by June Thomson
‘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.* 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.
* Although the account is undated, the use of the word ‘our’ in this context suggests that Dr John H. Watson was living permanently at 221B Baker Street and was not there merely on a visit. The case must therefore be assigned either to the period before his marriage to Miss Mary Morstan in the late 1880s or to the time following Mrs Watson’s death in the mid-1890s, after which he again took up residence in Baker Street. From the internal evidence, I am inclined to favour the earlier dating. (Dr John F. Watson)
* Goldini’s was an Italian restaurant in Gloucester Road, Kensington. It was here that Mr Sherlock Holmes arranged to meet Dr John H. Watson for coffee and a curaçao, requesting him to bring with him certain house-breaking tools and a revolver. Vide ‘The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans’. (Dr John F. Watson)
† I have been unable to trace the Cambridge music-hall, other than a smaller establishment in the East End of London, and suggest it is a pseudonym for the Oxford, where many famous performers appeared, which was situated in Oxford Street. It was demolished after the First World War. (Dr John F. Watson)
‡ Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H. Watson stopped at Marcini’s restaurant after the successful conclusion to the Hound of the Baskervilles case for ‘a little dinner’ before going on to hear the De Reszkes, the famous Polish brothers, sing in Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots, for which performance Mr Sherlock Holmes had reserved a box. (Dr John F. Watson)
* Benjamin Godard, the French composer, was born in Paris on 18th August 1849 and died in Cannes on 10th January 1895. His best-known opera was Jocelyn (1881) which included the well-known ‘Berceuse’ or Cradle Song. Operatic arias became a popular music-hall feature after Charles Morton presented extracts from Gounod’s Faust at his Canterbury music-hall on the night before its première. (Dr John F. Watson)
* The quotation is taken from the Odes of Horace and may be literally translated as follows: ‘The span of our short life forbids us to embark on lasting hopes.’ (Dr John F. Watson)
* The Empire music-hall was situated in Leicester Square and was the haunt of notorious ladies of the town who paraded its promenade, known as the Empire Gallery. After protests from a certain Mrs Ormiston Chant, the management erected screens between the gallery and the auditorium which were torn down by a group of counter-protesters, objecting to what they termed ‘Prudes on the Prowl’, amongst whom was the then Mr Winston Churchill. The Empire was closed on 21st January 1927, after the final performance of Lady Be Good which starred Fred Astaire and his sister, Adele. (Dr John H. Watson)
*This case, published in 1887 under the title of ‘A Study in Scarlet’, was the first investigation in which Dr John H. Watson assisted Mr Sherlock Holmes. (Dr John F. Watson)
* Mr Sherlock Holmes expressed a very similar idea in a slightly different form in ‘The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet’ in which he states: ‘It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ (Dr John F. Watson)
* Dr John H. Watson kept his word and refrained from publishing an account of the case although he makes a passing reference to it in ‘The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire’. However, Mademoiselle Marguerite Rossignol is not named and he refers instead to Vigor, the Hammersmith Wonder, who is listed, among others, under the letter ‘V’ in Mr Sherlock Holmes’ encyclopaedia of reference. (Dr John F. Watson)
THE CASE OF THE MAPLESTEAD MAGPIE
Although the year ’95 was an exceedingly busy period for Sherlock Holmes with such investigations as the tragedy of Woodman’s Lee* and the case of Wilson, the notorious canary trainer,† engaging his attention, it was one particular inquiry, never brought entirely to a successful conclusion, which occupied much of my old friend’s time and energy in the late summer and early autumn. It concerned a series of burglaries at country houses during which priceless family heirlooms were stolen by an exceedingly clever master-thief, who called himself Vanderbilt, and his accomplice, a professional safe-breaker, known among the criminal fraternity as a yeggman.†
Holmes had tracked the two villains down and arranged for their arrest by Inspector Gow of the Kent County Constabulary at the residence of a potential victim, where they were caught red-handed while attempting yet another burglary. However, he would not allow me to publish an account of the adventure in case it came to the attention of the man who had organised the thefts and whom Vanderbilt had refused to identify. Because of this unknown individual’s obsession with collecting rare works of art, Holmes gave him the sobriquet of The Magpie. The Magpie had promised, should Vanderbilt be arrested, that a large sum of money would be waiting for him on his release from prison provided that his own name was not revealed.
It would not be an exaggeration to state that, in the months following Vanderbilt’s arrest in June ’95, Holmes himself became obsessed with the identity of The Magpie. Even while he was still engaged in hunting down Vanderbilt and his yeggman, he had already built up a mental dossier of the man and was convinced that he must be exceedingly wealthy but eccentric, with some shameful secret surrounding his birth or antecedents which persuaded him to collect these objets de vertu, once owned by eminent individuals, in order to compensate for his own lack of a distinguished pedigree.
Indeed, The Magpie had become so real to him that my old friend, not generally given to imaginative speculation, preferring facts to fancy, had gone to the length of picturing him alone in a room, gloating over th
ese treasures as if they were his own.
At first Holmes’ inquiries had been general and had consisted of asking his well-to-do acquaintances, many of them former clients, if they had any knowledge of such an individual. There, however, he had drawn a blank. In addition, he searched the newspapers for any references to wealthy art collectors which he pasted into a new cuttings-book given over entirely to this subject, while his encyclopaedia of reference for the letter ‘M’ had several pages devoted exclusively to Millionaires.
He also took to attending all the major sales at which family heirlooms were auctioned on the premise that, now that Vanderbilt and his yeggman were safely behind bars and the burglaries had consequently ceased, The Magpie might resort to legitimate means of acquiring those personal objets d’art which he might wish to add to his collection.
It was all to no avail. The identity of The Magpie eluded him.
There is a strong streak of obstinacy in Holmes’ nature. Like a bull-dog, once he has set his teeth into a problem, nothing will persuade him to let go. To my certain knowledge, he refused several important and potentially remunerative cases that summer, including a request from Lady Buttermere to investigate the curious nocturnal activities of one of her footmen, so engrossed was he in his own inquiries.
It was in September ’95 when, having exhausted all other lines of investigation, Holmes finally resorted to a direct appeal, a stratagem which he had been reluctant to employ as he considered it might betray his hand and rouse the suspicions of his unidentified quarry.
Consequently, he placed the following advertisement in The Times for the 9th of that month:
Titled gentleman, who prefers to remain anonymous, is forced to sell certain valuable and important family heirlooms, including miniatures by Cooper and Cosway, eighteenth-century English enamelled snuff-boxes and jewelled vinaigrettes. No dealers. Private buyers only. Apply in strictest confidence to Mr P. Smith,* Poste Restante, St Martins-le-Grand.
‘That is all very well, Holmes,’ I said, laying down the newspaper after my old friend had pointed the advertisement out to me, ‘but, even supposing The Magpie replies, which you cannot guarantee, how will you know it is he?’
‘Oh, I have every confidence he will answer,’ Holmes replied nonchalantly. ‘I have deliberately chosen small but rare objects which The Magpie appears to prefer to larger items. I have gone to the trouble of writing to the victims of Vanderbilt and his yeggman and, from their answers, have compiled a list of the stolen objects which includes miniatures and snuff-boxes as well as jewellery caskets and other such personal items of particularly delicate workmanship. As for recognising our quarry, I am quite certain I shall have no difficulty in picking him out from among any other applicants. I know this man, Watson. I have, in a manner of speaking, lived with him for the past few months. Only let him write and I shall recognise his spoor upon the paper as surely as if he had left his footprint on a patch of freshly dug soil.’
‘Then what of these valuable heirlooms?’ I persisted. ‘The Magpie will wish to examine them before he buys. How will you acquire enamelled snuff-boxes and miniatures, let alone jewelled vinaigrettes?’
‘My dear fellow, do you imagine that I have laid my trap without first making sure that I have the bait to hand? You have not met Viscount Bedminster, I believe? Then let me simply say that he is a former client of mine who had the unfortunate experience of becoming entangled with a lady of dubious reputation. As at the time he had no money to speak of but a career of great promise before him, I waived the fee. However, since then he has inherited not only the title but also a house in Knightsbridge replete with objets d’art, never publicly displayed. He has agreed to lend me certain of these heirlooms which will constitute my bait. All that remains is to await a letter from The Magpie and the trap will be sprung.’
Over the next three days, Holmes visited the Poste Restante in St Martins-le-Grand both mornings and afternoons, returning on each occasion with a small bundle of letters which, after perusing them, he threw impatiently to one side. None was from The Magpie.
Between these daily excursions, he fretted with impatience and became, in consequence, most difficult to live with, prowling restlessly about the sitting-room and sending away his meals virtually untouched.
Mrs Hudson was at her wits’ end.
For my part, I absented myself from our lodgings as often as I could, either taking solitary walks in Regent’s Park or retreating to my club in order to escape for a few hours from my old friend’s black mood which seemed to permeate the whole house.
It was on the third day that his efforts were at last rewarded.
I returned from a game of billiards with Thurston, a fellow-member, to find Holmes standing at his desk, in the act of opening the latest batch of letters, the floor about him strewn with discarded envelopes and sheets of writing paper.
‘No success?’ I inquired as I entered, considerably cast down at the thought of spending the evening alone with Holmes in his present bad humour.
‘It is extraordinary,’ he replied peevishly, ‘although the advertisement states quite positively “No dealers”, how many of those rapacious gentlemen, no doubt hoping for a bargain, have written, trying to pass themselves off as private collectors.’ Breaking off to tear open yet another envelope, he quickly scanned its contents, his brow contracted while I quietly retreated to a seat by the fire from where I observed his features with some anxiety, assuming from his expression that this last letter was from another dealer.
Then suddenly his countenance cleared and, waving the sheet of paper like a banner above his head, he gave a great shout of exultation.
‘Watson, The Magpie has taken the bait!’
‘Let me see!’ I cried eagerly, scrambling to my feet from my chair.
The letter, which was written on good quality paper, bore no address, only the previous day’s date, and read:
Dear Mr Smith,
Like yourself, I prefer to remain incognito. However, as a private individual who has devoted many years to collecting works of art, I am most interested in examining those family heirlooms which you have for sale. Kindly write to K. Wesson, Poste Restante, Charing Cross, making the necessary arrangements as to place, date and time for such an inspection.
There was no signature.
I was a little disappointed by this curt, businesslike communication although Holmes, who was chuckling and rubbing his hands together, seemed delighted by it.
‘You see!’ he exclaimed. ‘It bears all the marks of The Magpie. No private address and no name, apart from Wesson. Smith and Wesson! Pistols for two, one might say. The man has a sense of humour, Watson. I am looking forward exceedingly to making his acquaintance.’
‘But where, Holmes? You can hardly arrange the meeting to take place here.’
‘Of course not, my dear fellow. That would be the height of folly. We shall meet at Claridge’s Hotel where I shall engage a suite of rooms for you.’
‘For me?’ I exclaimed, somewhat alarmed at the prospect.
‘I can hardly be expected to confront him myself. My features are too well known from the illustrated papers.’
‘But couldn’t you wear one of your disguises?’
‘Quite out of the question. I shall have to be on hand to follow him or any agent he sends in his place. The Magpie is clever enough to employ such a ruse. You noticed, of course, the postmark on the envelope?’
‘No; I am afraid I did not.’
‘It was West Central. But do not be taken in by that either, my dear fellow, and assume he lives in London. It is easy enough to bring a letter to town and to post it in some convenient pillar-box. Now, to work! There is plenty to be done. I must write to The Magpie, engage the rooms at Claridge’s and call on Freddy Bedminster to collect the objets de vertu. And you, my dear Watson, must begin your studies.’
‘What studies?’ I inquired.
‘Into Bilston enamels, silver hallmarks and the art of the English miniaturist.
I have the necessary volumes of reference here. Before you meet The Magpie or his agent, you must be fully conversant with the subjects.’
Seating me down at the table, he placed several large books of art in front of me, before, having hurriedly written a reply to The Magpie’s letter, he bustled out of the room.
It was well over an hour before he returned, late for dinner, much to the discomposure of Mrs Hudson who had to keep the meal hot for him, although she was considerably mollified, after his earlier abstinence, by his appetite once the dishes were brought to the table.
‘Everything is arranged, Watson,’ he said, cutting with enthusiasm into the steak and kidney pudding. ‘The letter is posted, the rooms engaged at Claridge’s for the day after tomorrow and I have the Bedminster family heirlooms in that morocco case. You shall examine them after dinner. How have your studies progressed?’
‘Quite well, Holmes,’ I said cautiously, a little daunted by the task he had set me. ‘You know I have a limited knowledge of art and am quite hopeless at remembering dates.’*
‘I shall assist you,’ Holmes assured me which was exactly what I had feared. I was not sure if Holmes in this ebullient mood would be any easier to live with than he had been in his former low spirits, especially as I should have little opportunity of escaping for a few hours to my club until my part in the investigation was completed.
After dinner, he brought the morocco case to the table and, opening it up, displayed the curios it contained which even I had to admit were particularly fine. They consisted of several tiny, silver bottles, cunningly hinged to contain fragments of aromatic sponge and fashioned into ingenious shapes, from a miniature book to a rosebud, and all of them elaborately chased and decorated with seed pearls or minute gems; four enamelled and gold-mounted snuff-boxes, their colours as brilliant as the precious stones; and lastly, two miniature portraits, one of a gentleman in a powdered wig, the other of a young lady.