Friday: The Narrative of Dr John Watson
Holmes had always been a man who chafed at inactivity. In past days this meant he would often resort to the seven-percent solution, much to my professional and personal dismay. More recently, however, either my disapproval or his own distaste for the drug would send him on expeditions throughout the many layers of London to alleviate his boredom. Most often he would build contacts with the criminal underworld or apply himself to improving his craft, such as the time he spent as a blind man in order to develop his other senses.
It was on one of these expeditions in August of 1890 that we became involved in the most singular series of events that it challenged Holmes' old maxim of "There is nothing new under the sun."
The entire summer of 1890 was rather slow for Sherlock Holmes and I. London was in the middle of the hottest days of the summer, which sent all segments of London society, criminal and law-abiding, searching for cover. My medical practice was slow for the very same reasons.
Holmes had been absent from our sitting room at Baker Street for nearly a fortnight. I say absent, although he returned quite regularly, but only for rest and food before taking to the streets again. He was quite reticent about his activities, dismissing them as trivial, so I was quite surprised one Friday evening when my perfunctory inquires yielded a result.
"You know my methods, Watson. Apply them, and we shall see if you can hit the mark."
This was precisely what I had been doing over the past weeks, after Holmes had refused to speak. I felt rather like a pupil called up in front of the class to recite the lesson, and I was determined to do my best.
"Well, I believe you have obtained employment somewhere."
"A hit!" Holmes cried. "How do you deduce this?"
"You leave every morning quite punctually at eight, and return around seven. This indicates that there is someplace you must be every morning, which occupies you until the same time every day. When you leave, your clothes are fresh but when you return they are often covered in sawdust or have fresh paint stains. All of this leads me to believe that you have obtained a job, most probably as a builder or painter."
"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes said, clapping his hands. "You have got all the generalities precisely. Now allow me to fill in the details."
"If you had known where to look, you might have found me these past few weeks at the London Opera House under the name of Virgil Hawkins. I have been dirtying my hands with the stage crew. I must say that it has proved an invigorating experience, one which has been infinitely more valuable than if I had auditioned for a violin chair. My initial intention was no more than idle amusement. But I soon discovered this was not to be. Perhaps you are familiar with the recent formation of a new Opera company in the City?"
I replied that I was.
"An inevitable rivalry between these two opera houses has sprung up, which has manifested itself in the form of assault and sabotage. Two of the stagehands have been attacked, and a member of the orchestra was nearly killed today. Various small thefts and acts of vandalism have been carried out, all with the goal of either delaying or cancelling the opening night performance of Bharata."
"I was approached two weeks ago while I was in the form of one of my alter egos. It seemed that certain man wished to hire a certain type of person to perform a few small tasks for a very large fee."
It took me a moment to comprehend Holmes' meaning.
"You mean you were hired to perform the sabotage?" I asked. Holmes looked rather pleased.
"Indeed I was. By taking the task myself, I thought I could be sure that the sabotage would not occur. I would gain a little Opera experience, unmask a saboteur and allow the show to go forward unmolested. But it seems my employer has hired more than one malefactor."
Holmes then related to me the events of the past week, beginning with the appearance of the mysterious pianist, whose arrival coincided with the beginning of the major acts of sabotage.
"I first suspected the pianist when I learned the circumstances of her audition. She walked in off the street, with literally nothing but the clothes upon her back, and proceeded to play with such skill and originality as to totally eclipse any competition. Though, to be fair, her competition was one boy with no sense of rhythm."
"She claims to be newly-arrived from India, yet no ship from that land has come into port in the last month. She possesses a large degree of natural musical talent, though she is clearly out of practice. It seems that she was hired mainly on the strength of the spectacle and rumour that the presence of a self-proclaimed Indian 'princess' would create."
"Although," Holmes added, with a hint of amusement, "She seems rather embarrassed by the good Mr. Squires attempts to create publicity for her. She has confided to me, or to 'Virgil' rather, that she wishes he would 'knock it off.' She has dropped her last name, which is Watson, by the way, on the orders of the owner, Mr. Squires in order to enhance her air of mystery."
Holmes stood and began to pace the room as he talked. He did not appear to be addressing me, but I was familiar enough with his manner to know he was merely trying to organize his thoughts.
"So here is a woman, with much talent and little ambition who has easily captured a position which she would rather not have. Why? I ask myself. There must be some incentive for her to create such a specious tale and become the pianist of the London Opera."
"She is also either rather oblivious to, or extremely resistant to flirtation."
"Holmes!" I said, disapprovingly, but he waved away my objection with a smile. Holmes could be extremely charming to the ladies, but he only cared to exert himself in that manner in the service of a case.
"Her companion Alexander presents me with a similar conundrum. He simply appeared, a day after she, among the stage crew. He adopted the same strategy as myself, which was merely to look as if I was employed in some task until I was accepted as a member of the stage crew. Human nature, Watson, is so wonderfully consistent. I looked as if I worked there; therefore I was accepted as an employee with virtually no questioning."
"Casual conversations with Mr. Alexander inevitably turn to philosophical or scientific subjects, a tendency which dissuaded all by myself and Miss Solei from his company. He is a fierce debater, with a lightning tongue, though his proofs sometimes lack logic. So we have a gentleman, who had also abandoned his family name, with either a University education or voracious appetite for books, who is doing hard manual labour on a stage crew."
"The two are clearly old friends. I have seen Miss Solei and Mr. Alexander together on several occasions, sometimes lurking in areas of the Opera House in which they have no business being. I have also seen Mr. Alexander emerging from the lady's room on more than one occasion. Their manner with each other is decidedly familiar, yet oddly platonic."
"A highly suspect pair." I agreed. "You believe them to be behind the accidents at the Opera."
"No. I do not." Holmes said. "I did at first, especially when I could not account for both of their whereabouts during these attacks. Baron LaValle is one of the main financial backers of the Theatre Royal. He is also a personal rival of Mr Loman, although no two accounts can agree why. I would not put it past him to stoop to theft, vandalism and assault in order to eliminate his competition. I suspect that he is my erstwhile 'employer' but I have no proof. As yet."
"There is certainly some other agent at work here, most likely hired by LaValle in order to delay the opening performance of Bharata. I doubt, however, that LaValle specifically ordered the attacks recently perpetrated. It has to me the air of an act of desperation by a man who is fast running out of options."
"But neither Alexander nor Miss Solei has much interest in the rivalry building between the two companies. In fact, when I informed Miss Solei, she seemed mildly surprised that there was another Opera House in the city of London. And then there is the incident of the spotlight."
"The spotlight?" I asked, when Holmes did not elaborate.
"Yes, the spotlight. Miss Solei and two of the singers were rehearsing onstage today. The debut is tomorrow, so today was the Sabbath of the Opera, and there were no others to interrupt the rehearsal. Myself and several other members of the stage crew were gathered in the house for the impromptu performance."
"Alexander had obtained a press release pertaining to Miss Solei's début and was teasing her about it, so he was sitting in the orchestra pit. The spotlight suspended directly above the piano was cut loose. Alexander tackled Miss Solei in a manner worthy of the rugby pitch only moments before the spotlight smashed the piano into fragments. If he had hesitated for even a second, I have no doubt she would have been seriously injured, if not killed."
"Dear Lord," I murmured. "But, do you not think that the attack on Miss Solei might have been orchestrated to remove suspicion from her?" I asked hesitantly.
"And excellent insight Watson! You improve all the time. The thought had occurred to me, but I have dismissed it for several reasons; not the least of which is the nearness of her escape. Few men would have the steadiness of nerve to cut it so close, let alone a woman."
"No, it is final proof of their innocence. In this matter at least. I suspect the pair of them are fleeing from something." Holmes waved away this speculation as trivial. "But their presence, though of interest, has no bearing on what I fear is a straightforward case of sabotage. I shall be returning this evening in order to take a closer look at the scene of the crime."
"Do you object to my coming along?" I asked.
"Not at all. It may make for an interesting footnote in those stories of yours. But first, we must not allow Mrs. Hudson's excellent food to go to waste."
Holmes and I returned to the Opera House later that night, just as the sun was beginning to set. I confess I expected a more dramatic mode of arrival. I thought that the Opera building would undoubtedly be locked and we would have to force entrance. Instead we paid off the cabbie on the steps of the Opera and trotted around back, where a stage door was propped open for ventilation. An elderly man perched on a stack of crates near the door, smoking a cigarette. He returned Holmes' brief nod and allowed us to pass with no challenge.
"The cast should all be at supper now, but we shall have to be cautious." Holmes whispered. "The saboteur may still be lurking in the wings."
We quietly crept across the dim region backstage. The props and sets had a strange, unearthly feel about them away from the bright glare of the footlights. Muffled voices could be heard coming from somewhere in the depths of the building where the cast and crew were dining. A narrow ladder was set against the far wall, leading to a platform that was perhaps twenty or thirty feet above the stage level.
We had climbed up to the platform when Holmes paused. Voices could still be heard from the canteen, but now I could hear a second set of voices nearby. Holmes touched my hand and gestured at the catwalk. I peered down the shadowy length and suddenly I could just make out two figures perched on the metal grating. I could not make out precisely what they were saying, but Holmes listened intently, with an expression of growing amusement.
"It seems Watson, that we have found kindred spirits," he muttered to me, and then called out in a loud voice. "A masterly summation, I must say."
The two figures jumped, badly startled.
"Who's that?" The man called.
"Virgil?" The lady asked, nearly at the same time.
"Yes, and no," Holmes replied.
"One or the other dude," she snapped wearily, "or else we're getting into metaphysics territory."
"Holmes, perhaps this conversation would be best carried out on solid ground." I suggested. Holmes acquiesced and we returned to the stage below. The lady and the gentleman followed, both eyeing us with suspicion.
The man was dressed in plain labourer's clothes with several days' worth of dirt ground in. The lady presented a most singular contrast to her companion. She wore the native dress of an Indian woman; swaths of indigo silk formed the skirt, but the brief blouse left her stomach nearly bare. I had seen women dressed in this manner during my tour of duty in India and Afghanistan in the Army Medical Department, but to see a fellow countrywoman in a sari without a hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness was something of a shock.
Proper introductions were made, and both stared at us as if we were mad. The gentleman asked for a moment and pulled his partner off for a whispered tête-à-tête. This was not an uncommon reaction for people to have when first encountering Sherlock Holmes. After a few moments, the lady turned and addressed us.
"I'm Solei, this is Alex. Uh, hi."
"It seems we are working towards the same goal," Holmes said.
"We are?" Mr. Alex replied.
"You are investigating the recent string of sabotages, are you not?"
"What do you know about it?" Alex asked eagerly.
"I know that you are not responsible."
"Us? Responsible?" Miss Solei interjected. "Why would we… although it rather makes sense when you think about it."
"We had the same suspicions about you, until this afternoon," Alex admitted. He would have continued, but a noise from the opposite side of the stage caused us all to freeze, as if we were criminals caught in the act. The elderly stagehand had returned. He crossed the stage without taking notice of any of us and exited through a side door.
"Maybe we should talk somewhere less suspicious. C'mon," Alex said peremptorily and turned on his heel. I cast a glance over at Holmes, who seemed more amused than annoyed at their reactions.
Mr. Alex led our little band up a back staircase to the reserved boxes, where he removed a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the boxes. As we walked I heard Miss Solei whisper to her companion.
"Five pounds."
"No way," he whispered back.
"C'mon. Five pounds if he was a detective."
"You said police detective."
"Fine. Split the difference and call it even."
"Fine."
"How did you find this place?" Holmes asked as Alex pulled the heavy carved chairs into a circle. At close range I realized both were much younger than I had first thought; neither could be much more than twenty years.
"The keys were hanging in the janitor's closet down the hall," Miss Solei said. "They always have the keys to everything."
"Now, you said you're trying to uncover this saboteur. Did the manager hire you?" Alex asked.
"No. I was merely... in the vicinity. I was working here under the name of Virgil when the sabotage began to occur, and I have undertaken the case of my own volition."
"Fate," Miss Solei said softly. Mr. Alex pretended not to hear. Holmes gave her a curious glance, but she did not seem inclined to elaborate.
"Were you following us Tuesday night?" Alex demanded. An expression of surprise crossed Holmes' face, but he concealed it so quickly I was not sure of it myself.
"Yes," Holmes replied calmly. "The pair of you appeared very suspicious, sneaking around in the depths of the Opera House late at night."
"Good to know it wasn't just paranoia," Miss Solei said.
"Now I have a question for you, both of you," Holmes said quickly, before either of them could take control of the conversation again. "You, Mademoiselle, are most definitely not from India. What is a transplanted American with a knee injury, a university education, and a general indifference towards her musical studies doing with an Oxford-educated man with martial training, a rather expensive wrist watch rather than the more usual pocket watch, and a similar disinterest in his studies? And what has brought you both to this Opera?"
The two exchanged a glance before answering. I was surprised to hear the lady referred to as an American. Her accent seemed to me rather odd to me, but essentially that of a Londoner.
"We'd rather not say," Miss Solei answered simply. I confess her answer shocked me, and it seemed to confound Holmes as well. Over the years Holmes' questions had often met with lies, evasion and eventually, the truth, but never outright refusal.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we plead the Fifth."
"Wrong country," Mr. Alex pointed out.
"Whatever. I will tell you that we've done nothing wrong, illegal, immoral, illicit or anything along those lines. You're after the guy who dropped a spotlight through my piano, yes?"
Holmes nodded.
"Then we're on your side," she concluded, somewhat hotly. I thought it strange that she mentioned the destroyed instrument rather than her own near escape, but perhaps her attitude was merely that of a dedicated musician.
Holmes looked from one to the other for a long moment. Both Mr. Alex and Miss Solei returned his gaze evenly.
"Very well," he said at last. "Since you insist on involving yourselves. I would rather have you working with us than bumbling about on your own and getting underfoot."
Mr. Alex stiffened at Holmes' tone and would have responded, but Miss Solei laid a restraining hand on his and gave him a stern look. Mr. Alex subsided reluctantly. Holmes did not react to the silent exchange, but I knew his keen eyes had seen it.
"Is this amenable to you?" he asked.
"Fine," Alex said, with a small gesture of defeat.
"Since you have done such an excellent job of examining the crime scene in the flies, perhaps you would also like to share your list of suspects?"
It was less a question than a challenge and Mr. Alex rose to the occasion. Several names, which were meaningless to both myself and Miss Solei were tossed back and forth. Anyone whose whereabouts could not be accounted for during the attacks was automatically made suspect, and unfortunately that made for a great many suspects. But between the two of them, Alex and Holmes were able to narrow the list considerably.
Miss Solei glanced at me and rolled her eyes in shared commiseration at being left out of the conversation. I confess I was baffled by this woman, who was so radically different in voice and stance from the women I knew. I wondered if all the ladies of the theatre behaved in this fashion, or it was just an American affectation.
"I don't suppose it's possible that it could someone outside of the stage crew," Miss Solei asked.
"Doubtful," Holmes answered her. "Who else would have the necessary knowledge or access?"
"Only four guys were MIA for all three attacks," Alex said, slouching back in his chair. "There's Jenkins, DeWitt, Salsbury and Miles. But I think we can rule out Miles anyway."
"Who's Miles?" Miss Solei asked.
"The really old guy who's in charge of the scene shifters."
"Alex and I shall keep an eye on DeWitt and Salsbury," Holmes continued. "They will both be working with the lights, so Watson, if you are willing to play the role of a stagehand, you will watch Jenkins."
"I shall do my best," I replied.
"If this keeps up, soon there'll be more fake stagehands than real ones," Alex commented.
"I guess my job is just to sit around and look pretty then," Miss Solei said, with a hint of weary amusement in her voice.
"And to play the piano," Holmes added. "We shall make final arrangements tomorrow. I shall ask Lestrade to be on the scene in case we need him."
"That's it?" Mr. Alex asked, with a note of disbelief. "That's not much of a plan."
"I think you shall find," Holmes replied easily, "that the simplest plans are often the most effective."
Author's note
Regarding Virgil: Virgil Hawkins is the name of a character from a cartoon show I rather liked as a child, called "Static Shock". When I first gave Holmes the pseudonym, it just seemed to flow, although it took me a while to remember why.
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