by Val Andrews
After the conjurer had departed Holmes demanded of me, ‘Well Watson, what do you make of that story?’
I said, ‘Short of alchemy, there is some aspect of the story that he has left out.’
Holmes said, ‘Quite so, and had you lost Lady Windrush’s valuable diamond ring, would you not have been very concerned indeed?’
I answered, ‘Randolph seemed worried about it.’
Holmes surprised me by saying, ‘Seemed, Watson, that is the word that is the right one, he seemed very worried indeed. But the man is an actor, and although he appeared deeply concerned he did not quite ring true.’
Holmes’ suspicion surprised me. I said, ‘But surely you don’t think that Randolph has himself stolen the ring? If he had, would he consult a detective?’
My friend said, ‘Watson, on the surface you would appear to be right in that. But there are aspects of this that worry me. Why, for instance, has Lady Windrush not consulted the police, rather than simply threatening legal action? If the ring is as valuable as I believe it to be, a woman of such rank and influence would have half of Scotland Yard running around by now. There is more to this situation than we have been told, I think. My dear fellow you are nearer to it than I, so be kind enough to hand me the scrapbook which stands on the shelf between the red one and that file of newsclippings.’ I handed my friend the album and he searched through its pages. After perhaps a minute and a half he had discovered what he was looking for: a drawing of a handsome diamond ring, many times its actual size. He stabbed at the picture with his forefinger and his keen eyes travelled down the lines of print which accompanied the drawing. ‘Watson, the Windrush ring is infamous! It has already been stolen, ransomed and recovered a number of times. It is worth a quarter of a million pounds, and yet two days after its complete envanishment there is no sort of hue and cry? Indeed this promises to be a more interesting matter than I first supposed.’
As I prepared to depart for the book shop, Holmes threw his cigarette into the fireplace and started to fill an aged clay from the Turkish slipper. He said, ‘Watson, on your way back you might drop into the tobacconists and collect the special Scottish-mixture they have promised me for today.’
In the light of the conjurer’s extraordinary story, all thoughts concerning my required book had, I confess, left my head. But Holmes forgot nothing. Of course I was intrigued about the true fate of Lady Windrush’s ring, and I looked forward to Holmes’ possible solution with interest. But even more, I looked forward to our forthcoming visit to ‘Maskelyne’s’, now that I had the perfect excuse to go there.
On my way to the tobacconist’s shop (for my visit to the book shop had now become of secondary importance), my eyes lighted upon a splendid pictorial lithograph which had been pasted upon a wall. It advertised ‘Maskelyne and Cook’s — England’s Home of Mystery’. There was a portrait of the celebrated David Devant. Now deep down in every grown man there is a school boy. I remembered a jolly uncle who each Christmas would remove his thumb and produce a shower of comfits from a handkerchief. Later I remembered the discovery of Professor Hoffmann’s ‘Modern Magic’ in a book shop. Of course a boyish desire to become a conjurer had given way to other ambitions, scientific and military. Yet, as I glanced again at that gaily coloured lithograph I realised that the schoolboy in me had never been entirely eliminated. I almost but not quite, felt that tingle of excitement which used to precede a visit to the circus or the pantomime.
*
When I got back to 221b I found my friend deep in the study of innumerable folders, albums, and scrap-books. He sat, cross-legged upon a rug, smoking a ‘hookah’ or ‘hubble-bubble’ which had been a gift from a grateful client, an eastern potentate, who, thanks to Holmes had been able to retain both his head and his throne! A supply of ‘special mixture’ had been given to Holmes, along with this exotic water-pipe, but to my relief my nose told me that the supply had been exhausted, and that ordinary shag-tobacco had been substituted for it. My friend did not share my pleasure in this substitution, saying, ‘You know Watson, that eastern smoking mixture was the strongest I have encountered. I can only hope that some day the Panjandrum will require my services again.’
He indicated the scattering of papers and cuttings with the flexible stem of the pipe. ‘You see Watson, I have not been idle. I have searched out everything I own upon the subjects of conjuring, legerdemain and necromancy. During recent years there have been many events involving conjurers which have been considered newsworthy. Many of these “stories”, and I use the word advisedly for that is exactly what they are, have one thing in common — they are all much about nothing. Each a pathetic attempt by the subject to gain notoriety. “Conjurer, during trick of death, swallows bullet!” and “The real truth about the Indian Rope Trick”! It is to be hoped that friend Randolph is not aiming to involve us in some form of self advertisement!’
I said, ‘Surely Randolph seemed to be intent upon secrecy?’ Holmes replied, ‘Seemed Watson, seemed. But should he try to involve me in some cheap advertising stunt, he will very much regret it.’
I glanced at one of the cuttings, and asked, ‘By the way Holmes, what are your views regarding the Indian rope trick?’
Sherlock Holmes made no reply, but turned upon me a glare, full of venom!
Chapter Two – The Egyptian Hall
In order that we should be in good time for the eight o’clock performance at Maskelyne’s, at half past seven Billy was sent out into Baker Street to hail a hansom. For once Holmes did not ask if the cab had been the first, second or third to appear. After all, we were not, we thought, engaged in an enterprise which presented any likelihood of danger. Two gentlemen, bound for an enjoyable evening at ‘England’s Home of Mystery’ could raise few eyebrows.
We emerged from Bond Street, into Piccadilly, to rest our eyes upon the familiar sight of the old theatre, Maskelyne’s painted facade partly obscuring two giant, undraped statues which stood as ever, one above each entrance corner. The partial obscurity was for reasons of publicity rather than any sort of prudery. The advertising board promised, ‘ANIMATED PHOTOGRAPHS…THE FINEST IN LONDON!’ On viewing this signboard, Holmes remarked, ‘I am a little surprised that such a showman should exhibit the cinematograph, which if I am not mistaken, within a few short years, months even, will be taken for granted.’ I agreed, but was secretly pleased that we should see this marvel of science. I had seen it once before, from the Empire promenade, but it had been a poor, flickering demonstration sandwiched between the turns of Little Tich and Marie Lloyd: besides which, my attention had been distracted by other matters.
The theatre’s facade was deceptive, and from its presentation one could be forgiven for expecting some vast auditorium rather than the delightful little theatre with its intimate drawing room atmosphere. An air of mystery was heightened by an overture being played by an orchestra of ‘invisible musicians’. The instruments hung above a gallery and the music appeared to emerge from them, yet no hands were seen plucking their strings nor mouths blowing at their mouthpieces.
As for the performance itself, why it was capital. From the elderly J.N. Maskelyne spinning his dinner plates, the sedate and charismatic David Devant conjuring eggs from a hat and bringing the portrait of a young woman to life, to the dramatic magical sketch presided over by young Nevil Maskelyne. It all brought back such happy memories of a dozen other such evenings, so many years before. I remembered those quaintly phrased claims in the printed programme, ‘All natural laws cast aside… The fakirs of the east robbed of their secrets and the scientists of Europe stripped of their cunning’. Ah, happy days. Now as one of those ‘scientists of Europe’ I felt that I knew how most of these wonders were accomplished. I turned to Holmes once or twice to give him the benefit of my theories but received no reply. Then, during a short interval between two items, he turned to me and said, sternly, ‘Watson, the sophisticated mind is the easiest to deceive through theatrical necromancy. Only children and those adults of limited inte
llect are able to resist the magician’s misdirection of the senses. I for one have no intention whatever of trying to solve these particular mysteries. More, I would greatly appreciate it if you would cease to give me the benefit of your lack of imagination. The appearance upon the stage of friend Randolph will be your cue to become alert.’
It was fortunate perhaps that the presentation which followed was not of a deceptive nature. Watching two jugglers openly display their sheer skill and dexterity enabled my feelings to calm. After all, there is nothing more frustrating than to have a secret and be unable to share it with a friend!
I glanced at my programme to learn that the next item would also be non-controversial, as far as Holmes and I were concerned. ‘Stella, the Stenographic Marvel’ would be something mechanical which would create wonderment without attempt at deception.
The exhibition of ‘automata’ had long been a regular occurrence at the Egyptian Hall. In fact I could remember seeing old J.N. Maskelyne himself presenting the most famous of these, ‘Psycho’: a small oriental figure capable of writing the answers to questions upon a slate. Now his son, Nevil, presented the latest in the Maskelyne tradition of mechanical wonders. ‘Stella’, a small and beautifully modelled female figure sat behind a desk of proportionate size. She was appropriately dressed to represent a lady-typewriter operator and upon the desk stood the typewriting machine itself. Young Maskelyne fed a piece of paper into it, and in the usual manner bade ‘Stella’ to ‘Take a letter’. He dictated fairly slowly as the tiny hands pounded upon the keys. Eventually, when he had finished dictating he moved the paper from the machine and read it aloud to the audience. It was of course the same message which we had heard him dictate…
Maskelyne’s Theatre London March 21st, 1898
To our esteemed patrons.
Dear Friends,
We are happy to see you again, and we hope you will like this new programme of brand new mysteries.
Many of you will remember ‘Psycho’, and now we are proud to introduce ‘Stella’, who represents the spirit of the new age in which members of the fair sex are beginning to take their place in commerce. Their delicacy of touch makes them particularly well adapted for the operation of the new typewriting machines, one of the earliest of which was developed and built by my father, J.N. Maskelyne. Now he has built a young lady to operate it!
Yours sincerely, Nevil Maskelyne
Many in the audience at this point believed that young Maskelyne was trying to hoodwink them by simply repeating what he had already dictated, and pretending to read it off a blank sheet of paper. I confess that had I not seen ‘Psycho’ I might have suspected as much myself. But Maskelyne disproved such deceit by passing the letter to a cleric in the front row, who verified the letter and passed it to a doubter who asked to see it. Further doubts were dispelled when young Nevil allowed persons in the audience to dictate short letters to the automata, which it typed and Maskelyne duly passed to them to read aloud.
Finally the magician opened up the front of the desk, exposing the clockwork mechanism. I applauded as loudly as anyone, though I felt that the figure, despite its comely appearance, had not the dignity or versatility, nay even the mystery which had surrounded ‘Psycho’.
Holmes leaned forward in his seat and whispered to me, ‘I would like a closer view of the mechanism.’ I said nothing, mechanics not being my strong point.
During the interlude we strolled in the vestibule and had an opportunity to study the audience. They were, I decided, unlike any other London theatre audience. Although the programme had some hint of the vaudeville about it, there were never at Maskelyne’s any of those acts that might be termed vulgar. Therefore the patrons were not those of the music hall. As I looked around me I saw dukes, dustmen, titled ladies and retired clerics. The nearest similarity would be found in the audience attracted by the D’oyly Carte Opera Company. There were some children, but I noticed that each child had a number of adults in tow, not just parents but uncles, aunties and friends, anxious not to miss the fun.
In Palm Court we sipped our Turkish coffee and ruminated upon what we had seen. Holmes remarked sagely, ‘I find the conjurers far more interesting than their deceptions!’
That my friend was serious in his claim to be deceived by simple showmans’ tricks, I doubted. But with his mood of the moment I dared say no more on the subject. The interval over, we enjoyed the antics of a sad-faced clown who cavorted merrily enough, imitating various musical instruments. Then we were intrigued by a transatlantic gentleman billed as ‘Shifty Jack’. He picked the pockets of a number of gentlemen in the audience, amazing them with the return of each wallet, watch and cigar case. Holmes was very interested in this demonstration.
At long last there entered upon the scene our client, Mr Cyril Randolph, or ‘Cyrano’ as the programme named him. He looked very different in his tails; he seemed taller, and his grey dundrearys had been limned with black. He made an ‘entrance’ with style and grace, handing his opera hat and gloves to his lady assistant. Covering the ends of a small tube with paper, he converted it into a tambourine which he then burst, producing from it a score of gaily coloured squares of silk and cambric. The music ceased and he addressed the audience with fake foreign tones, presumably intended to be a French accent.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I am not an Englishman so I ‘ope you can understand my words. I will please my best to “do” you, no? I am not a poor man, yet I wish to borrow… from one of you… a ring… with the sparkley stones!’ Within half a minute he had coaxed a seemingly valuable diamond ring from a prosperous looking gentleman in the stalls.
‘Please take a good look at your ring Sir, so that you will recognise it if you ever… excuse me, when you see it again!’ The conjurer coughed in mock embarrassment at his own deliberate ‘slip of the tongue’.
We watched keenly as he returned to the stage, but neither Holmes nor I, in later discussion, could name the exact moment when the substitution was made. Certainly from the theatre stalls it would have been impossible to know that the ring he held in the limelight was not that which we had just seen him borrow. He had told us that he invariably smashed the ring, and, although forewarned and aware of the substitution, such was the drama of his presentation that we all but gasped as he smote it with a hammer in order that it would fit the barrel of his gun. The audience gasped too, and then resorted to laughter which seemed to be the only sensible reaction. He cocked an expressive eyebrow, saying, ‘Why do you laugh… you wouldn’t if it were yours… The kind gentleman who lent me the ring… he is not laughing!’
‘Madame Patricia’, a handsome, flaxen-haired young woman of buxom build, made an exit carrying a tray bearing the properties from his handkerchief trick offstage. As she departed Holmes whispered, ‘You see, he has dropped the genuine ring onto the tray.’ I replied, ‘We hardly need your “methods” to know that!’ He admonished, ‘Come Watson, we have both been told how the trick is done, so are you not being wise after the event?’
The conjurer finished his whimsey of stuffing the now ruined ring into the revolver barrel. After a few more pleasantries he called, ‘Madame Patricia… my magic box if you please!’ The pianist played furiously as the lady re-entered bearing a mahogany box on a tray. Cyrano raised his pistol and fired. The result was much red fire and smoke, but very little by way of explosion. The music quietened as he said, ‘Patricia, pray open the box and take from it that which you find inside.’ She opened the box and withdrew from it another box of only very slightly smaller proportions. This in turn revealed a smaller box, inside which there proved to be a nosegay or posey, to which was attached a ring.
I remarked to Holmes, ‘She must work fast to attach that ring to the flower and nest the boxes.’ Holmes said, ‘She gains much more time than one would think, with the audience laughing at Cyrano’s banter. A task oft repeated becomes easier and less time consuming. In any case, she has a full two minutes to do what she has to.’ Holmes had been timing each phase o
f the experiment, but this had not prevented his shrewd observance of every move. He still watched keenly as the conjurer returned the ring to the affluent one, with the gift of a flower for his buttonhole. We were about to discuss that which we had seen when our attention was gained by Cyrano in the presentation of what would prove to be his final illusion. I had never seen anything like it until that night, and have never seen its like since. Therefore, I feel it is noteworthy enough for me to describe fully.
Madame Patricia entered, carrying a very small leather bag: rather like a slightly smaller version of the bag in which I carry my medical equipment. She handed this to Cyrano with due solemnity. He opened the bag with equal propriety and as she made her exit, he took from the bag a small square box, no more than a foot high. This he placed upon a small undraped table and, walking to the footlights, he signalled to the pianist to stop playing. He said, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, inside that box is my wife!’ There was much laughter at the thought of the possibility of a grown woman being inside such a small compass. He frowned in mock severity at the laughter of the audience. ‘You do not believe me? Very well then, watch closely and you will see something which you will remember for the rest of your lives. Watch!’
The pianist recommenced playing, feverishly in fact, as the small box suddenly and quite unaccountably increased in size. After a few more seconds the box began a second stage in its enlargement, until it was the size of a large packing case.
What we had thus far seen was startling indeed. But this was as nothing compared with what we were still to witness. Cyrano lifted the large box that he had created, revealing a very substantial lady! It was indeed the very same Madame Patricia who had brought the box on stage in its original state, in the now seemingly inadequate leather bag. She stood there on the little table, a large lady looking even larger than usual in a Merry-Widow hat and leg-of-mutton sleeves.