The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

by David Marcum

  Stoker folded his arms across his chest. “I am innocent,” he said, “and I will say no more. I rely on Mr. Holmes to clear my name.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Lestrade turned to Holmes. “And you’ve spoken with him about this, have you? Why do you think he’s innocent?”

  “You can see that for yourself. He is standing here.”

  “You mean because he led you to the body? Ha. That’s just what a clever criminal would do. Told you some tall story, I suppose? Did you know he is a writer and makes up stories on a regular basis?”

  “Yes, he told me as much. He was in his office upstairs, asleep on his cot, having been working and very likely drugged. This young woman awakened him. He fainted. When he awoke, she was gone. He felt greatly disturbed by the experience and consulted Dr. Watson on the assumption that he was suffering from some physical malady. Dr. Watson brought him to me to investigate the possibility that there may be others involved.”

  “Mr. Stoker, do you have any witnesses who can verify your story?”

  Stoker stood mute.

  “Then I’ll tell you what is obvious to me and will be obvious to any jury. You were here alone in the theatre with this young woman. I know your types. An up-and-coming young actress - we’ll say no more about her, so as not to speak ill of the dead. You had a disagreement, let us say. You killed her. Then you stuffed her into this coffin and scarpered.”

  “Mr. Stoker’s office and that of his two partners has been ransacked,” said Holmes.

  “He could have easily done that himself. Corroborative detail.”

  “The office appears to have been searched.”

  “For what?”

  “Enough gold sovereigns to pay for a large banquet that is to be held tonight. Food, servants, entertainers, decorations.”

  “How much?”

  Stoker spoke for the first time. “Two-hundred pounds.”

  “And where is it?”

  To my surprise, Stoker said nothing.

  “You won’t cooperate? Mr. Holmes, tell your client he ought to cooperate. Where is the money?”

  “I believe it to be located in the theatre,” said Holmes.

  Once again I was surprised that Holmes would not divulge the location of the satchel with its golden contents. Then I wondered whether the thieves had already taken the satchel from the coffin. Or whether Holmes himself had taken it. But Lestrade was speaking.

  “I really don’t care where the gold is. We are investigating a murder here, not a theft. Personally, I think it’s quite likely that you, Stoker, took the gold and killed this young woman. Perhaps she was expecting some payment from you, was she? You were responsible for the funds, they were in your possession, and your name is written by the victim’s own hand in her own blood on her own blouse.”

  “Not his entire name,” said Holmes. “She could have been writing anything that begins with those three letters. Or someone - the real murderer - could have moved her hand when she was already dead or unconscious. You will note that her hands have been folded.”

  “That doesn’t exonerate Stoker. She could have felt death coming fast, and folded her hands so as not to look awkward when discovered. These young actresses are always fretting about their appearance. This one would have been no different, and it looks to me that her concern for her appearance stayed with her right up to her last breath.”

  “Dr. Watson and I can attest that the coffin lid was shut when we discovered the body. Are we to assume that the young woman had enough strength and presence of mind to write the incriminating three letters, but not enough to open the coffin lid so that she could breathe?”

  “There’s no telling what a dying woman will do,” said Lestrade. “Much less a dying young actress. Put the bracelets on Stoker, Constable. Mr. Stoker, you are under arrest for the murder of this young woman. Anything you say may be written down and used against you by the Crown Prosecutor in a court of law.”

  “Take his photograph first,” said Holmes.

  The photographer complied.

  As Stoker was led away, he turned to Holmes and his blue eyes had a stricken, pleading look.

  I felt the weight of his glance settle over me like a heavy chain across my shoulders. Stoker had come to me, imploring aid - and now he was arrested, perhaps to be hanged for murder.

  Holmes said nothing.

  A few minutes later, the remains of Miss Reinhart had been photographed and taken away, along with the coffin. I would have protested at the removal of the gold - if indeed the gold had been within the compartment as Stoker had claimed - but a warning look from Holmes insured my silence. Then Lestrade conferred briefly with two constables who had returned from inspecting Stoker’s office. The little group of policemen remained out of our hearing, however, so we learned nothing of their findings or their plans. I would have expected Holmes to protest and demand cooperation, if only as a professional courtesy, but he seemed satisfied to wait.

  Not long afterward, Holmes, Lestrade and I were on the river ferry bound for the Chelsea Pier and thereafter for the studio of Mrs. Jacoby, the acting instructor who had been with Miss Rinehart and her fellow understudies at the Lyceum yesterday afternoon. The chill wind from the west stung our faces and the dampness penetrated our overcoats. Holmes took no notice, however, and neither did Lestrade, who fairly bristled with excitement and determination. “You’ll see, Mr. Holmes,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Mark my words. We will get all the evidence we need to corroborate my view. Which will stand up in court, I might add.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “Well, what is your theory, then?”

  “I have none at present. It is a capital mistake-”

  “Yes, yes, I have heard you say that before. Perhaps you will be more confident after we interview that acting teacher in her studio.” He stood up. “Now for some fish and chips. I have had no breakfast and no luncheon. Shall I bring you some? No? Suit yourself.”

  When he had gone I seized my opportunity.

  “Holmes,” I said, “is the satchel still inside the coffin? Surely there is a great risk that it may be lost. The body will be removed for the autopsy. The coffin will be set aside and as it is moved without the body someone will surely notice that one end is far out of balance with the other.”

  “The satchel will not be lost,” said Holmes.

  “You have hidden it elsewhere?”

  I had no reply, however, for at that moment Lestrade returned, with a newspaper folded around a generous and fragrant portion of fish and chips. He offered them politely to us. We both declined.

  “I have another idea,” Lestrade said between two bites of his crisply battered cod. “I expect it’s another version of the events that Stoker might use. He had a story of some kind he was writing. He was working late and had that young actress with him for inspiration. Oh, yes, my constables told me about that manuscript scattered all over the floor. About some horrible creature, some flying, biting thing from an Irish myth. Stoker no doubt was taking drugs to lift his imagination, as some of these writer fellows do. We found bottles of drugs in his desk drawer, so that’s a fact, Mr. Holmes, not an airy theory. We haven’t analysed them yet, but we will.”

  “And what is your other idea, then?”

  “Why, he took too many drugs, of course, and it drove him out of his mind. Like that Dr. Jekyll story. If he was drugged, a jury may show some sympathy. Or he may be sent to an insane asylum instead of to the gallows.” Lestrade mused, for a moment. “Though that’s not a fate I’d personally want if I were in Stoker’s shoes. But it could happen, and my theory fits the facts. What do you say to that?”

  “I agree. It is not a fate I would personally want.”

  Not long afterward, we stood on the threshold of Mrs. Jacoby’s residence, one of many
along a row of tall imposing brick homes. Hers, we saw by the position of her name on the nameplate, appeared to take up the ground floor and the first floor. In response to Lestrade’s knock, the door partially opened.

  We looked up to see a woman’s protruding head, peering out at us with gimlet eyes, her lips tightly compressed. She wore a red silk scarf wrapped, turban-fashion, around her hair. She spoke in a deep, rich, theatrical voice. “Well?”

  “Mrs. Jacoby? I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police Force. These two gentlemen are assisting me. May we come in? We have a few questions concerning one of your students.”

  Without a word, Mrs. Jacoby opened the door more widely. But instead of stepping aside, she pushed forward onto the welcome mat, closing the door behind her. A tall, imposing woman - just as tall as Holmes, I thought - she looked us up and down appraisingly.

  “Does the student have a name?”

  “When she was alive, Madam, your student was called Miss Rinehart.”

  Lestrade waited for the woman to grasp the idea. Reactions to the news of death, he had always said, were important.

  Mrs. Jacoby drew in her breath and put her hand to her mouth. “That is quite a shock,” she said. “You’d better come in.”

  We entered into a drawing room containing a piano and perhaps a dozen chairs. The room had once been smaller, I thought, but had been opened out to connect with what had been a dining area, so that very nearly the entire ground floor was one large room. “I shall bring tea,” she said, “I feel the need for a cup of hot tea myself.”

  We followed her to a kitchen area at the far right of the flat. A well-filled conservatory was visible to the left of the kitchen. Pale light came in through its glass walls and small ceiling. A large plant hung drooping from a pot on a tall ladder. Its many small leaves were tangled in a soft-looking mass that spread out like a grey woollen scarf, dominating the small glassed-in enclosure.

  “You have successfully grown Spanish moss, I see,” said Holmes in a friendly manner, intended, I thought, to set the woman at ease.

  Mrs. Jacoby looked up from her kettle. “Oh, it is not my own skill that accounts for the success. The conservatory faces south, fortunately, and provides sunlight even in the winter months, so the credit goes to the positioning of the plant. Very like staging, as I tell my students. Where one stands determines where the lights can reach you, and also what the audience will see of you.” She chattered on, clearly wishing to collect her thoughts by discoursing about familiar subject matter. When she had finished her preparations, she led us back to the drawing room area. We took our seats as she set down the tray and poured out hot tea for all.

  Holmes accepted his cup with a tight smile of acknowledgment. Then, as Mrs. Jacoby seated herself, he stood up, as though a sudden idea had occurred to him. “Would you pardon me, please?” he asked. “I should like water instead of tea. I have been quite stimulated today and require no more. Please do not trouble yourself, madam, I can get the water from your kitchen while the inspector begins with his questions. I shall only be a moment.”

  “How long had you known Miss Rinehart?” asked Lestrade.

  Mrs. Jacoby shrugged. “She joined our little group about six months ago. We call it the ‘Understudies Club’. She had some promise as an actress. A contralto voice, quite pleasing in tone.”

  “And she was at the Lyceum yesterday afternoon?”

  “We were rehearsing some madrigals for tonight’s banquet. A pity she will not be able to attend, as it will be difficult finding someone to sing her part on short notice. The young ladies stroll in small groups around the tables-” She broke off, as though something distressing had just occurred to her, and then continued. “The banquet will go on, though, won’t it? The girls - young ladies - need the opportunity to perform before distinguished gentlemen. And there are gifts bestowed in gratitude. The girls pool the money and divide it among themselves.”

  “But none for you, Mrs. Jacoby?” Lestrade said with a smile.

  “Oh, I am paid for my work by the Lyceum.” She smiled modestly and then appeared to recollect her earlier question. “But about the banquet?”

  “Oh, it will go on.”

  “That is a relief.” She brightened, nodding at Holmes as he returned with his cup filled, I assumed, with plain water.

  “Now,” she went on, “what can I tell you about Miss Rinehart? Let me see. She shared a flat with three other girls. I can give you the address. It is on Tite Street. The other girls are sure to know more, and there may be letters and such among her possessions.”

  “Did she have a sweetheart?” Lestrade said the word with some discomfort.

  “She said she could not afford one. As a young actress just starting to get roles, she was best off not being tied down. One needs all the supporters one can have at that stage of one’s career, if you take my meaning.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  “Oh no. She said she could not afford to have enemies either. She said it with a smile, poor dear.” Mrs. Jacoby lowered her gaze and took another sip of tea. “How did she come to die, may I ask?”

  “We are trying to determine that,” said Lestrade. “Did she seem in any way out of the ordinary yesterday afternoon when you were rehearsing?”

  “She was a bit distressed.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, but I had it from one of her flatmates that she was behind in payments for her share of the rent, and that their landlord had been cutting up rough about it.”

  Holmes asked, “What role did she have in the current production?”

  “She was understudy to Miss Terry. Her colouring suited the role, and her voice, as I say, was adequate. She had a very convincing body control, which is a requisite for swooning. The part requires a swoon in two of the scenes, the more important occurring towards the end, where her character dies.”

  “Did she ever have opportunity to rehearse with Mr. Irving?”

  “I’m afraid not. But there was a consummation devoutly to be wished, if you take my meaning.”

  “She admired Mr. Irving?”

  “I should say so. Always casting the worshipful calf-eyes at him.”

  “Did he take notice?”

  “Oh, he has an eye for all the ladies, does our Mr. Irving. But I never noticed him pay particular attentions to Carol Rinehart.”

  “Did any of the other gentlemen at the Lyceum pay her particular attentions? Mr. Loveday, for instance? Or Mr. Stoker?”

  Her expression hardened for a moment and she took a breath, seeming to consider the implications of the question. Then she shook her head. “Oh, those are both married gentlemen,” she said. “I can’t recall any instances of such behaviour.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jacoby,” said Holmes. I have only one question remaining. Did Carol Rinehart take drugs - opioids or stimulants?”

  “Not that I know of. She wasn’t that sort; at least I don’t think she was. You should ask her flat-mates, and others in our little group. You can see them tonight at the theatre. We all must be there for costuming at six. Dinner begins at eight.”

  She made as if to rise, as though mindful of what other activities lay before her between the present moment and the journey to the theatre. Then she sat back down with a look of polite inquiry.

  “I shall leave you to your preparations.” Holmes stood up. “Unless, Inspector Lestrade, you have more questions?”

  The little inspector having none, we took our leave.

  Outside on the pavement once more, Lestrade gave Holmes a triumphant glance. “What did I tell you? Did you see the way she covered up for Stoker? ‘Married gentlemen’ and ‘can’t recall’? I’ll wager she’ll have quite a lot more to say in the witness-box if we charge him and bring him to trial.”
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  “I have no argument for you,” Holmes replied. “Now I have a few small errands to complete and, Watson, as it is nearing two o’clock I am sure you will wish to return to Paddington to look in on your waiting room. Your patients may have need of your attention. Inspector, I presume you will be visiting Mrs. Stoker?”

  “Constables have already gone to interview the poor woman. I will have their report on my desk when I return to the Yard.”

  “Then, if you permit, I shall complete my errands, change into dinner attire, and meet you again at the Lyceum for the Beefsteak Club festivity. Watson, will you join us? I hope your good wife will understand and permit it, for I should be glad of your assistance.”

  Lestrade looked puzzled. “Why assistance? What do you suppose will happen?”

  “We shall have to wait and see.”

  “Why do you think something will happen?”

  Holmes gave one of his tight, fleeting smiles. “Because Mr. Stoker is still alive.”

  I was detained in Paddington, first by a patient with an unusual cramp, and then by my wife, who also was not feeling well. Over her protests, I arranged for a nurse to attend her. She would not hear of me staying, for she knew how much Holmes relied on me, she said, and how important it was to me to be with him at such moments as this, when he had asked for my assistance.

  Given those delays, it was roughly seven-forty-five when I mounted the steps to the Lyceum and found the lobby crowded with men in their black topcoats and top hats, waiting to be let into the theatre and led to the Beefsteak Room behind the stage. Lestrade and several constables were on hand, stationed where they could observe the gathering. The little inspector looked unusually dapper, though somewhat uncomfortable in his evening attire.

  He took me aside. “We had the medical report on Miss Rinehart. Poison. They haven’t determined what was used, but there were no other marks suggestive of strangulation - no suffocation, no blows to the head, and no injuries other than the wound on her neck. So it has to be poison.”