Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  “Robinson Crusoe contains a number of stock characters,” Escott explained, “the ship’s crew, villagers, pirates, immortals, and the like – and the company required additional players to round out the large cast.”

  Upon seeing the advertisement, Escott applied to Watley himself and, thanks in equal parts to the actor’s British upbringing and his theatrical experience, was immediately hired. In keeping with the tradition of the pantomime, he was to play the part of sea cook, pirate, and one-legged man all rolled into one.

  Silly though the panto may have been, it was thanks to that production of Robinson Crusoe that Escott learned how to contort not only his face, but also his body. To appear to be missing a limb, he was fitted with a leather, belt-like harness that kept his right-leg pulled up behind him. Connected to the harness was the wooden-leg itself, its shallow, concave top serving as a small platform for supporting his right knee. A skirt-like coat concealed all of this paraphernalia but the peg-leg, and Escott said it didn’t take long to get used to hobbling about. Indeed, he came to like the illusion, but once a performance ended, he admitted no hesitation in removing the harness and stretching out his liberated limb.

  Booth’s Theatre provided a brief respite from the weather, but not a complete one. At the performance Jones and I attended that Sunday evening, not only could you hear the rain pummelling the theatre’s roof, but you could also look round the auditorium and see the countless empty seats. And yet, as Lucretius tells us, Ut quod ali cibus est aliis fuat acre venemum. [One’s man’s meat is another man’s poison.] Safely ensconced inside the theatre, Jones and I were not complaining. On the contrary, once the gaslights were turned down, the scarcely-populated hall allowed the two of us the opportunity to improve our seating.

  The performance offered much diversion full of action, song, and dance. But through it all, the audience kept a collective eye on the minor role played with gusto by Escott. With a ridiculous wooden parrot of emerald green attached to his shoulder, the actor would convincingly thump his way across the stage, eagerly flip into the air stage-prop pancakes made of cloth, and menacingly utter fierce growls whilst brandishing an ominous blade.

  So fearsome an aspect did Escott project (in spite of the silly parrot) that members of the audience would shout out to warn the innocent Robinson Crusoe, “Hist! There he is!” and “Be careful!” Such calls were particularly easy to distinguish in the half-empty hall, and Robinson Crusoe, played by a young lady, would flit away in the nick of time. As a consequence, the sea-cook and the rest of the pirates, supposedly motivated by drink, broke into some sort of garbled song-and-laboured-dance about the evils they planned to perform the next time they caught up to Crusoe – something about a number of sailors on a “Dead man’s chest” and a refrain of “Yo ho ho and barrels of rum”. Of course, the audience, however depleted, loved it.

  As did Jones and I – so much so, in fact, that when the performance had ended, I sent my card backstage – it contained my true name – to enquire if I might greet the actors. After all, it was not as if I was unknown in artistic circles. When Jones learned that I was a recognised author, however, he offered no inclination to share the limelight and said he would await me in the lobby.

  It was William Escott who, upon hearing my name, had told the stage manager to allow my admission. He was able to identify me by dint of having attended a reading of mine at Hatchards and, after removing his false leg and giving the real limb a few swings, he took the lead in introducing me to the rest of the company.

  “Your panto was just the antidote I craved,” said I to a collection of pirates, cannibals, and villagers. “I’ve been at sea for ten depressing days. I only just arrived this afternoon.”

  Scattered applause greeted my explanation.

  “In fact, I’m leaving for California tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” someone said.

  “What’s in California?” asked another.

  “Fanny Osbourne,” I answered without thinking. “The woman I love.”

  A warm-hearted sigh embraced me, and not a few female performers did the same. Yet people had their jobs to perform, and even as some of the men patted me on the shoulder or put an arm round my waist in congratulations, the stagehands began moving props about in preparation for shutting down the set.

  It took about a quarter-hour for the farewells to dissipate, but with the auditorium empty and the actors ready to leave, I offered my final compliments and began to move towards the exit and my meeting with Jones.

  It was then that the trouble began.

  Reaching the wings to my left, I patted my pockets, as men are wont to do to check on their contents. Suddenly, I stopped and methodically began searching in earnest within all the pockets of my trousers, jacket, and raincoat.

  “My wallet’s missing!” I shouted. “My railway ticket is inside.”

  All the players on the stage instantly froze. Then there was chatter, and then there were people looking at the floor to see if the wallet had simply fallen out of my clothes. An usher dashed to the rear of the theatre to the seat I had initially occupied and then to the seat I had later appropriated. In neither case did he find anything.

  Watley muttered something about sending for the police, but Escott, harbouring a gleam in his grey eyes, immediately spoke up.

  “Let’s try solving this problem on our own,” said he. “We don’t need the authorities to settle the matter.”

  Watley’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Escott took the expression as one of approval and immediately directed the stagehands to commandeer the exits so no one could leave the stage. He then asked all the actors to assemble before the scrim. It was strange to see people gathering in front of a background that depicted the shingle of a deserted island. Some had already changed into their street clothes, and even I understood that the process had provided them an opportunity for hiding the pilfered billfold, a supposition that provoked Escott to request that a pair of workmen canvass the dressing areas. It was apparent from his lack of interest in the search, however, that he believed anyone trying to make off with the wallet would more than likely still have it on his person in order to facilitate a quick escape.

  At the same time Escott began manoeuvring people about, Jones reappeared at a rear door. My outburst had obviously summoned him back into the auditorium. You must know that I never considered him capable of stealing my billfold. I would never believe the man could do me such a wrong, but for good measure his absence from the stage ruled him out as a suspect. Even now he displayed the common sense to occupy a seat at the back and not become involved in the confusion. On the contrary, he understood that yet another stage performance – a more serious production – was about to begin.

  “I suggest, Mr. Watley,” Escott now said, “that first we begin by searching the group. We might ask Miss Ross to conduct the service for the women. Her Crusoe costume is so form-fitting that it precludes any opportunity for hiding away a billfold.”

  The young woman blushed, but began to assemble the other females in the cast. Escott himself began to group the men together. In retrospect, such actions must have been a diversion. For after he had placed his arm about one man’s shoulders and ushered him to centre stage, it seemed obvious that Escott had reached a preliminary conclusion.

  James Flint had already exchanged his pirate’s costume for tweed coat and trousers and was carrying a raincoat in preparation for departing. With chiselled high cheekbones, a strong chin, flashing eyes, and luxuriant black hair, he had many of the features required for major roles. But standing barely five feet high, he remained too short.

  “Mr. Flint,” said Escott. “Might we check your pockets? You – ”

  Before he could say anymore, the actor pulled a brown-leather billfold from inside his coat. With a mocking grin, he announced, “Just my own wallet,” and he held it high in the air for all to see.

  Escott looked at me questioningly.

  “Mine’s black,” said I, shaking
my head.

  “Let’s see what your other pockets hold.”

  Flint turned out all his pockets, maintaining his grin all the while.

  But Escott was not to be denied. With the silly wooden parrot flopping on his shoulder, he turned and began to stride towards the back of the stage. His short trek was uphill as the floor was raked about five degrees. The rest of the company followed, and after some ten steps, he pointed downward.

  “Here!” he announced to the self-appointed audience. His eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with pink. But only for a moment.

  Just as Escott bent forward, Flint leapt upon him, knocking the parrot to the floor in the process. The villain was grasping a fearsome knife and, holding his hand low, brought the six inches of steel up into Escott’s chest. I myself witnessed the knife pushed in all the way to the handle, a thrust that could not fail to penetrate the poor man’s heart.

  Screams and shouts filled the auditorium, as a burly stagehand grabbed Flint from behind and pulled him away from Escott. The knife clattered to the floor, and I expected to see gouts of blood gush from poor Escott’s chest. Instead, he rose to his feet and with the calmest of demeanours faced a circle of raised brows and wide-open eyes.

  “You – you’re all right then, William?” Nelly asked. “How can that be? I saw the knife enter your body.”

  Hushed voices and bobbing heads echoed her observation.

  “Sleight of hand,” Escott explained with a dry chuckle. “I suspected Flint from the start. He was already dressed and too eager to leave. I was able to check his pockets when I escorted him to centre-stage. I thought he might have concealed a weapon along with the missing wallet. I found no wallet, but encountered the knife. It was mere child’s play to substitute my prop with the retractable blade for the real item. He acted so quickly against me that he had no chance to detect the switch.”

  Flint struggled all the more mightily to free himself – fortunately, to no avail.

  “I can only assume such behavior confirms his guilt. Shall we see?”

  Standing on sawdust that had been used to appear as sand, Escott had positioned himself a foot downstage from the trap door, the onstage egress to the storage room below the boards. Through just such an opening, many a dramatic entrance or exit has occurred. Shakespeare’s ghosts materialize from there, bodies are “buried” in its maw. Tonight, however, Escott seemed to believe it served as a cache for the stolen wallet, and raising the trapdoor, he ran his fingers round the moulding just inside the cavity.

  “Bah!” he ejaculated. For inside that opening, he had found nothing. He searched again, but reached the same result. “It has to be here,” I heard him mutter just before he jumped down into the trap room.

  I moved close enough to the opening to see the odd table, small bits of scenery, and a few colourful costumes lying about.

  “No need for a thorough search in here,” he announced from below, his voice muffled by the subterranean enclosure. “Flint didn’t have enough time to be too clever.”

  Escott climbed out empty-handed, and yet a look of genuine surprise appeared on Flint’s face. Almost immediately, however, it transformed into a broad smile.

  “No wallet, eh, Escott?” he declaimed, squirming in the arms of his holder. He might have been orating in the midst of a play. “May I ask why you thought it was I who took it? Why you felt you could besmirch my good name in front of my dear colleagues?”

  Escott looked momentarily puzzled. “In the world of detection, Mr. Flint,” said he at last, “there is much to be learned from observing trouser knees. Yours, sir, are dripping with sawdust, sawdust precisely the same as that scattered on the floor near the trap door. Anyone can see that you were on your knees by the opening.”

  The stagehand let go, and immediately Flint brushed the legs of his trousers clean. “Proves nothing, does it?” said he.

  Escott’s eyes turned back to scan the assembled actors. He was obviously seeking out yet another thief. Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdim. [From the frying pan into the fire.] Slowly, he scrutinised their appearances. If he could not produce an alternative culprit, I assumed that he and the young actress would have to search them all. But suddenly Escott turned to face white-bearded Bennie Gunn, the actor who had played a shipwrecked old sailor. He was still dressed in his costume of heavy blue cotton trousers and white billowing shirt.

  “Do you mind, Mr. Gunn?” Escott asked.

  Gunn looked quizzical as Escott examined the sleeves of the man’s shirt. Even I could detect the dark stains at the right cuff, which Escott was then sniffing. “Darjeeling, I should judge.”

  Immediately, the man pulled his arm back and sprang for the stairs downstage that led to the auditorium and the exit. I saw Jones begin to rise in the back although I could not fathom what he might do if Gunn were actually to reach him. But the actor never even got to the steps. Another of the stagehands blocked his escape, grabbing him round his upper arms.

  Escott now made his way to the dull brass samovar that stood on a table in the wings.

  “This container is generally full of tea before a performance,” said he, resting his palm on the top, “and generally tapped out by the end.” So saying, he carefully raised the lid, peered inside, and nodded. “Dry,” he announced, “but not completely empty.” He proceeded to thrust his hand inside and plucked out a black leather wallet, which he held up for all to see.

  “That’s it!” I cried, dashing towards him. “That’s mine. You can see my tickets inside – though not much else.”

  Indeed, there was little money to attract a thief. But then a thief cannot detect a wallet’s contents in advance. Escott did produce what was in the wallet: My ticket for the next day’s evening-ferry to Jersey City, my railway ticket for travel from thence to San Francisco, and my cancelled ticket from the ship Devonia. There could be no doubt that the billfold was mine.

  “Well done, Escott,” said I as he handed it over. To the man’s great embarrassment, the entire theatre company broke into applause.

  “You may have found the wallet, Escott,” snarled Gunn, “but you can’t prove it was I who stole it.”

  “I mentioned trouser-knees before, did I not? In my eagerness to confront Flint, I neglected to mention the equally important cuffs of shirtsleeves. There is much to be learned from them as well as from knees. It was Flint who initially pickpocketed the wallet and placed it beneath the trap door. But it was Gunn who, having watched all this transpire, removed the wallet from Flint’s hiding place and hid it in the dry samovar – though not carefully enough to prevent some errant tea from staining his right-sleeve cuff. I have no doubt that after removing his costume, he would have gone straight to the samovar to retrieve his booty.”

  Watley now took command of his company, issuing orders to the stagehands regarding Gunn and Flint: “Throw them out! The both of them. Take them to the alley in the back.”

  Grabbing the thieves by the shoulders, the big men shoved the two down the stage and off into the wings. Moments later, we could hear the rear door open and the rush of falling rain. A wet smell wafted onto the stage. Then there were thudding sounds of bodies being struck and the slam of a door.

  “Well done, sir!” Watley crowed, slapping Escott on the back. “Well done, indeed! No need for the police when William Escott is present, eh?”

  Amidst a final cascade of compliments, the members of the cast began to disperse. The moment offered me the opportunity to express my own appreciation.

  “I’d like to thank you, Mr. Escott,” I said. “Perhaps you would honour me as a my guest for a late-night dinner. If you can recommend a place within my meagre means, I would be happy to host you.”

  Escott clasped my hand. “I would be more than happy to spend the time with you, sir,” said he, “but there’s no need for you to go to any such expense. I shall pay my own way.”

  I am afraid that a blush crossed my face, and I scratched at my hands. This clever fellow had alread
y noted the economical status of my travel tickets – the second-class cabin arrangements aboard the Devonia and the seat aboard one of the infamous “emigrant trains”. Everyone knew that such a railway was devised to convey the newly arrived – and therefore the most frugal of people – westward in the least expensive manner imaginable. Yet if Escott recognized that my claim to literary recognition had so far produced no outward signs of monetary success, he kept silent on the matter.

  “My father,” I explained. “He’s cut off my allowance. He doesn’t approve of this romantic journey – or, for that matter, of my decision to drop law in favour of writing.”

  “We each must follow our own paths,” Escott observed.

  The actor requested a few minutes to exchange his sea-cook’s costume for more traditional garb. He soon reappeared, and after yet again being congratulated by the remaining members of the troupe, he donned his mackintosh and deerstalker, such as I had seen growing up in Scotland, a unique affair with bills in front and back and earflaps that tied together at the top. Jones and I put on our own macs and flat caps and, thus prepared to face the drenched streets of New York City, set out to find a restaurant that fit my requirements.

  In fact, Escott knew a French establishment not far from the theatre. Indeed, one glance at the bill of faire and I realised the restaurant would fulfil my culinary desires as well as my financial requirements. Once inside, I placed my skullcap, frayed as the gold braid clearly was, atop my head again and joined Escott and Jones in a most satisfactory repast. It was, in fact, during this meal that Escott reported to us the salient facts about his life that I presented to you earlier – the details of his acting career, his visit to Hatchards, his trip to New York City, and his interest in becoming a consulting detective.