by Val Andrews
Holmes described the ring he was seeking. I had never thought him capable of blackmail before. ‘If anyone has brought such a ring in to you I want to know about it. You would be surprised what I hear about Mr Webber, and should I learn that you took some part in this enterprise, Dartmoor will assuredly have a new inmate.’ Webber was grovelling now… ‘Mr Holmes, you’re not playing the game. I lost a fortune when I gave up that necklace. I haven’t got that ring, I swear it. If I did I’d give it up to you. I prefer to deal with a gentleman like yourself rather than the bogeys, I swear I haven’t got it.’
‘Have you heard anything about it?’
‘No, on my life…’
‘Your life might be involved. It’s a case of murder, and if you had anything to do with it…’
Webber breathed hard. ‘All right Mr Holmes, if I tell you where you might and I did say might, find it, will you leave me out of any investigation? More, will you give me your word as a gentleman, and I know you to be just that, that you will not use that necklace business against me again?’
‘If you give me some information, leading to a successful recovery, I will not tell anyone where I got my steer, and as far as you and I are concerned, the slate will be clean.’
Mr Webber printed something with a pencil stub on a scrap of paper. He folded it, gave it to Holmes, but he did not seem very happy.
Back in the mean alley Holmes opened the paper, and we saw the single word: STRINGER.
I asked, ‘Do you know of this Stringer?’ Holmes nodded, ‘Oh yes, almost as well as I do Webber, in fact I know them all. But time is the essence and it would take days to go through my list. I think we struck lucky by visiting Webber.’
Holmes of course knew where Stringer’s shop was, and I was grateful that I would not have to find my own way back through the maze of alleyways. Stringer’s shop proved only a shade less dingy looking than had Webber’s, and as we reached it, Holmes motioned for me to stop.
‘Watson do you think you could give a convincing impersonation of a Scotland Yard man? After all, you have Lestrade as the perfect model. You have the military bearing which many police officers also have.’ I agreed that such a charade might be possible. Holmes said, ‘Good, then I will go into Stringer’s shop. I intend to deal with him much as I did Webber. But if he has the ring it might be rather more difficult to get him to give it up. If I think he does not have it, I will be out within two or three minutes. If I think he has it I will be longer. If I do not emerge within five minutes I want you to burst into the shop, and “arrest” him. I rely on your good sense and acting ability from there on.’ I promised to ‘play my part’.
Five minutes is not long. There are twelve such periods in every hour and for most of us they pass rapidly. But given the circumstances that I have explained, it can seem like an hour. Every few seconds I looked at my watch, until that big hand threatened that ‘witching diget’. Then as it became five minutes following Holmes’ entry into Stringer’s, I burst in through the door. Holmes stood at the counter in converse with the man who had to be Stringer. He was a very tall man of about four and forty, with an elf-like face and dundreary whiskers. Assuming my most dignified bearing I marched up to the counter and dropping a hand on his shoulder barked out the words, in a fair imitation of Lestrade, ‘Stringer, the game’s up! I arrest you for the theft of a diamond ring, the property of Lady Windrush. Anything you say may be used against you in court.’
As I performed my part I dared not look at Holmes. He said nothing.
Stringer spoke in a thin weedy voice, and pleaded, ‘Please Inspector, ’ave mercy on me. I’m just a poor dealer, I don’t ever nick nuffin’!’ Holmes said to me, ‘Could there perhaps be some mistake Inspector? I said, ‘None at all, I have my orders to arrest this man. You keep out of it.’ Holmes rejoined warmly, ‘I happen to be Sherlock Holmes, I’m a good friend of Inspector Lestrade. Surely if this poor man were to give you the ring you need say no more about it?’ I said, ‘Ooh, I don’t know about that Mr Holmes, I’ve got my orders!’
Holmes, who should have been an actor, launched into his big speech. ‘Look Inspector, this poor man is no thief and he bought the ring in good faith. But if he gives it up to you the loss will be his.’
I played up as I thought he wanted me to, ‘It’s more than my job is worth, we are making an example of receivers at the moment. Stringer will get fifteen years at least and hard labour at that.’
Suddenly Stringer ‘broke’. He said, ‘Please Inspector, pity a poor man with a wife and eight children to support!’ He took some keys from below the counter and said, ‘Wait, wait here… I’ll get the ring.’ We kept him in sight through the aperture which divided the shop from the back room and watched as he opened the safe. He returned with a magnificent diamond and ruby ring, the size and brilliance of which I had never seen before. I took it from him, looked at it carefully and passed it to my friend. Holmes examined it carefully and from his expression and manner I knew that it was indeed the Windrush ring. Then he confirmed it by saying, ‘Look here Inspector, you have got your missing ring. Why not just take it and leave this poor fellow to repent, and remember the lesson he has undoubtedly learned.’
I said, ‘I think I would require a little more. If he were to co-operate as far as I believe he is able…’
Holmes asked, ‘Suppose Stringer were to describe the person from whom he obtained the ring?’
I said, ‘Ah, now that might make a difference. Yes, I think that such information might well put a different complexion on the matter.’
Stringer looked positively hunted as he said, ‘Mr Holmes is enough of a man of the world to know the danger that such collaboration would put me in!’ I said, ‘I too am a man of the world, enough at least to know that you will be breaking stones until 1913 if you don’t give us every help!’
The receiver wrung his hands and looked about him furtively before saying ‘All right gentlemen, I’m in between the devil and the deep so to speak. The bloke who brought in the ring, this very morning, was a rather tall fellow, but very slim. Couldn’t see much of his face because he had a hat pulled well down in front. He was dressed roughly, and that’s about all really…’ He trailed off.
Gimlet-eyed, Holmes enquired, ‘Hair colouring … complexion?’ ‘Well Sir, as I said he had this hat pulled well down, but I did notice a few wisps of reddish hair. What I could see of his face was rather pale. I suppose you would call it a fair complexion.’ He looked uncertainly from Holmes to myself. Holmes shot me an obvious glance of enquiry. I shook my head grimly. This seemed to have the desired effect. Stringer said, ‘His boots, I noticed his boots… They were brown, and good ones, too good for a man dressed as he was. His voice was low pitched, but I expect it was disguised…’ He trailed off again.
Holmes passed the ring to me, and I took an envelope from my pocket and placed the ring inside it. Then I carefully placed the package into my inside jacket pocket. I was still making sure to keep up my impersonation of a Scotland Yard Inspector of Detectives! I said, ‘Stringer, this is your lucky day. Had Mr Holmes not interceded on your behalf I would have arrested you and charged you with the crime of receiving. Be sure to keep out of trouble in the future!’
As we left the shop Stringer called after us, ‘God Bless you Mr Holmes, and thank you kindly Inspector!’ We both nodded curtly as we left.
Outside, we walked smartly away from Stringer’s premises. Indeed it was not until we were about three hundred yards away that we dared to open our mouths. I think we both knew that near hysteria was imminent. It was Holmes who laughed first, and after that we had difficulty in pulling ourselves together. When we had recovered a little, Holmes said, ‘Oh Watson, you really should have been a policeman, you do it so well. You have often said to me that my becoming a detective robbed the stage of a great actor. But how about yourself? Why Irving himself could not have bettered your performance.’
As I handed him the ring, still in its envelope, I asked Holmes, ‘Bu
t why did you not enlist the help of the real police, once your suspicions were confirmed?’ He replied, ‘I believe I can be more help to Devant by taking this course. There is another reason, and before long you will know everything my dear Watson.’
I was a little hurt that he did not immediately take me into his confidence, but I knew from past experience that whenever Holmes kept me in the dark he did so for very good reasons. Certainly it had never been because my good sense or diplomacy was in doubt.
Holmes had, and has a sort of built in ‘homing instinct’, rather like a cat or homing-pigeon. He swiftly led the wav through that labyrinth of tiny alleys and streets, so well described by Charles Dickens, particularly in ‘Oliver Twist’. From the windows and around the walls there appeared living examples of the characters immortalised by Cruikshank.
When we regained the comparative safety and sanity of the Commercial Road, Holmes raised his cane to hail a cab. We sank back into the comfort of its padded interior and gently travelled in the direction of Baker Street while I mused upon the fact that in this busy world the hansom represents escape. Once inside it, however mean the surroundings, you can close your eyes in the comforting knowledge that you will soon be home.
Chapter Five – ‘The Grand Old Man’
‘There is no peace for the wicked’ is an oft repeated quotation and whilst it is one which I would not wish to apply to myself, I was reminded of it when Holmes announced… within minutes of our regaining the stability of 221b Baker Street… that we must attend the matinee at the Egyptian Hall. However, I absolutely insisted that we should partake of a luncheon first. Mrs Hudson was able to produce an excellent cut from the mutton joint, followed by a steaming suet pudding, annointed with a jugful of her famous custard. Then, as we toyed with the cheese and biscuits, once again I felt ready for anything.
‘Come Doctor, we have placated the “inner man”, and must resume our activities. There are two main reasons for this second visit to “Egypt in Piccadilly”: the first to interview the famous Buatier De Kolta, the second to do what we should have done last night, and beard the lion in his den.’
I asked, ‘You mean J.N. Maskelyne himself?’
‘Exactly… the grand old man of magic!’
‘Shall you hand over the ring to Devant?’
‘Certainly not, although I shall certainly put his mind at rest upon the subject.’
‘How about Lestrade?’
‘The Inspector is investigating a murder, not a robbery. There will be a right time for him to learn everything… that is if it becomes necessary.’
*
When we arrived at the mysterious little theatre, Holmes purchased two rear stalls at the box office. The sort of seats which at a music hall would have been in ‘The Pit’. I did not need to enquire as to why he did not simply present his card or mention Devant’s name at the window, for whilst he had made no attempt at disguise (an art at which he is a past master), he was yet dressed in unsuitable clothes, of the kind which the working people might wear. Moreover he had bidden me to wear an equally unsuitable country tweed.
Thus ‘subdued’, we merged quite nicely with the other patrons of the less expensive seats and were able to view the performance without drawing undue attention from public or staff. As for that performance itself, it was much as we had seen before, except that there were some alterations in the order of presentation. A printed slip, inserted in the programme announced:
‘Due to the sad demise of “Cyrano”, his place will be taken at this performance by the famous continental illusionist, M. Buatier De Kolta.’
As it turned out, De Kolta’s appearance occurred immediately before the interval. We watched his contribution with the very greatest interest.
With the passing of the years I cannot recall everything which transpired during De Kolta’s performance, or indeed the exact order in which he presented his various wonders. But wonders they were. He made a wire birdcage containing a fluttering canary disappear between his large hands. He poured hundreds of colourful blooms from a paper cornucopia, and caused a substantial lady seated upon a chair to disappear from beneath a cloth. Despite his rather bizarre appearance (for he was ill-fitted in the matter of his evening clothes and untidily bearded with a wild mane of hair), he was much appreciated by the audience who could only gasp with astonishment at his various wonders. But it was his final item which really roused the audience. He presented his expanding cube, almost exactly as Cyrano had shown it.
I remarked to Holmes, ‘His expanding cube appears very like that presented by Cyrano.’ Holmes replied, ‘Not only very like, but exactly like. It is probably the same apparatus, for do you not remember that De Kolta declared last night he had not finished building the illusion?’
I had to agree that I remembered that statement.
During the intermission we emerged from the front of the building and passed into the side street to seek the stage door. This aperture was guarded by an elderly retainer whose job it was to check all arrivals and departures.
‘Might I ask who you two gents are? We don’t ’old with no stage door Johnny’s ’ere yer know! Try the Empire!’ His tone was sardonic, surly and unwholesome, like his appearance. He wore a velveteen jacket, from which a bottle of spirits could be seen emerging. Upon his head he wore a flat artisan’s cap, not unlike that sported by Holmes. As for his trousers, these could not be seen due to a closed half door over which he leered, like some punchincllo in a booth. He held a newspaper at arms’ length.
‘My name is Holmes, and my colleague’s name is Watson.’
‘’olmes eh… not Sherlock ’olmes? I don’t fink…’
‘The very same, now if you would inform Mr Devant of our arrival…’
‘Mr Devant is a very busy man and he relies upon my discretion as to ’oo I admits and ’oo I doesn’t.’ He ingratiatingly drew the back of his right hand across his mouth, insinuating that the price of a drink might admit us. Holmes leaned forward, his prominent nose almost touching that of the stage door keeper…
‘Now listen my man, I make some allowance for the fact that you have been in a bar room brawl, during the course of which your spectacles were broken. But if you do not summon Mr Devant immediately I will be forced to suggest to him that he dismiss you at the earliest possibility. You will drink little “Engine Eightpenny” without a weekly wage! So stir yourself, or you’ll be packed off back to Hackney directly!’
The uncouth fellow’s jaw had dropped. He asked, ‘’ow joo know I come from ’ackney?’ Holmes smiled sweetly at him. ‘Your own unmistakable version of the London dialect tells me that, and the smell of “Engine Eight-penny’’ is unmistakable too.’ He looked glum, saying, ‘Well ’ow didja know about the fight, and me breakin’ me glasses?’ I was wondering about that too. Holmes said, ‘The scar upon the bridge of your nose indicates that you habitually wear spectacles. The newspaper in your hand, held at arms’ length indicates their loss. A bar room brawl was the most likely circumstance for the breakage.’
The uncouth fellow pulled a cork from a speaking tube, which he blew down, unmusically, to attract the attention of whoever was at its other end. ‘Mr ’olmes and some doctor to see Mr Devant, Charlie!’ Then he waved us past him with a gruff gesture, saying, ‘Through the doors and on the right.’
Ever the gentleman, Devant awaited us beyond the doors and following the usual pleasantries he said, ‘You should have given your name at the box office…’ But Holmes interrupted, ‘We preferred to merge into the background, as you will see from our attire. I was particularly intrigued with Mr De Kolta’s performance, and especially the inclusion of the illusion which has been a bone of contention. After all, by his own admission this had not progressed beyond the planning stage.’
Devant replied, ‘He is using Cyrano’s model with our blessing. No relative has stepped forward to claim his effects, and Madame Patricia proved willing to participate. There seems little doubt that Cyrano pirated the illusion, so this outc
ome seems a fair one.’
Then Holmes dropped his ‘bombshell’.
‘I have recovered the Windrush ring, Mr Devant. Or rather, Doctor Watson has!’
I blushed at this mention of my small part in the affair. But Devant seemed delighted to say the very least. At first his excitement was such that he could not respond to the good news. Eventually he said, ‘I cannot thank either of you enough. God Bless you Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson! Should I contact Her Ladyship?’
‘No, I will return the ring to her myself, and I must extract one promise from you before the matter can be laid to rest, if indeed it can.’
‘You have but to name it sir.’
‘Despite your earlier plans you must promise to observe a silence as far as the news reporters are concerned. Her Ladyship would not appreciate publicity concerning the affair.’
Devant coloured slightly. ‘But… but Mr Holmes… the Windrush ring is world-famous, and the publicity would be invaluable!’
Holmes said, ‘Even so!’ Devant paused before he replied, ‘Very well, you have my word.’
I could see that Devant’s joy at the return of the ring was tempered by the fact that he could not take full advantage theatrically. Holmes asked, ‘May we perhaps see Mr Maskelyne? You have my assurance that the ring will not be mentioned.’
*
The so-called ‘Grand Old Man’ proved to be younger than this term of endearment or stage image suggested. A man, I judged, of perhaps five years beyond his half century, he was of spare build, and sported a rather large moustache, a drooping affair usually known as a ‘walrus’. This and his drooping eyelids gave him a rather mournful appearance. But his movements were sprightly, as one would expect of a man who nightly caused a dozen dinner plates to ‘waltz’.
‘My dear Holmes, I have long looked forward to meeting you and your distinguished “Boswell”. I understand that you are making some private enquiries regarding this terrible tragedy surrounding poor Cyrano?’