Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders

by Barry Day

  Soon we were walking through the spacious entrance hall that would normally have echoed with the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ of excited visitors. This morning the whole place had been temporarily closed to the public, another evidence of the power of Moxton’s pocket allied to the snobbery of class. Our esteemed Foreign Secretary clearly had no wish to brush his imperial robes against his humble servants and voters.

  Several liveried attendants stepped forward to meet us but Lestrade self-importantly brushed them aside in a manner that was clearly meant to communicate who was running this particular show. Did Moxton take all these servants around in a pack, I wondered, or did he have a reservoir of them at each port of call?

  Before I could resolve such a weighty question, we were ushered into a side gallery filled with a group of people that—if logic didn’t dictate otherwise—I could have sworn were the very same ones I had last seen by the banks of Loch Ness. Surging forward to greet us was Moxton himself. Even though I now knew that I watching a persona being worn like a mask, I couldn’t help being impressed by the sheer performance. The man could impersonate the Sphinx and carry it off. I found Gilbert’s lines from HMS Pinafore going though my mind …

  For he might have been a Roosian,

  A French or Turk or Proosian,

  Or perhaps Itali-an.

  But in spite of all temptations

  To belong to other nations,

  He remains an Englishman.

  I must have been humming it under my breath, because I received a strange look from Holmes and from Moxton—it seemed easier all round to keep thinking of him as Moxton on such an occasion—an amused: “If only, Doctor, if only. As it is we poor colonials—or, should I say ex-colonials?—must play the hand we are dealt. Don’t you agree, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Indubitably, my dear M—Moxton.” Holmes seemed to stumble over the first syllable. “Though I believe in many games of chance—and Watson knows far more about these things than I—it is customary to discard when one has an inconvenient card and, of course, there is always the element of bluff …”

  “As usual, Mr. Holmes, you are clearly better informed than you would wish others to believe. I don’t think I would care to face you across the poker table. And now, gentlemen, shall we …?”

  I was about to remind Holmes that he had yet to introduce Mycroft to Moxton/Moriarty, when I noticed that his brother was nowhere in sight. Like many large men, he could when he chose be remarkably light on his feet. Interpreting my glance, Holmes indicated the door to the Entrance Hall and murmured—“Affairs of State, Watson—Affairs of State. Mycroft is no doubt meeting our Distinguished Visitor.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade interjected. “The Foreign Secretary arrived several minutes ago. He and his aides asked if they could just wander around for a few minutes before the ceremony. Apparently, Lord—has a soft spot for this place. Seems he used to come here as a kiddie.”

  I saw my friend’s brows crease in a small frown, which was gone as fast as it came. “A politician of considerable native instinct, it would seem, Lestrade. It must be pleasing to converse with a constituency of the mute … Hello, what’s this?”

  Without our really noticing, Moxton had moved to the dais in the centre of the gathering, where a shrouded figure stood waiting to be unveiled. He was now conferring with a group of Museum officials and looking at his watch in an obtrusive manner, making it clear to anyone watching—which included most of those present—that events were now running behind schedule. Now he dispatched one of the liveried minions, who ostentatiously hurried from the room.

  “I must apologise for this slight delay, ladies and gentlemen.” Moxton held up his hands to gain attention. “We seem to have temporarily mislaid our guest of honour.” He received polite laughter for his pains. “He’s probably detained in a one-sided conversation with one of Madame’s house guests.” More laughter, louder this time. The man was playing his audience with the finesse of an Irving and rather more humour. “I spent five minutes myself chatting to one of the attendants on the way in before I realised just why he was being so uncommunicative!”

  Now they were positively eating out of his hand. I looked at Holmes and those sharp features were focused on Moxton in an expression that told me nothing would deter him from his purpose. In the middle of this apparently convivial gathering a chill ran down my back. This was a play we were both watching and taking part in, yet when the curtain came down I knew this whole business could have but one ending and that a tragic one. Once again, I feared for my friend.

  “I think we might give our honourable guest a few moments more, ladies and gentlemen. I think we all know, do we not, how difficult it is for a politician to give up a captive audience?”

  Was it my imagination or was there an odd inflection somewhere in that last sentence that I couldn’t quite place? The whole room was beginning to take on an unreal aspect with the guests laughing mindlessly, while in the wings, so to speak, another frozen audience stood silently watching like a gallery of ghosts. Was one any more real than the other?

  “Today,” Moxton continued, “we are gathered to honour the first of our ‘Great Britons’. My little paper, The Clarion, considers it a privilege and a pleasure to be able to make this small gesture … ah, I do believe we have what we journalists call some late-breaking news of our honouree …”

  I could now see that the flunkey had returned and was whispering urgently into Moxton’s ear. If the press lord was surprised at what he heard, he hid it well. Turning back to his guests, he said: “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that urgent business has necessitated Lord—’s immediate return to the corridors of power.”

  There was a murmur of surprise and some irritation that spread around the group but, Moxton soon quelled it. “Yes, I’m just as disappointed as you folks—but I guess that’s why we’re honouring this man … because he puts this country first.”

  He paused to acknowledge a scattering of applause. “So, because I know your calendars are all as full as mine—and almost as full as his—I suggest we honour him in absentio. Lady Bullard, would you be so kind …?”

  A large and imposing lady, who looked to have launched many a mighty ship of state in her time, stepped forward to be handed a gilt rope by Moxton in lieu of a bottle of champagne. With an energy and directness that must have served her well in the shires, she gave the rope a sharp tug and with startling suddenness the cover dropped from the statue. There was a palpable silence as the room held its breath as one. There in full military regalia, complete with sash and Order of the Garter stood the effigy of Lord—, complete in every detail except one. He had no head!

  The room erupted in pandemonium, a mixture of shock and embarrassed amusement. Holmes, I noticed, having taken in the spectacle at a glance, was now staring at the doorway, where Mycroft was looming over a nervous young police constable. In answer to his barely raised forefinger, we pushed our way through the disconcerted crowd to his side. Without appearing to hasten his pace, he led his party towards a flight of stairs at the far side of the entrance hall. Over his shoulder I heard him say: “I’m afraid there have been certain developments.”

  It was then that a childhood memory came rushing back. Suddenly I knew where Mycroft was taking us.

  “Isn’t this the way to what used to be called the ‘Separate Room’—the Chamber of Horrors?”

  A few steps further and we were in another world. Even though the museum had been moved a few years back, this particular room had been lovingly re-created in all its pseudo-Gothic splendour. One moment we were in Victoria’s London, listening to the sound of our own footsteps echoing on the marble floor of the hall as we walked through intermittent shafts of autumn sunlight. Behind us the excited chatter from the room we had just left, like birds disturbed in their nest. The next moment we had descended into Hell.

  I imagine most of my readers can recall their first experience of entering this eerie setting and the frisson of self-induced fear the p
lace manages to conjure up, despite the fact that one knows that everything here is made by the hand of man and sometimes not even artfully so. I have always found it was not so much the reality as the concept of evil that was truly frightening; the horrors live in one’s mind. And perhaps, just as some places have a distinct and almost tangible ‘atmosphere’, this one retained a distillation of the emotions generations of visitors had left here. All I know is that each time I visit the place, chastising myself mentally for repeating the stupidity, I find myself holding my breath a little to catch the slight unexpected noise and wondering whether I had really seen something move out of the corner of my eye that shouldn’t be able to move. Was Marat standing quite like that the last time I saw him? And surely the ominously named Vlad the Impaler …?

  Another vaguely familiar wax figure caught my eye, because for some strange reason it appeared to be wearing a placard around its neck. I was about to go over and examine it, when Mycroft interrupted my uncomfortable train of thought.

  “Perhaps you would care to inform our colleagues of this morning’s unfortunate happenings, Lestrade?” At which point another of the waxworks I had been trying in vain to identify suddenly came to life. I inwardly cursed the man for raising my pulse rate several notches. The Inspector was clearly discomfited. Taking off his bowler and mopping his forehead with a none-too-clean bandana, he managed to avoid everyone’s gaze.

  “Well,” he said, “it seems that the Foreign Secretary and his assistants were wandering around, like, and he decides he must pay a visit to the Chamber for old times’ sake. Apparently, the place was a favourite of his from when he was a young lad …”

  “Yes, yes,” Holmes interrupted. “Get to the point, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade looked a little piqued to have his narrative flow interrupted but continued …

  “Well, when they get down here, they thought they heard a noise in the corner. The next thing they knew, the two young chaps had been set upon, bound, gagged and left behind one of the exhibits. It was all over so quick, they couldn’t see who attacked them and all they could hear was their boss putting up a struggle. After that, it went very quiet. The next thing they knew was when my lads came in with Mr. Mycroft here and found them. And that’s the long and short of it.”

  “But the Foreign Secretary?” I could have shaken the man until his teeth rattled. “What happened to the Foreign Secretary?”

  “Over here, Watson.”

  It was Holmes. Impatient with Lestrade’s rambling discourse, he had made for the far end of the gallery, where two rather self-conscious constables were standing guard and doing their best to ignore one of the most bizarre spectacles I can remember seeing. A somewhat lurid replica of the Tower of London stood as the backcloth. In the foreground was the gigantic figure of the Executioner. Masked and stripped to the waist, he was exercising his exaggerated musculature by raising his double-edged axe on high. At his feet, arms bound behind his back and his head on the block, was a figure clad in full military regalia.

  It took a second glance to ascertain that this was not just another wax dummy, even though its eyes were closed and it lay there quite motionless. Those distinctive patrician features were all too familiar from newspaper photographs and caricatures. It was the Foreign Secretary with his neck on the block.

  By this time Holmes was bending over him and Mycroft and the others had arrived. “Your department, Watson, I think. I don’t believe he’s come to any real harm. A touch of chloroform, I fancy, nothing more.”

  As I knelt to take his place and conduct a cursory examination, he added thoughtfully: “Except, of course, for one thing which is not without significance. It is not given to many of us to see ourselves face to face.” With that he rose to his feet and for the first time we could all see the object his body had been shielding.

  When Lord—regained consciousness, he would find himself communing with himself. Literally eyeball to eyeball with the sleeping peer was the disembodied head of his own wax effigy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Almost apologetically, it seemed to me, Mycroft fixed his gaze on the recumbent Foreign Secretary.

  “I thought it as well, Sherlock, since his lordship was clearly sedated and feeling no pain, to leave the scene of the crime undisturbed. I know how you like to dig and delve.”

  And, to be sure, Holmes was already prowling around the prostrate Foreign Secretary. I could tell from his air of concentration that he had scarcely heard what his brother was saying.

  It was Lestrade who was providing the background noise, talking as much to himself as anyone else. “Lummy, that’s two in a row, what with the rabbits and this. A proper lot of fools we’re going to look. I don’t know what the Commissioner’s going to say.”

  “He’s not going to say anything,” Mycroft answered tartly, “for the simple reason that he isn’t going to know anything about it until I say so.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be that easy, my dear Mycroft,” said Holmes straightening up and rejoining us, as he sifted through something in the palm of one hand with the forefinger of the other. “I think you will find that the news—like Puck—has thrown a girdle round the earth … or at least as far as the room upstairs.”

  “The scuff marks on the floor clearly indicate a struggle between three men, two of whom overpower and drag the third—milord here—to his present ignominious position. All of this watched by another man who stood just here …” and he indicated the spot with the toe of his shoe—“and smoked a cigar for approximately three and a half minutes, almost certainly of the type now being generously offered to the gentlemen guests by our host. Unless I’m mistaken, this ash is of American origin, probably a blend of Havana and Virginia leaf. You might remember I once wrote a trifling monograph on the subject, Watson?”

  “Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of Various Tobaccos”—a study of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar and cigarette tobacco—I could recite the piece by heart. “It would also be relatively easy to identify which of Moxton’s servants were involved in the affray by a study of their shoes. No two leave identical marks. But that, I feel, would divert us from our proper purpose, Mycroft?”

  Mycroft nodded almost imperceptibly. This was not a subject he cared to discuss in any but the most privileged company. At that moment the Foreign Secretary showed the first signs of stirring. At the same time I caught a glimpse of a corner of white paper on which he had obviously been lying. Stepping over, I quickly snatched it up.

  “Good old Watson.” Holmes gave me an approving nod. “Keeps his eye on the ball while the rest of us are staring around the outfield. What is Moriarty’s arcane motto this time?

  “The message was clearly from the same hand that had prepared the advertisement in this morning’s paper. Once again the signature was the drawing of the grinning cat’s face and this time the wording ran …

  “HE’S MURDERING THE TIME! OFF WITH HIS HEAD!”

  Silently I passed the note to Holmes who perused it carefully with Mycroft looking over his shoulder. “Of course, the Queen of Hearts never actually beheaded anyone,” said Mycroft ruminatively. “True,” Holmes replied, “but then murder was not on the agenda today. By the way, gentlemen, I think his Lordship might be discreetly moved now for his greater comfort. The back door, I think.” Several constables rushed to obey Lestrade’s signalled instructions and shortly the three of us were alone once more.

  “No,” Holmes went on as he paced up and down with that familiar stride of a caged animal. There was something bizarre about the sight of him walking in front of this silent gruesome audience, as if he were advising them to mend their ways. “Scandal and public concern remain the priority for the moment. Background noise, one might call it. Watson, you’re the writer amongst us, wouldn’t you take a small bet that tomorrow’s Clarion will have something like …

  “OUR HEADLESS GOVERNMENT!” or “MINISTER LOSES HIS HEAD!”

  … splashed all over its front page? And the others wi
ll feel they can’t afford to be far behind, if they’re to retain their circulation and what passes for journalistic credibility. The snowball appears to be gathering momentum …”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I found myself saying, to my surprise as much as theirs. This Alice In Wonderland business was catching!

  As we left the Chamber the regular inhabitants seemed inanimately sorry to see us go. We may well have provided the most exciting divertissement to be seen there in a long time. After all, it can’t be too often that the spectators provide the entertainment.

  Just before we reached the door Holmes paused briefly to address one of the figures as one might greet an old friend.

  “Poor old Charlie Peace. A virtuoso of the violin, Watson.” He turned to me by way of explanation. “And an absolute Paganini on the one string fiddle. If only he’d stuck to plucking the strings instead of cutting throats, we might have played some interesting duets together. Which reminds me, I haven’t taken the Stradivarius out of its case for days. You might jog my memory when we get home, old fellow?”

  I made a firm resolve to do nothing of the sort.

  It was almost certainly this piece of inappropriate tomfoolery on Holmes’ part that prevented me from taking a second look at the figure that had half caught my eye as we entered that benighted dungeon. I had another half impression of a bearded medieval man with a plumed hat and holding something white and somehow out of keeping in his hand … and then Holmes and Mycroft between them had whisked me away. The presentation room crowds were thinning out as we reached the Entrance Hall, buzzing now more like busy bees than birds as they struggled into their coats and hats and made for the door. The general drift seemed to be that the whole episode was a disgrace and that ‘they’—whoever ‘they’ were—should do something about it, the country was going to the dogs and so on. But under the trite expressions one could detect a sense of unease. These things were not supposed to happen—not here, not in England.