Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10 Page 8

There was a small, cozy second floor room on the east side of the building, mostly used for playing cards, which was unlikely to be occupied in the middle of the afternoon.

  “Yessir,” said Hector, bowing slightly, the gold of the lamplight reflecting on his shiny bald head. The bow was for our visitor’s sake; Hector never observed such formalities when it was just the two of us.

  I settled my tab in the grill room and headed up the stairs after them—I always insisted on paying for my meals, even though I owned the building. My visitor was seated comfortably in the lounge, his long body folded into a burgundy leather arm chair.

  “I am perhaps not what you expected,” he commented as I took the chair opposite him.

  “I must admit I was expected a somewhat rougher type of man.”

  “Rest assured that I am the man you seek,” he replied smoothly.

  “Brandy?” I asked, myself a sifter of the golden liquid.

  “It is perhaps a bit early for brandy,” he remarked, removing his gloves. His hands were long, with tapered fingers.

  “Tea, then?” I said. “Coffee?”

  “Coffee, I think,” he replied. “Thank you.”

  “Do they still drink much coffee in London?” I asked.

  He smiled. “It is becoming increasingly popular, though still not as widely consumed as tea. You must give us our idiosyncrasies; after all, we are English. And may I compliment you on your ear for accents, by the way; you are quite correct in surmising that I have spent time in London.”

  I felt my face warm at his words; even though he was the younger man by at least ten years, I felt like a puppy being praised by his master.

  “Now then,” I said, “Mr.—?”

  “My name is Holmes—Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Holmes, is it? What a curious thing, indeed.”

  “What is curious?”

  “My dear first wife Mary’s maternal family name was Holmes.”

  “Her mother, then, was a Holmes?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is not an uncommon name.”

  “True…this will sound hopelessly superstitious, but we actors are superstitious folk, so forgive me. But it feels almost as if your coming here was an act of providence—as if my dear Mary were somehow looking after me from beyond the grave.”

  “I am very sorry to hear your wife has passed away.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And yet you are remarried,” he commented, indicating the ring on my left hand.

  “Yes—though my current wife has quite lost her wits, poor thing. Her name is Mary, also, and she now lives with her parents, who have never cared much for me. She hardly knows who I am—or who anyone is, for that matter.” I sighed deeply. “But on to the matter at hand,” I said, doing my best to shake off my black mood.

  “Yes indeed,” he replied. “Now, then, what can I do for you?”

  I realized at that moment he had been interviewing me, rather than the other way around, and now was operating under the assumption that the job was his. I felt a bit put out by this, and wanted to protest, but instead I blurted out, “I’m afraid someone is trying to kill me.”

  He nodded, as if completely unsurprised by this. “Yes, I thought as much.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “You have entirely neglected to put on a cravat. You are either a man in danger or a man newly in love. As you have evidently been married for some time, I deduce the former rather than the latter.”

  “You have experience in these matters, then, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I can provide references, should you require them.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that will be necessary,” I replied.

  “Good; time is of the essence. Now then, please tell me everything, being careful to omit no detail.”

  He was the kind of man who immediately inspires confidence in others; the mere fact of his presence was strangely calming.

  “Well, the first incident seemed innocent enough at the time: a hanging flat in the theatre swung down during a performance, and I ducked just in time to prevent being decapitated.”

  “I see. Was the cause of the accident ever determined?”

  “It seems someone had forgotten to tie up the rope holding it in place—or tied it so loosely that it came undone. No one came forward to confess to having tied the rope badly.”

  Holmes nodded gravely. “And the second incident?”

  “A trap door on the stage collapsed during rehearsal. When I stepped on it, it gave way and I nearly fell twenty feet into the building’s basement.”

  “And did you ascertain the reason for this odd occurrence?”

  “The bolts holding the hinges on had been removed, so that when I stepped on it, the entire thing gave way. Fortunately, an alert stage hand who happened to be standing next to me grabbed my arm and prevented me from falling. I am not an alarmist, Mr. Holmes, but it quite unnerved me.”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his long fingers together.

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “Well, everyone saw the incidents take place, so my entire company, I suppose.”

  “Was any innocent explanation for this possible?”

  “It just so happened that some workmen had been installing some new floorboards the day before, so everyone blamed them. But something felt off to me.”

  “Have you told anyone else about your suspicions?”

  “No. I kept it to myself—except for the anonymous advertisement in the paper which you answered.”

  He smiled grimly. “That is good—very good. Continue to keep your own counsel. It is essential we preserve as much secrecy as possible.”

  “I agree.”

  “Good.” He leaned forward to sip his coffee, the lamplight shining on his thick black hair, which he wore combed back from his high forehead. “And the third incident?”

  “How do you know there was a third?”

  “My dear Mr. Booth, as you yourself stated, you are not an alarmist. The first two incidents, while disturbing, are by no means conclusive evidence of intent to harm you. And yet you went so far as to place an advertisement in the paper; I therefore assume there was a third incident.”

  “You’re quite right, Mr. Holmes—there was a third incident.” I paused and took a sip of brandy, which burned my throat with a comforting familiarity. “A few days ago someone tried to shoot me.”

  Holmes raised a single eyebrow. “I assume you failed to get a look at your assailant?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t see him at all. It was dark, and—”

  He waved a long hand impatiently. “Tell me what happened. Try to omit nothing in your account.”

  “I had just finished a performance, and I was leaving the theatre after lingering to talk to the stage manager about the following day’s rehearsal. As I turned the corner out into the street from the alley leading to the stage door, I heard the report of a gun.”

  “You are quiet certain it was a gunshot?”

  I took a deep breath; I was not anxious to dwell on the sound of gunshots in theatres.

  “Yes. I heard a whistling in my ear, then felt a burning sensation on the side of my neck.” I opened my collar and showed him the thin red slash across my neck. Holmes examined it, frowning, then leaned back in his chair.

  “You didn’t by any chance recover the bullet in question?”

  I shook my head. “I was too shaken to even think to look for it.”

  “And your assailant?”

  “I saw no one. That corner is very dark late at night, and the lights in front of the theatre had been turned off.”

  “I see. Were there any other people about?”

  “No; as I said, it was quite late by then. The street looked deserted.”

  “Your fears seem to be quite justified, Mr. Booth—not only is someone trying to kill you, but I am very much afraid it may be someone known to you—perhaps even a member of your company.”

  He n
ow accepted my offer of a glass of brandy, and I poured myself some more as well, my hand shaking a little as I grasped the crystal decanter. Alcohol is my only true vice, as it was my father’s before me. I have struggled all my life to control my drinking, but now I might be forgiven for indulging in a glass of brandy.

  Holmes must have read my mind, for he lifted his glass and said softly, “Yes, Mr. Booth, I do think you might have a second glass of brandy, under the circumstances.”

  I stared at him. “How could you—?”

  He smiled. “The cross hatching of veins across the bridge of your nose, the unusual ruddiness of your cheeks, in spite of your naturally sallow complexion, the slight tremor in your hands; the signs are not hard to miss. You struggle, as many good men do, with an urge toward excessive alcohol consumption. I would even venture to guess that it runs in your family; these things often do. Like your gift for acting—perhaps it is in your blood, as they say.”

  I nodded, reddening. “Is there anything you do not know, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes took a sip from his glass. “Most people observe, but they do not see. I have made it my business to not only see, but more importantly, to conclude. For instance, for some years now I have made a study of violent crime, garnered from the newspaper reports of several countries, including yours. I have concluded that the majority of violent crimes are perpetrated not upon strangers by hardened criminals, as today’s lurid newspaper reports might have you believe—but occur much more often between people who know each other. Wives poison husbands, children murder their parents, nephews steal from their rich aunt and uncles, and so on.”

  “What a charming picture you paint of humanity, Mr. Holmes.”

  “My low opinion of humanity is not the issue here, Mr. Booth. You are in danger; that is my sole concern at present.”

  “What do you propose I do? I cannot simply refuse to go out in public—I am an actor, for god’s sake!”

  “What about using an understudy? Surely you must—”

  I rose and paced the room distractedly. “If I put on an understudy in my place, people will demand their money back. I say this in all humility, Mr. Holmes: people come to the theatre to see me as Hamlet, as Brutus, as Iago. They do not come to see an understudy.”

  “I quite understand. But is not disappointing your public worth paying for with your life?”

  “It is not that simple, Mr. Holmes. Scores of people depend upon me for their livelihood. I can’t cancel performances indefinitely—the theatre and its employees would lose thousands of dollars every night.”

  Holmes cocked his head to one side and regarded me, his dark eyes seeming to burrow into my very soul. “I can see that you are a man of high principles and courage, Mr. Booth. The vast majority of humanity lives quiet lives with no thought of desperate deeds. If I believed in such things, I would say that your family was cursed.”

  I laughed bitterly. “You are not the first to suggest it.”

  I gazed out of the window, where cold gusts whipped the tree branches along Gramercy Park. It was May, but a chill wind had overtaken the city in the last few days. People drew their cloaks close around them as dried leaves scattered by the gusts circled them like miniature tornadoes, bent on knocking them from their feet. I looked back at Holmes, who sat still as a Sphinx, his long fingertips pressed together.

  An idea suddenly seized me.

  “Have you done any acting, Mr. Holmes?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “I knew it! You can always tell a man who has been upon the stage—the way he uses his voice, the way he holds himself. I have recently lost my Horatio. I was about to hold auditions for the role, but now it occurs to me—have you ever done Shakespeare?”

  “I confess I have, a little.”

  “Would you be so kind as to take over the role?”

  He paused for a moment. “I think I perceive what you have in mind. Being a member of the cast would give me unparalleled access to the people who surround you professionally.”

  “Exactly! Well—what do you say? I’ll pay you a salary of twenty dollars a week—in addition to your fee, of course.”

  He smiled, softening the angular planes of his long face, like the sun breaking through the clouds on a gloomy day.

  “Why not? I don’t see what we have to lose, and we may have much to gain.”

  “Capital! I shall introduce you to our stage manager tonight at rehearsal. Where are you staying in New York?”

  “At the Hotel Washington.”

  “You must stay here as my guest—there is a spare bedroom on the third floor, just down the hall from my own. I will see that Hector lays out all the necessary items for your comfort.”

  “Thank you. That will enable me to watch out for your safety more effectively.”

  “And now, if you don’t mind, I think I shall perhaps try to catch a few hours’s sleep, as it promises to be a long evening.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Now that you are here, Mr. Holmes, I feel a much greater sense of ease.”

  “Let us hope that your confidence in me is not misplaced. I will do what I can to earn it,” he said, lighting his pipe.

  “I have no doubt of that,” I said, shaking his hand heartily. “Until tonight, then.”

  * * * *

  I went upstairs and got into bed; however, I could not sleep. Why would someone in my own company want to kill me? Including stage hands, actors and theatre staff, the list of suspects numbered well over sixty—for our current production alone. I must have fallen into a fitful sleep, because I dreamed that my father was standing in the corner of my room, his face sad and mournful. He was dressed in one of his Shakespearean costumes—in the dim light it appeared to be from a production of Hamlet. I tried to speak to him, but no words would come. He raised an arm toward me, as though he wished to beckon me to him—or perhaps it was in warning; I couldn’t tell.

  Then the chimes on the grandfather clock in the hall struck five, and a moment later Hector appeared at the door with a cup of coffee. I had the odd sensation that I had not really been asleep when the clock chimed; however, my father had vanished. The only explanation I could imagine was that I was indeed asleep and dreaming of him; I could not bring myself to believe that he had visited me from beyond the grave.

  Finishing my coffee quickly, I went downstairs to find Holmes waiting with his overcoat on his arm; we walked briskly to the theatre, which was on Union Square, about half a mile from the Players.

  When we arrived, I introduced Holmes to the assembled company. I made up a story about knowing him from my youthful days in California, and no one challenged it. In fact, everyone appeared quite pleased and relieved that we had a new Horatio so soon—except for Geoffrey Simmons, our Polonius, who frowned and pulled at his beard. Geoffrey was an odd fellow—a fine actor, but a strange man. He was short and round, so corpulent that he appeared almost a wide as he was tall. His skin was pink and smooth as a baby’s, and with his small, bright blue eyes and mane of white hair, he rather resembled a cherubic Santa Claus. However, he was moody and private, and did not socialize much with the rest of the company; no one could claim to know him very well. But he was a great favorite with audiences; his Polonius was both a comical bumbler and an oddly touching father figure to Laertes and Ophelia.

  The rehearsal went smoothly; Holmes was an even better Horatio than I had imagined—noble, resolute and sensitive, all the qualities the character should have. He also possessed a darkness which contrasted wonderfully with the upright, steadfast Horatio. He was very effective in his closing speech at the end of the play. Several of the actors congratulated him on it—but Geoff Simmons continued to scowl and pull at his beard.

  However, our Laertes, young Nate Carlisle, seemed much taken with him. He watched Holmes with great interest during his scenes, and made it a point of talking to him during breaks. Nate was a lively, nervous young man with golden curls and intense, deep-set eyes of the palest blue. His Lae
rtes was fiery and passionate, and he was an excellent swordsman, equally skilled with the epée and the rapier. I am no mean swordsman myself, but the final duel scene with him was a challenge that kept me on my toes. I had never acted with him before; he had been recommended to me by another theatre manager who had seen his work in Savannah.

  He reminded me of my former self—energetic, eager and athletic, full of desire to light the world on fire. By the time rehearsals began he had his lines completely memorized. I watched him during rehearsals somewhat wistfully, knowing that those days were behind me, and that he would be in my position years from now, watching some young actor strut and fret his own hour upon the stage, caught up in the excitement of his own vitality.

  But though age has much to tell youth, remembering what it was to be young, youth has little interest in listening, because it does not believe it will ever be old. I knew that one day he would look back, as I have, and wonder where it had all gone—the promise, the adventure, the glamour of a life just beginning, a career on the verge of glory. The sweetest moment of all is the one just before the doing—the breath taken before the fulfillment of a long-sought dream. The savoring afterward is always tinged with sadness, with a bitter aftertaste, and is never as sweet.

  Nate stood in the wings, conversing with Holmes, his face eager and flushed with the excitement of youth. “Have you acted in London?”

  “Only at university, when I was in school—and not very much; I was more interested in other things,” Holmes replied.

  “I would love to go to England—I want to see how the English do Shakespeare!” Nate exclaimed as Geoff Simmons sauntered up to them.

  “It’s highly overrated, my boy,” Simmons remarked, never taking his eyes off Holmes.

  “I quite agree,” Holmes replied, turning a level gaze upon Simmons. “Your Polonius is as good as any I’ve seen in England.”

  Simmons was utterly flustered by this, and before he could respond, the bell rang to resume rehearsal.

  To my distress, I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the play. I was now in the uncomfortable position of watching everyone around me, studying them and wondering what grudge they might possibly hold against me, what the content of our last exchange was, had I ever slighted them in the past, and so on.