Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10 Read online

  “Again, simple observation. He is impeccably groomed, and yet his fingernails are ragged and somewhat dirty. That and the ruddy glow of his cheeks leads me to believe he spends time among his flowers—and the scratches on his hands lead me to the conclusion that his particularly fond of roses, which, as poets have oft noted, are not without their thorns. Are you satisfied now?”

  “Oh, very well!” I said, sounding a bit exasperated, which was not my intent, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’m satisfied, but you have to admit it’s a bit—well, irritating.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps. But just as a man who wishes to improve his bodily strength must do his exercises, so I must exercise my brain. May I ask what you were conversing about just now?”

  “He had a note to give me from Geoff Simmons.”

  “May I inquire what was in it?”

  “I haven’t read it yet,” I said, fishing it out of my pocket. I glanced at it quickly—it was written on the back of one of our programs for Hamlet. I handed it to Holmes, who read it aloud.

  “’My dear Edwin, would you kindly meet me tomorrow after rehearsal in the grill room of the Players? I may have something of import to tell you. Geoff Simmons.’”

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  “It’s very curious,” he murmured, handing it back to me. “Observe the wording: I may have something of import to tell you—it suggests that he does not yet know whether he will or not.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  “Furthermore, it is written hurriedly, on the back of a program—as though he did not plan to write it, and just grabbed whatever was to hand at the time.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “Also, why not request a meeting with you tonight instead of tomorrow?”

  “Presumably because of a prior appointment today.”

  “Indeed. The whole thing is very mysterious, and I don’t like it.”

  * * * *

  We left the theatre, heading northwest toward the Players, starting up Fifth Avenue, before winding west through side streets, past stalls of booksellers and greengrocers. We walked for a while in silence, breathing in the early spring air; the cold snap of the previous week had lifted, and the air was suddenly heavy with the smell of cherry blossoms.

  The area around Union Square had become one of the most fashionable in New York, and the outdoor cafés were beginning to fill up. Ladies perched daintily upon narrow café chairs, wobbly on wrought iron legs, festooned in finery and an astounding array of pastels, their matching parasols and lap dogs at their feet. Heading west, we wandered uptown through the gaily decorated theatre district as carriages careened past us, bouncing briskly down Broadway.

  “From now on you must only eat food which has been prepared by people you can trust,” said Holmes. “Having failed at poisoning once, your assailant will not be prevented from trying again.”

  “At least now we can eliminate Kitty as a suspect,” I observed gloomily.

  “Not so, I’m afraid. Just because the plan backfired and her dog ate the poisoned meat by accident, we cannot eliminate her.”

  “But she was so distraught—”

  “My dear Booth, that proves nothing. Her tears would have been just as real if the dog had eaten beef she herself had poisoned; in fact, the bitter irony of having been responsible for her dog’s death might have lent even more force to her grief. I might also point out that poison is a traditionally feminine method of killing—”

  “All right, Holmes; I take your point,” I interrupted moodily. I was beginning to find the whole experience exhausting, and longed to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and be done with the whole wretched affair.

  But Holmes was relentless.

  “Stealth has now become increasingly important to your assailant. The unsuccessful shooting was a setback—we can at least be grateful for that.”

  I did not respond; I found it difficult to be grateful for anything, knowing now that any meal I ate could very well be my last.

  “He is becoming bolder, which we must use to our advantage, and try to flush him out without his knowledge, and spring a trap on him when he least expects it.”

  It was late when we arrived at the Players, and the grill room was about to close. However, an exception was usually made for me; I had access to the kitchen around the clock. We ordered lamb chops and roast potatoes, and though I normally am very fond of lamb, I didn’t have much appetite. I was silent all throughout dinner, and only when Hector brought us our coffee and brandy in front of the fire did I finally give voice to the thoughts I had been nursing all night.

  “I was born with a caul over my head,” I began slowly, “and I always attributed to it any luck or success I have had in this life.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  “Do you believe in fate, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It depends upon what you mean by fate.”

  “Do you have a brother?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And what is he like?”

  “Completely unlike me in certain ways, but in others we are very much alike, indeed.”

  “How so?”

  A faint smile flickered across his thin lips.

  “We are both of an intellectual turn of mind—in fact, his brain is probably superior to mine.”

  “He must be quite impressive. And how are you different?”

  Holmes’s dark eyes searched my face for a moment, then he lowered them and shook his head.

  “Except for a certain—aversion to our fellow man, our temperaments could not be more distinct. Whereas I am all nervous energy, kinetic and restless, my brother is a sloth. You may perhaps have remarked upon my rather pronounced leanness.”

  “That would be difficult not to notice.”

  “My brother is my exact physical opposite. If you saw the two of us together you would not believe we were related—except perhaps for a certain resemblance around the eyes. I am convinced nothing would please him more than to live the rest of his life seated in his armchair at his club, moving only to turn the pages of a newspaper or order another brandy.”

  I nodded. “Yes, it is quite astonishing how far apples can fall from the same tree.”

  Holmes nodded but did not reply. A silence fell between us, heavy with the unasked question.

  “And your brother, Mr. Booth?” Holmes said at last, his voice gentle.

  “My brother,” I began slowly, as if by delaying the words I could somehow delay the thought of those terrible days, “my brother John was very like me some ways—and completely different in others.”

  “He was a gifted actor, I hear.”

  “Oh, yes—and handsome, too. All the ladies were in love with him.”

  “It is hard to imagine one whom Nature has provided with so much being driven to such desperate extremes,” Holmes replied. “My apologies if you feel I am prying into matters you would rather not discuss.”

  I shook my head and lit a cigar. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Holmes, but my sister Asia insists it does me good to talk about it.”

  “Perhaps,” Holmes murmured. “There are more things in heaven and earth.…”

  “My brother bore within him a darkness—a hunger, if you will—that was never completely satisfied by what other men would have deemed profuse blessings. Youth, talent, beauty of form and face, a family name of honor and renown—all these gifts were bestowed upon young Johnny, and yet he felt a dissatisfaction with life the rest of us could never understand. He identified always with the South, even though everyone else in our family considered ourselves Northerners. None of us fought in the war, but Johnny seemed determined to rail against the North whenever the chance arose. Then, when victory came to the Union forces, he seemed to come apart in some way. But upon my soul, Mr. Holmes, I will never to this day understand what evil force propelled him to such a desperate and despicable act!”

  “Can you not, Mr. Booth?” he replied softly. “You yo
urself have been considered the pre-eminent actor in this country for most of your career, the sole inheritor of your father’s mantle of greatness.”

  “Perhaps, but Johnny was—”

  “Your younger brother, never destined to reach your heights—or so he must have believed.”

  “But he had fame, and the adoration of women wherever he went.”

  “But you had the respect and adulation of your peers, the press, and everyone who truly mattered in his eyes. I believe your brother realized he would never be the great tragedian that you are—and having come of age in your shadow, he craved attention more than virtue or honor.”

  I laughed—a short, bitter exhalation of air. “I swear to you I would exchange all of my renown for a return to the simple pleasures of married life once again. To sit by the fire with my dear Mary once again! That, to me, is real bliss—not dashing madly about from town to town, sleeping in a different bed night after night, eating indifferent food in dull company. To be an actor, Mr. Holmes, is to feel that one’s life is never truly one’s own.”

  “Perhaps it is the human condition to be in a state of continual longing—to yearn for what we cannot have.”

  * * * *

  We talked on into the night. I lost track of time, until I became suddenly aware of the slow, steady clip clop of the milk horse as it plodded down the cobblestone street, and realized that we had stayed up all night. I rose from my chair and pulled the thick drapes aside from the long French windows, and gazed at the faint pink glow in the Eastern sky. I turned to my visitor, sheathed in half-darkness under the gas lights, the lamplight falling on his sharp, aristocratic cheekbones.

  I looked out across Gramercy Park, so peaceful and green in the early morning stillness, the air heavy with the scent of mimosa blossoms. The lifting of the cold snap had brought forth a sudden burst of trees blooming all over town. Spring in New York always brought the heavy, sweet aroma of mimosa as the trees surrendered their yellow and white blossoms onto the sidewalks, to be trampled underfoot by scores of passing feet.

  I yawned, realizing suddenly how tired I was. My weary body cried out for sweet sleep; I longed to sink into blissful oblivion.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I leave to retire for the night,” I said, “or rather, to sleep away the rest of the morning.”

  “By all means,” Holmes replied. “You must get your rest.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  I turned and went up the stairs, but could not resist a glance back as I did. My last sight of him was sitting, shrouded in pipe smoke, peering into the half-light of the coming dawn, as if the rising sun itself held the answer to the secrets that plagued us both.

  I fell into my bed, feeling a weight had been lifted, but still could not sleep. I tossed and thrashed about for over an hour, and finally, when sleep did come, I drifted in and out of heavy dreams, in which my brother John always seemed to be lurking in the background. Each time I attempted to speak with him, he faded away, shaking his head sadly as his image receded from me.

  * * * *

  I awoke to a terrific clap of thunder—shortly afterward, the skies opened up. The rain pelted down with a sharp, percussive sound, like handfuls of pebbles being tossed at the window panes. I watched as the drops hit the glass; defeated in their attack and drained of their energy, they slid harmlessly down the windows. If only my assailant were so easy to overcome—if only I could put up an invisible barrier between us! A deep strain of melancholy threaded through the Booth family like an evil, creeping vine—perhaps it was the price we had to pay for the genius bestowed upon us. As I gazed out at the furious storm, I couldn’t help but think of my poor brother—in him the melancholy grew, rampant and untended, into a madness that burst forth in terrible fullness on that fateful night at Ford’s Theatre.

  Finally I dragged myself out of bed, bathed and dressed myself. Rehearsal had been called for two o’clock in the afternoon, so after a hasty breakfast, Holmes and I took a cab to the theatre.

  We were scheduled to rehearse the scene in which Hamlet visits his mother, Gertrude, in her bedroom. He mistakes the busybody Polonius, who is eavesdropping behind a screen, for his Uncle Claudius, who has murdered Hamlet’s father. Gertrude calls out for help, and, in a panic, the foolish Polonius echoes her cries. Hamlet hears him and stabs Polonius through the screen, thinking he is stabbing Claudius. In one of the play’s many sad ironies, poor Polonius is rewarded for his meddling with an ignominious death, as Hamlet incurs the wrath of the old man’s son, Laertes, while the killer Claudius remains free.

  In our production, we used a trick sword with a collapsing blade—a simple enough device—so that when I “stabbed” Polonius (Geoff Simmons), the blade retreated into itself, giving the illusion of sinking into his flesh. The effect was very realistic, and audiences invariably gasped when the sword “penetrated” his body.

  The scene between Hamlet and his mother was going well—the veteran actress playing Gertrude was wonderful—and when the moment arrived for the stabbing, I was charged with emotion. I spoke Hamlet’s lines as he hears Polonius:

  How now? a rat?

  Dead for a ducat, dead!

  I seized the sword from Gertrude’s bedside table. It did not feel like the usual prop sword that we used—it was heavier, and the handle felt different. But the moment was fleeting, and I was so hot with emotion that I ignored any misgivings and continued with the scene.

  I will never forgive myself for what happened next.

  I grasped the sword and plunged it into the curtain Polonius was hiding behind. But instead of the metallic click of the collapsing blade, there was the sickening sound of steel ripping into flesh. Stunned, I pulled my hand back, the sword still clutched in it. It was wet with blood—not stage blood, but real blood. I staggered backward as Geoffrey Simmons stumbled from behind the screen, his face white, clutching his stomach. With a groan, he sank to his knees. He looked up at me with the most pitiful expression of disbelief, hurt and accusation. I tried to speak but could not utter a word. I knelt beside him and caught him in my arms; I was vaguely aware of a woman screaming behind me. And then all was blackness; it was as though someone had pulled a shade over my eyes, and I lost consciousness.

  * * * *

  The next thing I knew I was on the divan in my dressing room, Holmes bending over me. Squinting in an attempt to focus my eyes, I tried to sit up.

  “Easy, now,” Holmes said. “Don’t try to stand just yet. You’ve had a shock—we all have.”

  “Geoffrey!” I cried. “Is he—?”

  “I’m afraid he did not survive the wound,” Holmes replied gently. “Everyone believes it was an accident.”

  “It was no accident,” I said grimly.

  “Yes, I know. Someone put that sword there on purpose.”

  “But why kill poor Geoffrey?”

  “Clearly he knows something. That is no doubt why he left the note asking to speak with you.” He began pacing the room, his face dark. “We must act decisively, and soon.”

  It struck me at that we were caught in the same dilemma as Shakespeare’s famous character: to act or not to act—and when?

  When I recovered from my shock, I made a brief appearance in front of the rest of the company to announce that rehearsal was canceled indefinitely—at least until we found a new Polonius. I was careful to call the event a “horrible accident,” and cautioned everyone to check his or her props carefully from now on. Perhaps others had suspicions this was no accident, but if so, they did not tell me.

  Holmes and I hailed a cab—I sat in moody silence as it rattled through the streets. I now was in a moral quandary, and had to seriously consider canceling the entire production. I had thought up until now that I was the only one in danger, but clearly I was mistaken.

  No sooner had we seated ourselves in the grill room when Hector handed me my mail. In it was a bill from the theatre owner for our monthly rent, which made my decision even more
painful. If I did not present Hamlet, the bill would go unpaid and my entire company would be out of work. I sighed deeply and tossed the letter on the table next to me.

  “What is it?” Holmes asked.

  “A bill from our landlord. Each year he threatens to sell the building, and each year I find a way to dissuade him. He claims if he turned it into a store, it would be much more profitable.”

  “No doubt he is right,” Holmes answered. “I wonder why he continues to operate it as a theatre.”

  “I suspect prestige has something to do with it.”

  “Of course,” Holmes agreed. “He can boast at parties that he is Edwin Booth’s landlord…which makes me wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “I had previously discarded money as a motive, but perhaps I should revise my thinking. There may be an unseen player in this affair, after all.”

  I was about to respond, but at that moment the door opened and in strode Lawrence Barrett.

  Barrett and I had known each other for many years, since my earliest days in New York. He was an intense and gifted actor, but a difficult and demanding man. We had had many ups and downs over the years—after one quarrel we didn’t speak for half a year. I had refused to cast him in a lead I felt he was unsuited for, and it was months before he forgave me. He was as covetous of fame as I was weary of it. His Cassius in Julius Caesar was renowned—he was suited to the part as few actors are, being himself not only lean but a truly ambitious and “hungry” nature. Though a critically acclaimed actor, he never drew large audiences as I did, which rankled him terribly.

  He swung into the room on his long legs, wearing a forest green wool cape and shiny black riding boots. He looked around the room haughtily, no doubt hoping to be recognized by some young actor who might ask him for an autograph. No one paid him any attention, though, and he flicked his cape over his shoulder, much as a cat flicks its tail when irritated. Spying me, he stalked stiff-legged to our table; a frown passed across his face when he saw Holmes.

  “Hello, Larry,” I said.

  “Good day, Edwin,” he replied, still staring at Holmes.