‘Well, well,’ said he, as he put his note-book away; ‘that is all clear enough. No doubt you observed that the hinges of this middle door have had some kind of grease smeared on to them. No? Look, then, Watson: the edges of the hinges are just visible in the gap between the door and the frame. It is evident that this door has been opened very recently.’
I held the lantern close to the edge of the door and saw it was as he said. The edge of the hinge glistened with grease.
‘Another discovery I thought I would not mention in front of Mr Hardy,’ remarked my companion. ‘Let us now re-examine the monks’ robes.’
We returned to the men’s costume store, where Holmes took from his pocket the little envelope and compared the thread within it to the material of which the monks’ robes were made. ‘It is undoubtedly the same,’ said he.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked.
‘I have an idea about that,’ replied my companion. ‘But first, let us get along to Miss Ballantyne’s dressing-room and take a look at Mr Hardy’s historical scrapbook.’
We made our way to the other end of the corridor, our footsteps ringing hollowly in the silent basement. The gas was lit in Miss Ballantyne’s room and on a table near the door lay the scrapbook. Holmes lifted it up and turned the pages over for a moment, and I saw that the yellowing cuttings touched on every conceivable topic of relevance to the theatre: Solomon Tanner’s nights of triumph, occasions when the performances had been less well received, an occasion when a gas leak had obliged the audience to be quickly ushered from the theatre in the middle of a play, records of when parts of the building had been freshly painted and many other such matters.
‘What a fascinating record!’ I remarked.
‘If you would be so good as to take a look through it, Watson,’ said Holmes, handing it to me, ‘I shall attend to the other matters in Hardy’s office, and return shortly.’
I sat down at the table and began to study the history of the Albion Theatre. The door had swung shut as Holmes had left and, once the sound of his footsteps on the stair had faded away, the basement had fallen utterly silent and still. As far as I was aware, there was no one else there save the four seamstresses and they were far out of my hearing, at the other end of the corridor. For some considerable time I turned the pages over, absorbed in what I was reading. Once, some slight noise came to my ears and I looked up and listened, expecting to hear my friend’s footsteps approaching. But all was silence, and I returned after a moment to my perusal of the scrapbook. Clearly something had delayed Holmes upstairs.
I had just finished reading of a gala night at the old theatre, attended by the Duke of Balmoral, when a faint sound, as of the soft closing of a door, made me pause and look up. For a moment I remained motionless, but could hear nothing. As I sat there listening, it seemed to me that the air in the basement had become colder in the past twenty minutes and I shivered. At that moment, I heard a footstep, soft and furtive, in the corridor outside. I turned down the gas, opened the door cautiously and peered out.
The light in the corridor was poor, for only one gas-jet was lit and that appeared to have been turned lower than before. But even by this dim light I could see quite clearly that there was someone in the corridor. Not more than thirty feet away, a dark figure in a long black robe and hood was moving silently away from me. For a moment, it was as if an icy hand had touched the back of my neck and I was frozen into immobility. Then, gathering my senses together, I licked my dry lips and called out, my own voice sounding strange and almost startling to me after the silence in which I had been sitting for so long. The dark figure stopped abruptly as I called, then, very slowly, turned round. Within the shadowed cowl, no face was visible; nothing but a dense blackness.
‘What are you doing?’ I called out.
No reply came, but next moment, the figure began to advance, slowly and in complete silence, towards me. Every muscle in my body seemed to have become paralysed and unresponsive, and the blood seemed frozen in my veins. Then, with an effort of will, I took a step forward. I gave no credence to apparitions, I told myself, and wanted to know who this hidden villain was, and what he was up to. But I confess that it is easier to write these words now than it was to speak them to myself at the time, as I stood facing this dark menacing figure in that cold and dimly lit underground passage.
For what seemed an age, but was probably, in reality, but a second or two, the figure continued his slow, silent approach.
‘What do you want?’ I called out loudly, my voice ringing round the hard walls of the corridor, and sounding forced and unnatural.
As the echo of my words faded, and silence returned, the dark figure halted and remained for a moment motionless. He had drawn level with the one gas-jet in the corridor. Now, in one swift movement, and before I realised what was happening, he had raised his hand, the gas-tap was turned off, and the corridor was plunged into utter blackness.
IV
For a moment, it was as if a heavy shutter had descended before my eyes. I could see nothing whatever and held myself absolutely still, so that I might hear if the dark figure approached any closer. But a faint glimmer of light came from beneath the door of Miss Ballantyne’s dressing-room and, as my eyes adjusted to this dim illumination, I could just make out that the dark figure had not moved. Even as I screwed up my eyes, however, struggling to see more clearly through the darkness, I had an impression that the figure was stooping. There then came a swifter movement, of his arm, and I knew at once that he had flung something at me. Instinctively, I put up my arm to shield my face, but I was not quick enough, and something – a small lump of wood, perhaps – struck me on the side of the head. At the same instant, I heard rapid footsteps and when I looked again, as the footsteps faded into the distance, the corridor was empty. Without pausing for thought, I at once gave chase. But in advancing along the corridor, I was moving further away from the faint illumination from the dressing-room, so that in a matter of seconds, utter blackness had closed in about me. I cursed myself for my stupidity in not re-lighting the gas as I passed it. But I was reluctant now to stop and even more reluctant to retrace my steps, and thus turn my back upon what might lie ahead of me. I therefore pressed forward, but very slowly and with great caution. I knew that I must be approaching the point at which the corridor took a right-angled bend, so I held my hands out in front of me until they touched the cold corridor wall. Then, slowly feeling my way along the wall, I followed the passage round to the right and, a few yards further on, round to the left. For a few seconds, then, I stood perfectly still in that impenetrable darkness and listened. The whole basement was in utter and complete silence. For all I could tell, my assailant might be far away by now, or might be within a few feet of where I stood, waiting to spring at me. After a moment, I took a step forward, with no great enthusiasm, I must admit, and advanced very slowly along the corridor, ready at any moment to defend myself if attacked. A sensation of colder air upon my face told me that I was passing the first open doorway of the costume store, and it occurred to me that the mystery figure might have gone to ground there. But it was pointless attempting to look in there without a lamp of some kind, so, tense and breathing heavily, I continued along the corridor.
A little further on, I again felt a draught of cold air and knew I must be passing the second doorway of the costume store. Then I caught the faint murmur of voices and saw a thin line of light upon the floor to my right, which I knew must come from the narrow gap at the bottom of the door to the seamstresses’ room. For some time, I felt for the door-knob, then, just as I had my hand upon it, the door was abruptly opened from the other side. Light from the room within seemed to burst about me and I put my hand up to my eyes to shield them. The woman who had opened the door stepped back with a sharp cry of alarm as she saw me.
‘Oh, sir!’ cried she, as I stepped forward into the room. ‘I thought you was the ghost!’
‘He looks as if he’s seen one, Kathleen,’ remarked the woman hol
ding the iron.
‘Did you hear anyone pass this way in the past few minutes?’ I asked.
‘No, sir,’ replied Kathleen. ‘Sir, your head is bleeding,’ she added, picking up a scrap of cloth from the table and handing it to me.
‘It’s nothing,’ I responded, dabbing the cloth on my left temple, where the block of wood had struck it. ‘There was somebody out there just now.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. The same person as your friend saw yesterday, I believe.’
‘Why aren’t there any lamps lit in the corridor?’ asked the woman, peering out of the doorway.
‘He must have turned them all off,’ I replied. ‘I’ll re-light them now. I should stay in here for the moment if I were you. I’ll probably be back in a few minutes.’
I re-lit the gas-jet on the wall outside their room, then made my way back along the length of the corridor. There was no sign of anyone there and, after re-lighting the gas-jet which I had seen the mystery figure extinguish, I made my way up the stairs to the auditorium and through to the front of the theatre. There, I found Holmes in the small office by the entrance lobby, in which we had earlier left our coats. He was busily rooting through a deep drawer in a desk, but looked up as I entered.
‘I do apologise for keeping you waiting for so long, Watson,’ he began, rising to his feet. ‘Mr Hardy has misplaced the keys. And now he has been drawn away by the arrival of a reporter from the Globe, who wishes to interview him about the forthcoming production. But, you are injured, old fellow!’ cried my friend all at once. ‘You have a cut on the side of your head! What ever have you been doing with yourself?’
‘I have had an encounter with the mystery persecutor,’ I replied.
‘What!’ cried Holmes. ‘Where?’
‘In the basement corridor.’
‘Is he still there?’
‘No. He got away.’
‘Sit down here,’ said Holmes, pushing a chair towards me, and seating himself on the edge of the desk. ‘Tell me precisely what happened, Watson.’
I quickly recounted my recent experiences.
‘How very interesting!’ said he as I finished, a thoughtful expression upon his face. ‘I shall just complete my search for the keys while you sit there, Watson, and then, if you are up to it, we can take another look in the basement and see if we can find any fresh traces of this mysterious visitor.’
‘I am up to it,’ I returned vehemently. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to get my hands on that villain!’
I watched as Holmes turned out the contents of the drawer. In truth, I was glad to sit there and do nothing for a few minutes. My adventure in the basement had left me somewhat shaken and my nerves felt a little raw. The cut on the side of my head had stopped bleeding, but my head had begun to throb painfully. As I watched my friend’s efforts to find the keys, I could see, also, through the little windows which overlooked the entrance lobby, the comings and goings of various of the theatre staff, as they bustled about their work. I wondered what they would say if they knew of my recent strange and unpleasant encounter in the basement. It was certainly difficult to imagine, in broad daylight and in the midst of all this determined activity aimed at getting everything ready for the opening of The Lavender Girl on Saturday night, that, moving stealthily and secretly in the darkness beneath the theatre, was someone who was equally determined to thwart that aim.
I was recalled from my reverie by a groan of disappointment from my friend. It was evident he could find no sign of the keys and, with a sigh, he stuffed everything back into the drawers again. ‘Mr Hardy assures me,’ said he, ‘that there are – or were, at any rate – two identical bunches of keys, the one being the duplicate of the other. But one of these bunches seems to have disappeared completely and the other has been recently mislaid somewhere in one of these offices. He says he saw it only the other day, but he cannot recall where. I may as well abandon logic and look anywhere,’ he continued in a dry tone, as he pulled open the door of a tall broom-cupboard. At the back of the cupboard was a row of hooks, upon which several coats were hanging, including our own, but otherwise the cupboard was empty. One by one, Holmes lifted the coats from the hooks and looked beneath them, until, with a sudden cry of triumph, he stood aside, a coat in his hand, and I saw that on one of the hooks hung a large rusty iron ring, upon which were two dozen or more large keys. ‘Success at last!’ cried he. ‘Of course, even when acting in an apparently illogical manner, one never really abandons logic. It is merely a question of casting one’s logical net a little wider. I remembered hearing a little metallic noise as we hung our coats up here earlier and I was not mistaken! Are you prepared to re-enter the fray, Watson?’
‘Perfectly so!’
‘Good man!’ cried my friend, as I rose to my feet. ‘Let us make haste, then, before the trail goes cold!’
We were destined to be delayed a little longer, however. We were about to leave the office, when Holmes put his hand on my arm and indicated that we should wait a moment. Hardy was approaching, across the lobby, shaking hands with a thin, middle-aged man, as they made their way towards the front doors. ‘It will be in the paper tomorrow evening, Mr Hardy!’ said this latter. ‘Have no doubt! A good paragraph from me will add two hundred to the audience!’
‘I am more anxious at present as to whether you will be washed away, Mr Edgecumbe!’ returned the theatre manager, opening the door for his visitor. Outside, as I could see, the rain was teeming down again.
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Hardy!’ returned the newspaperman, holding aloft an umbrella. ‘I am equipped for all eventualities, as you see!’ With a final farewell, he slipped out of the front door, put up his umbrella and disappeared into the pouring rain.
For a moment Hardy watched the heavy downpour, splashing up in fountains from the surface of the street, and had only just turned away from the doors when they were flung violently open again and a thin, wiry man, clad only in a light suit, burst in with a loud groan. He pulled off the bowler hat he was wearing and cast it to the floor.
‘What a day!’ cried he, shaking himself like a dog, to fling off the rain. ‘Ho, my liege!’ he continued in a jocular tone, as he caught sight of Hardy. ‘What news from Ghent? How fares our cousin’s quest to smite the sledded Polak?’
‘I don’t know about any of that, Jimmy,’ returned Hardy with a chuckle; ‘but there’s no news to speak of here. You’re the first to arrive, I believe.’
‘More fool me! I was in a coffee-shop down the road and thought I’d make a dash for it as the rain seemed to have let up. Of course, I’d got precisely halfway here when it came down again heavier than ever! My own quest had better be for a towel to apply to this idiotic head of mine.’ So saying, he picked up his hat and hurried on into the theatre.
Hardy turned away, but even as he did so the front doors were pushed open once again, this time by a large, well-built man with an upright military bearing. He was dressed in a heavy overcoat and top hat, and had a cape about his shoulders, from which water was streaming.
‘Wretched weather!’ said he, as he unfastened his cape and shook the water from it.
‘Good afternoon, Captain Trent,’ said Hardy. ‘Yes, it is certainly dismal. I am hoping it does not affect the turnout on Saturday evening. I have just had Edgecumbe of the Globe here. He is going to give us a paragraph in the paper tomorrow.’
‘Really? That is excellent news!’ cried the newcomer, as he took off his hat and tipped a rivulet of water from the brim. ‘I’ve just come from my club and I’ve been doing my best to drum up a bit of interest there, telling all the fellows that if they don’t get along to The Lavender Girl they’ll miss the best thing in London.’
Hardy chuckled. ‘That is good of you, Captain Trent, but I am not expecting a very large proportion of our audience to come from the clubs of Pall Mall!’
‘Perhaps not, but every little helps, y’know, Hardy. Is my wife anywhere about?’
‘No.
She has not yet arrived. No doubt she will be here shortly.’
‘In that case I shall find myself a cup of tea. Is there a pot on the go anywhere?’
‘Mrs Abbott was boiling the kettle, the last time I saw her,’ returned Hardy. ‘If you look into the kitchen, I think you will find a fresh pot there.’
‘Excellent!’ cried Trent with feeling. ‘Perhaps I will find Count Laszlo there, too!’
‘No, he is not here yet. You will have the teapot to yourself!’
‘Really? I thought I saw his carriage outside. Well, I’ll see you in a minute, Hardy!’
The theatre manager turned in our direction as the other man disappeared through a doorway on the other side of the lobby. ‘Please excuse me for neglecting you, gentlemen,’ said he, as he entered the room. ‘There are always people coming and going in a place like this, I’m afraid, and every one of them invariably wants to speak to me. Ah! Good! I see you have found the keys!’
‘Indeed,’ said Holmes, ‘and we are now going to take another look in the basement.’
‘Very well. You will find me here, should you want me for any reason. And don’t forget,’ he added, putting his finger to his lips: ‘not a word to anyone!’
We descended to the basement corridor once more, and made our way along towards the other end. Holmes lit a lantern he had with him, and at the place where the corridor turned sharp right, he paused, and peered closely at the wall.
‘This is where you held your hands out in front of you until you felt the wall, I take it,’ said he, producing his lens from his pocket and squinting through it at a faint mark. ‘It is more than likely that our mystery man did the same, as he was fleeing ahead of you in the dark. Yes! See, Watson! Here are the two smudges you made on this dusty wall, and here is another, a little to the side. Hum! Let us proceed, then!’
We followed the corridor round the first corner and the second, and past the closed door of Webster’s dressing-room. A little further along, at the first of the two entrances to the costume-rooms, Holmes stopped and held up his hand. Within the dark chamber, a faint light was moving silently behind the rows of clothes. As we watched, a slim young woman emerged all at once from behind a row of dresses, a lantern in her hand. She stopped abruptly when she saw us and cried out, an expression of apprehension on her features.
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 13