The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (7 page)

‘Why, that’s easy!’ Lestrade exclaimed scornfully. ‘The murderer came out from behind that screen and strangled Mademoiselle Rossignol.’

‘Quite so,’ Holmes replied. ‘I think we are all agreed so far. Then let us proceed with the rest of the evidence. When Miss Budd returned from the Crown, she gave a scream on discovering her mistress’s body at which Badger, the doorkeeper, came running to her aid. Between them, they searched the dressing-room but found no one.’

Before Holmes could continue, Lestrade broke in impatiently, ‘Then the man had already made his escape.’

‘Aha!’ said Holmes with a triumphant air. ‘You were too quick to answer, my dear Inspector. Badger is prepared to swear that in the interval between Miss Budd’s departure from the dressing-room and her discovery of her mistress’s body, he
had the door to this room under constant surveillance and that nobody passed through it.’

It took a moment or two for the full significance of this statement to penetrate Lestrade’s mind. Indeed, one could almost read his thoughts as his expression turned first to a mild surprise and then by degrees to absolute astonishment. At the same time, his glance darted about the room, passing first to the barred window, then to the door before finally coming to rest on the faded, velvet-covered panels of the folding screen.

‘No,’ said Holmes, interpreting these glances. ‘The murderer was not concealed there. Badger and Miss Budd searched behind it as well as all the other possible hiding-places, including the space below the dressing-table.’

‘Then, where?’ Lestrade demanded. ‘If the murderer wasn’t in the room and he hadn’t come out of it, where the deuce was he?’

‘Exactly Badger’s point although he expressed it rather differently. Had the man, he asked, vanished into thin air?’

‘But that’s impossible!’

Lestrade’s sallow features were suffused with a dark red stain of mingled anger and bewilderment.

‘It has long been my maxim,
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Holmes remarked, ‘that when the impossible has been eliminated, then the key to the mystery must lie in the improbable, however unlikely that may seem. As neither you nor Dr Watson seems prepared to offer an explanation, then let us proceed with the rest of the evidence. We have considered the murderer’s movements but we have not yet taken into account Mademoiselle Rossignol’s. Tell me, Inspector, on your observation of the evidence, what was she engaged in doing when she so unfortunately met her end?’

Having been caught once, Lestrade was more cautious this time and his little dark eyes were full of suspicion.

‘Come, come!’ Holmes chided as the Inspector hesitated. ‘Is the answer not obvious? The stocking used as a means of strangulation? The one bare foot? What further evidence do you require? She was changing her stockings which is probably why she failed to notice the murderer creeping up behind her.’ He broke off to ask unexpectedly, ‘Are you married, Lestrade?’

‘I hardly see …’ Lestrade began but Holmes waved the protest aside.

‘No matter. It does not take much imagination even on the part of such a confirmed bachelor as myself to picture the scene and make the connection. But I see from your expression, Lestrade, that you have failed to do so. You, too, Watson. Well, well! You do surprise me. The answer is as plain as the proverbial pikestaff. In that case, may I draw your attention, my good Lestrade, to the last piece of evidence – the programme which you are holding in your hand? Does anything about the list of performers strike you as significant?’

Lestrade, who had opened the folded sheet, began to read aloud the names of the artistes printed upon it.

‘“Wee Jimmy Wells, the Cheerful Cockney Comic: full of quips, jests and mirthful ditties. The Daring Dinos: the amazing high-wire …”’

He was interrupted at this point in his recital by a knock on the door and the appearance of Merriwick’s head round the frame.

‘Pardon me, Inspector,’ said he. ‘I have done as you requested and have asked all the artistes to assemble on the stage for questioning. If you care to come this way, sir. You, too, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.’

As we followed Merriwick out into the passage, Holmes murmured to me under his breath, ‘Hardly a necessary confrontation since we already know the name of the murderer but one with which I shall comply. After all, Watson, as this is a music-hall theatre, it seems entirely appropriate that the denouement should take place on stage.’

Then, raising his voice, he hurried after Lestrade who had gone ahead with Merriwick.

‘Inspector, if I may be allowed to give you a word of advice?
Make sure your constables are posted in the wings. Once he is named, our man may try to make his escape.’

‘That’s all very well, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade protested. ‘But who am I supposed to arrest?’

Whether Holmes genuinely failed to hear him or whether he preferred to pretend that he had not, I cannot say although I suspect the latter. Still in his exultant mood, my old friend strode forward and, pushing open an iron door, made his way across the back-stage area, as much at home, it seemed, in this cluttered world of stored props and leaning pieces of unused scenery as he was among his books and scientific apparatus in our Baker Street lodgings.

If my illusions had not already been severely damaged, they received a further blow when I walked on to the stage. Without the footlights to cast their dazzle and with only a few harsh lights for illumination, the scene which presented itself was a bitter disappointment, so different was it to the magical display I had observed with so much delight from my seat in the stalls.

At such close quarters and in the bleak lighting, the charming back-cloth of the garden scene with its trees and blossoms was reduced to mere daubs and splashes of colour while the rose-decked bower, under which the French Nightingale had posed so enchantingly, was nothing more than a frail arch of trellis, covered with wilted crêpe flowers, their petals dusty.

The artistes who had taken part in the first half of the bill fared no better. They stood about on the stage in small groups, some still in their gaudy costumes of silk and spangles, a few already changed into their street clothes, and all of them looking strangely diminished, ordinary mortals against this shabby background of painted canvas and paper blooms.

With Holmes leading the way, we walked to the front of the stage to stand before the drawn curtains, our feet echoing on the boards. Meanwhile, the constables, on Lestrade’s orders, posted themselves in the wings on either side to cut off the murderer’s retreat should he attempt an escape.

But who was he? One of the two male high-wire performers, who were huddled together with their female colleagues, or the contortionist, a dressing-gown flung over his shoulders and
looking much smaller than he had on stage? Or was it the low comedian in a quite deplorable checked suit, or the man with the performing seals, on this occasion thankfully without his charges?

While I pondered on this, a whispered altercation was taking place between Holmes and Inspector Lestrade who was wagging the programme under my old friend’s nose. Although I could hear nothing of the exchange, I could guess its contents from Lestrade’s expression of baffled rage and Holmes’ raised eyebrows and look of smiling insouciance.

Which one is he? Lestrade was demanding.

Have you still not deduced the answer? came my old friend’s reply.

It was quite clear that Holmes, who himself possesses a strong propensity on occasions towards theatricality, was thoroughly enjoying the situation.

And then he relented. Taking the programme from Lestrade, he produced a pencil from his pocket and, with a flourish of the wrist, drew a heavy line under one of the names before handing the sheet back to the Inspector with a small bow.

Lestrade looked at the name, gazed at Holmes in surprise and, on receiving a nod of encouragement, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said he, ‘it is not my intention to keep you here much longer. Having carefully examined all the evidence, it is now my duty to arrest the murderer of Mademoiselle Rossignol. That man is …’ and here there was a pause as Lestrade glanced down at the programme as if to reassure himself of the name, ‘Vigor, the Hammersmith Wonder.’

There were several seconds of silent disbelief, followed by a shuffle of feet as those nearest to the villain hurriedly distanced themselves from him, leaving him isolated in the centre of the stage.

He had flung aside the dressing-gown and stood there, clad only in the leopard-skin leotard which he had worn for his performance, a suitable garment for there was something of the leopard in the strong but supple body, in the bunched muscles of his forearms and shoulders and in the fiercely glittering
expression in his eyes as he backed away from us, crouching low, like a big cat brought to bay.

Before any of us could shout a warning, he had sprung, not towards the wings where the sturdy police constables stood guard, but straight at Holmes, Lestrade and myself where we stood on the edge of the stage in front of the drawn curtains.

It was Holmes’ presence of mind which prevented Vigor from leaping past us into the darkened auditorium. As he came bounding forward, Holmes seized one of the gauze side curtains and, dragging it down, flung it like a net about the flying figure.

I shall refrain from recording the many foul oaths and curses which the Hammersmith Wonder uttered before, with the help of the constables, he was finally subdued and led away in handcuffs. Suffice it to say that the reputation of the French Nightingale received a savage mauling, leaving those who witnessed the scene in no doubt about her moral character.

Even Lestrade, despite his experience of the criminal world, was shocked by this outburst.

‘Quite uncalled for, in my opinion,’ he remarked disapprovingly as we walked off the stage. ‘She may not have been a lady but that doesn’t excuse the language.’

‘Nevertheless, you have your man,’ Holmes pointed out.

‘Thanks to you, Mr Holmes. But I’m far from clear,’ Lestrade continued, coming to a halt by the stage-door, ‘where the deuce Vigor hid himself in that dressing-room. If Badger and Miss Budd are to be believed, they searched everywhere, even under the dressing-table.’

‘But not under the stool,’ Holmes replied. ‘As a contortionist, Vigor was trained to twist his limbs into the most unnatural positions. Once Miss Budd had left on her errand to the Crown and Mademoiselle Rossignol was alone, he came silently out from behind the screen, where he had already concealed himself, and crept up on her from behind, no doubt picking up the discarded stocking where it lay on the floor. As Mademoiselle Rossignol was engaged at the time in removing the other, she therefore failed to notice his approach.

‘You may recall, Lestrade, my remark that it does not take much imagination, even on the part of myself, a mere bachelor,
to picture the scene. What does a woman do when she removes her stockings? The answer is obvious. She folds back her skirts in order to make the task easier. But the skirts of Mademoiselle Rossignol’s gown were not disarranged. On the contrary, they were most carefully draped over the edges of the stool.

‘The question – why should this be so? – then posed itself, to which there was only one answer. It was to provide the murderer with a second place of concealment and one, moreover, which even a search of the room would not reveal. No one, not even the most diligent, was likely to disturb Mademoiselle Rossignol’s body in order to look under her skirts.

‘A second question followed the first quite logically. Who was capable of squeezing himself into such a small space? The answer to that was also obvious – Vigor, the Hammersmith Wonder, the only contortionist on tonight’s bill.

‘Vigor remained concealed under the stool until Badger and Miss Budd left to fetch the manager. Once they had gone, he emerged from his hiding place and slipped unseen out of the dressing-room.

‘As to motive, I hardly think you need me to explain that. Vigor’s imprecations against Mademoiselle Rossignol made it quite clear that she had recently transferred her affections from him to Miro, the Islington Marvel, the man with the performing seals.’

Lestrade, looking suitably impressed as well as chastened, shook my old friend warmly by the hand.

‘Thank you, Mr Holmes. I must admit that there were times when I doubted you could supply the answer to the mystery. You and Dr Watson are leaving now, are you? Then good-night to you both. I shall have to stay on here to supervise the removal of Mademoiselle Rossignol’s body and then charge Vigor with her murder.’

Outside the stage-door, Holmes hailed a cab, remarking with an amused twinkle in his eyes as the hansom set off. ‘No doubt you will write up the case, Watson. Your reading public will expect a colourful account from you, suitably embellished.’

‘I may do so, Holmes,’ I replied, with pretended indifference. ‘It certainly has some unusual features. But the same can be
said for so many of your other investigations that it is difficult to decide which ones merit publication.’

In fact, my mind was already made up.

No account of the case will ever find its way into print.
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I should not wish to pass on to my readers, especially those admirers of the undoubted talents of Mademoiselle Rossignol, whom I still cannot bring myself to refer to as Miss Lizzie Biggs, any of my own lost illusions concerning the French Nightingale. It is better that they should remain in ignorance of the truth, as I wish it could have been so on my part.

I shall therefore confine myself to writing this confidential report entirely for my own benefit in order to keep on record the full details of the case and to remind myself of the wisdom of the old adage: All that glisters is not gold.