The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes (6 page)

‘You are certain the bow came from there?’ Masterson asked.

‘Naturally. A quick examination, this morning, revealed a thin layer of dust on all of the weapons, save for one
crossbow
! I was now certain that you were the supposed attacker and yet I was equally assured of your lack of genuine malicious intent, save, of course the incrimination of your rival. Even if one allows for your being a poor archer, I am sure a stick, wielded by a woman, would prove a most inadequate weapon when used against a man of your build and strength.’

‘You have laid my secret bare most thoroughly, Mr Holmes, and your considerable reputation is certainly not mere hyperbole. However, I fail to see what steps you intend to take against me, since no crime, of which I am aware, has actually been committed. John Rouse, the
shepherd
is still at liberty, and my wife is free to go her own way, despite my own misgivings on the matter.’ Masterson made this last statement with a curious mixture of
defiance
,
and intense bitterness in his voice. This was not lost on Holmes, who replied with some sympathy.

‘Even if I were able, I am sure I would take no action that would actually affect your liberty. Though not uncommon, your loss is great enough. When Watson and I finally depart for London, I can assure you, we will be leaving the Cornish police none the wiser.’

With a sigh of relief and not without some difficulty, the Colonel raised himself from his chair, and then proceeded to pour us each a large measure of whisky. The eagerness with which Holmes accepted his glass was a further
indication
of the intense strain he had been under, these past twenty-four hours. I further conjectured as to the course his investigation might have taken had he not his own bitter experience of the behaviour of the former Alice Dunwoody to draw upon.

‘Mr Holmes, before you make your departure, there is one last favour I must ask of you.’ My surprise at these words from the Colonel broke my chain of thought. ‘You must help me to locate my wife, so I can yet persuade her to return to Avalon with me.’ Sensing our astonishment, at this request, he added. ‘Despite her wanton behaviour, I regret to say that I am still very much in love. Despite the humiliation she has brought on me, I am willing to forgive her, as Arthur forgave Guinevere. Will you help me?’

We stared at Holmes as he pondered over his decision. He sat in distracted silence, no doubt recalling his own feelings at the time when his association with Alice Dunwoody reached this very juncture.

‘Is there a quiet, discreet hotel in Slaughter Bridge, or thereabouts?’ Holmes asked thoughtfully.

‘Only “The Mitre Inn” immediately springs to mind.’ The Colonel replied, after a moment’s thought.

‘Excellent!’ Holmes responded, evidently having decided to help the Colonel this one last time. ‘I suggest we begin our search there. Since the proceeds of their pilfering still remain within the cave, I am certain they will be using local accommodation. Watson and I shall pack at once, and meet you at the front in five minutes. If my surmise proves correct, we shall go directly from “The Mitre” to the station in plenty of time to meet the London train.’

Within five minutes of Holmes’s pronouncement, we found ourselves being driven away from the mysterious house of Avalon, although our return journey was to be made within the comfort of the Colonel’s Landau, as opposed to the antique trap we had used the day before. Our journey was made in total silence, each of us harbouring his own thoughts. Holmes was seated next to the Colonel, and from my vantage point opposite, I was struck by the contrast in their nature and behaviour.

Holmes’s normally, stony countenance was at its most impassive and enigmatic, and he was seated bolt upright as motionless as a statue, staring straight before him. The Colonel, however, was the epitome of restless agitation, constantly tugging at his high collar, or pulling at his tie. His legs, and feet were constantly in motion, as he
persistently
crossed and recrossed them. His forehead was locked in a perpetual scowl, and, despite the exceedingly low temperatures, I observed tiny beads of perspiration forming around the rim of his hat.

The outcome of the projected meeting was impossible to foresee, so I contented myself by surveying the most striking landscape we were passing through, once I was
certain that there was to be no conversation forthcoming from my companions.

“The Mitre Inn” was located on the very edge of the village and had the air of being seldom used. Being built of the local stone, it appeared to be well maintained however, and I was sure it had been standing in this fashion for hundreds of years, providing discreet comfort for the weary traveller.

Claiming fatigue, Holmes declined to leave the landau, and entreated me to accompany the Colonel, to ensure that the proposed liaison went well. I fully understood the reason behind Holmes’s deception, and immediately alighted with the Colonel. Our initial inquiries of the inn’s dusty reception clerk, had been fruitless, and I was despairing of meeting with any success, when the Colonel let out a short, startled cry.

I followed his gaze down the corridor, and standing there, was perhaps, the most strikingly beautiful woman I had ever beheld. Perhaps a shade too thin of build for total perfection, she stood well above average height, and held herself with a regal dignity that was awe-inspiring to watch. Her hair was ebony black, and shone with a wondrous lustre. Unfortunately, I was not able to
distinguish
her features initially, for she halted at the base of the stairs, evidently waiting for someone to join her. When her companion eventually arrived, they strode purposefully, almost defiantly, towards the Colonel and me, and I was then able to see that her features were nature’s own gift. Her clear, dark eyes shone, her nose was small, and perfectly formed, whilst her fine, high cheek bones lent something imposing to her beauty. The effect she
undoubtedly
had on Holmes and the many who had since followed
and succumbed, was not hard to believe now that I was in her presence.

Despite his attire, her companion, undoubtedly John Rouse, had an open, honest face, baring the ruddiness of a man who spends the majority of his time out of doors. A squarely built man in his early forties, Rouse exuded the impression of strength, and held himself well. Yet, even with these virtues, he seemed the unlikeliest of
companions
for the delightful creature by his side. I could well understand the Colonel’s chagrin at her desertion to this man.

With an inconceivable air of confidence and lack of remorse, Alice Masterson approached her husband and greeted us both in a light, almost melodic voice. I
introduced
myself with a short bow, yet even as I spoke the Colonel moved a step forward and grabbed his wife by the arm.

‘Please Alice,’ He implored. ‘Spare me just five minutes, so that we may speak alone. In there perhaps.’ He motioned towards a deserted lounge that opened on to the lobby.

‘Now see here Alice.’ Rouse protested, then gesturing towards me. ‘This here gentleman may well be to do with the police. Let us give back the silver and be gone from these parts, before any real harm is done.’

‘You Sir!’ Masterson boomed at Rouse, emphasising his physical superiority as he did so. ‘Have already done very considerable harm, but my business here is with my wife!’ Then calming himself, not wishing to create a public scene. ‘I assure you that if I fail to convince her of the sincerity of my forgiveness and she chooses to remain here, I will return, in peace, to Avalon. As far as I am concerned, the silver can rot in the cave forever.’

Rouse was about to protest still further, but Alice Masterson merely squeezed his arm and assured him that all would be well. The door to the lounge was made up of glass panels, enabling Rouse, and myself to see the Mastersons clearly during the course of their conversation. However they chose to stand at the far end of the lounge and their words were lost to us. She was facing the door, while they spoke, and the Colonel kept his back to us.

Not surprisingly this conversation was in some earnest, and with emotion, yet both displayed commendable restraint and no loss of temper was evident. Rouse became agitated, when the couple fell into an embrace. I had to restrain him, though mercifully, without the use of force from entering the room there and then. I was wondering whether this embrace indicated their reconciliation, when Alice Masterson suddenly jerked backwards.

Initially, the significance of this was lost on us, as we watched from the lobby, however, a moment later she began to fall to the ground. In vain she tried to hold on to the Colonel for support, while he, in turn, stood rigid, as if transfixed, or in a trance. She landed heavily on the floor and at once we could see the dagger in her midriff and a large circle of scarlet forming around it.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ Rouse screamed as he rushed to the door. Again, I was fortunate in being able to restrain him, for he would surely have killed the Colonel had I not held him back. I persuaded him to fetch the police at once, for fear of the Colonel escaping, although in fact I felt this most unlikely. However Rouse’s departure averted another tragedy and, once he was safely away, I was able to enter the lounge, and attend to Mrs Masterson’s wounds. Tragically, this was futile. She had died instantaneously, so
violent, and accurate had been her husband’s thrust with the knife. I turned my attention towards the Colonel.

As I had feared, he appeared to have been taken by an attack of brain fever. His mouth was moving endlessly, though the sounds that he made were unintelligible. His eyes were fixed in a ghastly stare, and his limbs were still rigid with a small quantity of blood on his left hand,
dripping
slowly from it onto the pale rug. The perspiration on his face, and forehead was profuse, indicating to me that the murder of his wife had been premeditated. Surely the perspiration I had noticed on him, during our ill-fated journey to the inn, had been in anticipation of his dreadful crime.

Mercifully the police were most prompt in their arrival. The body of that beautiful creature was borne respectfully away and a police doctor attended to the Colonel, before much time had passed. It only remained for me to give my statement to the inspector, certain in the knowledge that each word I spoke was condemning the man to the gallows. It was only then that I was able to rejoin my friend in the carriage outside.

I must confess to being most surprised at finding him still seated there. I was certain that the commotion caused by the arrival of the police entourage would have attracted his attention to the inn. Even when I recounted the tragic outcome of the meeting inside, I was dismayed to observe not the faintest flicker of surprise or regret register on his stony countenance.

I was forced to reflect on how often, in the past, Holmes had acted as judge and jury, meeting out his own idea of justice, and not always in a manner of which I had approved. Yet in my heart of hearts I could not bring
myself to believe that he had any prior knowledge, or suspicion of Masterson’s dark intent.

To admit that would be to acknowledge that Holmes had decided, himself, the form of punishment that Alice Masterson’s previous crimes were to receive. That notion, I decided, was inconceivable. It was far more likely that Holmes was now completely emotionally drained and that he had retreated, once more, into his shell. Indeed, never again was I to receive such an insight into his true nature and we regarded the subject as a closed book for the remainder of our association.

‘The local police can conclude the little that still remains to be done.’ Holmes said at last. ‘At least that much can be entrusted to them.’ He added disdainfully.

‘Holmes,’ I asked quietly. ‘Surely you will go inside for a moment.’

‘What, and miss our train? To the station, driver!’

T
HE
M
ISSING
D
ON
G
IOVANNI

‘Y
ou know, Watson,’ Holmes began one morning whilst casting his newspaper to the floor, ‘if this continues for too much longer, I shall seriously have to consider changing my profession. To say there is a dearth of noteworthy crimes at the moment, would be to commit an understatement of unprecedented proportions.’

‘It must be the heat,’ I ventured, ‘after all it has led to changes in everyone’s behaviour.’

‘I am not conscious of any noteworthy changes in my own,’ Holmes replied, ‘save the normal seasonal change of weight in my clothes. I shall leave the masses to wail and moan over nothing more than a few extra degrees.’

‘A few extra degrees! Come now Holmes, it has been in the nineties since early June.’

I left our breakfast table hurriedly and went for a wash and change of clothes, a pattern that had become regular and tedious since the onset of this abnormal weather. Both the heat and Holmes’s superior attitude had started to annoy me. Normally the heat causes me few problems, but the humidity of a large city made it unbearable, even with my experience of Afghanistan.

After I had washed and changed and was feeling
considerably 
cooler, I reflected that, perhaps, my annoyance had been somewhat misplaced. The earlier superciliousness of Holmes was one of many stark changes of mood I had noticed come over him of late. Languid lethargy one moment, nervous, almost quirky excitement the next. Deep depression, followed by great exaltation expressed at mere trivia, for nothing other than trivia had occupied our time of late.

Therein, I was certain, lay the problem. Total inactivity of a professional nature was preventing the incredible mental powers of Sherlock Holmes from expressing
themselves
.

Then an even darker thought crossed my troubled mind. Was his dormant habit of cocaine taking, raising its ugly head again? I had been witness to the terrible effects of this awful drug on many occasions during periods of inactivity, but always, thankfully, a new intrigue or adventure would present itself, and his need for stimulation would evaporate.

It was true to say that this was the longest lull we had so far experienced. However, it was with foreboding that I conjectured on the long-term effects the drug might now be having.

I decided, therefore, that to remain in our rooms any longer would be dangerous to us both and to my pleasant surprise, succeeded in persuading Holmes to take a
constitutional
with me to clear our heads.

I immediately noticed how slowly the normal traffic and bustle of Baker Street was moving. Evidently the intense heat was affecting every walk of life, though when I mentioned this to him, Holmes merely waved my remark aside impatiently and trotted off at a deliberately brisk pace towards Marylebone Road.

We had gone no further than twenty yards when the clear tones of Mrs Hudson calling our names brought us to an abrupt halt. We turned sharply in our tracks and noticed a smart brougham drawn up outside our rooms and two equally well turned-out gentlemen standing with Mrs Hudson, evidently the vehicle’s former occupants. The most striking feature of the two gentlemen, obvious, even at that distance, was that they were both attired in evening wear.

‘Gracious Holmes, evening suits, mid morning and in this heat?’

‘Evidently, Watson, some tragedy has befallen the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.’

Before I could even begin to question this startling
statement
of his, Holmes was retracing his steps in great haste.

Despite the absence of dampness or cold, my leg had been playing me up of late, so by the time I was able to reach our rooms, our two guests were already seated
opposite
Holmes, who was in his customary chair. Impatiently he motioned me to mine, which I readily took, notebook at the ready.

‘Watson, may I introduce Sir James Mowbray, director of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden and his assistant, Mr Jonathan Crawford. Gentlemen, my good friend and staunch ally, Dr John Watson, whose discretion you can rely upon as readily as my own.’

‘Sir James, I can see from your attire that the problem which has brought you here has kept you up all night. I take it the police have been called, but have proved to be of no assistance at this stage. Therefore, an acquaintance of yours, who has either benefited from my services at some time or heard of such an instance, suggested you consult me. That much is clear. The remainder, I shall
trust to your brief summary, for I am sure that time is at a premium!’

‘Most impressive, Mr Holmes. You were quite correct on all counts and our time is indeed at a premium. The case, as the police and no doubt yourselves call it, which I bring before you is straightforward enough in itself, a missing person. The person in question, however, and the nature of his disappearance, are the conundrums. If either of you have any knowledge of, or interest in, serious music and more specifically grand opera, you will no doubt be aware of the Royal Opera’s current production of Mozart’s masterpiece, “Don Giovanni”.’

‘Why yes, of course and you brought over a supposedly wonderful young Italian baritone for the lead role. His name, however, escapes me,’ I finished weakly.

‘Roberto Tordelli, to be precise, doctor, and believe me, the reputation that preceded him was not unfounded. He has, without doubt, one of the finest voices for his age that I have been privileged to hear. In fact I might say, as fine a baritone as I have heard at any age, he is, after all, only twenty-four. A natural clear voice unforced and combined with instinctive interpretation.’

Sir James fell into a peculiar trance as he thought of the young Italian baritone, until Holmes brought him back to the business at hand.

‘Sir James, please! If I am to be of any assistance to you, you must give me the facts, precisely and briefly. I take it the young Tordelli is the aforementioned missing person?’

‘I apologise, Mr Holmes, but the arrival in the opera world of such a talent is so rare an occurrence that to lose him so suddenly is a bitter blow.’

‘I am sure also, that the loss of advance bookings,
following so triumphant a first night, must weigh heavily with you as well. That is neither here nor there. However, I must inform you at once gentlemen, that missing persons are not the type of work that I would normally like to undertake. I am sure so illustrious a person as yourself will exact the maximum effort from our beloved police force.’

With that Holmes took up his pipe and turned to the window, his back to Sir James.

‘Well, I must say!’ Sir James protested. I merely shrugged by way of an apology. It was obvious that
something
in Sir James’s manner had irritated Holmes’s already lacerated nerves. There was no other explanation for his dismissal of our dignified visitors as he had been so desperate for a case of this level to come into our hands.

‘Perhaps, even if you have no sympathy for my plight, Mr Holmes, you would consider Tordelli’s charming young fiancée who arrived in London just hours after Tordelli’s disappearance,’ Sir James ventured.

Holmes smoked for a few moments in silence, his eyes still on Baker Street.

‘Unannounced?’ He asked quietly, without turning round.

‘Why no. We received a telegram informing us of her intentions yesterday morning.’

Slowly Holmes turned. ‘A point of most singular interest, would you not say, Watson?’

I nodded my agreement as Holmes resumed his seat.

‘Tell me, Sir James, when did you first hear of this Italian protégé?’

Still suppressing his indignation, Sir James replied. ‘About three months ago, two members of our committee heard him perform Verdi’s “Tosca” at La Scala in Milan.
Acting on their ardent advice we immediately set in motion arrangements for his season here, as soon as his Italian commitments had been made good.’

‘Unseen and unheard, quite an expensive gamble, I should imagine.’ Holmes conjectured.

‘Expensive, yes, as to a gamble, I assure you that the judgement of our committee members is both proven and unbiased.’ Sir James replied pompously.

‘Unbiased? A curious word in this instance,’ Holmes spoke quietly, almost to himself.

‘A singer’s manager or family will go to great lengths to further the careers of their charge. It was not unheard of, in the past, for our agents to accept bribes, or to be
otherwise
seduced and influenced in their judgements and recommendations. I, however, have been most selective in my choice of agents and have not, so far, been disappointed. Indeed, even now the two in question are on their way, to a festival in Bavaria to judge the performances of another prospective singer.’

‘I am sure your confidence is well founded, but I must confess to being surprised at their not attending the young Tordelli’s first night, here at Convent Garden. However, please tell me how he was met at Victoria and his exact schedule since then.’

This time Crawford answered. ‘I met him off the
boat-train
last Friday evening and we went straight to his hotel where I stayed with him until I was sure his needs had been fully accommodated and that he was settled for the night. The next morning I collected him at an early hour for rehearsals which he attended most diligently throughout the day. Unfortunately we were working to a tight schedule. You see, originally, weeks of rehearsal were
planned before his opening night, but his predecessor was taken ill and he had to step in at the last moment. Therefore, Sunday was the second and last day of rehearsal and he made his debut the night before last. During the weekend he was either at rehearsal or his hotel in my company. Indeed after his great triumph on Monday, we repeated our routine of an early night at his hotel. That, too, would have been our procedure tonight, but for his untimely disappearance.’

‘Ah yes!’ rejoined Holmes. ‘Now to the crux of the matter. It was usual, I take it, for performers to return to their dressing rooms unattended after a performance?’

‘For a few moments, at least,’ Crawford replied, ‘to change and regain some composure. Then, close friends, family and occasionally members of the reputable press are admitted to offer congratulations and the like. In the case of Tordelli, however, it was to be restricted to only Sir James, myself and the critic from the
Times
. We allowed him ten minutes before arriving at his room, by which time …’

‘Ah, yes, of course he had disappeared,’ Holmes
interrupted
curtly. ‘Did the police detect any signs of a struggle?’

‘None at all. The room was in perfect order apart from his costume strewn hurriedly across the floor.’

‘I take it the stage door is usually attended?’ Holmes asked.

‘Yes of course, we cannot have just anyone wandering in from the street causing a nuisance. A uniformed steward is always in attendance.’ Sir James answered sharply,
obviously
still smarting from Holmes’s earlier rebuttal.

‘Did the police interview this individual?’

Yes, but I am afraid he had nothing illuminating to impart.’

‘That remains to be seen. Very well, gentlemen!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘I think a visit to the young Tordelli’s dressing room may prove of interest and since there is no time to lose I prevail upon you, Watson, to summon a hansom in all haste.’ With that he jumped up and held open the door for our clients.

The cab journey to Covent Garden, though not long in distance, seemed almost interminable, hindered, as we were, by the heavy, slow moving London traffic. Our clients and I became hot and most agitated, perspiring profusely, while, in contrast Holmes appeared cool and impassive, forever staring out of the window, but seeing, I perceived, nothing whatsoever of his surroundings. Already his immense capacity for concentration was employed on the mystery of Tordelli and his whereabouts.

It was with immense relief that we alighted from our sweat-box of a cab and Sir James immediately led us to the rear of the Opera House and through the stage-door entrance. We followed him along narrow, dimly lit corridors until I became aware that Holmes was no longer with us. With Crawford’s guidance, I retraced my steps and found Holmes engaged in conversation with a smart young fellow, obviously in attendance at the stage-door, who, I must confess, I had failed to notice when we entered the building. Holmes, of course, missed nothing.

As he came to join us, I shot him a questioning glance, but this he offhandedly waved aside as he hurried to join Sir James. A glimmer of a smirk played on his lips and already, I knew, Holmes was one step ahead of the rest of us.

The dressing room was surprisingly small and cramped, with no trace of the glamour one might have expected. A
huge mirror surrounded by lamps, obviously to assist in the application of make-up, filled the wall facing the door. An immense wardrobe and a dressing screen were the room’s only other features of interests, apart, that is, from some of Tordelli’s costume strewn in the middle of the floor.

A quick examination of the wardrobe appeared to reveal nothing, so Holmes turned his attention to the clothes on the floor. He picked up every item, slowly examining each one in turn. I heard him mumble the words, ‘strange’ and ‘unusual’ to himself a couple of times and he turned the clothes over in his hands, oblivious to Sir James’s
undisguised
impatience.