by Nick Kyme
“Find the painting, lads,” urged Gregson as we disembarked onto the street. “No man is to lay a finger on it, or even breathe near it. You find it, you find me and nothing in between.” He took care to send a man to every exit, their instructions to detain anyone matching the descriptions I had given or indeed any suspicious character seeking egress. “Now, be quick about it!”
We caught more than one nervous look from passers-by as Gregson led us across the street in a determined mood but by the time we reached the main entrance to the Royal Opera House, many of the guests for the gala performance had arrived and a veritable sea of bodies stood between us and the theatre proper. Nonetheless, we forged a way inside into the grand foyer, thronged with dapper-looking gentlemen and ladies in fine ball gowns. Rich carpets clad the main stairs in red velvet, leading off to the dress circle and upper balconies. Ornate columns of marble ran all the way to a vaulted ceiling decorated with classical frescoes. As I had done a few nights before, I marvelled at the ostentation, but my return to the opera house brought to mind Holmes’s conviction about coincidence and I briefly wondered what it might portend.
Gregson saw none of the elegance, the man like a fierce bull who used his size to great effect as he fought through the crowds. Bellowing himself hoarse for the guests to stand aside, he found voice enough to send a pair of constables to either wing of the house. I scanned the crowd, but could find neither Graves nor Holmes and so followed in the inspector’s wake, who was leading a charge for the second landing. As I passed one of the marble columns, I felt a light tap upon my shoulder. I turned, my heart in my throat, and saw to my surprise Sherlock Holmes leaning against the column quite nonchalantly.
“Good lord, Holmes,” I exclaimed, a hand upon my chest. “You gave me quite the fright. What is the meaning of this lurking about? I assumed you would meet us at the main entrance at Bow Street. Have you seen anything of Graves? Is he here?”
“Oh, I have no doubt he is here, Watson, though I have yet to set eyes on him in this crowd. I suspect he is not far, but any attempt to apprehend him would steer us off the correct course.” Holmes gave a wry smile. “I see the inspector is making his presence felt.”
Gregson had barged his way to the uppermost landing, a pair of constables in tow, and was proceeding to wrestle through the crowds who seemed to be taking umbrage at his indelicate methods.
“Should we not be joining him, Holmes?” I asked.
“If you wish to swim against the tide, then by all means,” he replied, “but I have found a more direct ingress.”
At which point Holmes drew back a curtain to show me the entrance to the back of the theatre.
“With all this commotion, we can slip in unnoticed. No time to waste, Watson.”
With that Holmes set off at pace, swiftly weaving through the corridors and secluded nooks back of house. After passing down several tightly confined passageways, in which I endeavoured not to trip in the half darkness and injure myself, we emerged backstage in the left wing. A dark velvet curtain hid us from sight of the audience, but I was afforded an excellent view down the crossover all the way to the right wing. Scaffolds rose up to the vaults and culminated in a warren of beams and narrow catwalks.
A dizzying array of stagehands and performers scurried about like agitated wasps, and the impression was one of abject chaos as the grand spectacle of the ballet began to prepare for its opening act. I saw none of the corps de ballet and assumed they were confined to their dressing rooms for the moment. It was much as I remembered it from several nights previous, when I had sought a cultural diversion for my companion and found a murderous one in its stead, the death of poor Miss Evangeline. I only hoped this evening’s performance would end without tragedy.
Amongst this whirlwind of frantic activity, Holmes and I moved about unnoticed. I was, as of yet, completely in the dark as to our purpose for being backstage, however, and took the opportunity to put the question to my companion as he hovered by a rack of weapons that had been consigned to a corner, of no use to this particular evening’s entertainment.
“Whilst I am thrilled at having the opportunity to visit the opera house, you still haven’t told me what’s going on. Holmes, should we not be with Gregson and his men, scouring the place for the painting? You cannot think it is backstage?”
“It is not the painting that concerns me, Watson, and besides I am sure the inspector has that matter well in hand. No, we have an entirely different task altogether,” said Holmes.
“Then pray tell me, Holmes, or I fear I shall expire out of sheer exasperation!”
“Tut, tut, Watson,” said Holmes, looking askance at me, “you really are quite melodramatic at times. Perhaps, you should also take the stage as part of the evening’s festivities? I can think of several roles that would suit you well, but—wait!” He stopped short to face the house, though the thick velvet curtains sealed off the gathering crowds, and listened intently.
“The grand duke is here! We have little time left to lose!”
Holmes was right, though it took me longer to discern the distant announcement of the arrival of foreign royalty.
“I have erred, Watson,” said Holmes, as he rummaged about amidst a rack of coats and hats, flinging garments into the air when he could not find what he was looking for.
“Holmes,” said I, looking out to see if anyone had noticed his performance, but the frenzy of the night was such that he rather blended in, “what are you doing?”
“It was rosin powder, Watson,” he replied, emerging from the clothing rack having traded his top hat for a cloth cap and his suit jacket for a grubby-looking overcoat. He slipped on a pair of rugged brown overalls over his trousers and was thusly transformed. I marvel at how easily my companion adopts his disguises, not only in the mere addition or substitution of attire, but the way in which he affects a manner utterly at odds with his true character. Holmes had even conspired to dirty his face from some source unknown and suddenly wore the same grim, determined expression as all the other stagehands. He then proceeded to role up his sleeves.
“Very impressive, Holmes,” said I, as remarkably a passing props man hefted a spooled length of rope to my companion followed by instructions where it should be put away. Holmes gave a grizzled reply that would have made any veteran rigger believe he was kin. Bemused, I could only watch as the man departed to the rest of his duties, shouting to anyone who would listen that the curtain would be up imminently.
“You had best be on your way, Watson,” said Holmes, throwing me his discarded garments, “and find somewhere safe to stow those would you? I should hate to lose either, though especially the hat.”
“I bought you that hat, Holmes!” I exclaimed, mildly perturbed at its rough treatment.
“Hence my attachment to it, dear Doctor,” he replied, and as he headed over to one of the scaffolds before proceeding to shimmy up a ladder, he added, “One of us should warn Inspector Gregson, whilst the other watches back of stage, and since I am already in character…”
“Warn him about what, though, Holmes?” said I, with my companion halfway up the ladder.
“She is here, Watson, amongst the corps de ballet. Find Gregson and then be poised front of stage in case she bolts.”
“A ballerina?” I asked. “Since when, Holmes?”
“Since the very start, Watson. She has been under our nose since the very start.”
“So she fences, paints and dances. Quite the renaissance woman.”
“The dust found at the gallery, on the edge of the cloak, in her lodgings at Church Row… rosin powder,” said Holmes, steadily disappearing into the rafters with all the dexterity of a chimpanzee. In the vaults, his vantage would be unparalleled.
“I am still none the wiser, Holmes,” I called to the shadows above.
“We have been duped, Watson, but there is nothing more for it now than to be ready for when she strikes. Find Gregson and have his men surround the stage,” said Holmes, his voice echoing in the
darkness before he vanished from my sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE STAGE IS SET…
With nothing further to be learned or gained by staring up into the rafters, and left to guess how Holmes might identify Miss Laznovna amongst an entire troupe of dancers, I made my way from the wings and into the front of house. With little hope of finding a path through the labyrinth of corridors we had passed through on our way to the backstage, and furthermore not wishing to emerge somewhere behind Gregson in the sprawling clamour of the theatre foyer, I instead did my best to sneak across the stage. I earned a few jeers and whistles for my temerity from some ninnyhammers in the stalls, but staunchly ignored every one. Urgency compelled me to act in spite of any and all other considerations that night.
Hurrying across the stage apron, under the proscenium arch and nimbly avoiding a painful fall into the gaping orchestra pit—earning several disapproving glances from the assembled musicians—I gratefully alighted in the stalls. By now the lights had dimmed and the orchestra had finished tuning up.
I saw the grand duke had taken his seat in the royal box, accompanied by his son, a grim-looking Life Guard at either flank. In his finest regal attire, a dark red brocade suit, he looked relaxed if perhaps a tad bored. His son, Sergei, was evidently excited as he leant over the edge of the box for a closer look at the stage. A host of other, lesser dignitaries were also in attendance, some of whom made gestures of acknowledgement and greeting up to Konstantin who favoured them with a thin, humourless smile.
I glanced across the rest of the audience, but shrouded in shadows as they now were, and in such numbers, I caught no sign of Graves. According to Holmes, Irina Laznovna was here, a part of the performance in fact. Surely her suitor would be close by. Scurrying up the nearest aisle, I promptly found a constable who thought at first to question me but upon recognising my face and hearing the inspector’s name directed me to where Gregson was to be found.
Somewhere halfway up the lower slips, I met the inspector who seemed bemused at my sudden appearance.
“I thought we had lost you, Doctor,” he whispered, causing the glaring disapproval of the theatre patrons within earshot who had come for the ballet and not Tobias Gregson’s whispered mutterings. “Have you found Holmes, Graves, anyone?”
I quickly explained that Holmes was backstage, up in the vaults and keeping an eye out for Miss Laznovna who was somewhere amongst the ballet dancers.
“She’s a part of the performance?” Gregson replied, somewhat loudly, earning himself more glares.
“A ballet dancer, yes,” I said. “Holmes seems to think it has always been thus. What of the painting though, Inspector? Have you found it?”
“I have, indeed,” he answered, somewhat proudly. “It is under guard in the ticket office.”
“And there appeared nothing untoward about it?”
“Not that I could tell. No one died as a result of its acquisition, at least. Anyway, I thought Holmes wanted to see it? Why is he clambering about above the stage?”
“I think he believes the painting to be a ruse, Inspector. Perhaps a way to divert our attention from where the true threat will come.”
“The girl.”
I nodded.
Gregson looked to the stage where the first act had just begun. The orchestra had struck up a waltz, and the performers danced around the imaginary setting of a magnificent park, a painted palace providing a splendid backdrop to the scene and not so different to a winter photograph taken at Alexandrinsky Square.
Gregson grabbed a nearby constable, reaffirming his instructions for officers to watch every exit. He then looked back at me. “We had best get ourselves down there, Doctor, and wait for Holmes’s signal. I won’t lie, if it’s as dire as you say, I have half a mind to arrest the lot of them on suspicion.”
“In front of such an audience?” I asked, gesturing to the crowd.
Gregson gave a slight shrug, then a scowl as if weighing up his next course of action. “Perhaps not. We shall wait for your companion, Doctor. I promise you this, though, she won’t slip by. The only way she’s leaving here is in irons.”
As his constables fanned out across the auditorium, Gregson and I made our way to the bottom of the lower slips, not far from where Holmes and I had been sitting only a few nights ago. There we crouched, there being no spare seats. Mercifully, those who had come to watch the ballet were trying to ignore us. Some cast a wayward glance at the odd passing constable, but the diligent officers of the law kept mainly to the shadows.
I could not see Holmes, secreted somewhere above the stage, but knew he would be watching intently. I kept my gaze on the dancers, but found it almost impossible to tell one from the other in their vibrant costumes and gaudy painted faces. Like a dupe in a game of three-card Monte, I could not pick her out. I don’t doubt this was all to Miss Laznovna’s design, for she had all but turned herself invisible in plain sight of over two thousand patrons. But as the ballet went on, I only prayed that Sherlock Holmes would be equal to the task and succeed where I had fallen short.
What Gregson thought of the performance, I do not know, nor did I care to ask, but I saw his eyes dart back and forth for some inkling, however small and seemingly insignificant, of foul play that would give our murderess away. Alas, there was none, our only reward stiff backs and aching legs. At least my dizziness had abated somewhat, though it still threatened every time I had cause to look into the vertiginous depths of the stalls below. I saw a constable mustered down below, trying his very best to be inconspicuous. Surely, with so many of us arrayed against her, Miss Laznovna could not succeed?
Before I knew it, the first act had concluded and the second came quickly on its heels. During a very brief orchestral interlude in which the scenery was being changed behind the curtain, Gregson turned and whispered, “Are you certain of Holmes’s plan? I have never known him to be wrong, but if there is something else amiss then I would have you tell me without delay.”
I knew of nothing further and explained as much to Gregson. “I promise you, Inspector. He was certain of it. We must wait a while longer.”
Despite my urging for patience, my nerves felt taut. To reassure myself all was still well, I glanced up at the royal box and saw the grand duke’s son sitting forwards in his seat, quite enchanted by the drama unfolding on the stage below.
As the second act continued, I tried to employ some of Holmes’s methods. If nothing else, I reasoned, it might calm my mind. I put together what we knew of the victims and their fates and ordered it thusly—a Russian lawyer, slain ignominiously and painfully by poisoning; a teacher, again killed in agonising fashion but made to look like suicide, her reputation besmirched into the bargain; a manservant, stabbed and mutilated. Every death had been carefully orchestrated to inflict the utmost pain and indignity on its intended victim. How then to hurt a man such as Grand Duke Konstantin?
A thought took hold in that moment, so terrible that it set my heart to racing. I gripped the forward balustrade for fear I might fall, prompting a sudden interrogative from Gregson.
“Doctor, are you all right? Is it your head?”
I could scarcely find the breath to answer, “I have to reach the grand duke.” I rose unsteadily to my feet, half staggering at first but rushing up the aisle and leaving a befuddled Tobias Gregson in my wake. “Stay at your post, Inspector. Laznovna might yet come this way.”
Ignoring the displeasure of the patrons, whom I had already disturbed more than once that evening, I made all haste to the royal box. I felt I had little hope of reaching the grand duke, but given the revelation I had experienced I had no choice but to try.
In my panic, I caught brief glimpses of the stage, the second act now well underway as Prince Siegfried had arrived by a moonlit lake with crossbow in hand. I took three steps in one urgent bound, nearly tripping over in my reckless desire to reach the grand duke. All the while, the scene played out as Prince Siegfried took aim at the flock of swans surrounding
him. I reached the landing, bypassing an usher then one of Gregson’s constables as I gained the stairway to the royal box. In the scene, Prince Siegfried had set down his crossbow as a magnificent transformation took place, the orchestra enhancing its majesty with a stirring crescendo, and the Swan Queen became the maiden Odette. I had witnessed the same miraculous piece of stagecraft only a few nights before, and then it had been interrupted by a vile tragedy. History could surely not repeat so cruel a deed but as I reached halfway, an usher impeded my path, whom I began to remonstrate with, and the grand duke stirred in his seat at the sudden commotion below. His son leaned further over the edge of the royal box to get a better look at the kerfuffle, and I heard a voice below.
“Arkady Laznovich and Varvara Laznovna!”
I halted at once, our argument suspended as the usher and I looked to the stage. Perhaps accustomed to such uncouth behaviour, the performers carried on without remark, save one seen only by Sherlock Holmes, just visible in the rafters above, who declared, “She is here, Watson! Irina Laznovna is here!”
There could be no mistaking her reaction as she made a sudden impromptu misstep at the memory those bellowed names evoked. Now estranged from her flock, she turned her mistake into a pirouette and then stooped to retrieve the crossbow in the very same elegant movement. A once nameless, unassuming swan hefted the deadly weapon with practised ease, while the other players looked on aghast.
In desperation, I shouted to the royal box. “It’s Sergei! Duke Konstantin, look to your son!”
I heard the sharp twang as the bolt was loosed and a great cry rose up from the audience. Never have I seen a man act so quickly and selflessly, for Konstantin all but leapt from his seat and threw himself in front of his son. The bolt struck, but only struck the grand duke’s shoulder. At once the two Life Guards seized their wards, pulling them away to the back of the royal box.