by David Marcum
“You found signs of violence?” Holmes prodded, as our guest had once more lapsed into a fit of dramatic weeping.
“Yes. Her van is her private world, and someone had defiled it! The pillows on her bed were torn, the velvet curtains shredded, her lovely frocks ripped to shreds. Mr. Holmes, you must come back with me. You must find her! If you do not, the money we will lose...”
“Calm yourself, sir. I need only a few more bits of data. Did none of your other performers or roustabouts witness this abduction?”
Marvela wiped his brow with a checkered handkerchief. “A few of them claimed to have seen dark figures lurking around that morning and to have heard a cry of murder. But they took these things in stride for, you see, we were adding a new scene to our performance.” He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled handbill. “A Wild West act! Half the cast is dressed as red Indians, the other as cavalrymen. There is a stagecoach, a robbery, and-”
“A rather noisy rehearsal,” Holmes interrupted. “I take it the official forces have been consulted?”
“They have, but they were rude and dismissive, and said there was no real evidence the lady had not simply run away. As if she could, in her condition!”
“And what is happening at your circus today?”
“Nothing. I have given everyone the day off - though it will eat into my profits - but we must open tomorrow. After all, the show-”
“Very well, Mr. Marvela,” my friend said, cutting off another flourish from his client. “My colleague and I will arrive on tomorrow’s earliest morning train. Now, excuse me, but I fear I have another pressing engagement.”
I knew Holmes had no plans for that day, but I played my part in the charade and, with some relief, saw the odious man through the door. When I returned, Holmes was studying the photograph of Vittoria.
“You must admit, this case will be unique,” my friend said. I answered with a loud snort.
“Grotesque, you mean!”
“Not at all.” Holmes held out the book with her picture. “She repels you?”
“Yes - though it is hardly her fault that she has such an unfortunate condition. However...”
Holmes considered my silence. “You would prefer that she be hidden away in some institution? That she be forced to keep her talents, as well as her hirsute face, concealed behind closed doors?”
“You make me sound like a monster!” I objected. “I pity the girl.”
“One wonders if we should,” Holmes mused. His tone drew a sharp look from me. “But it is a capital error to theorize without data. Some research beyond the Index would be helpful. No, don’t trouble yourself, Watson - this is a day for old books and yellowed newsprint. I shall be back before dinner.”
Holmes clearly found information that was more interesting than food, for he did not return for dinner, much to Mrs. Hudson’s irritation. I had retired and been asleep for more than an hour when the sound of footsteps in the suite alerted me to his return. Befuddled as I was, I decided to wait until the morning’s train ride to Oxford to question him, but Holmes dismissed my inquiry with a grunt, pulled his cap over his eyes, and dozed throughout the entire ride to the station.
We disembarked at the celebrated university town and were quickly directed to a field on its outskirts. Marvela’s circus was larger than I had imagined. A bright red-and-blue tent capable of housing several hundred people was it its centerpiece, and a series of smaller tents, each fronted by bright boards advertising some unique specimen of humanity, formed a pathway to the entrance. Despite the early hour, the air was already ripe with the smell of roasting peanuts. Stalls offering food and drink were being opened, and performers in all varieties of strange costumes were milling around. Substantial cages held sleeping tigers and a hefty bear, and I caught a glimpse of two elephants being fed their morning hay. However, the wild beasts were vastly outnumbered by ordinary horses. Nearly two-dozen were confined in a makeshift corral.
“Marvela’s was originally an equestrian circus,” Holmes said, breaking into my unspoken question. “He has attempted to conform his performances to the new mode, which emphasizes exotic animals and their trainers. However, a tragedy last year may have postponed this transition.”
“An accident?”
“Yes. A trainer was crushed to death by an elephant.”
I shuddered. “Are they certain it was an accident?”
Holmes turned his head. “What a suspicious mind you are developing, Watson! I fear I may have rubbed off on you, and not for the better. Indeed, there was some questioning of the event, as the trainer was involved in a romantic intrigue with a beautiful tightrope walker, much to the distress of her rather jealous clown husband. The performer spouses disappeared shortly after the trainer’s death. But that is not our concern today.”
I hesitated, watching as the denizens of the circus, the roustabouts, cooks, and performers went about their morning chores with no acknowledgement of the strangers in their midst. It seemed such an innocent place, a magic circle of childhood fantasies, especially as a calliope began pumping a merry tune. But what evil of the human heart might be hid behind such a bright façade, what hideous face lurked beneath this cheerful mask?
“Ah, I see our client has somewhat recovered himself.”
Mr. Marvela was rushing toward us. He was now clad as a ringmaster, in a high hat and a bright red coat, with his yellow and blue striped breeches tucked into shiny boots. The costume made him only slightly less ridiculous than he had appeared the day before, but at least some of the puffiness had left his nose and he no longer smelled of gin. However, the garish grease paint that he had already applied to his face gave him the appearance of the cheapest and ugliest doll upon a shelf.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson - Welcome! You are just in time! We were about to begin our rehearsal for our western act, but I can halt it so you may investigate.”
Holmes held up his hand. “I would not think of interrupting your company’s work. Perhaps we may observe your new act now and speak with some of the witnesses to Vittoria’s disappearance afterward.”
“Oh... of course.” Something about his moment of hesitation made me wonder if Marvela was about to demand we purchase tickets. Instead, he led us into the tent. The smell of sawdust was nearly overwhelming, mixed strongly with the sweat of animals and men. Marvela signaled for us to be seated on one of the rows of benches that surrounded the large ring. He picked up an oversized megaphone and barked orders. The few performers who had been lingering in the ring rapidly disappeared through another exit that was covered with a shimmering curtain.
“Ahem... and now,” Marvela proclaimed, his voice startlingly altered as he assumed his ringmaster persona, “I give you the greatest, most spectacular performance of the age. Straight from the American Plains-innocent settlers, pursued by fierce redskins, and rescued by heroic-”
A shriek cut him short. In a storm of hooves and dust, an open wagon pulled by four shaggy ponies emerged through the curtain. The wagon was driven by a man wearing denim overalls and a huge, obviously false black beard. As he whipped his steeds, his beard whirled comically around his head. In the rear of the wagon were two clowns dressed as a woman and child. They screamed for help as their chariot made its first circle of the ring. At that moment, a host of purported Indians - young men costumed in buffalo robes, feathered headdresses, and red leotards - charged onto the scene, waving tomahawks and spears. Another circuit was completed, then another, the fierce Indians whooping for all their might and the buffoonish settlers squealing as they were chased.
Yet something was wrong. Marvela was stomping and sputtering impatiently. He raised his megaphone.
“Where the devil is the cavalry?”
He had barely spoken when a new figure shot into the ring. It was a young woman, slim, graceful, and confident, riding a splendid white stallion. She w
as dressed in a costume of fringed beige buckskins, and her thick auburn hair bounced in a loose braid down her back. She whipped a long gun from its holster on her saddle, pretending to pick off one of the attackers. He gave a melodramatic cry and hit the dust. The wagon drew to the center of the ring while the lithe Amazon continued her pursuit of the Indians. Round and round they went, and the lady, with each turn, performed some new stunt. She dropped below her mount’s neck to fire her weapon. She stood in the stirrups. She even balanced atop the steed’s rump to take aim at her moving targets.
For a finale, she somersaulted over the horse to confront the last Indian brave, who seemed poised to impale her with his flaming spear. Her gun fired a great cloud of black powder and the Indian toppled from his rearing mare with a savage shout, appearing to perish on the ground at the tip of the lady’s dainty boot. She raised her gun above her head while the rescued “settlers” gave a cheer.
“Stop, stop! What was that?” Marvela cried, not requiring his megaphone to make himself heard. The dead tribesmen quickly rose all around him. Their leader, the last to die, pulled off his war bonnet.
“This is Laura Liberty! The Sharpshooter of San Francisco!” He grimaced in embarrassment. “Don’t you remember, boss? You agreed to hire her three months ago. She’s just arrived.”
“I - yes, but - I thought the Sharpshooter of San Francisco was a man.”
The young woman said nothing, though her face indicated she had heard such an objection before and did not appreciate its implications. The chief of the tribe turned to us and shrugged.
“I thought Liberty was a man as well - all the paperwork was signed with just an L for the first name. You can imagine my shock when this little miss stepped off the train late last night! But boss - isn’t she wonderful?”
Marvela nodded. At that moment, Holmes began to applaud. The lady smiled with firmly pressed lips.
“She is indeed wonderful,” Holmes said. “I suspect your patrons will be as surprised as you were, Mr. Marvela. She certainly adds an aspect of novelty to your circus.”
“Yes, though... I hope she doesn’t expect the salary I was willing to give Mr. Liberty!”
“As well she should not, for that would be unjust,” Holmes said. I saw the maiden’s tight smile slip. Holmes gave a nod in her direction, though he addressed his words to Marvela. “You should double it, sir. This lady is worth twice any man’s value. Just think of all the tickets you will sell, and how the people will rush to see her.”
The sharpshooter placed her delicately gloved hand to her face, but her amusement at my friend’s audacity clearly shone in her beautiful dark eyes. Holmes spoke over the impresario’s shocked stammering.
“Now, sir, I believe you have engaged me to find Miss Vittoria. Perhaps if you will be so good as to allow me to examine the lady’s former residence? You may bring the witnesses to me there. I will interview them inside after I am done inspecting the scene of the crime.”
Marvela nodded vigorously and dismissed his performers. A few minutes later, we were inside the wooden van that had served as Vittoria’s home for years. The vehicle was so small that both of us were forced to stoop and take care not to collide with each other.
It was the oddest lady’s bower that I had ever entered. Despite her deformity, Miss Vittoria had been the most feminine of creatures, surrounding herself with bottles of perfume, elegant hairbrushes, and pictures of theatrical beauties clipped from popular magazines and pinned to the sides of her small space. A gilded vanity was set to the rear of the wagon, and her narrow bed was adorned with silken coverlets. In contrast to its delicacy, however, the room showed signs of violence. The pillows had been slashed, their feathers scattered, and the beddings were torn. The dainty metal chair at the vanity was overturned, and the room was heavy with the scent of lavender, thanks to several broken bottles of perfume. An improvised rack held five evening gowns that had also been torn, their beads and bows ripped away and scattered on the floor. Holmes, as was his custom, examined everything with great care, and wedged himself down amid the floorboards with his lens. At his command, I took a seat upon the bed, trying to apply his methods in my mind.
“Ah - yes, just as I thought!”
“What, Holmes?”
He held out something to me. In the dim light within the van, I could scarcely make it out.
“A hair?” I asked, squinting at what he had placed in my palm.
“Yes, and a very telling one. Watson, will you alert Mr. Marvela that I am ready to interview his people? This van is perhaps a bit stifling. We should go outside.”
And so, in the fresh air, seated in camp chairs, Holmes questioned a selection of the Marvela Circus performers. They were an odd and fascinating collection of individuals. The most common of them were two burly roustabouts, who said they had heard a cry of “murder” just as the rehearsal was taking place two days earlier.
“You did not find that a strange cry?” Holmes asked. The fellows glanced at each other, and after a bit of stammering, the larger of the pair answered.
“No, not since the boss was having all those wild Indians in the act. We just thought it was part of the show.”
Holmes dismissed the workers. Next up was a tall, gangly man that Marvela proclaimed to be “The Human Skeleton”. Indeed, he resembled a collection of sticks in a suit, with a cadaverous skull mounted above the collar. He introduced himself, very softly, as Paul Brown.
“Mr. Brown, what can you tell us?”
“Not much, sir. I saw some no-good looking fellows lurking around the wagons that day. But I was late to my stage, and I didn’t say anything.” He hung his head. “I wish I had.”
“Can you describe these men?”
Brown shrugged. “They had on dark coats and their caps pulled low. But it was their manner, sir. Like they didn’t want to be seen.”
Holmes considered. “You could not make a guess as to their age?”
“No sir. I really didn’t see them that well.”
“But they were men, not youths?”
“I think so, sir.”
Holmes sent him on his way. Our final witness was Mrs. Overton, a lady of ponderous girth. She made Holmes’s portly brother Mycroft seem like a waif. Her stoutness was only emphasized by the gaudy raspberry colored frock that she wore. Unable to lower herself into the chair, she stood, swishing a bustle that would have filled half an omnibus.
“I saw three men hurrying away, and one of them had a big black bag over his shoulder. I’ve told this to the police already! I thought they were carrying off the lion that died in its cage the night before. I had no idea that Leo had already been buried.”
Something about her tone caused me to lift my head from my notes. Mrs. Overton folded her massive arms across her chest, glaring at both of us.
“You didn’t like Miss Vittoria, did you?” Holmes asked, with his usual perception into the human soul.
“I didn’t kill her, if that is what you mean! But I will not lie to you - I won’t cry because she’s gone. It was ‘Vittoria this’ and ‘Vittoria that’, and ‘Oh, Vittoria, she’s so talented!’ A dog who can play the flute, that’s all she was or will ever be! Bah! I may be considered a freak, but I have more talent in my little finger than she did in her entire hairy body. Would you like to see my ballet poses?”
Holmes waved away the offer. “I think not. But you have been most helpful, and so I thank you.”
With an angry huff, Miss Overton withdrew. Holmes asked me for my notebook, scribbled something on a page, then tore it free, disregarding my concern at having my property mangled.
“It is for a good purpose, I promise. Let us return to the tent.”
Inside, Marvela was directing another rehearsal of his western show, but he brought it to a halt when we appeared. The performers gathered around eagerly as Holmes announc
ed, in ringing tones, that he had solved the case.
“Mr. Marvela, it pains me to say this, but your Circus Belle is no more. Based on the evidence of the lady’s van and the statements of the witnesses, I can tell you that you will never see Miss Vittoria again.”
The entire company gasped. The clown who was dressed as the settler child began to weep.
“But - what has become of her?” Marvela asked.
“I recognize the signs of the gang led by Dr. William Wayward, the evil physician of Harley Street. He has a reputation for collecting people of, shall we say, distinctive medical abnormalities for his Museum of the Morbid. I doubt that your lady is alive now, if she was alive when she was carried from the circus. I hope you will all be on your guard, lest other members of your troupe find themselves spirited away to become permanent displays in Wayward’s secret hall of curiosities.”
There was a shriek and a loud thump. We turned to see that Mrs. Overton, who had slipped inside and been eavesdropping behind us, had fainted. Five of the Indians hurried over to fan her. Marvela’s jaw sagged.
“My... my poor girl.”
“I will continue my investigations in London and alert you should I learn more. In the meantime, Mr. Marvela, I suggest that you allow Miss Vittoria to live on in your fond memories of her, and focus on the continued success of your circus. Good day, and - oh, one thing.” Holmes stepped forward and handed the note he had composed to the leader of the Indian tribe. “A few comments on your performance, sir. A critique, if you will, from one actor to another? Now, we bid you adieu. Watson, I believe we have just time to catch the eleven o’clock train.”