They were only just in time. A shade, this time carrying no light, just a shade in the shade, passed. It passed close to them, near enough to touch them.
They felt the warmth of its cloak upon them. For they could distinguish the shade sufficiently to see that it wore a cloak which shrouded it from head to foot. On its head it had a soft felt hat…
It moved away, drawing its feet against the walls and sometimes giving a kick into a corner.
"Whew!" said the Persian. "We've had a narrow escape; that shade knows me and has twice taken me to the managers' office."
"Is it some one belonging to the theater police?" asked Raoul.
"It's some one much worse than that!" replied the Persian, without giving any further explanation. [5]
The dark passageways of the opera house cellars, as shadowy, twisted, and treacherous as they were, became, in their labyrinthine depths, an empire onto themselves. It was an empire mined by old door-closers with their gnarled hands, and those demons confined to the furnaces; it was an empire ripe for the taking for one who knew it as well as he.
The swarthy gentleman now observing these cellars, in proper evening dress except for the odd little red cap on his head where a top hat should be, was known exclusively as The Persian. He was regarded as such because that was exactly what he was, Persian, but also because foreigners were something of a curiosity in the opera house and the name made sure to illuminate this stature.
At that very moment, this dark-skinned novelty was holding aloft a hooded and dimmed lantern in a stone corridor far below the revelry that was happening above after that evening's wildly successful performance. Curious, indeed. Yet, he was not the he to which the opera cellars could conceivably belong to; The Persian was merely following in the footsteps of that one.
Ahead, a figure walked so quickly and quietly amongst the forgotten structures and set paintings that he could easily be mistaken for a specter. But The Persian knew better; he knew that he was following Erik. So, picking his steps very carefully, he attempted to maneuver the darkness just as sensibly. This was not his first time following Erik into the depths, but he felt confident that this would be the time when that stealthy trickster would show him the means by which he vanished from the cellars and into his own domain. He hoped to be shown the door to Erik's house.
But, as he pushed aside a moldy curtain strung between two rigging devices, a flickering light to his left distracted him. It was not inconceivable that there would be someone else down this deep – it was the fireman's job to patrol, after all – but one had just finished his round earlier. The Persian felt Erik had timed his own descent at precisely this moment to avoid such a confrontation as had happened earlier in the week.
With a quick glance, The Persian realized he was much closer than he'd initially realized to the two men – for that is who was there. The lantern that had distracted him was sat on a stack of boxes between them, as if it were a lamp on an end table and this were an office, not a cellar.
"… it is in the interest of the Admiralty, though we've yet to find the proper initiative for a go on the project. You will let the War Office know, of course…" One of them said. He was a stout man, dressed as if he meant to suffocate himself, and he had a large mustache that he wiggled nervously as he spoke.
"Should they come to me, I would only be so delighted—what, ho, who's there?" His companion, impossibly even stouter than the first, picked up the lantern from the boxes and tipped it to shine in The Persian's direction.
Assailed by the sudden light out of the darkness, The Persian only had a moment to glance in the other direction and note that Erik's silhouette had completely disappeared. There would be no finding the trapdoor to the house this evening. So, with a quick turn on his heel, he went back the way he had come so as to keep the direction Erik had gone to himself.
The man continued to hold the lantern up for several low seconds after the edge of The Persian's cloak had long disappeared.
"Do you think he was listening? Do you think he's a spy?" His friend asked.
"No, he was startled to see us."
"But he was only there a moment!"
"And yet, he was startled in that moment. However, I still feel moved to caution. You may go back up, see to your wife. I imagine she has made her rounds by now and has, in that, asked for you twice. Here. This will do." And he handed over a wine glass whose contents had clearly been emptied recently.
The man took it with a nod. "As you say, Mr. Holmes." He left by way of the cellar stairs, stumbling slightly.
When he was fully gone, Mycroft retained his grip on the lantern and stepped in the direction where the mysterious stranger had appeared. He still didn't believe him to be a spy, there to gain British military secrets, but that certainly did not lessen the possibility that he was there with shady intentions.
At the spot where the man had been, Mycroft observed the stranger's height by where he'd clearly gripped an old curtain. He knew that he'd been carrying a lantern but had been trying to walk quietly; his footprints were heavily biased towards the toe – a sharp toe – and well polished – it had reflected the man's downward aimed light. So, he was nicely dressed. A gentleman. This gave him even less reason to be down here so deep in the cellars during a riveting performance upstairs.
Since he'd been interrupted, the stranger had not been able to get where he wanted. Acting on this, Mycroft inserted himself in the exact spot the man had been when caught. From that angle, he surmised the direction he'd been going.
By this point, the portly figure of Mycroft Holmes had grown quite tired of this dipping and shuffling around. This was a craft better suited for his brother, who enjoyed a good poking about to supplement his slightly less immense intellect. But, with some huffing and puffing, he managed to convince himself – with this image of his brother in his mind – to at least walk a short distance towards the stranger's predicted target.
He'd gone quite a few paces past his mark when he hit upon a peculiar artifact. At his feet, abandoned as if it had served its purpose and could now be buried here with the other opera relics, was a lady's fan.
The stranger was chasing a lady? How odd, indeed. At first glance, he never would have taken him for a scoundrel – beyond the obvious trek where no gentleman usually wandered.
It was a rendezvous, then – and not a very good one, at that. Despite that which the brilliant reasoning in his mind might have debated, Mycroft determined that this was, at best, a petty matter and not one worth his time. He delighted, rather, in finding his way back to the civilized levels of the building and lighting himself an expensive cigar.
The cigar had not, however, amused the hefty agent for very long before his dark stranger was once again presented to him.
He'd surfaced from the cellars, well satisfied with his goings-on, and thought to lean himself against some grand pillar and observe the patrons. Up here, the crowd was what you might expect from such an occasion. Women in all their finery chattered together, escorted across the rooms by their courtly hosts of men all in top hats. The managers were present to help coax more money from their well-off subscribers, as well as the prima donna herself, surrounded by a bevy of adoring fans crying 'La Carlotta, La Carlotta' at her every gesture. She was a vain creature, Mycroft decided, which was not entirely undeserved, but certainly overplayed.
It was after this first overview of the room that he saw the stranger. Here, in this light, he could see several more details – the least of which, that his so polished shoes were scuffed in odd places, actually being the most interesting. Besides landing precisely on his unusual heritage, Mycroft also began to unconsciously determine that the man was not a ladies' one.
Those markedly intense green eyes seemed to scan the crowd as a whole, lingering on not a single bosom. Nor did he much react when a flock of ballerinas naughtily broke out from their lounge and scurried across the foyer, rustling old women's skirts and smelling of tiny shots of booze.
More than that: he didn't react but the ballerinas, now, they gave the stranger such a distinctly wide berth, skittering away from his gaze like insects under a spy glass. This could have presented itself as evidence that he'd somehow gained a reputation playing around with the fairer sex, so much so that now their gossip ostracized him, but this was not the impression Mycroft got from it.
With some idle frustration, he knew he thought the case to be curiouser than that.
Figuring he'd eventually have to leave anyhow, Mycroft began to walk in the stranger's direction, thinking he might, in passing, strike up a conversation and put some of his observations to light.
But, even as he watched, the man marked the other's approaching footsteps and removed himself from the room by some way the agent couldn't catch. What a trick!
Harrumphing quietly, the less than detective decided to get comfortable where he was before the next mood struck him. As he was thrusting his thumb into his waistcoat pocket, he noticed that, from this new position, he could see above the stairs to some high-up balcony no one appeared to be occupying. No one, that is, unless you, like Mycroft, could carefully take note of the way the shadows fell on the wall as if in the shape of a man's shoulder as he hunched over something.
There was a sudden tugging at Mycroft's coat, distracting him from the sight. He was somewhat surprised to see the source was one of the ballerinas, strayed from the pack. She was all sticks for limbs and rosy cheeks. They flushed with deeper color now as she leaned into her grip on the agent's jacket.
"You don't want to follow him, monsieur, not The Persian. He'll give you the evil eye and break both your legs!"
"Excuse me, the evil eye?" Mycroft postured, a bit bemused. She only nodded so exaggeratedly there was a brief fear her head might bob right off her skinny neck. When she seemed about to flee, he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. "But, if you know him so well—perhaps you know what interest that balcony up there has to a man with the evil eye." And he brought her hand up to point to the one.
She couldn't barely have seen even a twitch of the man's shadow above the railing before she gave such a shriek and tore away across the room wailing, "It's the ghost! It's the ghost!"
After the spectacle he'd been presented with on the foyer, there was no choice left to Mycroft but to inquire about this prophesied 'ghost' figure. He did his asking at the managers' office, because he'd already needed to head there and no ghost was worth buggering up one's schedule – not if you had a sensible one.
"Yes, there's a ghost," the manager known as Debienne informed him. "And he kindly requests a salary each month."
"A salary, you say?" Mycroft chuckled, "For what, haunting the place?"
"It's just his salary."
"And you pay it?"
"Well, we wou—well, we haven't any choice, now have we." Concluded the manager known as Poligny, who looked twice as shaken as his partner.
"You really believe this, don't you? You poor fellow." Mycroft could get little else out of them except that they were truly, exceptionally frightened and at wits end what to do about it. He wasn't sure, but he thought perhaps the fear was not of outright death but something more personal – being French, they found many things more personal, none of which they felt should be aired in public. No, something else was going on here.
As soon as he felt that feeling – that bile in his mouth that was the suggestion of gumption – he knew what would settle this.
Being quite as important as he was, Mycroft was able to get his letter sent out in secret channels satisfyingly quicker than those silly civilian ones. And, because he was putout from all this excitement, he required the reply get to him on report that it was highly classified.
So, within days, he was reading this response:
"My dear brother,
You were right to think that the tale of this ghostly presence has more to it, and that I'm intrigued to discover what it is. However, as the specter is so demure as to only request money rather than something slightly more unfortunate, I regretfully must inform you that I am quite occupied in a scheme to root out a mad plotter before he ruins some poor couple's lives on what should be their happiest day – though you know my views on that union meant for other men who are not you or I. Watson is, of course, especially sentimental and I do never poke at him when he is thusly inflated by impracticality.
I am reassured in knowing that you are there in my absence, dear brother. Wouldn't you put your also not inconsiderable intelligence to the matter? I would so like to be entertained by the details in those slow moments when I am waiting for a trap to be sprung. Perhaps Watson will even write one of his insufferable romantic's tales about it. I promise he is always most discreet where he needs to be ( he's much too busy embellishing elsewhere ).
Speaking of your circles, everyone here is talking about how Disraeli is dead, but I'm sure you already knew that – as well as how that Marquess of Salisbury is poised to replace him.
Always,
Sherlock
P.S. That man, the one whose son's age you corrected me on the evening before you left, I'm still not entirely convinced you didn't pluck that out of thin air to get a rise from me."
A rich letter, indeed. Not only was Mycroft being compelled to put forth more energy into the matter, but also post accused of being so cheap as to play tricks during a game. It was a game he should apparently take more time to play with his brother, if he was so unused to being wrong when still so young.
As Mycroft was folding the piece of paper, a very somber looking man passed him. The only stain on this workman's clothes was from being thus occupied in work. He probably hadn't touched an ounce of liquor in his life.
Feeling this was qualification enough to be trusted, the agent approached the man as he began to go about his business striking and moving the old sets.
"Hey, there, stagehand."
"Monsieur, do you need something?"
"A chore, a trifle, really. I think I've left something of mine in the cellars, the third level. A spot towards the back where it seems the sets such as this are propped very closely to the backdrops. Certainly you know the area better than me, and are already headed there, aren't you?"
"I am, not there, precisely. But I will go." And he rubbed his two fingers together, after which Mycroft slipped a couple franc notes into his pocket. As the British man was turning away, the stagehand called him back. "Sir, what am I looking for?"
"Oh, I'm sure even you will know it when you see it."
The next evening Mycroft thought he might entertain himself with buying out a box and taking in some of the Parisian talent while he was there. Afterwards, he, clutching his brother's letter as motivation, stuffed a warmer felt hat onto his head, and strolled down to the cellars to see if anything came of that, as well.
Then he did the same the next day.
It came to be something of a hobby for him, and he got to know a good portion of the cellars rather well. One day he became too lazy to retrieve his lantern, and he noticed he no longer needed one.
When Richard came to consult him as to the new nominations for the House of Lords, he took that meeting also backstage and, turning right around, found himself confronted with his stagehand friend.
"You're blessed or cursed, monsieur, you lead me right to the ghost, himself."
"Yes, I thought I might do that."
He was then regaled with the tale of such a frightfully deformed monstrosity in such low sincere tones that he did not doubt the sight, only the myth. It was clearly a man, for what does a ghost need with a salary, but a man in a mask? Mycroft had originally imagined a disgruntled employee – the only reason to hang around after receiving your blackmail – and this worn deformation could easily keep his identity hidden from those in the building that could recognize him.
But what was he digging around in the cellars all the time for? Burying treasure or some other nonsense? It was immediately clear, at the tale's end, that trap doors of some sort were being utilized for all the moving about. In reaction, Mycroft took to kicking at the walls once in a while during his daily stroll of the cellars. Should, by chance, he loose one of the mechanisms for moving about, well, then he'd have it. If not… then he wouldn't.
During one such excursion, he got lazy and forgot to kick for several yards. To make up for it, he veered very suddenly to the side when he remembered and put his feet right up to the wall.
Something disconnected from the wall and seemed to float off to the side. When Mycroft brought his lantern to bear, he saw it was, in fact, another person. In fact, it was the dark-skinned stranger: the Persian. Mycroft had been going to pass right by him, none the wiser, except for his random occupation with the wall that time.
"It's you," the agent frowned, "And up against the wall, like an inmate." Could he have done it on purpose, to avoid Mycroft? He knew, then, that the space he'd chosen to stand in would not catch the light as someone walked by unless they were looking very closely – closer than anyone bothered. He was also here often.
"Excuse me…" the man intoned smoothly, nodding his head in overly modest posturing. He also began to back up.
Mycroft's suspicions overwhelmed him; it was the suffering of having such a sharp mind. "Now, hold on. You're lost. I happen to know this exact way, I will take you." He gestured back the way he'd come.
There was the tiniest, miniscule twitch at the Persian's mouth. His gaze flickered over Mycroft's imposing arm to the dark path beyond and then back.
"If monsieur insists…"
"Monsieur does."
"Too kind."
So the two men walked back up to the main opera house floor, in the guise of one escorting the other. Where they would have parted ways, however, Mycroft directed the man down another hallway, instead, and presented him to the managers' door.
The managers, Debienne and Poligny, seemed little concerned as to what a man might be doing in their opera cellars as long as that man was from some other country, which he clearly was. They did, however, find it in themselves to inquire as to whether Messr. Holmes' business was quite yet concluded.
Outside the door, Mycroft stopped the man with a hand on his arm again.
"Further escort will not be necessary…" the Persian insisted gently, eyeing the grip. Mycroft could see in the other's eyes that they were sizing each other up at precisely the same moment.
At the conclusion of these separate but entwined examinations, there was a silent understanding between them that both knew the other was up to something more than was being let on in polite conversation.
"No, I suppose it won't." Mycroft said, and he let go of the Persian's arm.
By the next time he saw the mysterious man, Mycroft had begun to lose interest. This seemed a petty matter now that he'd run out of new shows to attend and he had no idea why his brother cared at all. When he noted that evening that the Persian was not going into the cellars but, instead, going outside, he took the effort to ask to where that path might lead. The name 'Rue Scribe' didn't sound worth investigating at all, and so Mycroft determinedly decided off the man entirely.
Also by this time, he had managed to work up a second correspondence, to which he now received the response. The note opened to read:
"My dear brother,
Sounds like you have come onto something, indeed, though your report was missing several crucial facts I would have looked into directly, myself. You always were too comfortable in your mind to do anything with it.
Naturally, my own case is squared away. Watson and I are going to conclude the whole affair by going to see that new Gilbert and Sullivan piece opening tonight. Perhaps, then, our paths may cross, brother. But I wouldn't want to spoil a surprise; it is so hard, after all, for men with our repertoire to come upon one.
Always,
Sherlock
P.S. I have checked, you were right. I see it. I've been so stupid."
As far as Mycroft was concerned, that was the end of that. His brother could complain all he wanted, but this British agent had pursued each lead he'd happened upon with as much gumption as could be expected a gentleman. Besides, it was painfully obvious from this letter that Sherlock would arrive shortly. He imagined he'd pull that unfortunate Watson from the second act of Patience, having already had their things packed.
So satisfied with this conclusion, the man opted for one more opera send-off before he made his way to his next destination, equally classified and requiring that England's dignitaries travel all sorts of routes just to find him and ask him a question on their own government.
Having already missed a good portion of the first act from deliberating carefully on the act of drinking and receiving his brother's letter, Mycroft decided that this last performance would be the next evening's, instead. He put his hand on the railing and pulled himself along down the stairs towards the lower tier. As he was nearing a row of box doors, there was a stir of movement from the corner of his eye. Glancing idly over, Mycroft spotted the Persian, of all people. Oh well. He was not so terrible after all, was he?
About to tip his hat to the man, Mycroft became immediately distracted by a spectacle as it began to appear over the man's shoulder. At first there was nothing, then there was most certainly the greenish hued color of skin as it stretched across an ill-shaped jaw. Only a flash of red eyes like two pinpricks of fire before the figure – for that's what it was – turned and vanished, pulling a loose cape around himself to blend into the shadows.
Turning as if he were absolutely unaware of his gruesome company, The Persian also pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and followed the same path.
Rotten luck! Mycroft thought. Now I am obligated to be suspicious of him all over again.
He did, after all, attend the performance the next evening. Or rather, the strains of sound from the stage managed to find him where he stalked the cellars as they seeped through every crack, serenading those who worked below and could only imagine the staging in their minds.
Mycroft swept the whole cellar corridors with new, uncharacteristic fervor. This Persian fellow had given him the runaround once before and he couldn't just let the slip go by. It seemed especially pertinent with his brother surely on his way at that very moment. Nonsense was the business the younger Holmes was in, but he still found ways to screw Mycroft's head around it when they were together.
He was muttering inside his head and sweeping his voluminous cloak around when he was sure he heard something. Footsteps, no, hoof-steps. That was most peculiar. Mycroft followed the sound, into depths he had previously not traversed. The way going was tougher, without the comfort of the lantern he'd gone accustomed to not carrying, so by the time he'd heaved his way further the sound had gone off into the distance and then left entirely.
Since he was already in a downward momentum, Mycroft continued walking. Eventually, he'd hit some kind of natural snag that would turn him around. To accent the stroll, he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it enthusiastically.
He was rounding a slow ramp that circled a large open underground courtyard when he spotted movement ahead. Picking himself up from the ground, brushing his coat off and shaking his head – it seemed like The Persian was just recovering from something most disorienting. Well! More to his misfortune.
Mycroft came to a slow, ambling stop several feet away and waited for the darker man's head to rise properly and for his intense eyes to spot him. Plunging eyebrows instantly identified the man's discontent.
"This time, sir, you are even more lost." Mycroft posed amiably.
"Perhaps, this time, I am," the Persian allowed, dry tone to his graciousness, as he glanced over his shoulder at the closed up well in the center of the courtyard. It had some significance to him, one not instantly gleaned and therefore ignored by the British man staring him down.
"Then I will help you."
"I had a feeling you would."
Once again, the two strolled side-by-side back towards the light. The visibly shaken foreigner was preoccupied this round, letting much more of his irritation at the situation show as they went. The higher that they got, the more he would lift his shoulders and then release a sigh worthy of Atlas.
"Men with such weights do well to confess them," Mycroft informed him generously.
"There exist secrets not meant for the world of men."
"Oh? Do they do better in the world of ghosts and spirits?"
To which Mycroft received a hard look and no further answer. The rest of the walk they took in silence, which served both just fine.
When they were again among others, Mycroft found that steering their path into crowded areas only caused him to become mysteriously and stealthily separated from his companion, and it required a firm corralling to get the Persian to the managers' door this second time around.
After several severe knocks, they were allowed in.
After several severe words, Mycroft got to state his case.
Dim-witted and wide-eyed, Debienne and Poligny asked him what day of the week it was and if they were going crazy. He informed them that they were, in fact, correct in remembering that this had all happened before, and that they would be negligent in their duties not to do something about the proper policing of their properties.
Twisting his hands, Poligy said this wasn't his area of authority.
Pulling at his mustache, Debienne said it was out of his hands.
Without so much as a polite warning, The Persian had wandered off.
At the end of his patience, and his cigar, Mycroft could only wonder how it was the French people got along at all, so open to peculiarities as they were.
- [5] Like the Persian, I can give no further explanation touching the apparition of this shade. Whereas, in this historic narrative, everything else will be normally explained, however abnormal the course of events may seem. I can not give the reader expressly to understand what the Persian meant by the words, "It is someone much worse than that!" The reader must try to guess for himself, for I promised M. Pedro Gailhard, the former manager of the Opera, to keep his secret regarding the extremely interesting and useful personality of the wandering, cloaked shade which, while condemning itself to live in the cellars of the Opera, rendered such immense services to those who, on gala evenings, for instance, venture to stray away from the stage. I am speaking of state services; and, upon my word of honor, I can say no more.