The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  I glanced up to where Aldiss had joined Brewster up by the entrance to the auditorium, where he had been fruitlessly processing the last few audience members. I snapped my fingers, and Aldiss sprinted down the aisle towards me.

  “What news?” I asked.

  “Sorry, sir - there’s no sign of the lady. I checked with Brewster and Wiggins at the back door, like you told me, sir, and they said nobody had passed them, apart from some stagehands, who were big muscular blokes with not much hair on their heads who couldn’t have been the red-headed lady in a million years. I then checked with Mellor down under the stage, and he hasn’t seen anything neither. I then took it into my head to take Wiggins off the back door, as there wasn’t enough there for two men to do, and he and I searched all the changing rooms, and the costume storage rooms, and that thing they call the Green Room, although it’s painted blue. We looked in every cupboard and every basket, and we found nothing.”

  “It must be another trick,” I said, “just like the one with the wings.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Holmes called from his box, his voice echoing through the now empty auditorium. “Let’s see if you can work out how this one was accomplished, Watson.”

  “Come with me,” I called to Aldiss.

  He led the way off the stage, past the still-anguished and hand-wringing magician. Amid the black paint and shadows of the behind-the-scenes area, I saw a narrow stairway leading downwards, protected by a thin iron railing which had been bent out of shape by years of stagehands pulling on it. I headed down the stairway with Aldiss following. At the bottom of the steps was a long corridor, crossing beneath the back of the stage. Everything smelled of dust, and musty old clothing. Several doorless openings led off the corridor, and I chose the one in the middle.

  The doorway gave onto a large area about a third the size of the stage; indeed, the wooden boards of the stage actually formed the ceiling of the room. Looking up I could see cobwebs festooning the beams that supported the boards. Right in the middle of the floor was a framework of metal that reached all the way up to the stage. There were runners attached to the inside of the framework, and arrangements of springs and cables. The boards at the top had been cut to form a trapdoor which, I presumed, could be raised and lowered with stagehands hauling on it.

  Mellor, who I had sent down there earlier, was still standing there, looking around in a desultory manner. The other side of the room was separated by projecting pillars into a series of narrow arched storage areas, barely wider than a burly man’s body. It looked to me as if they were relics from some former incarnation of the building - perhaps a wine cellar. I quickly walked along them, glancing into each one, but they were empty of objects and life.

  “Have you left the room since arriving?” I asked brusquely.

  “No, sir. Not moved an inch, as you instructed.”

  “You didn’t even leave for a few moments to search the other rooms along the corridor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I did that,” Aldiss announced. “Me and Wiggins.”

  If the red-headed woman had indeed been pulled roughly down into that room then she was elsewhere now. The problem was that I couldn’t work out where.

  “Stay here,” I ordered the former Irregulars. “Do not leave.”

  I left the under stage room and strode along the line of storerooms to the far end, then back again to the stairway. Each of the rooms was just a place of storage, with marks in the dust of where boxes had been moved, but there were no signs of footsteps, no matter how dainty.

  I returned to the under stage room with the contraption in the centre, reaching up to the boards of the stage. Wiggins and Aldiss stared at me uncertainly, but I had nothing to say. My gaze slid in frustration around the room, into the narrow arched enclosures at the far side. She had escaped us, but I didn’t know how.

  Three loud knocks from above surprised me.

  I gestured to the two former Irregulars to help me pull the trapdoor down. It took a few moments for us to work the mechanism out, but then the wooden square dropped smoothly down on greased runners. For a horrible second, as it fell, I thought that Holmes might be standing on top, and would plummet through, but the trapdoor dropped freely, and through the hole I could see Holmes blocking out the light from the stage. He was leaning on his stick. I presumed that waiting in the box had gone against his impatient nature, and he had decided to get closer to the problem despite the pain in his foot. Or perhaps he didn’t trust me to solve it.

  “What news, Watson?” he called down.

  “No sign,” I called back up. “Not hide nor hair.”

  “Wiggins and his men have searched the theatre thoroughly?”

  “They have.”

  “I trust them implicitly to have found the woman, had she been these.” He was silent for a moment. “Describe the room where you currently stand.”

  “About twenty feet to a side, brick-faced and stone floored, with the stage as its ceiling and the mechanism that you see here in its centre. There are twelve areas with brick walls separating them, like stalls in which one might hold a horse, except that they are too narrow and they are below ground. They are storage areas, I believe.”

  Holmes pondered for a moment, then: “I am throwing my cane down to you. Please catch it carefully - I will be needing it when we leave.”

  A few seconds later a black stick with a silver head plummeted through the hole. I caught it. The thing was surprisingly heavy. “What should I do with it?”

  “Walk to the first of the stalls. Strike the air with the cane.”

  “Strike the air?”

  “Just so. Left to right, mind, not up and down.”

  I glanced at the two former Irregulars. They seemed as confused as I was. I strode to the first of the brick enclosures, stood at the opening and thrashed the cane sideways while holding the silver head firmly. Nothing happened, apart from the swish of air as the wood whistled through it.

  I turned to look at the two men again. Wiggins frowned, while Aldiss just shrugged. Turning back, I moved to the second enclosure. Standing in the opening, I repeated the process, feeling slightly embarrassed. Again, there was nothing. Just dust, stirring in the breeze created by the passage of the cane.

  I felt my shoulders hunch. I knew I was making myself look like a fool, but I trusted that Holmes knew what he was asking for. I could imagine him up there, on the stage, tapping his good foot in frustration on the boards.

  As I moved to the third enclosure, Holmes’s voice called through the trapdoor space. “I take it from your silence that you have yet to discover anything of value, Watson.”

  “I have yet to discover anything at all,” I called back, “apart from the fact that your cane is very heavily weighted.”

  “It is reinforced with a lead core. One never knows when one might be in need of a weapon.”

  Instead of answering, I glanced into the third enclosure. Again, there was nothing there. I hefted the cane and waved it from side to side.

  With a sound of shattering glass, the very air on the right of the stall seemed to break into jigsaw pieces which fell to the ground, smashing into smaller and smaller pieces as they spun and hit and rebounded.

  What they left behind was the red-haired woman, standing in a space barely wider than she was. Her hands were up protecting her face from the flying glass splinters.

  “Well, I’ll be - “ Aldiss exclaimed.

  It was immediately clear to me how the trick had been accomplished, and I couldn’t believe how something so simple could have fooled all three of us so effectively. A mirror, running from the stone floor to the arched brickwork, had been placed at an angle, running from the middle of the back wall to the wall on my right. The angle of the mirror - a perfect 45o - was such that the empty left hand side of the space was reflected perfectly, making th
e reflection look like a continuation of the empty space on the right but leaving a triangular hiding place.

  “Do I understand from the sound effects that you have the lady?” Holmes shouted from above.

  “We do,” I called. The woman lowered her hands to her sides and gazed at me with fury in her captivatingly blue eyes.

  “Bring her up here, if you would be so kind, and do try not to lose her again on the way.”

  Within a few moments we were all standing on the stage in a rough circle around the woman. Holmes gazed at her in the same way that a hawk would gaze at a vole.

  “You have shown a certain dramatic ingenuity,” he said eventually. “I will, therefore, do you the honour of assuming that the stolen information is not in an envelope in your bag or hidden obviously elsewhere about your person where it would be found during a search. That, at least, will save you the indignity of being stripped and pawed at by the wardresses that my brother will undoubtedly ship in from Newgate or Brixton.”

  She nodded briefly, but said nothing.

  “The question then remains,” Holmes went on, “where have you hidden it?” He smiled. “I have little time for the writer Poe in America and his puppet, C. Auguste Dupin, but Poe did hit upon a truth when, in the story ‘The Purloined Letter’, he had said document hidden in plain sight, in a letter rack. Being a woman, I suspect that you have hidden the stolen information somewhere we will all completely overlook for its blatant obviousness.”

  Despite its weight, Holmes swung his walking stick up and pointed the ferrule at the woman’s face. Not without difficulty, given the state of his ankle, he stepped forward and pushed at her bonnet. No, he pushed at her flaming red hair, which resisted for a moment and then slipped under the pressure. She made no effort to reach up and save her modesty as the entire wig - as we now all realised it to be - slid off her scalp and fell backwards, hitting the wooden boards with a thump.

  “The head is shaved, rather than being the unfortunate result of alopecia,” Holmes said in the stunned silence that followed. “It indicates a strong devotion to the cause of anarchism. Would you agree with my diagnosis, Watson?”

  “Indeed,” I said weakly. I felt embarrassed for her - a woman stripped of her dignity, left in a state in which no man should see her. She was as upright and unemotional as before, except for a flush of red across her cheeks.

  “I had thought that the information might have been written using an indelible pencil on your scalp,” Holmes continued as if nothing untoward had occurred, “but I see that is not the case.” He lowered his cane to the boards again. I may have been the only person to see the signs of strain on his face. “Watson,” he went on, turning to me, “I believe that you will find the information written on the inside of the lining of the wig. The writing will, of course, be very small - done with the help of a magnifying glass - but it will be enough to hang her on.” He glanced back at the woman. “Let us hope that your natural tresses have grown back by the time the executioner turns his attention to you. Sadly, this fine wig is now evidence, and must remain the property of the Crown.”

  I heard a kerfuffle up at the entrance to the auditorium.

  “That will be my brother’s agents,” Holmes said, “making a noisy entrance in order to disguise the fact that they have very little left to do apart from ensuring that this lady does not escape again. Come, Watson - there is a theatre not a stone’s throw from here where we can hear two charming coloratura sopranos perform. I can marvel at the beauty of their voices; you can marvel at the beauty of their faces. That way we shall both be happy.”

  The Adventure of the Grace Chalice

  by Roger Johnson

  This script has never been published in text form, and was initially presented as a recorded performance in 2011 by the Old Court Radio Theatre Company. It can be listened to or downloaded on the Sherlock Holmes Society of London’s website at www.sherlock-holmes.org.uk.

  This script is protected by copyright. For permission to reproduce it in any way or to perform it in any medium, please apply to www.sherlock-holmes.org.uk.

  THE CAST

  ANNOUNCER - Roger Johnson

  SHERLOCK HOLMES - Jim Crozier

  DR. JOHN H. WATSON - Dave Hawkes

  HENRY STAUNTON – Brian Adrian

  INSPECTOR G. LESTRADE - Matthew Elliott

  MUSIC OPENING THEME (Fauré: Après un Rève)

  ANNOUNCER Sherlock Holmes. We present The Adventure of the Grace Chalice by Roger Johnson.

  MUSIC FADE THEME OUT UNDER

  Scene 1

  FX 221b BAKER STREET AMBIENCE, WITH A FIRE IN THE GRATE AND A CLOCK TICKING QUIETLY AWAY. HOLMES IS OVER AT THE WINDOW, LOOKING DOWN INTO THE STREET. WATSON IS RATHER OSTENTATIOUSLY READING A NEWSPAPER, OPENING IT, FOLDING IT BACK, TURNING THE PAGES.

  WATSON (A BEAT. HE CLEARS HIS THROAT AND READS) The new Emperor of Germany has dismissed Bismarck and appointed a new Chancellor... (A BEAT) Holmes? (A BEAT, THEN, SOTTO VOCE) “Knowledge of politics, feeble...”

  HOLMES (A QUIET DISMISSIVE GRUNT)

  FX MORE BUSINESS WITH THE NEWSPAPER.

  WATSON The Prince of Wales has officially opened the Forth Bridge. (A BEAT) Apparently it’s a remarkable structure in itself, and the view from the train is very beautiful on a good day... (A BRIEF PAUSE)

  FX MORE BUSINESS WITH THE NEWSPAPER.

  WATSON Samuel and Joseph Boswell are to be executed at Worcester on Tuesday for the murder of a gamekeeper... Hmm. The fatal shot was actually fired by their accomplice, Alfred Hill... (A BEAT) Hill’s sentence has been reduced to penal servitude for life - and yet the Boswells will hang for a crime of which they are innocent! Holmes, this is a disgraceful miscarriage of justice. Even the local gentry have protested to the Home Secretary...

  HOLMES (A WEARY VOCAL SHRUG)

  WATSON (A BEAT) No, it’s a matter for the lawyers and the politicians, I suppose - not for a private detective. A pity that English justice should come to this. (A SHIVER OF DISTASTE)

  FX MORE BUSINESS WITH THE NEWSPAPER.

  WATSON Ah! Pinero has a new play opening at the Court Theatre - er - The Cabinet Minister. (A BEAT) I’ve always enjoyed his comedies, Holmes... Holmes?

  FX WATSON PUTS THE PAPER DOWN.

  WATSON Brrr! This wretched damp weather does my old wound no good at all. (A BEAT) I have a medal somewhere - That’s my official souvenir of the second Afghan War, but the bullet in my shoulder is a more effective reminder. (A BEAT) There’s no clasp. Did you know that? The battle of Maiwand was such a disaster for our forces that no clasp was issued - just the medal... (A MOMENTARY PAUSE, THEN –) For pity’s sake, Holmes! Do you really have nothing better to do than to stand at the window, glowering down at the street?

  HOLMES (A QUIET UNCOMPREHENDING GRUNT)

  WATSON (A TOUCH OF BITTERNESS) What was it you said when we first met? “I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that.” Not sulky...?

  HOLMES (HE HASN’T BEEN LISTENING) Watson, unless I am much mistaken, we have a client!

  WATSON (SOTTO VOCE) Thank heaven for that.

  HOLMES Plump - well-dressed - middle-aged - purposeful - and not without self-esteem. (A BEAT) Ah! He has paid off the cab and is approaching our door. Let us hope that he brings something of interest.

  WATSON Let us hope so.

  FX THE DOORBELL CLANGS IN THE DISTANCE. HOLMES GOES AND OPENS THE DOOR OF THE SITTING-ROOM.

  HOLMES (CALLING FROM THE DOORWAY) Mrs. Hudson! Please show our visitor in!

  MUSIC A SHORT BRIDGE

  FX THE VISITOR ENTERS THE ROOM AND CLOSES THE DOOR BEHIND HIM.

  HOLMES Good morning, sir. My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson. Now, which of us have you come to consult?

  STAUNT
ON It is you, Mr. Holmes - you!

  HOLMES Capital! Then please be seated, sir. The basket chair is comfortable, I think. (A BEAT WHILE STAUNTON SITS) And now, if you please, consult!

  STAUNTON Thank you, sir, thank you. My name is Henry Staunton. Perhaps it is familiar to you?

  HOLMES Ah, yes. Surely I have seen you at Christie’s and Sotheby’s? You have a reputation as a connoisseur of objets d’art, I think.

  STAUNTON It is true, sir. I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes. I like to surround myself with elegance and beauty. I do not live extravagantly but I may perhaps call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness.

  HOLMES But what is it that brings you to Baker Street, Mr. Staunton?

  STAUNTON Sir, I am the victim of a most audacious theft!

  HOLMES Indeed? This is really most grati - most interesting.

  WATSON What has been stolen, Mr. Staunton?

  STAUNTON It is nothing less, Doctor, than the Grace Chalice!

  WATSON The Grace - ? (A BEAT) Holmes?

  HOLMES It was made for the monks of Melcarth Abbey sometime in the fifteenth century. The records say that it is made of Welsh gold, elaborately chased with biblical symbols. When the monastery was dissolved, the chalice was not among the valuables appropriated by the Crown, though Thomas Cromwell’s commissioners made a thorough search. It came to light more than a century later, after the Civil War, when the Grace family acquired the property. (A BEAT) I was not aware that the chalice had been sold.

  STAUNTON It was a private transaction, Mr. Holmes, entirely private. I bought the chalice from Sir Cedric Grace just ten days ago. Thanks to some unfortunate investments, the old gentleman was obliged to sell some of his more valuable possessions - discreetly, of course, most discreetly - and it was my good luck to purchase that particular gem. I may say that it cost me a very considerable sum - a pretty penny, sir! But I do not grudge it, for the chalice is unique, quite unique.