The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 6

  ‘French?’ Badger gave a contemptuous sniff. ‘There was nothin’ French about ’er, unless you count the scent she used to squirt all over ’erself. Born Lizzie Biggs, she was, in Bermondsey. But talk about h’airs!’

  ‘Hairs?’ Holmes inquired, as nonplussed as I was by this enigmatic statement. ‘You mean the wig she was accustomed to wearing?’

  ‘That, too,’ Badger replied almost as cryptically. ‘But I was referrin’ more to ’er manner. ‘’Oity-toity, sir. Treated the likes of me as dirt. Not that she ’ad anythin’ to be proud of. I knew ’er, sir, and ’er comin’s and goin’s. Saw it all from that little cubby-’ole of mine.’

  At this, he dropped one eyelid in a most suggestive wink, the implications of which were only too painful for it was indeed distressing for me to have to sit there listening in silence, while the unspeakable Badger stripped from Mademoiselle Rossignol the last vestiges of womanly decency and dignity.

  Holmes approached this delicate subject with circumspection.

  ‘I take it, Badger,’ said he, ‘that you are referring to gentlemen?’

  ‘If that’s ’ow you wants to put it, sir. Gentlemen’s ’ardly the word I’d use meself.’

  ‘And did they by any chance include anyone among tonight’s performers?’

  ‘It’s more a question of ’oo wasn’t h’included. She’d ’ad ’er little fling with all of ’em at one time or another.’

  ‘All of them!’ I burst out, unable to remain silent any longer.

  Badger turned a knowing glance in my direction.

  ‘H’every one of ’em, sir; on and off, if you gets my meanin’.’

  ‘Thank you, Badger,’ said Holmes. ‘I think Dr Watson and I have heard enough.’

  As Badger touched his cap and shuffled from the room, my old friend turned to me with a concerned expression.

  ‘I am so sorry, my dear fellow. These revelations have quite clearly distressed you. It is never pleasant to discover that someone one admires has feet of clay.’

  I was deeply touched by his words. Although at times he could be selfish and inconsiderate, it was at moments like these, when Holmes was at his most kind-hearted and solicitous, that I realized what a true friend I had in him.

  I was prevented from replying by the arrival of a message from Mr Merriwick, informing us that a Scotland Yard Inspector and his assistants were at that moment entering the building, an interruption for which I was profoundly grateful for my heart was still too full to allow me to speak.

  By the time we had emerged from the manager’s office and had made our way to the back-stage area, the five uniformed police officers had already divested themselves of their wet capes, while one of their number, a short, lean man in plain-clothes, who appeared to be in charge, was standing with his back to us, deep in conversation with Mr Merriwick.

  ‘Lestrade!’ Holmes exclaimed, striding forward, at which the figure turned towards us and I recognised the sallow features of the Inspector whom I had first encountered during the investigation into the murders of Enoch J. Drebber and his private secretary, Joseph Stangerson.*

  It was clear from his expression that Lestrade neither expected nor welcomed our presence.

  ‘You, Mr Holmes!’ he cried. ‘And Dr Watson, too! What may I ask are you doing here?’

  ‘We were among the audience when the murder occurred. The management has retained our services,’ Holmes explained briskly. ‘Your arrival is well timed, Inspector. As far as Dr Watson and myself are concerned, the case is solved. All that remains to be done is to arrest the murderer, a task which you will no doubt perform with your usual sangfroid.’

  The Inspector’s astonishment was no less than my own.

  ‘Solved!’ I exclaimed. ‘But, Holmes, I do not understand. What evidence have we discovered that reveals the murderer’s identity?’

  ‘Facts, my dear Watson. On what else can any successful investigation be based?’

  Lestrade, his face expressing both incredulity and suspicion, intervened at this point.

  ‘That’s all very well but I need to know what facts you’re referring to, Mr Holmes. I cannot go arresting suspects merely on your recommendation without knowing all the evidence and judging it for myself. You could be wrong.’

  Holmes, whose self-assurance could at times be infuriating, smiled confidently, not at all put out by Lestrade’s scepticism.

  ‘In this particular case, you may take my word, my good Lestrade, that I am not. As for the evidence, you shall shortly be apprised of that. If you care to come with me to Mademoiselle Rossignol’s dressing-room, you shall not only examine the scene of the crime but I shall acquaint you with all the other information I have gathered from the lady’s dresser and the stage-doorkeeper. And you will need to read this,’ Holmes concluded, taking from his pocket his copy of the programme of that night’s bill at the Cambridge. ‘Do not trouble yourself with the second half of the performance. It is not relevant to the inquiry.’

  Still looking bemused and clutching the programme in one hand, Lestrade followed as Holmes led the way to Mademoiselle Rossignol’s dressing-room and flung open the door.

  ‘Now, Lestrade,’ said he. ‘Look about you carefully. Observe the screen placed across the corner where the murderer hid when he first entered the room. His footprints are clearly discernible in the spilt powder on the floor. Note the window which is heavily barred. Note also the body, lying slumped across the top of the dressing-table with one lavender silk stocking about the neck and with one bare foot exposed below the hem of the gown. And finally note with particular care the way in which the train and skirts of the gown have been arranged.’

  Both Lestrade and I looked most earnestly about us as Holmes enumerated these various items, Lestrade for the first time while I carefully re-examined each in turn, eager to discover what evidence I had failed to notice on my earlier visit to the room.

  But none of them, neither the window, the screen nor the body, offered any further clues.

  As for Mademoiselle Rossignol’s gown, there was nothing about that either which might suggest the identity of the murderer although on this occasion, prompted by Holmes’ instruction to note it with particular care, I remarked that its skirts and long train had been draped over the edges of the stool in order to preserve from creasing, I imagined, the layers of extravagant ruffles with which both were decorated.

  As we were making this examination, Holmes continued with his explanation for Lestrade’s benefit.

  ‘We know from the statement given by Miss Budd, Mademoiselle Rossignol’s dresser, that she left the room on two separate occasions, the first to wait in the wings for her mistress to come off stage which is when, I suggest, the murderer took the opportunity to slip inside unnoticed and to conceal himself behind the screen. The second occasion was when she went to the Crown public house on her mistress’s instructions to buy half a pint of porter. On her return, she found Mademoiselle Rossignol dead. Let us pause there, Lestrade, and reflect on what evidence we have so far and what we may assume happened next.’

  ‘Why, that’s easy!’ Lestrade exclaimed scornfully. ‘The murderer came out from behind that screen and strangled Mademoiselle Rossignol.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Holmes replied. ‘I think we are all agreed so far. Then let us proceed with the rest of the evidence. When Miss Budd returned from the Crown, she gave a scream on discovering her mistress’s body at which Badger, the doorkeeper, came running to her aid. Between them, they searched the dressing-room but found no one.’

  Before Holmes could continue, Lestrade broke in impatiently, ‘Then the man had already made his escape.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Holmes with a triumphant air. ‘You were too quick to answer, my dear Inspector. Badger is prepared to swear that in the interval between Miss Budd’s departure from the dressing-room and her discovery of her mistress’s body, he had the door to this room under constant surveillance and that nobody passed through it.’

  It took a moment or
two for the full significance of this statement to penetrate Lestrade’s mind. Indeed, one could almost read his thoughts as his expression turned first to a mild surprise and then by degrees to absolute astonishment. At the same time, his glance darted about the room, passing first to the barred window, then to the door before finally coming to rest on the faded, velvet-covered panels of the folding screen.

  ‘No,’ said Holmes, interpreting these glances. ‘The murderer was not concealed there. Badger and Miss Budd searched behind it as well as all the other possible hiding-places, including the space below the dressing-table.’

  ‘Then, where?’ Lestrade demanded. ‘If the murderer wasn’t in the room and he hadn’t come out of it, where the deuce was he?’

  ‘Exactly Badger’s point although he expressed it rather differently. Had the man, he asked, vanished into thin air?’

  ‘But that’s impossible!’

  Lestrade’s sallow features were suffused with a dark red stain of mingled anger and bewilderment.

  ‘It has long been my maxim,* Holmes remarked, ‘that when the impossible has been eliminated, then the key to the mystery must lie in the improbable, however unlikely that may seem. As neither you nor Dr Watson seems prepared to offer an explanation, then let us proceed with the rest of the evidence. We have considered the murderer’s movements but we have not yet taken into account Mademoiselle Rossignol’s. Tell me, Inspector, on your observation of the evidence, what was she engaged in doing when she so unfortunately met her end?’

  Having been caught once, Lestrade was more cautious this time and his little dark eyes were full of suspicion.

  ‘Come, come!’ Holmes chided as the Inspector hesitated. ‘Is the answer not obvious? The stocking used as a means of strangulation? The one bare foot? What further evidence do you require? She was changing her stockings which is probably why she failed to notice the murderer creeping up behind her.’ He broke off to ask unexpectedly, ‘Are you married, Lestrade?’

  ‘I hardly see …’ Lestrade began but Holmes waved the protest aside.

  ‘No matter. It does not take much imagination even on the part of such a confirmed bachelor as myself to picture the scene and make the connection. But I see from your expression, Lestrade, that you have failed to do so. You, too, Watson. Well, well! You do surprise me. The answer is as plain as the proverbial pikestaff. In that case, may I draw your attention, my good Lestrade, to the last piece of evidence – the programme which you are holding in your hand? Does anything about the list of performers strike you as significant?’

  Lestrade, who had opened the folded sheet, began to read aloud the names of the artistes printed upon it.

  ‘“Wee Jimmy Wells, the Cheerful Cockney Comic: full of quips, jests and mirthful ditties. The Daring Dinos: the amazing high-wire …”’

  He was interrupted at this point in his recital by a knock on the door and the appearance of Merriwick’s head round the frame.

  ‘Pardon me, Inspector,’ said he. ‘I have done as you requested and have asked all the artistes to assemble on the stage for questioning. If you care to come this way, sir. You, too, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.’

  As we followed Merriwick out into the passage, Holmes murmured to me under his breath, ‘Hardly a necessary confrontation since we already know the name of the murderer but one with which I shall comply. After all, Watson, as this is a music-hall theatre, it seems entirely appropriate that the denouement should take place on stage.’

  Then, raising his voice, he hurried after Lestrade who had gone ahead with Merriwick.

  ‘Inspector, if I may be allowed to give you a word of advice? Make sure your constables are posted in the wings. Once he is named, our man may try to make his escape.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade protested. ‘But who am I supposed to arrest?’

  Whether Holmes genuinely failed to hear him or whether he preferred to pretend that he had not, I cannot say although I suspect the latter. Still in his exultant mood, my old friend strode forward and, pushing open an iron door, made his way across the back-stage area, as much at home, it seemed, in this cluttered world of stored props and leaning pieces of unused scenery as he was among his books and scientific apparatus in our Baker Street lodgings.

  If my illusions had not already been severely damaged, they received a further blow when I walked on to the stage. Without the footlights to cast their dazzle and with only a few harsh lights for illumination, the scene which presented itself was a bitter disappointment, so different was it to the magical display I had observed with so much delight from my seat in the stalls.

  At such close quarters and in the bleak lighting, the charming back-cloth of the garden scene with its trees and blossoms was reduced to mere daubs and splashes of colour while the rose-decked bower, under which the French Nightingale had posed so enchantingly, was nothing more than a frail arch of trellis, covered with wilted crêpe flowers, their petals dusty.

  The artistes who had taken part in the first half of the bill fared no better. They stood about on the stage in small groups, some still in their gaudy costumes of silk and spangles, a few already changed into their street clothes, and all of them looking strangely diminished, ordinary mortals against this shabby background of painted canvas and paper blooms.

  With Holmes leading the way, we walked to the front of the stage to stand before the drawn curtains, our feet echoing on the boards. Meanwhile, the constables, on Lestrade’s orders, posted themselves in the wings on either side to cut off the murderer’s retreat should he attempt an escape.

  But who was he? One of the two male high-wire performers, who were huddled together with their female colleagues, or the contortionist, a dressing-gown flung over his shoulders and looking much smaller than he had on stage? Or was it the low comedian in a quite deplorable checked suit, or the man with the performing seals, on this occasion thankfully without his charges?

  While I pondered on this, a whispered altercation was taking place between Holmes and Inspector Lestrade who was wagging the programme under my old friend’s nose. Although I could hear nothing of the exchange, I could guess its contents from Lestrade’s expression of baffled rage and Holmes’ raised eyebrows and look of smiling insouciance.

  Which one is he? Lestrade was demanding.

  Have you still not deduced the answer? came my old friend’s reply.

  It was quite clear that Holmes, who himself possesses a strong propensity on occasions towards theatricality, was thoroughly enjoying the situation.

  And then he relented. Taking the programme from Lestrade, he produced a pencil from his pocket and, with a flourish of the wrist, drew a heavy line under one of the names before handing the sheet back to the Inspector with a small bow.

  Lestrade looked at the name, gazed at Holmes in surprise and, on receiving a nod of encouragement, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said he, ‘it is not my intention to keep you here much longer. Having carefully examined all the evidence, it is now my duty to arrest the murderer of Mademoiselle Rossignol. That man is …’ and here there was a pause as Lestrade glanced down at the programme as if to reassure himself of the name, ‘Vigor, the Hammersmith Wonder.’

  There were several seconds of silent disbelief, followed by a shuffle of feet as those nearest to the villain hurriedly distanced themselves from him, leaving him isolated in the centre of the stage.

  He had flung aside the dressing-gown and stood there, clad only in the leopard-skin leotard which he had worn for his performance, a suitable garment for there was something of the leopard in the strong but supple body, in the bunched muscles of his forearms and shoulders and in the fiercely glittering expression in his eyes as he backed away from us, crouching low, like a big cat brought to bay.

  Before any of us could shout a warning, he had sprung, not towards the wings where the sturdy police constables stood guard, but straight at Holmes, Lestrade and myself where we stood on the edge of t
he stage in front of the drawn curtains.

  It was Holmes’ presence of mind which prevented Vigor from leaping past us into the darkened auditorium. As he came bounding forward, Holmes seized one of the gauze side curtains and, dragging it down, flung it like a net about the flying figure.

  I shall refrain from recording the many foul oaths and curses which the Hammersmith Wonder uttered before, with the help of the constables, he was finally subdued and led away in handcuffs. Suffice it to say that the reputation of the French Nightingale received a savage mauling, leaving those who witnessed the scene in no doubt about her moral character.

  Even Lestrade, despite his experience of the criminal world, was shocked by this outburst.

  ‘Quite uncalled for, in my opinion,’ he remarked disapprovingly as we walked off the stage. ‘She may not have been a lady but that doesn’t excuse the language.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you have your man,’ Holmes pointed out.

  ‘Thanks to you, Mr Holmes. But I’m far from clear,’ Lestrade continued, coming to a halt by the stage-door, ‘where the deuce Vigor hid himself in that dressing-room. If Badger and Miss Budd are to be believed, they searched everywhere, even under the dressing-table.’

  ‘But not under the stool,’ Holmes replied. ‘As a contortionist, Vigor was trained to twist his limbs into the most unnatural positions. Once Miss Budd had left on her errand to the Crown and Mademoiselle Rossignol was alone, he came silently out from behind the screen, where he had already concealed himself, and crept up on her from behind, no doubt picking up the discarded stocking where it lay on the floor. As Mademoiselle Rossignol was engaged at the time in removing the other, she therefore failed to notice his approach.

  ‘You may recall, Lestrade, my remark that it does not take much imagination, even on the part of myself, a mere bachelor, to picture the scene. What does a woman do when she removes her stockings? The answer is obvious. She folds back her skirts in order to make the task easier. But the skirts of Mademoiselle Rossignol’s gown were not disarranged. On the contrary, they were most carefully draped over the edges of the stool.