He found it by Colonel Crockett’s body and kept it in memory of a brave enemy. No man has played it since Colonel Crockett himself. I offer you that honour now, señor.”

Holmes took the violin, nodded, and rose to his feet. A bow was produced. Holmes tightened the bow, tuned the instrument to his satisfaction, then began to play. The tune he chose was a simple melody that I had heard one of the cowboys singing, called “The Streets of Laredo.” The sight of his absorbed face in the firelight, the rapt expressions of Señor Alvarez and his family, and the thought of all that this rustic fiddle stood for brought a tear to my eye. When he’d finished there was a little silence. He bowed and handed the instrument back to Alvarez.

“Mr. Barratt is offering you five hundred dollars for the violin,” he said.

“To put in their museum?”

“Yes.”

Alvarez stood for a while, deep in thought.

“It was our victory, not theirs,” he said at last. “It was our country, not theirs.”

Then he threw down the violin to the stone-flagged floor and stamped on it time and time again, like a man performing a Spanish dance, until he’d smashed it to smithereens.

“It is the greatest of pities,” I said, still shaken, as we walked towards the hotel through the warm night. “To find Crockett’s violin and then have it end like this.”

Holmes laughed.

“My dear Watson, why should you think that fiddle was any more genuine than the other two? I’m sure Crockett was more likely to have died with his rifle beside him than his violin. No, Alvarez’s family tale was as much a fiction as the others, though I think the man himself believed it.”

“But the statement, Holmes, the paper in Spanish that you showed Barratt. Whatever it said seemed to be enough to convince you.”

He laughed.

“Did I say so? I simply showed Barratt a paper, and he chose to draw his own conclusion. I admit I took a small gamble. If he had happened to read Spanish, I should have had to do some quick thinking.”

“Holmes, what is this? What was on the paper?”

“You remember that first night, when we walked in the Mexican market, I found one of the local delicacies suited my taste. This morning, I descended to the kitchens of our hotel and was lucky enough to find a Mexican cook. She spoke few words of English but was obliging enough to understand what I wanted and write down the recipe. Tamales, I believe they’re called.”

“And you led Mr. Barratt to believe that this recipe was proof that-”

“I led him nowhere, Watson. He led himself. He had tried, for reasons that doubtless seemed honorable and patriotic to him, to take advantage of my reputation. This is a small revenge.”

“But what shall you tell him?”

“That the Alamo Museum must, alas, do without Colonel Crockett’s violin. Texas seems to be a resilient state. I hope it may learn to live with the disappointment.”