The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python
Chapter Nine
Entirely as I had anticipated, the simple task of making a statement for the official record took a good deal longer than it should have done.
I was left for a goodly while in a cold, sparsely-furnished room while Lestrade wandered off to find someone to take down my account of finding the dead knife-thrower, Mr Young. I suspected an ulterior motive in my treatment, that it was to be hoped that I would be intimidated by my surroundings into confessing all. I was not in the slightest deceived by Lestrade's suddenly affable manner; outwardly, he was all smiles, and yet I was well aware he was still eyeing me up as his principal suspect.
With no good reason to detain me, he was forced, somewhat reluctantly to let me go. By the time I arrived back at the theatre, I had barely an hour before curtain up. I could only rue the fact that another day had been wasted. The prospect of another performance lifted my mood somewhat, and I had to wonder if I was not starting to enjoy it a little too much.
Certainly there was something that caused a worm of pleasure to weave itself about my insides. My senses thrilled to the smoky atmosphere of the stage lit by the lime lamps, to the smell of the grease paint, that moment before stepping out before the audience when the heart is wont to hammer so hard within one's chest and finally that feeling of exultation to hear the cheer of the crowd and to take a bow before a sea of clapping hands.
For all those who doubted Merrivale's wits in eschewing a respectable life in the pursuit of his passion, they could do no better than to spend a few days in his chosen environment. It was a hard heart indeed that failed to be swayed by the allure of it.
This close to curtain up, there was little else I could do but change into my stage outfit and prowl backstage looking for a likely candidate to help me with my inquiries. Most of others were just arriving and had neither the time nor the inclination to oblige my interest.
I drifted aimlessly until the sound of chattering and giggling came to my ears and brought me to a halt. Glancing around the corner, I saw a gathering of the Twickenham Twinkles chorus girls, dressed, ready for their next performance and drinking steaming tea from a selection of Old George's broken cups and mugs.
I will admit that the scene gave me some cause for hesitation. Thus far, my treatment at their hands had been less than polite and more than friendly. Good sense, however, told me that they were likely to be a valuable source of information regarding their fellow performers.
What I needed to know could be within my reach. In order to gain it, I would have to undergo a mauling at their hands.
It was a dismal prospect. How one suffers for one's art!
I stepped out boldly and prepared myself for the worst. As it happened, by initiating contact, I seemed to have gained the upper hand. Used as they were to having to corner their subjects, to have a gentleman willing to sit and sup with them appeared to be a novel experience. They shifted up and made a place for me, a cup was thrust into my grasp, and wandering hands for the moment were kept away from my person.
I must confess that every impression I had formed of the young ladies based on prior meetings was entirely erroneous. Taken off-guard, they were calmer, less inclined to silly fits of giggling, open and eager to gossip.
I had started with the events of the previous evening, at which none of them expressed surprise or showed any particular sense of sorrow for Mr Young's demise. That it had not been done ages ago was the only wonder to them, for he was universally described as being a thoroughly bad lot.
Mrs Webber's name I idly threw into the discussion and found, as I had suspected, that her behaviour backstage was notorious. The girls were certain she had had her claws into all the men who had met their deaths at the Hoxton Hippodrome, with the exception of Mr Young, who was too much of a brute even for her to contemplate.
My mind filled the image of the massive Mr Webber crushing the puny prestidigitator in a bear-like grip in a fit of jealous rage. I was certain I was finally on the right trail, except that it did not explain his motive for the killing of Mr Young, or why a similar pattern of slaying had not been followed with the other victims.
The young lady who I had seen coming out of the room of the theatre manager, Mr Brownlow, seemed to think that Crump the prestidigitator had some hold over him, since his wage was twice that of the other performers. On several occasions, she had witnessed him openly helping himself to a handful of notes from the night's takings, a fact she had mentioned to Brownlow, who made light of the matter. He was being blackmailed then, probably with the threat of exposure about his extra-marital affair. It was another excellent motive for one slaying, but not the others.
Further probing revealed another interesting fact – most of the company seemed to have had other more dubious interests. Kardinski, the escapologist, drowned and consumed by his crabs, had been a noted lothario, taking full advantage of any pretty young thing who came knocking at his door. Jumping Jack Price, the juggler and tumbler, was heavily in debt on account of his love of gambling, and thought nothing of dipping into other performers' pockets when no one was looking.
Worst of all seemed to be the younger Matlock of The Flying Matlocks fame, who had been something of a ne'er-do-well, with a sharp tongue and disdain for the world in general. He had broken the heart of a chorus girl, who, devastated at the deception and ruination of her good name, took her own life by throwing herself into the Thames. A week later, he fell to his death through a hole in the safety net. As for the Amazing Electric Man, himself a victim of his own act, the general consensus was that he was a drunken lout, who had near beaten a man to death for daring to criticise his turn on stage.
If anything, I now had too much information. I could suggest a motive for the murder of any one performer, but not one that in any way linked them. The killings were too random and too diverse in method.
The only thing any of the allegedly murdered performers had in common was that they worked at the Hoxton Hippodrome. Since that vague category could be extended to include all the male members of the company, I could quite see why Merrivale was so anxious.
Since the first 'accident' had been that of young Matlock, I wondered if that had been the spur for the deaths that followed. I was about to question the girls about their feelings towards the fellow when disaster struck. My moustache detached itself from my upper lip and floated down to land on one young lady's foot.
All conversation was forgotten and mayhem took its place. I found myself at the centre of a well-meaning group, who were intent on making me look my best for the stage. Someone had produced a bag of theatrical make-up, which was liberally applied to my face.
I could have protested, although it seemed churlish under the circumstances as they had been so obliging with their information and I was more than pleased when they were able to secure my moustache with the application of a stronger gum. By the time they had finished, the other members of the company were gathering and my appearance was met with general grunts of approval.
Intrigued, I found myself a mirror. The change was startling. A stark white face stared back at me, the cheekbones highlighted by deep shadows in the hollows beneath. My brows were heavy and brooding over eyes the colour of which had been intensified by the application of a little purple powder to the lids.
The effect was somewhat crude – suitable for the stage, but it was not a face I should have liked to encounter in a dark alley. I could see, however, that it did have possibilities. The same applied more sparingly could produce a much more subtle effect. The ability to render myself unrecognisable had the potential for greater practical use in the course of my future investigations.
Success in that department was evidenced by Merrivale's reaction when I turned at the touch of his hand on my shoulder. His hand went to his mouth and he staggered back, only to let out a long sigh of relief when he recognised my face.
"Heavens above, I thought you were the murderer," said he. "You look like death warmed up." He smiled feebly at his inopportune choice of words. "How goes the investigation? Do you know who did it?"
"Everybody and nobody," I said with a weary sigh. "I can find reasons aplenty for the killing of any one particular individual, but not for all six."
"You think it's a madman then? Oh dear, they're hard to spot, aren't they? It could be anyone. Even you, dressed like that."
Whatever answer I had was interrupted by a thunderous banging on the stage door. Old George shuffled out to answer it and in from the snow stumbled a man in his early thirties in black frock coat and dented hat, with his collar awry and his tie missing.
"Friends, Romans and countrymen," this vision proclaimed to all and sundry, "have no fear. I am returned!"
The response to this was muted. Edwin the Almost Human Canine whined and placed his paws over his nose. A drunken Mr Huxtable squinted at him, made a vague disinterested wave of his hand and promptly fell over his own feet to land in the lap of a chorus girl.
"Nothing changes," snorted the newcomer. His eye fixed on me and he lurched over. "Well, well, what have we here? Who is this young Apollo? I don't remember you, young fellow me lad."
Merrivale gave him a dubious look and proceeded with the introductions.
"Holmes, this is Mr Augustus Blythe. Mr Blythe, Mr Sherlock Holmes."
"Delighted to meet you," said the ubiquitous Mr Blythe, shaking me warmly by the hand. "What is it you do around here, young man?"
This close, I was treated to stale breath and the rank odour of a man who had been in the same clothes for several days or more without benefit of soap or water. His eyes were red-rimmed and staring, his pupils reduced to the tiniest of pinpoints. His skin had a pasty pallor and his large hands slightly shook. Around his mouth was an encrustation made up of a mixture of spittle and his last meal. A flea moved lazily along his hairline, seeking out the warmer climate to be found beneath the sweatband of his battered hat.
"I read minds," I replied in answer to his question, withdrawing to a safer distance.
"Well, you'd better not read mine. Can't have you being privy to all my dirty little secrets, can we now? Some of the things I've seen and done would make your hair stand on end." He grinned, revealing brown, decaying teeth. "They call me The Pyromancer, by the way. I know the secrets of fire. Here, hold this."
He had ripped a piece of wood from the frame of Old George's door and thrust it into my hand. Taking a small bottle from his pocket, he dribbled a little of the contents over the sliver I held, and smiled wolfishly.
"Now blow on it. I dare you!"
In all honesty, it seemed a foolhardy thing to do. In the dim light, the drying liquid had a greenish tinge and I already had some inkling of the outcome if I did as Mr Blythe suggested.
Merrivale, however, was a good deal less cautious and huffed on the piece of wood. The liquid evaporated and the sliver I was holding burst into flames, burning my fingers in the process.
Mr Blythe burst out laughing. "My, my, Mr Merry, you have a very hot breath!"
"Not really," said I, stamping on the burning wood to put out the flames. "Yellow phosphorus is highly flammable and is well known for its pyrophoric properties."
"Its pyro what?" asked Merrivale.
"It is self-igniting when exposed to air, which is exactly what occurred when the liquid base of Mr Blythe's 'potion' dried. For that reason, it is also extremely dangerous. I am surprised you carry it in your pocket, sir."
Mr Blythe was clearly impressed by my pronouncement. "That's very clever of you, Mr Holmes," said he. "However did you know all that?"
"Such things are of interest to me," said I. "It is something of a hobby of mine."
"Then you are a rare creature indeed. Would that we were all so high-minded. My inspiration comes from the vilest corners of Limehouse and those dark, fumy rooms where a man might converse with gods and demons."
I had already deduced from his appearance and manner that he had been for some days under the influence of a drug. The flea had suggested opium immediately, for where else might a man attract such a parasite but from close contact with the foul bedding and foul surroundings to be found in many a backstreet den.
"Is that where you've been these past three days?" slurred Mr Huxtable, finally on his feet and staggering towards us. "Mr Brownlow warned you what would happen the last time."
"And the time before that and the time before that," retorted Mr Blythe. "Yet here I am, ready to give the performance of my life. You tell that cavorting theatre manager that The Pyromancer has skills to make the audience weep, idle scum that they are."
From the look of him, I harboured my doubts as to his ability to make it back to his dressing room, let alone onto the stage. He staggered into the bowels of the theatre, much to the relief of all, for the air was much sweeter for his absence.
"Is there anyone normal here?" I asked of Merrivale.
"I am," he declared with some pride, which to my mind was somewhat misplaced.
Certainly he had an abnormally outstanding talent. The remarkable voice housed within his portly frame repeatedly made an impression with the audience and provoked the loudest of applauses. To everyone's surprise, Mr Blythe did make it onto the stage, and both stunned and delighted the onlookers in equal measure. Even Mr Brownlow had to admit grudgingly that the man was good at what he did, thus supplying me with the reason for his toleration of Mr Blythe's less salubrious habits.
My own performance that night was marred by my near confusing a bailiff with a solicitor's clerk. Outwardly, there was no sign of my near error, yet I was keenly aware that lack of sleep and nervous exhaustion were befuddling my mind to the point where I had actually hesitated for a full two seconds before correctly deducing the man's occupation.
The sheer pointlessness of my frittering away my skills in such a frivolous manner, allied with my failure to penetrate the darkness that surrounded the murderer's identity was producing a depressed effect on my soul. What I needed rest and space to think.
With this in mind, I returned immediately to my dressing room, only to be waylaid by the young lad who I had seen earlier washing the knife-thrower's blood from the curtains.
"Clean your boots, gov?" said he in a chirpy voice that sat ill with his thin, haggard appearance that made him seem older than his thirteen years. "Only cost you a penny."
"I can't afford it," I said. "Even at a penny."
"I'd do it fur nuthin," he persisted. "If you'll teach me how you do that thing o'yours. That's what I did for the others."
I was about to refuse as politely as I could, when I was struck by his use of the past tense.
"Others?" I queried. "You mean the men who died?"
"S'right," said he. "Mr Crump, he was going to teach me his magic tricks. Twelve week a'more I polished his boots and not a thing do I have to show for it."
"He reneged on your agreement?"
The boy's face twisted into an expression of confusion.
I rephrased the question. "He broke his word?"
"That he did. Just like all the others. But not you, sir, you're a respectable gent. Anything I can do for you, sir?"
Considering the fate of his previous employers, the proposition was unappealing. I told him I would think about it, added his name to the growing list of suspects and retreated into the safety of my room.
I was down to my shirtsleeves when there came to my ear the faint creak of old hinges being turned and a silent step on the wooden boards. I turned, in full anticipation of attack, and found not some club-wielding demon, but rather Mrs Webber, the Strong Woman of Stoke Poges, standing with her back to the door and regarding me with the look of hungry lioness.
She had, I noticed, discarded her powdered wig, although she still wore her stage dress of shot silk and green velvet.
"Mrs Webber, how may I help you?" said I.
"You retired early, young man," she purred, running her copious tongue over her full red lips. "Did you think I would not notice?"
Quite why she should think that important quite escaped me, but clearly she had something in mind and I held out a hope that it might be the very thing to finally solve this tangled mystery.
"Very observant of you, madam."
She grinned, cat-like, revealing the gaps in her yellow teeth.
"And you knew that I would come, didn't you, you naughty boy?"
Ah-ha, this is where we came in! No prizes for guessing what's going to happen next. That'll teach him to keep his door locked in future.
Would anyone care to hazard a guess about the identity of the murderer?
Well, perhaps we'll find out in Chapter Ten!
Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!