by David Marcum
Bitterly disappointed, I turned to console my comrade. What the beleaguered Scotland Yard Inspector had taken to be a scowl was nothing of the sort. There was a strange gleam in Holmes’s eye, but it was not one of disapproval. It was a gleam of intense satisfaction.
When Lestrade’s men returned from their fruitless chase, they discovered a skep within a hundred yards of Holmes’s farm. Five more were found in Friston Bottom, less than a mile away, containing enough Africanized killer bees to colonise and terrorise the whole of Sussex and nearby Kent. An Army flame-thrower platoon, replete with triple-layer mesh bee suits, rid England of the terrible creatures. Once the flamethrowers had done their work, the keen-eyed Tobias Gregson discovered a note attached to a nearby tree. It read, “My dear Holmes and Watson, you must forgive my handwriting, but I am in somewhat of a hurry. You have foiled me this time, but I can assure you the matters between us still stand and indeed intensify. You may take it I shall be in touch. Yrs ever, SM.”
There was a postscript: “Niagara or Victoria Falls?”
At a nearby Channel port, a man sporting a red and black silk cravat was observed boarding a Continental ferry in a great hurry.
Postscript
To be entirely safe, Holmes embarked on the total replacement of his stock with Apis mellifera ligustica, a mild-mannered Italian subspecies of the western honeybee. At Inspector Lestrade’s request, the Suffolk Constabulary conducted a search of the farmhouse in the Stour Valley, which Moran was obliged to quit in such a hurry. They uncovered an exchange of letters between Moran and the British Beekeepers Association. Using a pseudonym, Moran claimed he wanted advice on cross-breeding bees to increase honey production. Were there any bees he should avoid? The answer came, “You must at all costs avoid A. m. scutellata, the deadly hybrid of the Western honey bee, known as the Tanganyikan or Killer Bee. Do not allow even a single African killer bee queen into the hive. She hatches about two days before our British bee queens. She then proceeds to sting all the other queens to death, thus ensuring that her traits of aggressiveness are strengthened in her children.”
It was the information he needed.
The Opera Thief
by Larry Millett
Now that Sherlock Holmes has made known his retirement from the active pursuit of criminal affairs, I feel free to present a case which may shed some measure of light on his fateful decision. Holmes himself has offered no public explanation as to why he retired, at so young an age, from his work as the world’s foremost consulting detective. Yet I am inclined to believe that in the end it was a deep weariness of spirit, above all else, which caused him to seek the solitude of Sussex.
Holmes, of course, has never been a stranger to the bleaker strains of existence, and over the years he occasionally succumbed to bouts of despondency. Fortunately, these episodes were always short-lived, for once he found an interesting case to chew upon, he instantly recovered his appetite for life. I cannot say exactly when Holmes began to display signs of a more pervasive melancholia, but the darkening of his mood became especially evident in the months before his sudden retirement. I remember in particular a remark he made one morning as we prepared to investigate the case (about which I have yet to write) of a missing wife and her lover in Lewisham. “But is not all life pathetic and futile?” Holmes asked me that day. “We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow - misery.”
But it was another case - in faraway Minnesota - which seemed to affect him even more deeply. Curiously, it was case which, at first glance, appeared to involve a mere trifle. Its conclusion, however, was most remarkable, and it was not long thereafter, upon our return to London, that Holmes startled the world by announcing his retirement.
The case of the opera thief, as I have chosen to call it, may fairly be said to have begun with my gallbladder. Throughout much of 1903, I had been suffering from a series of painful episodes related to a buildup of gallstones. After one particularly agonizing attack in late November, I was persuaded by my physician that only surgery could afford the possibility of lasting relief. As it so happened, I had only recently read of new techniques pioneered by two surgeons in Minnesota, Charles and William Mayo. I believed - and Holmes agreed - that my best hope for a cure would be to put myself in the capable hands of the Mayo brothers.
Of course, Holmes and I were quite familiar with Minnesota, having visited the state on several occasions in connection with investigations, beginning in 1894 with the singular case of the Red Demon. Naturally, I told Holmes that he had no need to accompany me on such a long journey, but he would not hear of my going alone. “Doctors,” he reminded me, “are well known to be the worst of all patients, and I fear you will be quite impossible unless I am at your side.” Holmes also pointed out that a trip to Minnesota would provide a welcome opportunity to see our old friend Shadwell Rafferty, a detective and saloonkeeper possessed of extraordinary skills in both lines of work.
Rafferty was in fact on hand to greet us at the Union Depot in St. Paul when we reached that city in early January of 1904. By then, my condition was growing acute, and so we had time for only a brief conversation before Holmes and I continued on to Rochester, the small town in the southern Minnesota that is home to the Mayo brothers. I will not burden readers with an account of my surgery, other than to say that it was a resounding success and that by the end of January I was all but fully recovered.
By then, Holmes had already discovered a matter to occupy his attention. It concerned Adelaide Strongwood, an extraordinary young woman whose murder trial in Minneapolis was much trumpeted in the American press. Working with Rafferty, Holmes played a decisive role in Miss Strongwood’s case, but as it does not bear upon the story of the opera thief, I will say no more about it.
Upon the conclusion of Miss Strongwood’s trial in early February, I was well enough at last to travel, and so Holmes and I made plans to return to London. The morning of Saturday, February 6, found us in a comfortable suite at the Ryan Hotel in St. Paul. The night before, we had bid farewell to Rafferty at his saloon, which is part of the hotel. He was preparing to embark on a trip to visit friends in Canada, and we had sent him off with perhaps a few too many rounds of his favorite Irish whiskey. We were about to leave St. Paul as well, as I had already secured two tickets for the Burlington Railroad’s afternoon express train to Chicago. From there, we would go New York, and then by steamer back to England.
The day was bitterly cold, as most winter days in Minnesota are, and I was content to sit before a fire that blazed in our hearth, reading the St. Paul newspapers. Holmes had already gone through all three of the city’s dailies with his usual thoroughness. Now, he stood by the tall window in our room, staring outside with the glum, anxious countenance of a lost child.
“Did you find anything of interest in the newspapers?” I inquired, hoping that some conversation might help lift Holmes from his doldrums.
“There was one small matter of not inconsiderable interest,” Holmes said, walking over and picking up the copy of the St. Paul Pioneer Press I had been reading. “Here it is, on page two.”
The story, which I had hardly looked at before, read as follows: “A curious incident has occurred at the Metropolitan Opera House, where a flute used as a prop in the Mozart opera now in performance there disappeared Thursday night. Mrs. Electa Snyder, the impresario who brought the Chicago Opera Company’s touring production of The Magic Flute to St. Paul, said the prop was stolen from a locked storage room. The thief, however, left numerous other items of greater worth undisturbed. Mrs. Snyder called the theft ‘an outrage,’ although she acknowledged that the missing object has ‘very little’ monetary value. Chief of Detectives O’Connor, not known to be an avid opera-goer, is said to be on the case.”
“My God,” I said, recalling our encounters with O’Connor during the infamous ice palace murders of 1896, “I am astonished that
so corrupt and vicious a man has been allowed to remain on the police force.”
“I care not one whit about O’Connor,” Holmes replied tartly. “It is the theft itself which intrigues me. Why would someone break into an apparently well secured storeroom to steal something of such little value?”
“Well, perhaps it has some value to the thief which we do not understand.”
“Precisely,” Holmes said, “and yet-”
He was interrupted by a firm series of knocks at the door to our suite.
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.
“No, but our visitor is a woman and she is obviously in a hurry.”
“And just how to you know it is a woman?”
“Because I listen, Watson. You, on the other hand, are content merely to hear.”
Before I could respond to this provocation, Holmes had opened the door. A woman swept in past him with the force of a tidal surge. She was full-figured, about forty years of age, and she wore a flowing sea-green dress that all but enveloped her in an oceanic swirl of fabric. Her eyes were also sea green, and as I was soon to discover, unrelenting in their gaze.
I began to rise from my chair, but she said, in a commanding voice, “Don’t bother with silly formalities, Dr. Watson. Stay right where you are and I’ll have a seat by the fire so that we can talk. Please join us, Mr. Holmes.”
Appearing quite bemused, Holmes pulled up a chair beside our visitor. He said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Snyder.”
“Ah, so I am already the beneficiary of one of your famous deductions. I would ask you how you accomplished this feat, but-”
“I believe Mr. Holmes read the name tag pinned to your dress,” I said. “As you know, he is renowned for his powers of observation.”
Holmes gave me a withering look as Mrs. Snyder glanced down at the name tag on her bosom. She gave no evidence, however, that she found any humor in my remark. Instead, she began excavating a hole in my forehead with her piercing eyes. “Yes, I was just at a breakfast here at the hotel with the society women who support the opera. But that is of no consequence, is it?” Then she turned to Holmes and said, “I suppose you know why I have come.”
Holmes nodded. “You would like me to find your missing flute.”
“Exactly! I must say I could not believe my good fortune when I learned that you were here in St. Paul. Mr. Rafferty told me you are just the man I need.”
“How kind of him,” Holmes murmured.
“Yes, Shadwell is a dear friend. Now then, when can you start?”
I must confess that I was rather put off by the woman’s presumptuous manner, as she seemed to believe that Holmes could not help but leap at the opportunity to investigate the disappearance of an inconsequential stage prop.
“Mr. Holmes and I will be departing later today for London,” I noted, “so I do not think-”
Holmes broke in. “Dr. Watson, as you can tell, is most eager to leave St. Paul, and I doubt he gives much weight to the matter you have brought before us. I am not necessarily of the same mind. Indeed, I have always found that small crimes in their own way can be as interesting as affairs of state. However, if today’s newspapers are to be believed, the police are already investigating the theft. I am sure they are very able.”
“Ha!” said Mrs. Snyder. “Ha and ha and ha, ha, ha! The police have had a full day to investigate this brazen crime and they are already at wits’ end, which in their case could not have been a very long journey. No, Mr. Holmes, you are the man I desperately need. I don’t read detective stories myself - who has the time? - but I have heard all about you and your grand adventures. And, of course, Shadwell has often sung your praises. Naturally, I will pay you for your time. What is your fee, if I may ask?”
Holmes smiled. “There is no need to talk of money at the moment. But I am intrigued by the matter of your purloined flute. Pray tell us more about the circumstances of the theft.”
Mrs. Snyder paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on Holmes, and said, “Unfortunately, there is not a great deal I can tell you, other than that it must have been what the police call an ‘inside job.’”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“The Metropolitan Opera House is a very secure venue, Mr. Holmes, and there is a watchman on duty every night, so it is unlikely anyone could have broken in after hours. The flute and other props are kept in a locked storeroom in the basement. Only the stage manager has the key, but I have been told that he sometimes leaves it in his office during performances. I am entirely convinced, therefore, that someone from the opera company or one of the stagehands did the deed.”
“Your suspicions may be well founded, Mrs. Snyder. However, I must ask why the theft of a mere stage prop is of such great consequence to you. I take it from the newspapers that the flute has little monetary value.”
“You are correct. It’s just an ordinary flute that some prop man years ago painted gold. I doubt it would fetch fifty cents at a pawnshop. But money is not the measure of all things, Mr. Holmes. This particular flute has been used in performances of The Magic Flute around the world. It stands for the opera. It is Mozart in your hand, and it summons forth all the majesty of his music. To possess it to have a thing beyond the tawdry reach of the dollar.”
Holmes seemed curiously moved by Mrs. Snyder’s brief speech. He said, “I understand you perfectly, Mrs. Snyder. You wish me to retrieve a magic wand.”
“Yes,” she said, almost ecstatically, “that is what I wish.”
“Very well. Dr. Watson and I will investigate.”
“Surely you cannot be serious, Holmes,” I said with some asperity. “We have train tickets for today and we must be in New York by Tuesday afternoon, when the Lucania sails for Southampton. I do not see-”
“We will take the train tomorrow,” Holmes said. “One extra night in St. Paul will do us no harm. Besides, I believe there is a performance of The Magic Flute this evening. I assume you can secure tickets and backstage passes for us, Mrs. Snyder?”
“Certainly. I will also instruct all of the performers and stagehands to cooperate fully with your investigation.”
“Good. Now, I must ask if you know of any member of the cast or stage crew who might have particularly coveted the flute?”
“The tenor, Mr. Schiele, is in my opinion a most a suspicious character.”
“Most tenors are,” Holmes said. “But do you have any evidence to suggest he is indeed the thief?”
“No. Finding evidence will be your job, Mr. Holmes. By the way, have you ever seen The Magic Flute? Some consider it to be Mozart’s greatest opera.”
“Yes, I have seen it, and I agree it is quite magnificent.”
Mrs. Snyder stood up to leave. “Well, there is no more to be said then. I wish you good luck this evening, Mr. Holmes. I will await your report in the morning.”
Once she was gone, I could only sigh. Holmes had disrupted our travel plans for what I considered to be an utterly trivial matter. Even worse, I would now be forced to spend a night at the opera.
We arrived at the Metropolitan Opera House, located less than a block from our hotel, well before the scheduled performance of The Magic Flute. The opera house was a tall building of rather grim appearance, its lower walls composed of massive blocks of gray granite. Once inside, however, we found a handsome auditorium displaying all the wonders of the plasterer’s art in rich tones of ivory and gold. We immediately went backstage. There, amid a forest of sets and rigging inhabited by a busy crew of workers, we looked for the stage manager, who possessed the key to the storeroom from which the flute had been stolen.
A stagehand soon pointed us in the direction of the manager’s office, located in the basement. After negotiating a tangle of steep stairs and narrow corridors, we found ourselves in a large subterranean room outfitted with traps, li
fts, counterweights, and all the other devices required to sustain the artifice of the stage. As we approached the manager’s office, a tall woman in a long black gown decorated with glittering stars intercepted us.
“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, I presume?” said the woman, whose large gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “I understand Mrs. Snyder has hired you to find her lost flute. How quaint! You know, of course, that it is just an old thing all painted up in gold. But how it has traveled! New York, Chicago, San Francisco, even Vienna, or so I’ve been told. I suppose it’s a lucky charm of sorts. Oh dear, I haven’t properly introduced myself. Very rude of me. I am Barbara Majors.”
“Miss Majors, it is a pleasure,” Holmes said with a slight bow. “You must be the Queen of Night this evening.”
“Ah, so you know the opera,” she said. “Yes, I am the Queen, or, more precisely, Astrofiammante. A peculiar name, really. But then what isn’t peculiar about Die Zauberflote? In fact, the whole thing is perfectly ridiculous, not to mention terribly hard on my voice. Oh, those dreadful high C’s! Mozart was the very devil as far as I’m concerned. Of course, there are people who consider it the most beautiful opera there ever was or ever will be. I have seen grown men in the audience weep over it.”
I could not imagine that her last statement was true, but Holmes, to my surprise, confirmed that he, too, had witnessed manly tears during performances of the opera. “It does indeed seem to have a strange effect,” he said, “even on the most hardened of souls. Now, Miss Majors, I wonder if you have any theories as to who might have absconded with the flute?”
Her response took me by surprise. “I think it would a sad person,” she said.
Before Holmes could react to this unexpected observation, a stagehand rushed up. “You are needed at once in your dressing room, Miss Majors. It can’t wait.”
The singer nodded. “Well, good luck to you, gentlemen,” she said. “I hope you will find the flute. I really do miss it.”