Murder, My Dear Watson

  The actress’ hands flew to her throat. “But I told you, I had spilled a pot of facial powder.”

  “Precisely so. Gervaise Graham’s Satinette. A very distinctive shade. And so the catalyst of the crime now becomes the instrument of its solution.”

  “How do you mean, Gillette?” I asked.

  Gillette moved off to stand before the fireplace—or rather the canvas-and-wood strutting that had been arranged to resemble a fireplace. The actor spent a moment contemplating the plaster coals that rested upon a balsa grating. “Detective work,” he intoned, “is founded upon the observation of trifles. When Miss Fenton overturned that facial powder she set in motion a chain of events that yielded a clue—a clue as transparent as that of a weaver’s tooth or a compositor’s thumb—and one that made it patently obvious who took the missing stone.”

  “Gillette!” cried Mr. Frohman. “No more theatrics! Who took Miss Fenton’s sapphire?”

  “The thief is here among us,” he declared, his voice rising to a vibrant timbre. “And the traces of Satinette facial powder are clearly visible upon—wait! Stop him!”

  All at once, the theater erupted into pandemonium as young Henry Quinn, who had been watching from his accustomed place in the wings, suddenly darted forward and raced towards the rear exit.

  “Stop him!” Gillette called to a pair of burly stagehands. “Hendricks! O’Donnell! Don’t let him pass!”

  The fleeing boy veered away from the stagehands, upsetting a flimsy side table in his flight, and made headlong for the forward edge of the stage. Gathering speed, he attempted to vault over the orchestra pit, and would very likely have cleared the chasm, but for the fact that his ill-fitting trousers suddenly slipped to his ankles, entangling his legs and causing him to land in an awkward heap at the base of the pit.

  “He’s out cold, Mr. Gillette,” came a voice from the pit. “Nasty bruise on his head.”

  “Very good, Hendricks. If you would be so good as to carry him into the lobby, we shall decide what to do with him later.”

  Miss Fenton pressed a linen handkerchief to her face as the unconscious figure was carried past. “I don’t understand, Mr. Gillette. Henry took my sapphire? He’s just a boy! I can’t believe he would do such a thing!”

  “Strange to say, I believe Quinn’s intentions were relatively benign,” said Gillette. “He presumed, when he came across the stone on your dressing table, that it was nothing more than a piece of costume jewelry. It was only later, after the alarm had been raised, that he realized its value. At that point, he became frightened and could not think of a means to return it without confessing his guilt.”

  “But what would a boy do with such a valuable stone?” Frohman asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Gillette. “Indeed, I do not believe that he had any interest whatsoever in the sapphire.”

  “No interest?” I said. “What other reason could he have had for taking it?”

  “For the pin.”

  “What?”

  Gillette gave a rueful smile. “You are all wearing costumes that are several sizes too large. Our rehearsals have been slowed for want of sewing pins to hold up the men’s trousers and pin back the ladies’ frocks. I myself dispatched Quinn to find a fastener for Mr. Lyndal.”

  “The essence of theater,” I said, shaking my head with wonder.

  “Pardon me, Lyndal?”

  “As you were saying earlier. An actor must consider even the smallest object from every possible angle. We all assumed that the brooch had been taken for its valuable stone. Only you would have thought to consider it from the back as well as the front.” I paused. “Well done, Gillette.”

  The actor gave a slight bow as the company burst into spontaneous applause. “That is most kind,” he said, “but now, ladies and gentlemen, if there are no further distractions, I should like to continue with our rehearsal. Act one, scene four, I believe. . . .”

  IT WAS SEVERAL hours later when I knocked at the door to Gillette’s dressing room. He bade me enter and made me welcome with a glass of excellent port. We settled ourselves on a pair of makeup stools and sat for a few moments in a companionable silence.

  “I understand that Miss Fenton has elected not to pursue the matter of Quinn’s theft with the authorities,” I said, after a time.

  “I thought not,” Gillette said. “I doubt if her gentleman friend would appreciate seeing the matter aired in the press. However, we will not be able to keep young Quinn with the company. He has been dismissed. Frohman has been in touch with another young man I once considered for the role. Charles Chapman.”

  “Chaplin, I believe.”

  “That’s it. I’m sure he’ll pick it up soon enough.”

  “No doubt.”

  I took a sip of port. “Gillette,” I said, “there is something about the affair that troubles me.”

  He smiled and reached for a pipe. “I thought there might be,” he said.

  “You claimed to have spotted Quinn’s guilt by the traces of face powder on his costume.”

  “Indeed.”

  I lifted my arm. “There are traces of Miss Fenton’s powder here on my sleeve as well. No doubt I acquired them when I was searching for the missing stone in the dressing area—after the theft had been discovered.”

  “No doubt,” said Gillette.

  “The others undoubtedly picked up traces of powder as well.”

  “That is likely.”

  “So Quinn himself might well have acquired his telltale dusting of powder after the theft had occurred, in which case it would not have been incriminating at all.”

  Gillette regarded me with keen amusement. “Perhaps I noticed the powder on Quinn’s sleeve before we searched the dressing area,” he offered.

  “Did you?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “Then you were bluffing? That fine speech about the observation of trifles was nothing more than vain posturing?”

  “It lured a confession out of Quinn, my friend, so it was not entirely in vain.”

  “But you had no idea who the guilty party was! Not until the moment he lost his nerve and ran!”

  Gillette leaned back and sent a series of billowy smoke rings toward the ceiling. “That is so,” he admitted, “but then, as I have been at some pains to remind you, I am not Sherlock Holmes.”

  THE CASE OF THE HIGHLAND HOAX

  Anne Perry and Malachi Saxon

  I WALKED BRISKLY down Baker Street towards the residence of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, as I was in a hurry to share my news with him. I knew he would be disappointed, but the offer I had received was one that I was not in a position to turn down. I was certain that he would understand. It did, however, mean that I would not be able to go with him on his holiday to Switzerland. He had been most enthusiastic that we should visit the Reichenbach Falls together.

  Mrs. Hudson greeted me at the door. “Good morning, Dr. Watson,” she said, “Do come in. Mr. Holmes was rather expecting you. Please go on—you know the way.”

  “Come in, come in, my dear Watson!” Holmes invited. “Come over and stand by the window so that I can see you in the light. Let me admire your new outfit.”

  I dutifully walked over towards the window under the watchful gaze of Holmes. He reached towards his desk and picked up a large magnifying glass, then with exaggerated attention proceeded to examine me closely up and down.

  “What are you up to, Holmes?” I exclaimed. “All I have done is buy a new set of clothes for my holiday.”

  “And very smart, too, if I may say so,” he agreed. “The jacket is excellent—a good quality Harris Tweed, with nice big pockets. I definitely like the deerstalker—I wonder where you got the inspiration for that! Plus-fours and a stout pair of walking shoes.” He put the magnifying glass back onto the table, picked up his pipe and solemnly lit it. He puffed away intently as he walked over to his favorite armchair and sat down. Curls of thick blue smoke climbed slowly into the air around his head. I was intrigued and puz
zled.

  Holmes took the pipe out of his mouth, pointed the stem at me, and said, “Watson, I believe you have presented me with enough evidence to deduce the news that you were about to tell me!”

  “Well, Holmes, I await the conclusions of your cerebrations,” I said with a deliberate air of pomposity.

  He regarded me with complete solemnity. “You will not be able to come with me to Switzerland, because tomorrow evening you will be taking the night train from King’s Cross here in London to Aberdeen, then changing to the Great North of Scotland Deesside branch to Ballater, to holiday in the Scottish Highlands, somewhere near, I would say, Dunkeld. You plan to stay about three weeks, catch up on your much-neglected pastime of fly fishing, before returning to London.” He leaned back in his chair, took a puff on his pipe, and raised his eyebrows slightly. “Am I right, Watson?”

  I was astounded. “Holmes,” I said, “I have the highest admiration for your powers of deduction, but this time you have excelled even yourself. Did you work that out from the jacket?”

  “No.”

  “Was it the deerstalker?”

  “No, much as I admire it!”

  “The walking shoes?”

  “No, my dear friend,” Holmes said as he leaned forwards, “I have a confession to make. This has been my humble attempt at a spot of humor. I am afraid I have played a practical joke on you. Let me explain.” He gestured me to take a seat. “With the mail that arrived this morning,” he continued, “there was a letter which had been delivered by private messenger. It was addressed to me, so naturally I opened it. Out fell a first-class return ticket to Ballater, for the night train, tomorrow evening. This struck me as most curious. I checked further in the envelope, and found a note that stated, ‘For the attention of Dr. John Watson.’ That was how I came to be in possession of this knowledge. Naturally, if I had known that it was for you, I would never have dreamed of opening it. I apologize, but it leaves me a bit puzzled, Watson.”

  “Let me explain from the beginning,” I said. “My sister, Harriet, is married to the Reverend Talbot Ridley. He had just turned sixty-five, and had announced his intention to retire, when out of the blue, he received from a parishioner—who wished to remain anonymous—the offer of a holiday in the Scottish Highlands, all expenses paid. A most generous offer, you must admit, and it was for a party of up to six people. The accommodation would be in a small castle whose owner was away in the United States for a few months, and all the domestic staff would still be there. Included are the hunting and fishing rights in the nearby countryside. Well, Harriet and Talbot insisted that I accompany them, which I could not refuse, and of course extended the invitation to you, Holmes. I was on my way round here to tell you, in the hope that you might change your mind about going to Switzerland, and come with us, instead.”

  Holmes looked at me candidly, and said, “It is indeed a most generous offer, and you were quite right to accept it, Watson. However, I feel I cannot intrude on you, and will continue with my journey to the Continent, and trust that you all will have a wonderful reunion. How do you intend to spend your time, granted that you have some reasonable weather?”

  “I expect that Talbot will take his box of watercolor paints and endeavor to capture the beauty of the landscape,” I replied. “I will turn my hand to some fishing and I expect that we will do a lot of walking and talking. Harriet and I will have much to catch up on.” Just thinking about it had made me feel quite excited. “Are you sure, Holmes, that you cannot join us?” I urged.

  “Quite sure, my dear friend. In a week’s time I will be in Switzerland, looking at the grandeur of those rocks and swirling water,” Holmes answered. “When we both return from our respective holidays, we will have much to tell each other!”

  “If you change your mind . . .” I ventured.

  “Of course. But may I ask you a question?”

  “Indeed, Holmes. What about?”

  “At the travel agency where you booked your tickets, was there anybody who smoked a pipe?”

  “Not that I recall. Why do you ask?”

  “The envelope that contained your documents had been freshly sealed. I thought that I could detect the smell of tobacco in the saliva that had been applied. I would say that the person smoked a rather unusual mixture of Virginia, Latakia—to give it strength—and some Turkish blend, to produce a rather individual aromatic texture. Not unpleasing, mind you.”

  “You are ever the detective, Holmes,” I quipped. “It will be a sad day when smoking a pipe becomes a criminal offence!”

  “Your turn to jest, Watson! I was just using my powers of observation! Let me ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare us tea and scones, and then you can tell me all your other news.”

  We chatted for a while, and then I bade Holmes farewell, as I had to return to my rooms and complete preparations for my departure next evening.

  I ARRIVED EARLY at King’s Cross Station. A porter presented himself and asked if he could take my luggage and which train I was catching. Deftly he stacked my suitcases on his trolley, and I followed him as he navigated his way through the crowd towards the platform where my train would be waiting. I pondered how Harriet and Talbot would have changed in the years since we last met. Like all of us, probably put on a little weight! I remembered Talbot as a man of quiet energy who seemed to get a great deal accomplished with the minimum of fuss. He was not an imposing man, about average height, pleasant features but by no means handsome, and with a gentle and ready sense of humor which was never at anyone’s expense, except perhaps his own! He and Harriet seemed made for each other.

  Talbot was a clergyman who believed that the best sermon he could give was not from the pulpit, but by the example of his own life. After many busy and exciting years in the Colonies, with Harriet as his devoted and capable companion, he had settled down in the rural parish of St. Luke’s in West Dorset. Their one son, Martin, was now an established lawyer in Watford.

  They were already at the railway carriage, organizing their luggage being loaded onto the train when I reached it. I waved and shouted hello, and they turned and waved excitedly back at me. Within no time, we had greeted each other and asked all the usual questions that one does—never listening to the answers! How are you? You do look well. How have you been keeping? You haven’t changed a bit!

  Having settled down in our seats, and the initial rush of excitement gone, we got down to more levelheaded conversation. Harriet asked how my medical practice was going, and how on earth did I find the time to assist my good friend Sherlock Holmes, and expressed the hope that he, too, was in excellent health. I assured her that he was in fine fettle and would be taking his holiday in Switzerland, and how he much regretted not being able to join us. She knew adventures with Holmes were an integral part of my existence, and that things were busy, even chaotic at times, but I treasured every moment of it! However, a holiday was just what I needed right now, and I hoped that Holmes would have a similarly relaxing time. He needed a break from pitting his wits against the criminal mind, and the police would have to solve their own problems. Perhaps the criminals might take a holiday as well, just as long as they did not go to Switzerland for it!

  I remarked that I thought it a marvelous gesture on the part of the well-wisher in St.Luke’s parish to provide this holiday for us all. Harriet acknowledged that it was most generous, but nothing less than Talbot deserved after all the devoted service he had given. Talbot, modest as ever, asserted that he had done no more than his duty. He confessed, however, that he welcomed the break from his pastoral commitments and looked forward to getting out his much-neglected box of watercolor paints. Then with a touch of mock solemnity, he asked us all if we would petition the Almighty to grant us some clement weather!

  The time passed quickly in happy conversation. We took a light supper in the dining car, and then retired to our sleeping compartments. The morning found us in Aberdeen, and as we stepped out of the carriage, we could feel that the air was a few degrees cooler that in
London, but so much fresher and more invigorating. A porter took our luggage and escorted us to the platform where we would board the Great North of Scotland train to Ballater. This journey was different. In the bright morning sunshine we watched the local people get on and off at each small station. The countryside was alive with laborers busy about their work.

  Before long we had pulled in at the long curved platform of Ballater Station. It had been especially extended to cope with the Royal Train in which Her Majesty Queen Victoria and her entourage would travel. She loved to sneak away to her beloved Balmoral castle, much to the consternation and discomfort of her government, because they had to follow after her, and commute backwards and forwards from London with all sorts of documents of state which needed her attention.

  We alighted and were soon approached by a man who seemed to be expecting us.

  He was of middle age, had a handsome red beard just beginning to get some touches of gray. He wore a kilt and sporran, and a stout tweed jacket.

  He addressed Talbot, “Excuse me, sir, but would you be the Reverend Mr. Ridley?”

  “I am that,” Talbot replied, “This is my wife, and my brother-in-law, Dr. Watson.”

  “My name is Taggart, sir, head ghillie to the laird MacLeod, at whose castle you will be staying. The trap is waiting. I’ll get Angus to bring your luggage.”

  We followed him out to the horse and buggy that was standing obediently at the kerb, and I assisted Harriet up.

  “John,” she whispered quietly to me, “Do you think Taggart is his Christian name or his surname? A bit dour, isn’t he? Very economical with words. Perhaps he thinks they cost money!”

  “You always did have a mischievous sense of humor, Harriet. I am sure it will get us all into trouble some day,” I said trying to look just a bit schoolmasterish.