by Carole Bugge
“Beg pardon, sir; my apologies to you. I’m old and my balance isn’t what it once was. That’s why I need this,” he said, indicating his cane, which was of polished mahogany with an unusual and ornate handle, a bronze head of a falcon.
“That’s quite all right,” I replied, and entered the theatre. It had seen better days—the red velvet curtain which covered the stage was frayed at the edges, and the ceiling was blackened with soot from years of gaslighting. The performance was late in beginning, and I took the opportunity to study my program. Merwyn the Marvelous had just returned from a tour of Germany, it seemed, where he “stunned and delighted audiences everywhere with his magical expertise and showmanship.”
Finally the ragtag band of musicians in the orchestra pit began to play a somewhat halting waltz, and I turned my attention to the upcoming performance. The curtain opened to reveal a stage bare except for a single pine coffin. The lighting on stage was dim, and suddenly there was a puff of smoke. The audience murmured as the lid of the coffin opened slowly and a little man got out. At first I wondered who he was, but then realized from his costume—formal evening wear, complete with a yellow-lined silk cape—that he was indeed Merwyn the Magnificent. The promotional posters had done a fine job making him seem a good deal larger, but now that he stood on the stage before us, I guessed that he was no more than five foot four in his stocking feet.
He looked out over the audience and smiled.
“Welcome,” he said in a surprisingly deep and resonant voice, “to an evening of terror and magic!”
Merwyn the Magnificent did not disappoint. Assisted by the lovely Miss Caroline Cocoran, he performed the sword-box trick advertised on the poster, as well as various sleights of hand involving playing cards, little red balls, live doves, and even a live fish. Finally he came to what he referred to as “the most challenging, the most dangerous, the most death-defying challenge of all”: to catch a bullet between his teeth while blindfolded—a bullet fired from the other side of the stage out of a gun held by Miss Carohne Cocoran. The feat, he said, had been taught to him by an Indian swami who had the ability to hold his breath underwater for half an hour or more.
By that time I was feeling somewhat sleepy. I had risen early, and Mrs. Hudson’s excellent roast-beef dinner and the accompanying claret was beginning to have a soporific effect upon me. I sat watching the stage through half-closed eyes as Miss Cocoran took aim at the magician, who stood in a dramatic pose worthy of William Tell, his eyes covered by a red kerchief. I was aware of the heavy floral perfume of the lady next to me as Miss Cocoran raised the pistol, took aim and fired.
A gasp came from the audience as the shot rang out, echoing from the ceiling of the domed theatre. There was a moment of silence and then a louder gasp. I sat up in my seat and looked at the stage as Merwyn slumped to his knees, a red stain blossoming on the front of his shirt. Nervous titters came from the crowd; they assumed at first, as I did, that this was a ploy, an act of showmanship to heighten the effect of the trick. However, when his body pitched forward onto the stage, and was followed by a scream from Miss Cocoran, cries erupted from the audience. Miss Cocoran let the gun fall to the floor and rushed to the aid of the fallen magician. Her face stricken, she looked out at the crowd.
“Help! We need a doctor—please help!”
Without thinking twice, I leaped from my seat, and, bounding over the first two rows of horrified spectators, vaulted onto the stage. I am not certain how I accomplished this, but within moments I was at his side. A quick examination revealed that he had indeed been shot, the bullet piercing the left lung. I quickly removed the kerchief from his forehead and attempted to stanch the flow of blood from the wound. Caroline Cocoran looked on helplessly as I tried vainly to stop the pinkish flow of oxygen-rich blood from the lung. I could tell at once the wound was serious, probably fatal—the loss of blood was too swift, and I could see the life draining away from his face as he lay there, pale and still. Within minutes he had no pulse at all, and the blood which had bubbled so quickly from his body now only trickled from his lifeless form. I covered his face with my own handkerchief and attempted to calm Miss Cocoran, who was sobbing uncontrollably.
“It was supposed to be wax bullets!” she cried over and over, the tears streaking down her cheeks carving little rivulets through the heavy makeup she wore.
The appearance of several police constables did nothing to calm the spectators, who were on the verge of hysteria. The crowd appeared evenly split between those who were clearly horrified at the sudden tragedy and those who just wanted to get a better look, craning their necks to see over the huddle of people standing around the poor magician’s body. Finally, with the arrival of more police, the crowd was ushered from the hall. Miss Cocoran was placed under arrest, but not even the sergeant who placed the handcuffs upon her looked as though he believed that was anything more than a formality.
“Wonder who changed those bullets?” he said as I followed the sad procession out of the theatre.
It was exactly the question I was asking myself.
Chapter Sixteen
It was an odd assortment of people who shuffled into Scotland Yard late that night: three or four grimy-looking stagehands, a handful of startled-looking ushers and the ticket-taker, along with a teary-eyed Miss Cocoran and myself. We were greeted by an irritable Inspector Lestrade, who had evidently been roused from his bed. His sharp, ferret-like face was lined with sleep; his hair was rumpled and there were bags under his eyes.
“What’s all this about, Watson?” he growled at me, drawing himself up to his full height, which was not much. He looked as though he had dressed hurriedly; his shirt collar poked out unevenly from his waistcoat, and his cuffs flapped about like small white wings, minus the restraining aid of cuff links. We stood in the foyer to his office, a waiting room undistinguished by its furnishings—wooden benches lining the wall, a few scattered chairs, and a desk at one end.
I explained as best I could what had happened, but did not mention the connection to Torre Abbey or the fact that I was at the theatre that night at the behest of Sherlock Holmes.
Lestrade sighed and shook his head as the desk sergeant entered and handed him a steaming cup of tea. “It’s a bad business, Watson, when murderers take to killing magicians in front of a crowd of five hundred. What does it mean, I wonder?” He took a sip of tea and jerked back, waving his hand in front of his face. “Bloody hell!” he yelped. “Burned my tongue!” He turned to the desk sergeant, a ruddy-faced young man with a tiny blond moustache. “You could have warned me it was boiling hot, Flannery,” he said sharply.
Sergeant Flannery rolled his eyes. “I thought tea was supposed to be bloody hot,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” Lestrade said.
“Nothing, sir,” the sergeant replied with a glance at me. I admit I agreed with him—when Lestrade was worked up, as he certainly was now, discretion was indeed the better part of valour.
“So now what have we got, Watson?” he said, rubbing his forehead wearily. “We’ve got one dead magician and a couple of stagehands with no motive whatsoever for killing him. Puts them out of work, in fact—closes the show right up, a thing like that, I should think.” He looked over the motley collection of backstage fellows, who stood silently staring back at him, their eyes wide with disbelief. I didn’t blame them—it must have been quite a shock for them to find themselves suddenly at the police station when less than an hour ago they were going about their business backstage at the theatre.
Lestrade took a wary sip of tea. “Take them downstairs and get them some tea and a bite to eat, will you, Flannery?” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“Right you are, sir,” Flannery replied. “This way, lads,” he said to the crew, who followed him obediently down the hall.
“Wait just a moment—Miss Cocoran, is it?” Lestrade said as Caroline Cocoran turned to go with them. Covered in a long cloak, she had been standing behind one
of the stagehands, as if she did not want to be noticed. With her blond curls and heavily rouged cheeks, however, she couldn’t help standing out from the dishevelled company of stagehands who shuffled meekly after Sergeant Flannery. She stood in front of Lestrade, trembling a little as she pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders.
“Let’s go into my office,” Lestrade said, and Miss Cocoran and I followed him into the small room. A thick oak desk littered with papers sat underneath a pair of tall French windows overlooking a courtyard at the back of the building.
On top of a tall filing cabinet was an improvised tea service: a cracked blue-willow teapot sat among several mismatched mugs. Lestrade poured some tea from the pot and handed it to Miss Cocoran.
“Sugar?” he said as she took the chipped white porcelain mug of tea from him.
“Yes, please,” she replied. She looked at me with tragic eyes. “Do you know who killed poor Merwyn?”
I shook my head. “I regret to say that I do not, Miss Cocoran.”
“I understand you were the one who fired the fatal shot,” Lestrade said to Miss Cocoran, handing her the sugar bowl.
Her hand shook as she spooned three lumps of sugar into her tea. “It was a trick we’d done a hundred times,” she said softly. “I thought the bullets were wax, so help me God—I swears I did.”
Lestrade poured me a cup of tea, then settled himself in the scarred old captain’s chair behind his desk. “Do you have any idea at all who might have switched the bullets?” he said, putting his feet up on the desk. As he did I saw that his socks were unmatched—one dark-blue, one brown. He didn’t seem to notice, however, and waved Miss Cocoran to a chair. “Please have a seat—make yourself comfortable.” He seemed less irritable now; the combination of tea and the presence of an attractive woman appeared to have cheered him up.
Miss Cocoran sat down gingerly, as if she were afraid she might break the chair. “I don’t know as who might have wanted to kill poor Merwyn,” she said sadly. “I mean, he could be a right bastard sometimes when he didn’t get his own way, but mostly he was a lamb, really he was.” She looked at Inspector Lestrade with large, tear-streaked blue eyes.
“Hmm,” Lestrade replied, studying her. “Were the two of you…?” He paused and coughed delicately.
Her cheeks reddened through the thick pancake makeup she wore. “Why—what does that matter?” she said softly, her voice unsteady.
Lestrade shrugged. “It might not matter—but then again it might. Perhaps someone who also cared for you wanted Mr. Merwyn out of the way—or perhaps you yourself wanted him out of the way so you would be free for another man.”
Miss Cocoran’s lower lip trembled as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. “No, it wasn’t like that. I cared for him—truly I did. I don’t know what I’ll do now that he’s gone. Or how I’ll live,” she added, a tragic edge to her voice which didn’t sound entirely ingenuous—after all, she was an actress. She wiped a tear from her eye. “He was my bread and butter, you know.”
Lestrade studied her, his dark eyes narrowed, his sharp little face looking even more like a ferret’s than usual. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I can see that.”
Miss Cocoran leaned forward in her chair. “May I…?” she said quietly.
“What?” said Lestrade.
“I have to… do you have a loo here I can use?” she said with a nervous glance at me.
“Oh, by all means,” Lestrade replied, rising from his chair. “Just ask Flannery—he’ll show you.
“Thank you,” she replied. A faint aroma of musky scent lingered after her as she slipped through the heavy door of Lestrade s office.
“Well, Watson, what do you think? Is the lady a murderer?” Lestrade asked, draining the last of his tea and setting the cup down among the mound of papers which covered his desk.
I leaned back in my chair as if I were considering the question. I wasn’t sure if Holmes wanted our business in Devon to be made known to Scotland Yard, but I felt it was important to clear Miss Cocoran from any suspicion of murder, however faint.
“I believe the magician was killed by forces as yet unknown to us,” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully.
Lestrade stared at me, his small eyes wide with puzzlement. “Good God, Watson, what on earth are you talking about?” he said, his voice thick with disdain.
I took a deep breath. It was now or never—I must either explain what I meant or be silent upon the point.
I chose the former, praying that Holmes would not be upset with me for sharing the details of his investigation with Scotland Yard. I explained to Lestrade the circumstances of how I came to be at the theatre that night, including the whole history of the mysterious hauntings at Torre Abbey, and when I had finished he leaned back in his chair.
“Well, I’ll be blasted,” he said finally, and burst out laughing. “Has it finally come to this, then—Mr. Holmes investigating ghosts at country houses?” he said through his laughter. “I wouldn’t have thought it, truly I wouldn’t—Sherlock Holmes, of all people!”
I was naturally irked at his reception of the information I had volunteered, and it showed in my voice.
“I can assure you, Inspector Lestrade, that Holmes is not chasing will-o’-the-wisps out in Devon—there is no doubt in my mind that something very evil is at work at Torre Abbey, and I am equally certain that whoever is behind these ‘hauntings’ is also responsible for the death of this unfortunate magician!”
There was a knock on the door and Sergeant Flannery poked his head into the room.
“Yes, Flannery, what is it?” said Lestrade.
“Begging pardon, sir,” the sergeant replied, “but one of the lads backstage says he saw something, and I thought you might want to know.”
Lestrade sat up in his chair. “Oh? Where is he?”
“Just outside, sir.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Show him in!”
The sergeant withdrew and ushered into the room one of the stagehands, a young lad of fifteen or so. He was dressed in a shabby brown jacket two sizes too small for him, over a pair of patched and faded grey trousers. He clutched his cloth cap in his hands, and when he saw Lestrade his pale face went a little paler.
“Sergeant Flannery says you have some information for us, Master—?”
“S-Stevens, sir,” the boy stuttered, his nerves getting the better of him.
Lestrade evidently noticed the boy’s discomfort, for he continued in a more kindly voice. “Well, then, Master Stevens, what have you to tell us?”
Master Stevens glanced at me and then at the pot of tea on top of the filing cabinet.
“I’ll bet you would like some tea,” I said. “Lestrade, I suppose you have some biscuits around here somewhere?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course—by all means. Try the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.”
I opened the drawer and found an opened box of chocolate biscuits nestled in among the files and papers. I fished it out and poured Master Stevens a cup of tea.
“Ta very much,” he said, greedily slurping down the tea while piling as many biscuits into his mouth as he could manage. “Mmm,” he said as he stuffed in yet another, “I like chocolate.”
“Good,” said Lestrade, drumming his fingers upon his desk.
“Now that you are suitably refreshed, I believe you have something to tell us?”
“Right,” the boy replied, his mouth still full. “What I seen was this: about quarter of an hour before the show was s’pposed to start, I sees this old gentl’man wandering around backstage. And I says to myself, ‘Now, who could that be?’ Seein’ as I ain’t never seen him before, I takes it upon myself to find out who he is, like—I mean, he’s well-enough dressed an’ all that, but still—”
“So you spoke to him?” Lestrade interrupted.
The boy shook his head and stuffed another biscuit into his mouth. “No, I was comin’ to that. Like I said, I was about to ask ’im who he was, but just at
that moment Mr. Dawson calls me to do somethin’—he’s the boss, is Mr. Dawson—and then a few minutes later when I come back, the old fellow is gone.”
Lestrade leaned forward and laced his fingers together on top of his desk. “You say he was well dressed?”
The boy nodded, his mouth full. “Mmm—like a proper gend’man, he was. Carried a cane, real fancy like.”
I suddenly remembered the old gentleman who had bumped into me as I entered the theatre, and how his cane had struck me as unusual. “Did you get a good look at the handle of the cane?” I said to Master Stevens.
“It was some kind of bird, I think—had a nasty look in its eye, if you ask me.”
I turned to Lestrade. “I’d be willing to bet that’s the same man I saw upon entering the theatre.”
“Oh?” he replied. “What man?”
I told him about the incident, which had not struck me as much of anything at the time; it was only the ornate handle of the cane which caught my eye.
“Hmm,” he said when I had finished. “Are you telling me that our main suspect is an elderly gentleman with a cane?”
I shifted in my chair. “I suppose it looks that way.”
Lestrade rose from his chair, went to the window and looked out at the faint glow of gaslight in the sky. London was never entirely dark; there was always the reflection of gaslights in the sky, even in the middle of the night.
Lestrade ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Why kill a bloody magician?”
Chapter Seventeen
“The answer to that is quite simple, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said, stirring sugar into his tea. “The real question is not why—but who.”
“Why, then?” I said, unable to conceal a certain irritability from my voice. I had spent the entire night before at Scotland Yard, taking the first train to Devon in the morning, without so much as an hour of sleep, and now I was feeling a bit put out by Holmes’s superior attitude. After relating to him the events of the previous night in their entirety over breakfast, I was now feeling light-headed from lack of sleep.