The West End Horror (11 page)

Wincing at another spasm, the composer screwed himself ‘round in his seat and faced the detective.

“That makes still less sense, if I may say so, since they detested each other.”

“A
great many people appear to have disliked Jonathan McCarthy, that is certain.”

“Granted, granted. Shaw’s tongue may be wicked, but he always addresses himself to the issues. McCarthy was a parasite, preying on art and artists, which is not the same thing.” He started to rise, gave another gasp, and fell back in his chair, doubled over and clutching at his side as though he wished to remove
it
in one savage haul. His pince-nez slid from his nose and dangled wildly by its black ribbon, inches from the floor.

“You are seriously ill!” I cried, rushing forward. For several moments he was unable to answer but lay gasping in his chair, like a fish out of water. I opened his tie for him and removed his collar. I perceived the kitchen Ellen Terry had spoken of and hastened to
it
for some water, which I brought back to him. He swallowed
it
in awkward gulps.

“Thank you.”

“You are too ill to continue this interview,” I stated, drawing a black look across the table from Holmes.

Sir Arthur sat up siowly. Something that resembled a smile stretched itself taut across his face. “Ill? I am dying. These kidney stones are working their way with me and will shortly make an end.” He shrugged feebly and replaced his pincenez. “When the pain disappears, I go to Monte Carlo and relax; when
it
returns, I work to forget
it.
I am in London, working; ergo,
it
is back.” *[Sullivan succumbed to his ailment five years later]

“Can you continue talking?” Holmes enquired reluctantly.

“I can and I will, provided you establish the importance of your questions.” Sullivan rallied and sat straighter in his chair, re-fastening his collar with nervous little fingers.

“Do you not find the fact that both murders occurred within the space of twenty-four hours a telling coincidence?”

“Inspector Lestrade didn’t appear to find
it
so. He didn’t even mention the McCarthy affair when we talked this morning.

“The police have their own ways of functioning,” Holmes stated tactfully. “And I have mine. I may tell you flatly that the deaths are related.”

“How so?”

“They were achieved by the same hand.”

Sullivan smiled faintly. “I have read Dr. Watson’s accounts of your cases with the liveliest interest,” he confessed, “and have always found them agreeably stimulating. Nevertheless, you will forgive me if, in this instance, I do not deem your word sufficient proof.”

Holmes sighed, realising that Sullivan was no fool. He would have to play more of the cards in his hand.

“Were you aware, Sir Arthur, that Jessie Rutland was Jonathan McCarthy’s mistress?” The composer blanched as though his fatal ailment had flared up again.

“That’s impossible!” he retorted with heat. “She was no such thing.”

“I assure you that she was.” Holmes leaned forward earnestly, his eyes bright. “Our informant, whom I am not yet at liberty to disclose, assures me that she was. His accuracy in several other small matters forces me to trust him in this, the more so as
it
provides an otherwise missing link between these two crimes.”

‘What small matters?”

“For one thing, he states flatly that a leading member of the Savoy company uses drugs because Mr. Gilbert makes him so nervous.”

“That is a damned lie.” But he spoke without conviction and subsided into thoughtful silence. Holmes surveyed him coolly for a few moments, then leaned forward again.

“A moment ago you violently resisted the idea of Jonathan McCarthy as Jessie Rutland’s lover. It wasn’t merely because you despised the man. You
knew
better, didn’t you?”

“It seems pointless now.”

The grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes grew brighter than ever; they burned like twin beacons.

“I give you my word it is of the utmost moment. Jessie Rutland is dead; we cannot restore her to life or confer upon her any advantages, save, possibly, a decent funeral. But there thing we can do, and that is to bring her murderer to book.”

It was now Sullivan’s turn to study Holmes, and this he did for what seemed like a solid minute, glaring at him through his pince-nez, without moving, his hand pressed to his side. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

The detective breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. “Tell us about Jack Point.”

“Who?”

“Forgive me, that is the name by which McCarthy referred to him in his engagement calendar. He appears to have made a practise of substituting characters from your operas for the real names of people. The appointment in his diary for the night of his death was with Jack Point. Point is the hapless jester who loses his love in
Yeomen of the Guard,
is he not?”

“He is! He is!” Sullivan was impressed by the detective’s familiarity with his work. “So you think Jessie had a second lover?”

“You’ve as good as told me she had, Sir Arthur.”

Sullivan frowned, reached into his breast pocket, and withdrew a cigarette case. He extracted a cigarette, tapped it several times in a nervous tattoo against the box, then allowed Holmes to light it for him, throwing his head back gratefully as he blew out a cloud of smoke.

“You must understand first that Gilbert runs the Savoy,” he began. “He runs it like a military outpost, with the strictest discipline, on stage and off. You may have observed that the men’s and women’s dressing rooms are on opposite sides of the stage. Congregation betwixt them is strictly forbidden. Conduct of the company while in the theatre–and to a very great degree outside of it–must satisfy Gilbert’s mania for propriety.

“If his attitude seems to you gentlemen somewhat extreme, let me say that I understand and sympathise with what he has been trying to accomplish. The reputation of actresses has never been a very good one. The word itself has for many years been accepted as a synonym for something rather worse. Mr. Gilbert is attempting at the Savoy to expunge that particular synonym. His methods may seem severe and ludicrous at times, and–” he hesitated, tapping an ash–”individuals may suffer, but in the long run, I believe, he will have performed a useful service.

“Now, as to Jessie Rutland. I engaged her three years ago and never had any cause to regret my decision. She was, I knew, an orphan, raised in Woking, who had sung in various church choirs. She had no family nor income of her own. Gaining a position at the Savoy meant everything to her. For the first time in her life, she not only earned a decent wage, she had a home, a family, a place to which she belonged, and she was grateful for it.”

He stopped, momentarily overcome, whether by mental or physical anguish it was impossible to say.

“Go on,” Holmes ordered. His eyes were closed and the tips of his fingers pressed together beneath his chin–his customary attitude when listening.

“She was a dear child, very pretty, with a lovely soprano–a little coarse in the middle range, but that would have improved with time and practise. She was a hard worker and a willing one, always ready to do as she was told.

“My contact with the theatre is generally of the slightest. I engage the singers after auditioning them, and as the songs are written, I play them over for the company and soloists until they are learned. And I conduct on opening nights if I am able.” He smiled grimly. “Mr. Grossmith is not the only member of the company who has used drugs to get through a performance.

“I am no stranger to them myself, Sir Arthur. Please continue.”

“Normally, Mr. Cellier rehearses the chorus and soloists. It was a surprise to me, therefore, when several weeks ago, Jessie approached me after a rehearsal in which I had gone over some new material with the chorus, and asked if she might speak with me privately, as she was in need of advice. She was clearly distressed, and looking at her closely, I perceived that she had been weeping.

“My first impulse was to refer her to Gilbert. He is much more popular with the company than I–” this stated with a wistful air–”for though he sometimes tyrannises them and plays the martinet, they know he loves them and has their interests very much at heart, whereas I am a relative stranger. When I suggested this course of action to her, however, she started to cry again, saying that it was impossible.

“If I confide in Mr. Gilbert, I am lost!’ she cried. ‘I will lose my place, and
he
will be harmed, as well!” The composer sighed and dusted an imaginary speck of ash off his sleeve. “I am a busy man, Mr. Holmes, with many demands upon my time, both musical and otherwise.” He coughed and put out his cigarette, his eyes avoiding our own. “Nevertheless, I was touched by the girl’s appeal and I agreed to listen to her story. We met the next afternoon at a little teashop in the Marylebone Road. We were not likely to be recognised there, or if we were, it would be difficult to place any sordid construction on our presence.

“Tell me,’ I said, when we had given our order. ‘Tell me what has upset you.’ ‘I will not take up your time with preliminaries,’ said she. ‘Recently I made the acquaintance of a gentleman to whom I have become most attached. He is quite perfect in every way, and his behaviour towards myself has never been less than proper. Knowing the stringent rules governing conduct at the Savoy, we have behaved with the utmost circumspection. But, oh, Sir Arthur, he is so very perfect that even Mr. Gilbert must have approved! I have fallen in love!’ she cried, ‘and so has he!’ ‘But my dear,’ I responded warmly, ‘this is no cause for tears. You are to be congratulated! As for Mr. Gilbert, I give you my word of honour he will dance at your wedding!’

“At this point, Mr. Holmes, she began to cry in the midst of the restaurant, though she did her best to conceal the fact by holding a small cambric handkerchief before her face. ‘There can be no wedding,’ she sobbed, ‘because he is already married. That is what he has just told me.’ ‘If he has deceived you in this fashion,’ I retorted, much surprised, ‘then he is utterly unworthy of your affections and you are well rid of him.’ ‘You don’t understand,’ said she, regaining her composure, ‘he has not deceived me–as you mean. His wife is an invalid, confined to a nursing home in Bombay. She–”

“One moment,” Sherlock Holmes broke in, opening his eyes. “Did she say ‘Bombay’?”

“Yes.”

“Pray continue.” His eyes closed again.

“His wife can neither hear nor speak nor walk,’ she told me, ‘as she was the victim of a stroke five years ago. Nevertheless, he is chained to her.’ She was unable to suppress a trace of bitterness as she spoke, though I could not at the time

–nor can I now–find it in my heart to reproach her for it. ‘He feared to tell me of his plight,’ she went on, ‘for fear of losing me. Yet when he saw the direction our affections were taking, he knew he must disclose the truth. And now I don’t know what to do!’ she concluded and pulled forth her handkerchief yet again while I sat across the small table from her and pondered.

“Mr. Holmes, you can imagine how I felt. The woman had placed me in a most delicate position. I am part owner of the Savoy and in theory, at least, sympathise with Mr. Gilbert’s aspirations for its company; thus, my duties clearly lay in one direction. But I am a human being and, moreover, a man who has experienced a very similar problem, *[Sullivan’s mistress was an American, Mrs. Ronalds, who was separated but not divorced. They remained devoted to one another throughout much of his life.] and so my emotions and personal indinations lay in quite another.”

‘What did you advise?”

He looked at the detective without flinching. “I advised her to follow her heart. Oh, I know what you will say, but we are only here once, Mr. Holmes–at least, that is my conviction–and I believe we should seize what chance of happiness we can. I told her I would not reveal her secret to Mr. Gilbert, and I was as good as my word, but I warned her that I could not shield her from the consequences should he learn of her intrigue from another source.”

“I begin to understand a little,” said Holmes, “though there is much that remains obscure. Did she say anything at all concerning her young man that would enable us to identify him?”

“She was most careful to avoid doing so. The closest she came to an indiscretion was to let slip that the wife’s nursing home was in Bombay. I am quite certain she made no other reference.”

“I see.” Holmes closed his eyes briefly and tapped his fingertips together. “And how much of all this did you tell the police this morning?”

The composer blushed and dropped his eyes.

“Not a word?” Holmes was unable to conceal a trace of scorn. “The woman cannot now be compromised, surely. She has no place to lose.”

“But I,
I
can be compromised,” the other responded softly. “If it emerges that I knew of a liaison at the Savoy and failed to mention it to Gilbert–” He sighed. “Relations between us have never been very cordial, and of late they have become more strained than usual. He has never got over the fact of my knighthood, you know. But we need each other, Mr. Holmes!” He laughed shortly and without mirth. “The ironic truth is that we cannot function apart. Oh, I grant you ‘The Lost Chord’ and ‘The Golden Legend,’ but when all is said and done, I have the hideous knowledge that my forte is
The Mikado
and others of that ilk. He knows it, too, and knows that it is for our Savoy operas, if anything, that we shall be remembered. I have not long to live,” he concluded, “but while I breathe, I cannot afford to antagonise him further.”

“
Iunderstand you, Sir Arthur, and I apologise for having seemed to pass judgement. One final question.”

Sullivan looked up.

“Do you know Bram Stoker’s wife?”

The question took him by surprise, but he recovered and shrugged. “His wife is a good friend of Gilbert’s, I believe. That is all I can tell you.”

Holmes rose. “Thank you for your time. Come, Watson.

“I trust you will be discreet–if possible,” Sullivan murmured as we moved towards the door.