The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (5 page)

‘By last summer, it was quite clear to both Gilbert and myself that his madness was not a passing aberration. The fits of insanity became more frequent and prolonged. In one of his lucid periods, we discussed his future quite rationally. It was Gilbert himself who suggested that we go to Scotland, where the family owns a castle on the coast, and that there his
apparent death should be contrived in a boating accident. It seemed to him the best and cleanest escape from his tragic situation. That way, the truth need never be revealed. I should inherit the title and the estates without any legal complications and Miss Russell would be released from an impossible relationship.

‘He further suggested that he be brought back here to be cared for.
*
He loves this place; it is his childhood home; the servants are all old family retainers and therefore could be trusted. There was, moreover, the Paradol Chamber, the priest’s hiding place, so named after the Italian craftsman, a Signor Paradolini, who devised it, and the existence of which you correctly deduced, Mr Holmes. There he could be kept safe from the eyes of casual visitors or curious neighbours.

‘He also insisted I gave him my word that, should his madness grow worse, he would be sent abroad to the same clinic where his mother had been admitted.

‘I agreed to his terms; there was no alternative. Consequently the boating accident was arranged in which Gilbert apparently died, his body being swept out to sea. A few days later, I brought him back here, disguised as a servant. Barker was appointed as his nurse and the Paradol Chamber was prepared for him. He occupies it for most of the time, kept docile by drugs and sleeping draughts during his most violent attacks, although there are intervals, usually at night, when his insanity is less pronounced and he is taken downstairs to walk about the gardens.

‘It was on one of these occasions that Miss Russell caught sight of him. He had been walking with Barker in the grounds to the rear of the house, out of sight of the road, when a sudden fit overcame him and, breaking free, he ran towards the gates. Barker shouted for Macey to assist him and it was while the two
men were attempting to restrain Gilbert and conduct him back inside the house that Miss Russell’s carriage drove past.

‘That is the full and tragic story, Mr Holmes. I know I can rely on you, and on your colleague, Dr Watson, never to repeat it.’

‘You have our word,’ Holmes assured him. ‘However, may I be allowed to give you some advice, Lord Hindsdale?’

‘What is that?’

‘That you take Miss Russell into your confidence. She is a young lady of great good sense and strength of character. I am certain she would never betray your trust. But it would be cruel indeed, knowing the affection she has for your nephew, if you leave her in ignorance of the truth. Her solicitor, Frederick Lawson, may also be trusted.’

‘Yes; you are right,’ Lord Hindsdale conceded after a long moment’s consideration. ‘In fact, I shall ask Miss Russell for an interview in the presence of her solicitor this very afternoon.’

I do not know what was said between them but I assume Lord Hindsdale repeated in their hearing the account which he had already given to Holmes and myself, for during the course of the following months we received two communications from Miss Russell, one tragic in which she informed us that ‘a mutual friend’ had been forced to retire to a Swiss clinic through failing health.

The second, which arrived several weeks after the first, contained happier news. In it, Miss Russell announced her forthcoming marriage to Frederick Lawson, inviting Holmes and myself to the ceremony which, unfortunately, we were unable to attend, Holmes being fully occupied by the Tillington scandal, for which he required my services.

As for the case of the Paradol Chamber, I have given my word that the facts will never be made public and therefore I have had to content myself with making only a passing reference to it within the published records
*
and with writing this
secret account which will be deposited with other confidential material in my dispatch box at my bank, Cox and Co. of Charing Cross, knowing that no one except Holmes and myself will ever set eyes upon it.

‘What an exceedingly depressing day!’ Holmes complained. He was standing at the window of our
*
sitting-room in Baker Street, drumming his fingers on the pane down which the rain was pouring like a cataract. ‘No investigation to stimulate the mind! No book worth reading! Nothing to look at except wet umbrellas and steaming cab-horses! We really must do something, Watson. I cannot tolerate another hour spent shut up between these four walls. I shall suffocate with boredom!’

He had been in a restless state of mind all afternoon, alternately pacing about the room or flinging himself down on the sofa to stare moodily at the ceiling.

‘What do you suggest, Holmes?’ I inquired.

I was seated by the fire, reading the evening newspaper, with no real desire to venture out in such wild, wet weather.

‘Let us see what the
Star
has to offer,’ said he, striding across the room. Taking the paper from me, he rustled through the pages until he came to the section advertising the various places of entertainment.

‘Which would you prefer? A concert at St James’s Hall? A theatre? Or a return visit to Goldini’s?’
*

‘Quite frankly, I should prefer none of them. It is a beastly night, Holmes.’

‘What a dull fellow you are! A little wetting hurt no one. Aha! I see something here which will tempt you away from the fire. The French Nightingale is top of the bill at the Cambridge.
†
I thought that would rouse you!’ said Holmes, quite recovering his good spirits at the alacrity with which I sat upright in my chair. ‘She is a particular favourite of yours, is she not?’

‘She has a very fine voice,’ I replied, a little stiffly.

‘And a quite superb ankle. Well, what do you say, my dear fellow? Shall we brave the rain and go to see her?’

‘If you wish. It is entirely your decision.’

Holmes was still chuckling with amusement when, a little later and well muffled up against the weather, we hailed a cab in Baker Street and set off for the Cambridge, supping first at Marcini’s
‡
on the way.

Because of the rain, we had no difficulty in obtaining seats in the third row of the stalls, from which vantage point we had an excellent view of the stage and the chairman who introduced the acts.

I cannot say that the earlier part of the programme particularly
engaged my interest. There was an indifferent low comedian, a group of slightly above-average high-wire performers, a contortionist in a leopard-skin leotard who contrived to twist his limbs into quite extraordinary positions, and a pair of performing seals which Holmes, for reasons best known to himself, applauded enthusiastically.

For my part, I reserved my admiration for Marguerite Rossignol who appeared at the end of the first half of the bill.

Those who have never seen the French Nightingale perform have missed one of the greatest artistes ever to grace a music-hall stage.

She possessed not only a beautiful soprano voice, angelic in its effortless ability to reach a pure, high C, but also a full and yet graceful figure.

That night, as I recall, she was wearing a gown of lavender-coloured silk, a shade which showed off to the best advantage her abundant corn-coloured hair, elegantly adorned with a single aigrette plume, and a pair of shoulders which appeared to have been carved from white alabaster.

The setting also served to enhance her charms. She stood under an arched bower, covered with pink roses, and against a back-drop depicting a garden, full of flowers and blossoming trees.

I can picture her even now, that lovely throat extended as, after singing several ballads, she ended her performance with a thrilling rendition of Godard’s ‘Berceuse’,
*
before the red velvet curtains closed before her to tumultuous applause.

My palms were still warm with clapping, when Holmes tugged at my sleeve with the prosaic suggestion that we made our way to the bar.

‘A whisky and soda, Watson? If we hurry, we shall be among the first to engage the barmaid’s attention.’

It was Holmes who bought the refreshments, carrying the glasses over to a padded bench in a corner among the potted palms where I was sitting, my mind still captivated by the enchantment of the French Nightingale’s performance.

‘Well,’ said he, regarding me with a smile, ‘are you not grateful, my dear fellow, that I managed to persuade you away from the fire?’

Before I had time to reply, a commotion drew our attention to the far side of the room. A plump, pale man in evening clothes and, by his expression, in a state of considerable agitation, was trying to push his way through the crowd which now filled the bar.

Above the noise of laughter and conversation, I could hear his voice calling out in great urgency, ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention! Is there a doctor in the house?’

It was such an unexpected request that at first I failed to respond and it was Holmes who pulled me to my feet, at the same time signalling with his arm.

‘My friend, Dr Watson, is a medical practitioner,’ he announced as the man approached us. ‘Pray what is the matter?’

‘I should prefer not to discuss it here,’ the stranger replied, glancing uneasily about him at the curious faces which pressed in on us at all sides.

Once we had accompanied him outside to the privacy of a corner in the foyer, he continued, mopping his moist face with a large white handkerchief, ‘My name is Merriwick and I am the manager. A most appalling tragedy has occurred, Dr Watson. One of our artistes has been found dead backstage.’

‘In what circumstances?’ I inquired.

‘Murder!’ Merriwick whispered, his eyes almost starting out of his head with horror at the word.

‘Have the police been informed?’ my old friend asked. ‘My name, by the way, is Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Mr Holmes? The great consulting detective?’ It was highly gratifying to hear the tone of astonished relief in the manager’s voice. ‘I have heard of you, sir. It is fortunate indeed that you were among the audience tonight. May I retain your services on
behalf of the management? Any adverse publicity could be disastrous for the Cambridge.’ Merriwick was almost gabbling in his excitement and anxiety. ‘The police, Mr Holmes? Yes, they should be on their way. I have sent the assistant-manager off in a cab to Scotland Yard. Only the best is good enough for the Cambridge. And now, if you care to follow me, gentlemen,’ he continued, leading the way from the foyer, ‘Dr Watson may view the body and you, Mr Holmes – and may I say again how relieved I am to have your assistance? – can make a preliminary investigation.’

‘Whose body is it, Mr Merriwick,’ I asked.

‘Didn’t I say, sir? Oh, dear, dear, dear! What a dreadful omission!’ Merriwick cried, rounding his eyes again with shock. ‘It’s Marguerite Rossignol, the French Nightingale. Top of the bill, too! The Cambridge will never live down the scandal. To think that she should be strangled backstage in her own dressing-room!’

‘Marguerite Rossignol!’ I exclaimed, the shock of it bringing me to a complete halt.

Taking me by the arm, Holmes urged me on.

‘Come, Watson. Bear up, my dear fellow. We have work to do.’

‘But, Holmes, only a quarter of an hour ago that exquisite creature was alive and …’

I broke off, unable to continue.

‘Pray remember your Horace,’ my old friend adjured me.
‘“Vitae
summa
brevis
spem
nos
vetat
incohare
longam.”’
*

Still dazed by the news, I followed as Merriwick led the way to the area behind the stage, down dusty passages, their bare brick walls and stone floors in shabby contrast to the plush and gilding of the front-of-house, and finally through a door into a large and dingy back region where the dressing-rooms were situated.

It was crowded with people, stage-hands as well as performers,
the artistes still wearing their costumes with wraps or dressing-gowns thrown over their shoulders, and all of them chattering like starlings. In the midst of this disorder, I have a dim recollection of seeing some iron stairs leading to a shadowy upper region and, immediately in front of us and a little distance away, the stage-door with a small cubby-hole beside it, not unlike a Punch and Judy booth, through the open partition of which a man in a cap and muffler had thrust his head. The next moment, Merriwick turned into another, shorter passage, facing the stage-doorkeeper’s little office, and, taking a key from his pocket, unlocked a door.

‘The scene of the crime,’ he whispered in a sepulchral voice, standing aside to let us enter.

At first, I thought the room had been ransacked, it was in a state of such disarray. Clothes were scattered everywhere – on a shabby
chaise-longue,
over the top of a folding screen which occupied one corner, while garments of a more intimate nature dangled down from an improvised line slung between two hooks.

To add to my initial bewilderment, the large looking-glass of a dressing-table faced us as we entered, in which I caught a glimpse of our reflections, our black evening clothes very sombre in the midst of all this colourful confusion.

Still seated on a stool in front of this dressing-table but slumped across its surface, amid a litter of jars, spilt powder and sticks of grease-paint, lay the body of a woman with cropped, dark hair; not Marguerite Rossignol, I thought with a surge of relief, even though she was dressed in the same lavender silk gown which the French Nightingale had worn for her performance.

Merriwick, I assumed, had made a mistake.

It was only when I saw, propped up beside her on the dressing-table, the corn-coloured hair, still adorned with its aigrette plume and looking disturbingly like a severed head, that I realized the mistake was entirely mine.

Holmes, who had strode purposefully into the room, was bending down to examine the body.

‘She has not been dead long,’ he announced. ‘She is still warm.’

He broke off with an exclamation of disgust to wipe the tips of his fingers upon his pocket handkerchief.

Coming forward, I saw that the pure white marble of the shoulders was smudged where Holmes’ hand had brushed against the skin and that it was nothing more than a thick layer of white powder and grease-paint.

‘And strangled, too, with one of her own stockings,’ Holmes continued, pointing to the wisp of lavender-coloured silk which had been drawn tight about the throat. ‘She is still wearing the other.’

Had he not drawn my attention to this fact, I might not have noticed, in my dazed condition, the feet which protruded from below the hem of the gown, one clad, the other bare.

‘Well, well!’ Holmes remarked. ‘This is all distinctly relevant.’

But he did not say to what and immediately sauntered off, first twitching aside some curtains to reveal a heavily barred window before peering behind the screen, a brief examination which seemed to satisfy him for he said, ‘I have seen enough, Watson. It is time we spoke to any potential witnesses to this tragedy. Let us find Merriwick.’

Merriwick needed no seeking out. He was waiting for us outside in the passage, anxious to inform us that the theatre was now empty, the audience having been dismissed on his instructions with some specious excuse, and that he was entirely at our disposal. On Holmes’ inquiry if we could question whoever had found the body, Merriwick conducted us to his office, a comfortably appointed room, and then departed to fetch Mademoiselle Rossignol’s dresser, Miss Aggie Budd, who had made the fatal discovery.

Shortly afterwards, Miss Budd entered the room. She was a sharp-eyed, elderly Cockney woman, dressed in shabby black and so diminutive of stature that when, on Holmes’ invitation she sat down on the straight-backed chair he indicated, her feet barely touched the floor.

‘I suppose,’ said she, not at all intimidated and regarding us with a pair of little, round, black eyes, as bright as boot buttons,
‘that you’ll want to know about ’ow I came back to the dressin’-room and found Mademoiselle dead?’

‘Later,’ Holmes told her. ‘For the moment, I am more concerned with what happened before that, when Mademoiselle Rossignol was still on stage. You were in her dressing-room, I assume, waiting for her to finish her performance? At what point did you leave the room and for how long were you gone?’

The query was as much of a surprise to me as to Miss Budd who countered it with a question of her own which I, too, was anxious to ask although I would not have framed it in quite the same manner.

‘’Ere!’ she cried, her shrivelled features lively with suspicion. ‘’Ow did you know that?’

Holmes must have seen my expression of astonishment as well as hers for when he replied, he addressed us both.

‘Oh, it was simply a matter of deduction,’ said he, with a shrug. ‘The carpet behind the screen is liberally sprinkled with white dust where no doubt Mademoiselle Rossignol’s shoulders were powdered before she put on her gown. Three sets of footprints were discernible in the dust, all of them fresh. Two were small and belonged to women; yours, Miss Budd, I believe, and Mademoiselle Rossignol’s. The other set of marks were much larger and were indisputably those of a man. Unfortunately, they are too blurred to offer any distinguishing features as to exact size or to any patterning on the soles. However, the inference is obvious. A man, presumably the murderer, entered the dressing-room and concealed himself behind the screen after Mademoiselle’s shoulders had been powdered. As I conclude from his surreptitious behaviour that he had not been invited into the dressing-room, then he must have entered it when it was empty, that is, after Mademoiselle Rossignol had gone on stage and when you, Miss Budd, were also absent. Hence my questions. When did you leave the room? And for how long were you gone?’

Miss Budd, who had been following Holmes’ explanation with keen attention, her bright little eyes fixed on his face, nodded her head in confirmation.

‘You’re a clever one! Not the official police, are you, dear?
No, I thought not. They’d have trampled all over them footmarks without givin’ ’em a second glance. Well, you’re right, whoever you are. I did leave the room towards the end of Mademoiselle’s performance to wait in the wings for ’er with ’er wrapper. It was to put over ’er gown when she came off. Filthy them wings are! She’d only got to brush up against somethin’ to get covered with dust.’