The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

“Are you sure
they aren’t just in your imagination, sir? You admit that your wife’s never
seen them. The whole thing could be, shall we say, an overdose of Sweeney
Todds?” I said.

“I do admit that
I’m suffering from a surfeit of that.”

“Then why not
drop the play from your repertory?” Holmes asked.

“Our manager,
Derrick Lindsay, won’t let me. It’s our best money maker and he’s always got a
keen eye to business. Mr. Holmes, I can see that you still don’t believe my
story. So I’ve saved some evidence for you, evidence that I found this morning!”

From a bottom
drawer in his dressing table, Humphries pulled a pair of muddied boots and a
blood stained razor.

“Look at these.
Now what do you say? Do you still think it’s my imagination?”

“Splendid!”
Holmes exclaimed. “At last some real clues to work on!”

“How can you be
so overjoyed at this evidence, Holmes? It happened to me again, last night! Do
you realize that I am a murderer? I’m a menace to society! For Heavens sake,
lock me up before I do some more deathly damage!”

“Mr. Humphries,
I’d like to take these objects back to Baker Street where I can perform some
chemical tests. You have no objections, I hope?”

“Objections?
Good Heavens, no,” he replied, almost whimpering.

“Excellent. You’ve
told no one of this fresh discovery of yours?” Holmes asked.

“No one, not
even Derrick Lindsay.”

“Derrick Lindsay,”
I asked, “that’s your manager, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The best
friend I’ve ever had. Except for his father before him. It was Derrick who
helped me back on my feet two years ago when I put on that disastrous
production of MACBETH. I don’t know where I’d be today if it weren’t for him.”

“You lost a
great deal of money on that production, sir?” Holmes asked.

“Nearly every
penny I had.”

“Indeed. By the
way, where is your wife, Mr. Humphries?”

“She’s in her
dressing room next door. We have a matinee today and we’re preparing for it.”

“I’d like a word
with her, if I may. Watson, wait here for me. I won’t be a moment.”

While Holmes
left to talk to Humphries’ wife, I opened my bag and pulled a sedative out,
dissolving it in a glass of water on the dressing table.

“Mr. Humphries,
take this. In your nervous state it will not be long before you end up with complete
exhaustion, such as to be unable to perform on the stage. This sedative will
help. There’s just enough here for you to refresh your nerves before your
matinee. I suggest you lie down on your couch and in no time you’ll be ready
for today’s performance.”

Shortly after
Mr. Humphries lay on the couch, Holmes returned. I gestured for him to be
quiet. Humphries looked up as Holmes bent over the man.

“We’ll take your
leave now, sir. Don’t worry, I shall get to the bottom of this quite soon.”

We left the poor
soul to rest and hailed a cab. On our way back to Baker Street, Holmes told me
all that had transpired with Mrs. Humphries, which I shall endeavor to detail
here as closely as I can to the actual event. When Holmes left the dressing
room he immediately knocked on Mrs. Humphries door.

“Who is it?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

The door was
only slightly opened, revealing Mrs. Humphries in makeup as she was just
finished her preparations for the matinee.

“You want to
talk to me, Mr. Holmes?” she asked questioningly.

“For a moment.
May I come in, Mrs. Humphries?”

“Couldn’t we
talk on the stage? It’s empty.”

“I should prefer
to come into your dressing room, if you don’t mind. What I have to say is
confidential.”

“Very well then,
come in,” she said coldly.

As soon as Holmes
was ushered in his eyes widened, for there he saw a man sitting on a chair by
the dressing table.

“Mr. Holmes, may
I introduce Señor Vennelli, our musical director.”

“How do you do,
sir.”

“It is a great
pleasure to meet the so great Señor Holmes; I have so admired you,” Vennelli
said, bowing deeply.

“Señor Vennelli,
if you don’t mind,” Holmes said curtly, “I wish to speak to Mrs. Humphries
alone.”

“I quite
understand,” he returned, then, bowing once again, left the room quietly,
closing the door behind him.

“Mr. Holmes, I’m
really awfully glad of this opportunity to talk to you. Tell me truthfully
please, what is your opinion of my husband?”

“I haven’t
formed a definite opinion, yet. Except that it is possible he’s the victim of a
fraud. But for the moment, I want to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,
Mr. Holmes.”

“Has your
husband ever shown evidence of being a sleep walker?”

“A sleep walker?
Oh no, never.”

“Are you a light
sleeper?” Holmes continued.

“Yes, I am.
Exceptionally so. Why?”

“I was just
curious.”

“You’re being
very mysterious, Mr. Holmes. Can’t you tell even me what is going on?”

“I promised your
husband the answer to that question before tonight’s performance. I’m afraid I
can’t tell you any more until then.”

“I see. And now,
may I ask a question?” she returned.

“Certainly,
though I won’t promise to answer it.”

“You said just
now that my husband might be the victim of a fraud. What did you mean?”

“Again I am
afraid that you must wait for the specific answer to that question. However,
there’s another fraud being practiced on him that I can speak of now.”

“What fraud?”

“The fraud that
you
are indulging in, Mrs. Humphries,” Holmes
said in restrained anger.

“What do you
mean?”

“Of course this
particular fraud is none of my business but, when I almost force my way into
your dressing room and find your musical director with a quantity of rice
powder on one shoulder and suggestions of rouge on his cheek, it doesn’t take a
great deal of intelligence to deduce that your husband is being deceived!”

“How dare you!
Get out of here, at once!”

“That’s exactly
what I propose doing. No doubt I shall see you later on. Good day to you, madam.”

And with that,
Holmes left to return to Mr. Humphries’ dressing room.

“That’s
insufferable, Holmes. It’s bad enough Humphries has to live with this Sweeney
Todd thing he is going through,” I said when Holmes had finished his tale.

“Yes, such are
the machinations of life, my dear Watson. Ah, here we are at Baker Street.”

Once in the
comfort of our lodgings, Holmes went to work with his microscope and chemicals
running several tests while I, the latest newspaper in hand, casually read
through numerous articles. After some time I looked up to see Holmes still at
his work.

“Well Holmes,
what does the microscope tell you about the mud on the boots and the
bloodstains on the razor?” I asked.

“I’ve drawn a
blank on the mud, old chap. It’s an extremely common type to be found in most
parts of London.”

“And the blood?”

“I’m examining
that now.”

“This is as
strange an occasion as ever I remember, Holmes. Here you are trying to prove a
man innocent when he insists that he’s guilty.”

“By George,
Watson, here’s the answer! This blood is definitely not human blood. I suspect
it’s canine. Now a Sweeney Todd madness would hardly drive its victim to kill
dogs, therefore it’s obvious Mark Humphries is the victim of a devilish plot!”

“Then he’s not a
murderer.” I exclaimed.

“No. Come on,
Watson, we must go to the theatre at once and give him the good news.”

Once again, and with
what I thought was for the last time, we drove by cab to the theatre. The stage
door guard had by now come to recognize us and immediately let us in. We stood
before Mark Humphries’ dressing room as Holmes knocked.

“Why doesn’t he
answer, Holmes? It’s only three quarters of an hour before curtain time.”

“He must be in
his dressing room. I’ll knock again.” Holmes pounded on the door, then, annoyed
with waiting, tried the handle and opened the door.

“Holmes, look,
he’s slumped over his dressing table.”

“I hope we’re
not too late. Here, give me a hand with him.”

We carefully
pulled him upright. It was then we saw the blood covering the dressing table,
the same blood that had so deeply stained his clothes.

“We are too late,”
I said. “His throat’s been cut.”

“Poor devil,” Holmes
murmured, a bitter, self-accusing tone in his voice, “I promised him a solution
to his troubles before the night was over. Little did I think the solution
would be death.”

“It looks to me
as if his worry over his supposed madness has caused him to commit suicide,” I
sighed.

Holmes looked at
me abruptly, sudden anger in his eyes.

“Suicide?
Rubbish, Watson, it’s murder.”

“But the razor
clutched in his hand.”

“Placed there by
the murderer before rigor mortis had a chance to set in. In any case,
scrutinize the wound. Does that look as if it has been done by a suicide?”

“I don’t see why
not,” I insisted.

“Look closer,
old chap. The depth of the wound is even, whereas a suicide’s cut always wavers
towards the end. No, this is murder, Watson, and I think I know who did it. But
I have little evidence and therefore must lay a trap.”

“What kind of a
trap, Holmes?”

“I haven’t time
to tell you now. Every moment counts. Off with you to Scotland Yard and get
Inspector Gregson. Bring him back here as fast as you can.”

“Right you are,
Holmes,” I said, then turned to leave, but my friend stayed my movement.

“Watson, tell
absolutely no one except Gregson of Mark Humphries’ death. If anyone here asks
you about Humphries, tell them he is well and that his problems are solved.”

“But the
performance of the play?” I questioned.

“Don’t worry
about that. Now off with you to Scotland Yard! And hurry!”

I was off
immediately for Inspector Gregson, but I had no idea that finding him would
take so long a time. The duty officer informed me that Gregson was out on
another case and was expected back quite soon. I paced the floor of the front
office, constantly glancing at my watch as an endless period of time seemed to
pass by with my patience about to snap. Finally, after waiting for almost an
hour, Gregson appeared.

“Gregson, you
must come with me. There’s been a murder at the theatre. We mustn’t waste a
moment!”

“Murder? What
murder? What’s this all about?” he asked as I pulled him into the cab which I
had waiting outside the Yard.

“I’ll explain
everything on the way to the theatre. Cabby, a shilling if you can get us back
in 10 minutes!”

And in a little
over the allotted time, the cab pulled up to the stage door.

“The
performance, if there is one, must be nearly over by now. Come on.”

We entered the
theatre and moved quietly towards the wings.

“I wonder who
the devil is playing Sweeney Todd?” I said in surprise.

Gregson and I
stood in the wings almost close enough to touch the actors. I gazed at Sweeney
Todd in bewilderment.

“This is
impossible, Gregson,” I whispered, “there’s Mark Humphries on the stage. But I
saw him with his throat cut!”

“Well, I don’t
believe in ghosts, doctor,” he returned, scratching his head.

“Great Heavens,
it’s Holmes!”

I stood there
transfixed. Holmes was perfection, not only in the role of Sweeney Todd, but in
his exact duplication of Mark Humphries’ every gesture and movement. Even his
voice sounded the same. Yet through the padding and the makeup there was the
unmistakable Holmes. The Holmes that only I could know so well. The Holmes who
still delightfully amazed me with his deeds and cunning and his observations,
all of which gave him the gift to do what he now did on stage with stunning
adroitness. I have seen Holmes don various disguises and act several roles, but
these were in the real world. Now, I was watching Holmes on the stage, in the
theatrical world of make believe, and I saw all his magnificent acting ability
come to the fore, revealing another aspect of this brilliant man I had not really
understood before. Suddenly the play was over and I saw Holmes rush towards me
as the last curtain call finished.

“Thank Heavens
you are both here!” he said.

“Holmes, what
are you up to?”

“Surely that’s
apparent, Watson. I’ve disguised myself as the dead man hoping to force the
murderer’s hand.”