by David Marcum
“Are you saying that the cause of death was not the wound to her neck?”
“That occurred post-mortem. There was minimal bleeding, really.”
“Could they rule out the possibility that her blood had been drained away?”
Lestrade gave me a strange look. “I did ask that, and no, they could not. But with more time, weighing the body and so forth, they may be able to establish something. For now, we are proceeding on the poison theory.”
“Or possibly an overdose of something. It might have been suicide, after all.”
“Oh, come now, Doctor. She takes an overdose, gets into the coffin, wounds herself with some disappearing implement - you recall there was no weapon found nearby - and then writes what she wrote and closes the coffin lid and dies?”
“It does seem unlikely when you put it that way. Have you seen Holmes?”
“He is with Mr. Irving.”
“Why?”
Lestrade shrugged. “He did not say. But we had already interviewed both Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, as well as the other principals, and found they had nothing to offer that would add anything to the facts of the case.”
“What about Miss Rinehart? Did the constables search her rooms?”
“They found nothing. The flat-mates didn’t seem to like her very much, and there were hints that where Mr. Irving was concerned she was no better than she should be. But I put all that down to jealousy. Irving had given her the leading female understudy part, you see, and the others couldn’t admit that she had won the role on her talent alone.”
“Where are they now - Mr. Irving and Holmes, I mean.”
“They were in Irving’s office, but he was planning to come down to address the serving staff. Some difficulty about the payment, I believe.”
“Where?”
“Behind the stage. There is a large anteroom kitchen adjacent to the Beefsteak Room where the food is prepared and kept hot.”
I found my way to the room in question without much difficulty. Holmes was near the entrance, looking perfectly comfortable in his evening garb. We might have been lounging at our ease before a theatrical performance.
Before us the room was filled with a group of anxious-looking tradespeople: Those cooks, waiters, costumed actresses, and musicians who were to provide the evening’s meat, drink, and entertainment. I also noticed two sombre-faced men in business attire. “They are from the bistro that supplies the food and drink for the evening,” Holmes said, following my gaze. “A most elegant and expensive repast. Irving must mollify them, and the entire crowd here. They had expected their payment nearly an hour ago.”
“Have you found the gold sovereigns?” I asked.
“They are safe. Look, here is Irving now.”
We stepped aside as Irving swept into the room. Tall, commanding, with a high forehead and massive cheekbones, his face might have been carved from a block of granite. Within this unyielding frame were piercing dark eyes and highly arched brows, framed by flowing brown locks. He wore a long black cape, which accentuated the power of his presence, trailing behind him like the robe and train of a royal personage.
The crowd parted to allow him to reach the front. He took one of the chairs, set it beside a table, and nimbly stepped up to stand before the crowd, gazing at each one of us as easily as if he were in his own drawing room and we were all his honoured and valued guests.
“My friends,” he began.
“Where is our money?” came a cry from somewhere within the crowd between Irving and where we stood. In response, however, Irving did not put up his hands to silence the outburst, as I would have expected. Nor did he protest. Rather, he simply dropped his hands to his sides, spread his palms wide, lifted his outstretched arms slightly and waited, as though completely open to the needs of his audience and entirely incapable of concealing anything from them.
There were a few more outcries and grumbles, but they soon subsided into expectant silence. When the stillness had grown uncomfortable, Irving asked, “Will you allow me to tell you?”
Murmurs of agreement arose. The great actor spoke.
“You have all heard of the tragedy last night, and I know you and I are all grateful that we have been allowed to proceed by the reasonable personages of the Metropolitan Police, including Commissioner Bradford himself, who is attending tonight’s event as his illustrious predecessors have done for nearly a decade. As you are aware, I withdrew - or my associate withdrew, to be accurate - more than two-hundred pounds in gold sovereigns, so as to be able to pay each and every one of you for your good services. The money is safe, but it may be of evidentiary value in explaining the sorrow-laden events of last night. That is why, up until now-”
He stopped, after emphasizing the last word, and the audience held its collective breath. Then he resumed, “Up until now, it has been barred from my access; otherwise I should certainly have given it to you. But the Commissioner has just given me leave to produce the funds at the conclusion of tonight’s banquet. That is to say, when the dessert and coffee has been served, you shall find me here with the gold sovereigns - and two stout constables at my side, I hasten to add - prepared to give each of you precisely what you are owed and not a penny less. In short, I know where the treasure is and you have my personal assurance that before the evening is over I will have it in hand and you will be paid.”
“Can’t say fairer ’n that,” I heard someone say. Murmurs of assent followed.
Irving went on for a moment or two longer, addressing the group on the themes of heritage and history and reputation, and the glory that would shine on each one of them and colour their own individual memories with imperishable satisfaction if they performed well this evening for their illustrious audience.
Holmes spoke quietly so that he would not be overheard. “We are to dine at the standing tables on the perimeter of the banquet room. Irving will take his seat at the head of the central table. Whatever happens, do not allow him out of your sight. Stay close to him at all costs. His life and the lives of others are at stake.”
“Where will you be?”
“I shall be observing him as well. But I may be delayed or interfered with.”
“Does Lestrade know?”
“He is aware and has given his consent. But his men must not be visible.”
Irving’s address concluded, and the workers that composed his audience turned to their appointed tasks. I saw Mrs. Jacoby with her young ladies, who all appeared stricken and despondent, no doubt in distress at the death of their compatriot Miss Rinehart. Their glum and pallid faces contrasted with their costumes, which were those of saucy tavern wenches, with white bonnets and tightly laced black corsets. Beneath the corsets they wore frilly white blouses that fully exposed their bare shoulders and necks.
Mrs. Jacoby beckoned them out of the anteroom for their final instructions, imperiously gesturing towards the door that led to the backstage area. They moved together like a flock of reluctant sheep. I could not help thinking of what fears and visions might have been haunting the imaginations of those young ladies, for I was certain that they knew they were going very near to the exact location where the unfortunate Miss Rinehart had been found in that horrid coffin.
Despite this somewhat foreboding commencement to the evening, the dinner itself progressed with wonderful efficiency. I had my supper standing up at one of a dozen small tables provided for those guests who were not among the thirty-six most notable members of the Beefsteak Club, and accordingly did not have places at the main table where Irving, as president and host, held forth at the head. The beefsteak was the finest I had ever tasted. I wondered if Holmes, at his standing-table on the side of the room farthest from mine, was eating his portion, or whether - as usual - he was ignoring the needs of his body when immersed in a case.
Mindful of Holmes’s instructions, I kept
my eyes on Irving as I ate, and I did not allow any of the waiters to refill my glass, although the claret was indeed excellent and flowed in abundance.
However, it was difficult not to be distracted by the evening’s entertainers, the young ladies who, in groups of four, circulated to sing familiar popular melodies and English madrigals. Whereas they had been pallid and despondent on their way to their last-minute rehearsal with Mrs. Jacoby, they were now radiant and energetic, filled with friendly spirits and savouring each note as they sang it, as if nothing in the world could have been more pleasing or beautiful than to perform for us. A fellow diner standing next to me gave me a knowing nod. “Actresses,” he said. “They do come alive on a stage, no matter how small that stage may be.”
Then I saw Irving stand up and bow momentarily to the gentleman to his left, as though excusing himself. He strolled along the length of the table, gesturing and nodding at guests in personal recognition. Then he did the same on the other side, coming back to his place at the head. I thought he might seat himself once more, but instead he veered off to the standing-tables at the far side of the room, strolling and greeting those guests in turn. He eventually came to my side of the room, and then passed my table, his face creased in a warm and friendly smile of good cheer, and his piercing eyes darting back and forth, as if eager to bestow friendly recognition. He passed by our table, moving toward the next. One of the singing quartets had been waiting behind him and now drew closer to surround and serenade the five of us diners. I was momentarily distracted as they began to sing, “Adieu, Sweet Amyrillis.”
Then I looked for Irving, and he was gone. I cast my gaze around the room to the table where Holmes had once stood, but he was no longer visible.
A wave of panic and frustration passed over me. I had failed Holmes. Whatever was about to happen, if Holmes were relying on me, he would be disappointed, and, quite possibly, endangered. I stared in desperation at the empty space where Irving had last been in my field of vision.
Then I saw the door to the backstage area was not quite shut.
I was through that door and into the backstage area in a moment.
The lights had been extinguished but the stage curtain was fully open, and the dim glow cast by the safety lanterns at the back of the auditorium provided a pale illumination.
Irving was walking toward the centre of the stage, stepping carefully as though on a tightrope. He stopped and crouched down. Then he looked round as though wishing to be certain that he was unobserved. I shrank back against the wall. He had not seen me.
He turned his attentions to the floor and I heard the clink of metal, and then the creak of a hinge. He reached down and, struggling, hauled up from an opening in the floor a dark object, which I realized was a good-sized leather satchel. As he set the satchel down beside him, I heard the soft metallic clink of the contents.
He turned back to the opening in the stage and knelt to reposition what I now realized was a trapdoor.
Then I heard from above us the soft rustle of fabric. The noise came from the direction of the staircase and Miss Terry’s dressing room. I looked up.
To my shock and amazement, a huge dark figure in a black mask and black cape was sliding down the railing of the staircase at an extraordinarily rapid rate of speed, seeming to float or fly downward like a great hawk swooping down upon its prey. Before I could react, the figure had landed beside Irving, kicking him to one side and lifting up the satchel in one swift movement.
In the next instant, the masked figure leaped from the stage to the deserted floor of the auditorium, and, black cape billowing behind, dashed up the aisle, carrying the satchel in both arms like a rugby player.
I ran across the stage to where Irving was picking himself up from the floor. He appeared shaken, but unharmed. We both looked towards the rear of the auditorium and saw the masked figure burst through one of the exit doors and vanish into the shadows. My heart sank.
Then a moment later, to my astonishment, Sherlock Holmes emerged from the orchestra pit. With a few swift steps and a springing, sideways leap, he levered himself up onto the stage to stand before us. “An excellent performance, Mr. Irving,” said Holmes. “I commend your skill in avoiding injury.”
From the rear of the theatre there arose the muffled sounds of a brief struggle. “Ah, Lestrade’s men have her,” Holmes said.
“Her?” I could not help asking the question.
The same exit door opened and Lestrade appeared. Behind him were three burly constables, two on either side of the masked figure and the third close behind. With Lestrade leading the way, the constables frog-marched the masked figure, stooped over with arms cuffed behind, down the aisle to stand at the foot of the stage before us.
Lestrade reached up and tore off the black mask.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jacoby,” said Holmes.
The tall woman glared at him, hatred oozing from her very presence.
Holmes’s voice took on that silken tone he adopts when having his final conversation with his vanquished opponent. “There is no sunlight at this hour for your Spanish moss, is there? All your exotic tropical plants are in darkness, including your South American peyote and your ayahuasca, which I recognized in your conservatory early this afternoon. As I explained to Inspector Lestrade, here, and to the Commissioner of Police, ayahuasca is known as the ‘telepathic vine’, and it induces strong feelings of empathy within the minds of those who consume it. Peyote as well also produces hallucinations.
“You infused both, I believe, into the coffee pot of Mr. Stoker less than twenty-four hours ago, along with a mild dose of a sedative that would cause him to feel fatigued and wish to lie down. Then your associate, the unfortunate Miss Rinehart, donned the theatrical garb and animal teeth that so terrified Mr. Stoker when she awakened him a short while later. He fainted, as expected, given the effects of the drugs, and you or Miss Rinehart made puncture marks on his neck, duplicating the marks of those supernatural creatures that had consumed his imagination, as you well knew from previous examination of the manuscript that he kept in his unlocked desk drawer.
“You stood in the shadows of his office, waiting for him to awaken. He went to his washstand, and he discovered the marks. But instead of behaving as you expected, he fled immediately from the theatre. Was it then that you had a quarrel with Miss Rinehart, when she realized that her night’s work was not to about to yield payment? Or had you drugged and murdered her by then, poisoning her with the red lip paint, or the white face cream you so liberally applied?
“Whatever the prior sequence of events may have been, you then placed her in the coffin, the location of which you of course knew of from rehearsals. You made a mess of Stoker’s office, leaving bottles of drugs in his desk drawer and strewing the pages of his manuscript about so that all would know what occupied his creative imagination. You cut her throat and used her finger to write the first letters of Stoker’s name in order to incriminate him.”
“You can’t prove a word of this,” she snarled. “All you can prove is that I grow tropical plants in my conservatory, and there’s no crime in that.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes. “We have ample proof. A few hours ago, after you had left your flat in Chelsea to come here, constables found the red-stained animal teeth worn by Miss Rinehart hidden in your bedroom. In a cabinet at the back of your closet, they found a large supply of cocaine, which you have been giving to those unfortunate young ladies in your ‘Understudies Club’, inducing them to rely on the drug to bring their performances to a more exalted level. In your dustbin the constables also found the red and white makeup jars, the contents of which will upon analysis no doubt prove to be quite incriminating.
“And we have your very presence here. I saw the excitement in your eyes this afternoon when you learned that the dinner performance would still go on, and I thought that could be used to advantage. So I
obtained the kind cooperation of Mr. Irving and Inspector Lestrade and Commissioner Bradford. Oh, and we have several cocaine suppliers who will be willing to testify that you are in debt to them for more than one-hundred pounds. That is why you were so desperate to obtain Mr. Irving’s two-hundred pounds in gold. All this evidence will have a cumulative effect on any jury, and will be ample to place your neck into the noose.”
“Damn you, Holmes,” was all she said.
“As to that, madam, if there is a judgment in a next world, perhaps there you will receive the punishment you deserve for preying on the young actresses in your charge, selling them drugs for your own profit. You are the true vampire here, for you have drained the young ladies’ scant resources, as well as their hopes. You caused them to become addicted, when you should have taught them to rely on their own energies and talents. You gave them cocaine even tonight, immediately before the banquet, did you not?”
“Damn you,” she said again.
Two of the constables dragged Mrs. Jacoby away. We watched her writhing and struggling between them, until they had left the auditorium. Then Lestrade handed the satchel up to a grateful Mr. Irving, who, after a satisfied glance at the contents inside, bowed to each of us in turn. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “I shall attend to business. After I have concluded, I hope you will join me in a celebratory toast of claret.”
We watched him re-enter the banquet room in the company of the third constable. A few moments later we heard a loud cheer.
Holmes looked expectantly at Lestrade.
The inspector said, “Stoker will be released at once. I shall telephone the Yard from here.”
“And?”
“And yes, I shall keep my promise. He will be taken to his home in one of the Commissioner’s carriages, and a deputy commissioner will accompany him, and the deputy will make profuse apologies to Mrs. Stoker for the unfortunate misunderstanding that has kept them apart.”
“Satisfactory.”