The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (43 page)

“Doctor! Frederick! Cannot one of you bring me that bottle?”

Frederick brought it around to her, but didn't open it. “What do you need with a doctor?”

I protested “I'm not yet a—”

“It's my wife I'm asking, Doc, not you.”

“But Freddearheart,” she protested, “You know as we're not marr—”

He grew impatient. “I asked you what you need with a doctor!”

“It's my knees again, dear.” She began to laugh wildly. “Look—my elbows is swelled to twice their size! The young doctor cautioned me to quit the tumbling. But what can I be if not an acrobat? Look—here come my ponies now!”

Frederick sighed. “Oh, how Ale does make her merry! I say, Sadie, abstain, laughter's bad for the Show, but the wife likes her bottle, she does.” He shrugged, then civilly shook my hand. “I am Fred Burke, the Wild Savage, World's Largest Man, World's Strongest, the Snake King, the African Giant . . .”

While he listed his impressive credentials, Sadie smiled, and a dozen horses and ponies, each bedecked with plumes, colourful livery and matching costumed riders, galloped past us to the largest tent, where they lined up outside a ten-foot-high entry-way.

On the last horse—a glistening chestnut gelding cantering slowly—rode the clear leader of the group, standing full upright yet relaxed on the saddle. As if this posture weren't enough, a yard of red (not orange) hair drew all eyes to her at once; huge brown oval eyes and full sensual lips conveyed a vivid, half-amused expression which drove one to keep looking, as if for clues to her remarkable thoughts.

All but for her corset, the rider's clothes looked to have been chosen for comfort and ease of movement, then as an after-thought
decorated to suggest decency. For a blouse she wore a thin bias-cut long-sleeved garment of gleaming ivory, but spangled here and there with gold glass beads like a continuation of her glowing, delicately freckled skin. The sleeves were much fuller near the shoulder as was the style. Over the bodice of this blousing, a gold lace silk bolero had been tacked in place, guarding against complaint. Her matching skirt was not really a skirt at all, but a light nearly sheer ankle-length skirt-shaped pair of drawers or trousers, poorly disguised with the addition of a long panel in front and in back, also ivory with gold beading, trimmed in across the bottom with a lavish swath of silk lace to match the bolero. Bare feet completed the outfit, balancing her as she moved subtly to the horse's slow rhythm, undulating like a Turkish dancer.

“. . . and I surely am the World's Most Dullest Man for all you care,” Frederick said amiably.

“Who's that?”

“What—the equestrienne with the smile and all the hair? That's Kay Dunn. A wonder, is she not?”

“Kay Dunn, I see . . .”

“Well, you should see, for all your looking!”

“I came here to find Vittoria the Circus Belle.”

“Yes?”

“Yes!”

“Well?” Frederick looked at me, puzzled.

“Well, how may I go about it?”

“You have no need of a formal introduction, not here.”

“No, but how do I set about finding her?”

“Finding who then, sir?” He was shaking his head as if to dislodge nonsense from his ears.

“Why, finding Vittoria, of course!”

“You've found Vittoria,” said the Savage. “ 'Tis me you've quite lost.”

I took his point all right.

Then of a sudden I espied Randall, walking apace toward Kay
Dunn, that is: Vittoria. I saw him address her. She nodded, still standing horseback, and headed in our direction at leisure, her expression filled with gladness like a child gliding atop a Magic Carpet. Randall, earthbound, and seemingly smaller, ambled alongside.

“My Lady Sadie named her last season,” Frederick was telling me with pride. “She was a bit in her cups at the time, Sadie was (Miss Kay doesn't care for drink when she rides), and Sadie was watching the Show from the hay mow, announcing for all to hear that from that day forth Kay must be known as Vittoria the Circus Belle. From that show on she's been announced that way. We're allowed to see whatever shows we have time for, but only if we ourselves can't be seen by the audience. Not for free! Lowers the value, you know. Our Chief Showman says . . .”

I dislike recalling my own rudeness but I must report my faults as they are. Perhaps the habits of students, with the mind over-serious and isolated, makes for poor manners. I should like to blame my youth, and the urgency of circumstance. But what redemption are excuses, for this action much less for my others? Without so much as a good-bye, I simply drifted away from this man who'd been kind and helpful to me; I wended my way purposefully toward Vittoria and Randall, hoping to speak with her in advance of him. I don't know what I, a stranger, expected to say which could lead her to distrust him, but it seemed important that I try to make some impression.

My face must have telegraphed the urge to speak with her, for at the sight of me she took the reins of the situation, signalling me back with a flick of the fingers, clearing a space before her horse. I obeyed. With no apparent effort she reached low as her ankles and grasped what I think is called the pommel of the saddle—a large fixed knob—on which she proceeded (doubtless for Randall's benefit) to perform a handstand. Lord, she was strong. She wavered not a tic, artfully folding her lower limbs this way and that. At last she pointed her toes to the sky. Her skirt-like trouser legs slid toward her face and one could see her striped stockings finished with bits of
hanging jet beads just below the ankle where she'd cut off the feet of the stockings.

One could see more than that, too. I'd not known a woman could have such well-muscled—oh, I'll just say it! this is not for publication, anyway—I'd not known a woman could have such well-muscled
legs
. Vittoria was her own masterpiece (aside from the name perhaps), and my guess must be she knew it.

“Rajah!” she said, with a bold yet lovely voice. The horse's ears stiffened. “Rajah, bow!”

The gelding slid his front legs gradually forward in the dirt, and arched his back, lowering his front half to the ground, his mistress still atop him, feet to heaven. Then, quivering like a cat about to pounce, Vittoria's arms shivered and I don't know what she did, but she flew in an arc through the air and landed standing with her tanned feet on the ground at either side of Rajah's enormous and placid head. She somersaulted once more backward onto her feet, red hair plumping like a flag in a breeze, and then clapped, releasing the horse to stand.

Plainly it felt good to be Vittoria, her stance, even the look on her face gave proof to that, and like everyone who had the pleasure to see her, I wished I knew how it felt to have one's every limb and muscle co-ordinated for one's joyous living benefit.

Before the effect fully wore off me, she called her horse, fed him a nugget of something from a sack at her waist, and turned from me to Randall.

“Miss Vittoria!” I blurted. “May I have a word?”

“I regret,” she said without any, “I've no patience for social calls before a Show.”

“Please,” I said. “It's important, urgent.”

Randall averted his eyes from me. Vittoria looked bored.

“So I'm constantly given to understand.”

I closed the distance between us. Rajah looked surprised.

“Miss Dunn,” I said quietly, “I've reason to believe you may be in danger.”

“Only daily. We thank you for your safety concerns; which I
shall not discuss. Perhaps the ringmaster will humour you. Good day to you, sir.”

I wanted to tell her more, and was willing to be rude or fight Randall to do it, but the two of them hurried into the corridor between tents for a conference I was uninvited to attend, and besides, the horse Rajah stood blocking my way.

I lingered briefly, listening to the rhythms of their soft voices, but could not see much through the horse's chest. Randall expressed concern, maybe explained something, and Kay Dunn, Vittoria the Circus Belle, sounded grateful.

Then a brass band started playing, someone in a bright loose suit emblazoned with painted stars ran up and in a gruff voice yelled, “Vittoria!” and after she barked her answer, “Yes, Enzo, I know,” I think perhaps she paused for some stolen kisses. That's just my supposition. It's unimportant. She did, however, seem a bit flushed when she came out. She put her arms up to the saddle, raised herself, and quickly rode the horse normally—that is, it would have been normal if she were a man.

I saw her join the queue of stallions, again dead last. She entered the big tent to applause I could not help but hear. I looked about for Randall, but he never came out from between the tents. I looked between them. Nothing. He must have exited the other way.

Gaining my bearings, I returned to the caravan where I'd conversed with Sadie and Frederick, but both were gone now. Even the stone bottles had been tucked away. They must have gone to the Show. Either that or were giving one. Seeing no use of remaining here, I decided to begin the long trek home, unless I happened upon a quill and ink on my way with which to make a note that the splendid Vittoria would probably dispose of without reading.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I would return and speak to the Ringmaster. Or the police. But how would I say I came upon this intelligence? For I could and would do nothing to sully the reputation of Miss Madeline Snow.

Lost in such thoughts, I headed from the caravan, feeling a
great deal older and more tired than I'd felt in recent years. Behind me I heard applause, and more applause, then a groan from the crowd. The show must be suspenseful, indeed.

Then I heard women screaming, and various shouts. I turned toward the big tent and saw someone running very fast. It was Frederick. “Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson! Vittoria has fallen from Rajah and hit her head. I shall bring you at once!”

I attempted to argue my credentials but this is not easy when a giant has hoisted you up, tossed you over his shoulder like a flour sack and, holding you by the legs, is with all his might speeding you away. We arrived quite soon, but even though I didn't walk a step, I was nevertheless out of breath: my diaphragm had lain across the giant's shoulder until he lifted me and dropped me onto a mound of hay, so though I wanted to say, “Where's Vittoria?” I couldn't.

Then I saw her being borne in our direction by a burly, smartly dressed man wearing the look of a pallbearer. “Doctor, help her,” he cried out.

Her eyes were open, her mouth agape. One of her front teeth was ever-so-slightly chipped. I wondered if this had just happened, then recalled Randall's description: “A bad front tooth.” Not very bad.

But what I saw next was bad, indeed: As they lay her beside me in the hay, I saw a gash on Vittoria's temple trimmed with blood like berry jam.

“Look, I'm not—” I began, but the giant glared at me. Vittoria's eyes, on the contrary, were non-responsive. I began again. “Look, I don't work alone. Surely there are other doctors in an audience so large!”

“We called for a doctor,” said the dressed-up man. “We called and called, ‘Is there a physician in the house? A healer of any kind?' Some sort of priest from Utah volunteered to pray, and then Frederick thought of you.”

I looked at the wound again. Bits of grey matter, tiny as bread crumbs but to me most plain, oozed from the wound at centre.

I felt as if I'd been punched in the heart.

One of the first medical texts is an ancient Greek scroll, a copy of which was kept in the legendary library at Alexandria, which noted that when a patient's injury is such that the grey of the brain can be seen, nothing can be done. Always, the patient dies. It is that way still, Professor Bell lectured; likely this will never change.

“I don't believe this,” I said, feeling at her neck for a pulse. Either there was none, or it was greatly reduced. “Fetch me a hand mirror!”

Sadie's voice came from the top of the hay mow: “Frederick, get mine from the caravan.”

The enormous man returned nearly before he'd left, but we were none of us in time. I held the glass over Vittoria's parted lips but the mirror showed no fog, no breath, no life.

It was common knowledge what this meant. The group fell silent. I tried again. I fogged it myself, wiped it clean, and tried again. I left the mirror, still bright by her side. I pressed my hand onto her lower belly, palpating it quickly (it was notably firm), beneath the tightness with which her corset was laced. I closed her eyes and her jaw, folded her arms across her chest. Her arms were heavy, even for dead weight.

I felt then and I feel now that that was the worst day of my life.

A constable came to the group to ask what had happened. The Ringmaster reported that Vittoria had wobbled, begun gasping, then fainted while standing horseback.

The constable said, “Standing horseback? Well, that isn't what I'd call fitting behaviour for a woman, is it now?”

First she died, next this man spoke ill of what had made her so gloriously, enviably alive. None present had a word to say to him.

Sadie whispered something to Frederick, and then Frederick came over to Vittoria and gently arranged the dead woman's hair and clothing. The constable stared at the black giant in the leather kilt.

I moved aside to give Frederick more room, then stood and
walked out the tall back door I'd come through on Frederick's shoulder.

Behind me I heard footsteps. A tall (but not by any means giant) angular man was following me. He wore the vest and hat of a gaming bonnet, but hadn't the same weakness I'd seen in the faces of the others. “I say,” he said when I turned round to look at him, “What's your name? Are you Watson?”

“Yes, exactly,” I said. “They think I'm a doctor, but I'm not yet.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Beg pardon?”