A Study in Sherlock

We moved south to the ornate Temple of Music. It was about 150 feet on a side, with truncated corners so its square shape looked rounded. It had a domed roof, and every exposed surface was plastered with ornate decorations and painted garish colors, primarily red, and surrounded by statuary representing some sort of allegory that no living man could decipher—kinds of music, I supposed.

Holmes showed particular interest in this building. He walked around it from every side, looked in the windows, and, finally, picked the lock on the door and went inside. It was a large auditorium with a stage at the far end and removable seats in the center. “I believe we may have found what we were looking for,” he said. When we went out, he took a moment to relock the door.

We took our cab back to the Genesee Hotel and paid our tired driver handsomely for the long evening he’d had.

The next morning, as Holmes and I were having breakfast in our room, there was a quiet knock on the door. I got up to open it, expecting it to be Captain Allen. But there, standing in front of me, was an elderly man. Judging from his snow-white hair, his clothing, worn and a bit discolored from many washings, and the positively ancient shoes he was wearing, I thought him to be a tradesman who had gotten too old to pursue his trade. As kindly as I could, I said, “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, my friend,” said the old man in a cracked voice. “Is this the suite of Mr. Holmes?”

“Why, yes it is. Would you like to come in?”

As he stepped into the sitting room, Holmes emerged from his bedroom and grinned. “Ah, Mr. Booth. I’m very glad to see you could come so quickly.” He added, “And thank you for hiding your identity so effectively.”

The elderly gentleman immediately straightened, stepped athletically to Holmes, and shook his hand with a smile. “The journey was by night, and very quick,” he said. “I came as soon as my final show was over. We’re due to begin rehearsals for the next one in New York in a month, and if I’m not back, my understudy will stand in for me.” He looked at each of us in turn. “Do you mind if I make myself at ease?” he said, as he pulled off the white hair, then carefully removed the mustache and put them in the pocket of his oversized coat. He had become a young man, perhaps twenty-one to twenty-five, as tall and healthy-looking as before he had been bent and weak.

“This is my friend Watson,” said Holmes. “He has my utmost confidence and trust. Watson, this is Mr. Sydney Barton Booth, a member of the premier family of actors in this country.”

I pulled him aside and whispered. “Booth?” I said. “But Holmes—”

“Yes.” He spoke loudly and happily. “The same.”

The young man said, “I’m twenty-three years old. My uncle John Wilkes Booth’s terrible deed took place twelve years before I was born. He was the only one of my father, grandfather, and nine aunts and uncles who sympathized with the Confederacy. The others were staunch Union people and supporters of President Lincoln.”

“The Booth family have long ago outlived any suspicion,” Holmes said. “In the interim, they have continued their tradition of fine acting, and particularly in the realistic portrayal of human emotion. Mr. Sydney Booth is considered the finest of his generation. I had deduced from our invitation that we would need the services of an excellent American actor. A friend of mine from the British stage whom I contacted before we left informed me that the Booths have always searched for a way to make up for the mad actions of Mr. Booth’s uncle. He also gave me his professional opinion that the present Mr. Booth was likely to be our man. We need him more than I had predicted, although in a performance with a very different ending.”

“But have you warned Mr. Booth of the delicacy and danger of the role he would be playing?”

Holmes turned to Booth. “Mr. Booth, our scheme is dangerous in the extreme, and will earn you little thanks if you are successful. The only reward is that it is a patriotic task that I am persuaded will strengthen your country—and with it, ours, at least for a time.”

Booth said, “I can think of nothing that would make me happier.”

Holmes said, “There will be only a handful who are invited to join in our conspiracy. In addition to us there will be the president, of course; his trusted secretary, Mr. Cortelyou; the chief of police of Buffalo, Mr. William Bull; the head of the military contingent, whom I hope will be our friend Captain Allen; and Dr. Roswell Park, the most respected physician in the city. Each of them may have a trusted ally or two who will need to be told some part of the plan, but not all.”

“That reminds me,” I said. “I must be on my way. I’m meeting with Dr. Park this morning.” I took my hat and cane and left the suite.