Powell frowned. "But a naval war is a grave danger for pirates. Patrols increase. More warships head to sea." He shook his head.
"Yet the war creates predictable patterns," Holmes said. "The escalation you describe is regionalized. Other areas become more vulnerable. By creating conflict here, O Jacaré could create opportunity elsewhere." He held up a second finger. "Your inventory confirmed that none of the works of art had gone astray. That was the element of your tale that originally struck me as most intriguing. But consider forgeries. If the pirates indeed stole several paintings, but left reasonable facsimiles in their place, it might take years before the truth came out. I predict further investigation will verify this." He held up a third finger. "The key to the third and final motive, however, lies in the cabin before us."
I stared past him. "You said the Americans were not in league with the pirates, Holmes," I said. "So they were his targets? Who were they?"
Holmes smiled slyly, a magician about to commence with the most astounding stage of his illusion. "You should know, Watson. After all, you have beheld them with your own eyes."
"What!"
"Examine the room, Watson. Point out the remarkable details."
I was about to retort that I saw nothing remarkable about the room at all, but stopped myself. I would never outpace Holmes, but if I applied my own powers of observation carefully, I could at least keep from being left behind. I pursed my lips. "The chair," I said. "The cots would not be comfortable for sitting, yet there is only a single chair."
"Go on."
I stared at the cots, then blushed. "The men's cots are pushed closely together," I said.
"And what do you conclude from that, Watson?"
"Well, I say, Holmes!" I blushed further. "I think that should be quite clear without speaking it aloud. It's hardly unheard of, after all, even in London."
"Why, Watson! How cosmopolitan of you!" Holmes chuckled. "Though somewhat off the mark. Did you notice the shoeprints in the rug? And the depression the chair makes in it?"
With Holmes stepping aside, I walked into the room, careful to avoid the rug. "The depression is quite deep," I said. "Whoever sat in it must have been heavy. The footprints are deep as well," I added, "though the shoes are not particularly large-perhaps my own size." I blinked. "And there's only the one pair."
"Excellent!" Holmes said. "Now, Inspector Lestrade. Would you please examine the chest wound of the pirate in the doorway?"
Lestrade crouched and looked as carefully as he could without touching the body. Long experienced with Holmes's oddities, he even sniffed the dead man's chest. Finally he stood. "Clean shot to the heart. No gunpowder on the shirt, so the shot came from several feet away at least."
Holmes looked at me. "Watson?"
Had I not known from Holmes's expression that Lestrade had missed something, I would have drawn the same conclusion as the inspector. As it was, I continued staring at the fatal wound for close to a minute before drawing back in surprise. I took Holmes's excellent magnifying lens and looked more closely. "Good God," I said.
"What is it?" Lestrade demanded.
"The injury is nearly circular, but not quite," I said. "This man wasn't shot a single time. He was shot four times, all in the same spot, all at more or less the same moment."
"How is that possible?" he asked.
"Watson," Holmes said. "Surely you remember now where you saw these men? That circular we noted at Piccadilly Circus this Saturday past, some twenty feet south of the haberdashery?"
"Holmes! The Siamese twins?"
"Janus and Harvey Holingbroke. The circular proclaimed them the greatest sensation and greatest marksmen of the Wild West."
I looked at the fallen pirate. "Four shots aimed in perfect synchronization," I said. I turned to Holmes. "I read about them in one of my medical journals the next day, as a matter of fact," I said. "They are called parapagus twins. Their upper torsos are separate, but they share the same body below that point." I nodded back at the room. "That explains the single chair, the cots, the deep depressions from their shared weight."
"And the signatures," he said. "The 'J' in John Smith was quite bold and confident, while the rest of the name was more hesitant. And the 'Har' in Harold Smith was similar."
"For Janus and Harvey," I said, understanding. "Each hesitated when he began to depart from his own name." I looked at Powell. "The brothers made a fortune mining for gold in California and retired to Devil's Cape."
Powell glowered. "Devil's Cape," he said, shaking his head. "You are familiar with the story of Lady Danger?" he asked.
If Holmes was surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation, he didn't show it. "She was a privateer," Holmes said. "A masked heroine who served the English court and often crossed blades with St. Diable. She disappeared near Devil's Cape more than a century ago. Her real name was Lady Penelope Powell." He raised his eyebrows. "Ah," he said.
Powell nodded. "My great, great aunt," he said.
"I read a biography of her as a boy," I said gently. "It suggested that she and St. Diable were in love."
Powell spat upon the floor. "The man was scum," he said. "Some of the stories make him out to be a glamorous rogue, but a masked pirate is still a damned murderer. He undoubtedly killed Great Aunt Penny. They say that she loved him. But how could you love someone you worked against? An adversary? It makes no sense to me. Hogwash."
I couldn't help but glance at Holmes. He knew something of the attraction an adversary could have, his own experience with "the woman," as he called her, the mysterious Irene Adler.
But he merely nodded at Powell and walked down the passageway to the exit.
"O Jacaré arranged all of this to murder these twins?" Lestrade asked.
"Murder would have been simpler," Holmes said. "Though I'm sure that the assault on the ship appealed to Jacaré's pirate instincts, his goal was clearly to kidnap the brothers while they were traveling incognito, ensuring that no one knew that he has them in his power, or indeed that they are still alive."
"But what does he want them for, Holmes?"
"When Dr. Watson and I get to Devil's Cape," Holmes said, "we shall ask him."
I had assumed that the long summer boat journey, particularly the sweltering leg that took us through the Caribbean Sea and into the Gulf of Mexico, had prepared me for the heat of Devil's Cape, but I was wrong. It was a tangible, constant presence, like walking through water.
Holmes and I emerged from the steamship that had carried us there-not that different, really, than the Friesland-squinting into the sun, having left our trunks behind with instructions for them to be transported to a nearby inn where I had arranged rooms. The docks were a swarm of faces and voices. A crew of black men was singing a chantey while unloading our ship. Three Chinamen hawked cool beverages and roasted nuts, arguing about prices and stirring cinnamon-coated pecans over small pails of hot coals. Masses of people milled back and forth, shoving and swearing. I heard traces of French and Portuguese and Hindi. I stared openmouthed, taking it in.
"Not so fast," Holmes said, darting out an arm and catching a street urchin by the ear. The lad, blond-haired and tan as leather, winced as Holmes took hold of his elbow and forced a wallet out of his hand. My own wallet, I recognized. "Tut, tut," Holmes said, handing my wallet back to me, and I wasn't certain if he was scolding the boy or me. He gave the boy a quick kick in the rump and sent him scurrying off.