Enrietti had been a tall, barrel-chested man in his sixties, with hair dyed an artificially brilliant bronze. His body lay sprawled underneath a closed window, hands clutching his own neck, his face faintly blue.
The photographer turned and smiled upon seeing my friend. ‘Mr Holmes!’
‘Ah, Windy! Glad it’s you!’ said Holmes. ‘You’ve captured all angles on the body? Good, then. Be sure to miss nothing – the table, the food, the hanging rack.’ The photographer set to it. ‘Watson, cause of death?’
I was already kneeling by the corpse, starting my investigation.
‘Who are you?’ Holmes demanded of the seated man. I glanced up to see the small fellow shrink back towards the dressing table crowded with potions, false hairpieces, stage makeup and photographs. He was dark-skinned with curly black hair, and now peeked from between his fingers to reveal a tear-stained face. ‘I am Angelo. Dresser. Friend.’ He had a thick Italian accent.
‘Don’t move from there,’ ordered Holmes. He bent down to the corpse beside me. Even with luck, we’d have only a few minutes here.
‘Asphyxiation?’
I nodded. ‘Looks that way.’
Holmes leaned over and his long, slim fingers danced over the corpse – checking the eyes, mouth, hands and fingernails, and then the pockets of the robe. He stood and examined the sill of the window with his travelling magnifying glass.
‘Enrietti ran to the window for air,’ he said. ‘Clawed it open. Paint under the fingernails, and the marks here on the sill. He was successful, I think, for all the good it did him. The window is not latched. Odd. Someone closed it later. Carry on, Watson.’ He turned to the dresser. ‘Was it you who found the body?’
I kept my eyes on my work as they continued.
‘Sì. I find mi Claudio. And I close the window.’
‘Why?’
‘He hated window open. Never he open the window.’
‘Never? Until tonight. Why?’ Holmes sighed. ‘Watson, any progress?’
‘Give me a moment!’
Enrietti’s once handsome, chiselled face had contorted in his death struggle. The bloodstained eyes were telling. His tongue was swollen, though not enough to choke him. I examined the neck and chest for signs of bruising or compression. ‘No evidence of manual strangulation,’ I said.
Holmes turned back to the dresser. ‘Why did Enrietti hate having a window open? Draughts? Protecting his voice?’
‘He … he afraid.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of eh … eh …’
Holmes stamped in impatience. ‘Watson, anything more?’
‘Nothing obvious in the airway. No contusion on the neck or chest.’
‘Keep looking.’ He turned back to Angelo. ‘When did you find him?’
‘This morning. I come to prepare the costume for tonight—’ He sobbed. ‘No sing. Ever again.’
‘You usually sleep here?’ said Holmes, and I looked up to follow his gaze to a pile of bedding and a pillow stashed into a corner. I had not noticed this. The man nodded. ‘Why not last night?’ asked Holmes.
‘Claudio, he ask me to see young lady home. Was very late. I had not money for cab back. I walk. Very far. I not know London and lost,’ he wailed. ‘If only I not lost!’
‘What young lady?’ said Holmes.
‘Do not know. She come, like so many come because she love Claudio. Everybody love Claudio. Many women. This one bring flowers two times. Yesterday. Day before yesterday.’
‘Where did you leave this young lady?’
‘I … I could not say. She direct the cab.’
‘But you returned from there! What part of town?’
Angelo shrugged. ‘I very lost.’
‘And drinking?’
‘A little drinking.’
Holmes exhaled in exasperation. ‘I see no flowers.’
‘He allergico. Threw away always the flowers.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Ahhh, no. Sorry. The girls, they are all pretty. Dark hair, I think.’
‘How old?’
‘I do not notice. Young. It is possible fifteen, maybe twenty?’
‘That is a wide range.’ I heard the frustration in Holmes’s voice.
‘The girls, the women, they are all the same to me. So many. Every night.’
‘Why did you see this one home in particular?’
‘I do not know. Mr Enrietti, he ask me to. Maybe because she cry.’
‘Cry?’ exclaimed Holmes.
‘I find her here hiding in the costumes. In that rack over there.’
Holmes grunted and moved to the rack of costumes. It was densely packed. I could see even from where I was crouched near the body that it could, in fact, hide someone. Holmes slid some of the costumes back and forth, looking behind them.
‘Was that unusual, finding a girl hiding here?’
‘Not essactly … One or two every season do this.’
I looked up from my examination of the corpse. ‘I think I have gone into the wrong profession!’
‘It is something to consider. What do you find, Watson?’
‘Nothing blocking the airway. I am leaning towards poison.’
‘Ah!’ I heard Holmes move behind me and I turned to see him bending over a small table.
‘His dinner here is untouched but for a single bite. Angelo, who brought in this tray?’ he demanded.
Outside the door a commotion sounded and Billings’s loud voice carried over the others, barking orders. We had moments, if that.
‘The theatre provide. But food is no poison,’ said Angelo, swallowing a sob. ‘I always taste for him. Food is good! But he no eat, this bite is me. I do not know why no eat.’
‘Because he died before he could. The food was brought in after the show? Come on, Angelo!’
‘It brought in at intermission. But always, he eat after.’
‘But he ate nothing last night. He must have been killed shortly after his perfor— Hullo! You always taste for him? You’re his … taster?’
‘Si.’
Something banged against the door. I heard Lestrade’s voice. ‘I think it is locked.’
‘Since when?’
‘Two years.’
‘He kept the windows locked since then also?’
Angelo nodded.
‘What happened two years ago?’
‘Two years ago. Ah, so sad! His friend—’
But before the man could finish, the door flew open with a crash. The enormous form of Billings filled the entrance, flanked by two tall police officers I did not recognize. Both young men had some kind of gold braid on their uniforms. I had never seen that on a constable before.
‘What is going on in here? Did I hear poison?’ Billings cried out. ‘Lestrade!’ He called out over his shoulder, then turned to stare at Holmes in a cold fury. ‘How dare you bring this amateur in here?’
Lestrade appeared in the doorway behind Billings. ‘In cases of this kind, sir, Mr Holmes has been very—’
‘Sherlock Holmes! I know of you! You’re a charlatan. A devil. The papers have you right. Out of this room!’ Billings ordered. He pointed to me. ‘But you, Doctor, I know of you, too. You stay.’
One of the gold-trimmed policemen who entered with Billings tried to take Holmes by the arm to escort him from the room. Holmes stopped him with a glare and made his own way out – but turned to stand in the doorway. He was now officially out of the room, if barely.
Billings’s eyes turned to Angelo, the dresser. ‘Now, you, you little Italian dog.’ He approached the terrified man and, grasping him by the shirt, yanked him to his feet. ‘I heard the word poison. Did you poison Claudio Enrietti?’
‘N-no sir!’
Billings flung the man away and picked up the tray of food. From the doorway, Holmes murmured, ‘I suggest you do not move the evidence, Mr Billings!’
‘Quiet!’ said Billings. Then, thrusting the tray at Angelo. ‘What of this, then?’
�
�Is safe,’ said the dresser. ‘I taste for him the food. Is safe.’
‘Is safe? Can you not speaka da English?’ Billings grinned at his men and the two acolytes laughed.
Before anyone could move, Angelo scooped a piece of meat from the plate and into his mouth. The dresser swallowed the mouthful proudly, eyes shining. ‘You see. All is well. I tol’ you—’
In the doorway, Holmes whispered, ‘Oh, no.’
Angelo stood still, triumphant. Then suddenly his expression changed to confusion. He gagged. Coughed. His eyes filled with terror. He coughed, again, choked, grabbed his throat, and then retched.
‘Watson!’
I lunged forward and caught the man as his knees gave way. Angelo began to foam at the mouth, and his entire body spasmed. He crumpled and I eased him to the floor. I rolled him onto his back. His eyes were open and glazed over. Death had been nearly instantaneous.
I had seen this before. I stood up and smelled the food.
‘Cyanide!’ I said.
CHAPTER 16
Italian Air
For a moment, no one moved. Then Billings took up the plate and smelled it. ‘I smell nothing!’
‘Not everyone can smell cyanide,’ I said. ‘Believe me, it is there.’
‘Why don’t you try it if you don’t believe him?’ said Holmes calmly.
Billings dropped the tray onto the table and glared at him. ‘Quiet, or be arrested.’ He stepped forward to the dresser’s body and gave it a sharp kick, presumably to ascertain for certain that he was dead.
‘Lying little bastard. And cowardly, too. He chose to go this way instead of to gaol. The case is clear cut. This Angelo servant killed his employer, Claudio Enrietti. Poisoned his food. Then committed suicide in front of our eyes. Take that down,’ he directed one man, who duly scribbled in his notebook. Billings waved to another, ‘Clear these bodies away.’ The men scurried to do his bidding.
Gold trim in exchange for servitude, I thought.
As they moved past Holmes, I saw him shake his head ruefully. His eyes met mine.
Billings turned to me. ‘Probably some Italian thing. La Famiglia. They bring their troubles with them. You, Wilson, is it? Doctor, right? I have read of you.’
‘Watson. Yes, I am a medical man.’
‘The Enrietti death. It was poison, yes?’
‘It looks to be poison. But certainly not the same that killed Angelo. Enrietti’s was a case of compromised respiration.’
Billings said nothing, sizing me up with a fierce concentration. Then, ‘It was poison. Poison is poison. We are finished here. Make your report at Scotland Yard to back up my own officers’ reports. Match it, if you expect to be paid. Work well for me and I will have use for you.’
I was speechless. The man was trying to hire me!
Ten minutes later the police, including Lestrade, had departed, locking the dressing-room after them. I doubted they would pursue the case further and wondered why they bothered. We lingered in the hall outside the locked door.
‘The man is not precisely an idiot, but he is more interested in closing cases than solving them,’ said Holmes.
‘Agreed. They were not poisoned by the same substance. But what happened to that food?’ I wondered. ‘Angelo tasted it before he left to see the girl home.’
‘The murderer was taking no chances,’ said Holmes. ‘Perhaps they knew of the tasting routine, and when Enrietti ate. Must have poisoned the food during the performance, in case … in case whatever else it was that killed Enrietti did not work. I need to know how Enrietti was poisoned.’
‘How odd that they have not secured the crime scene,’ I remarked.
‘Billings does not care, Watson.’ We looked about us. The corridor was dark and empty. Holmes pulled out his small lock-picking kit and, in a moment, we were back in the room.
Now that it was empty, I became aware of that particular dank smell of death. Holmes and I began to root systematically through the detritus of a theatrical life that had, until mere hours ago, flourished in this room. We looked for signs of a struggle, an intruder, or some method of delivering an inhaled poison. ‘Search also for anything which might reveal why Enrietti feared murder for the past two years,’ Holmes instructed. ‘Private papers, letters.’
As he rifled the pockets of costumes and several sets of elegantly tailored street clothes on hangers, I examined a row of men’s soft dancing shoes and the neat array of bottles and potions on the dressing-table. Tucked into a corner of the mirror was the photograph of a startlingly beautiful young woman. I removed it from the mirror and turned it over. It said, ‘Mi Papa, t’amo. Giulia.’ A loving note from Enrietti’s daughter. At least there was someone left to mourn the dead man. There were no papers, however.
The door clicked open. It was the manager we had seen before.
‘Mr Holmes! Ah, good,’ he said. ‘Ugh, this room. The barbarians have departed. Do you know what happened?’
‘No, Mr Bellagio. But I intend to discover it.’
At my puzzled look, Holmes explained. ‘I solved a case of backstage theft last year for Mr Bellagio.’
The man sighed. ‘Poor Claudio. And shame about this,’ said he, stroking his moustache. ‘Our best dressing-room. No performer will ever use it again.’
‘Why not?’ I blurted.
‘No one is more superstitious than an actor, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Just as, backstage, no performer will utter the name of Shakespeare’s, Mac—’
‘No!’ cried Mr Bellagio.
Holmes sighed. He was never one for superstition. ‘One question before you go, Mr Bellagio. Did you notice any young women visiting Mr Enrietti in his dressing-room the last two or three nights? Perhaps bearing flowers. Roses, most likely?’
He shrugged. ‘There were many, every night for Mr Enrietti. I did not notice one in particular.’
Holmes thanked him and the manager left us to complete our task.
‘You’re sure it was cyanide for Angelo, Watson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Obviously placed after the tasting,’ said Holmes. ‘But the question is, who put it there, and when?’
I continued my search.
‘That person may or may not have known of Angelo’s role of taster. Although … you thought an inhalant, Watson?’
‘I saw nothing in Enrietti’s mouth or back of his throat. And he was going for air, so his lungs must have stopped working. No inflammation in the throat. I am nearly certain the poison was not ingested but inhaled.’
‘So presumably the murderer planned that if the either the food or the inhalant did not work, the other would.’ Holmes stared around the cluttered room. ‘If an inhalant … then what was the delivery mechanism?’ he mused, sitting at Enrietti’s dressing table. He began to pick up and examine each item there. ‘And how did he alone breathe it in, and not Angelo, the dresser? A handkerchief? But I see none. Flowers which he might have sniffed? None, he was allergic. The girl tried to give him flowers but apparently that was a common occurrence. And they did not remain in the room.’
He pawed through a stack of sheet music and came upon something underneath. It was a long, slim cardboard box with some black and white print and a picture of an oddly shaped instrument that looked like a recorder with a bulge at each end.
‘Hullo, what’s this?’ He held it up and I read aloud the text on the box. ‘Dr Carter Moffat’s Ammoniaphone. Artificial Italian Air. It Strengthens the Voice and Enriches the Tone.’ He laughed. ‘Yes! Oh, yes! This fits the bill perfectly! I believe we’ve found our murder weapon!’
‘What is that thing, Holmes?’
‘It is a device that singers – or at least the gullible among them – have been using of late. I saw a demonstration some time ago at St James’s Hall. A Glaswegian professor – a quack, frankly. His theory: Italy has produced many opera stars. The reason: Italian air! Read!’
I took up the box and read: ‘The ammoniaphone is invaluable in all pulmonary affectations. It is charg
ed with a chemical compound, combined so as to resemble in effect that which is produced by the soft balmy air of the Italian Peninsula when inhaled into the lungs, hence the term “Artificial Italian Air”.’
He took out a handkerchief and carefully lifted out the device and regarded it.
He coughed sharply.
‘Careful, Holmes! Don’t breathe it in!’
‘A residue of white powder is in the box. Give me your handkerchief.’
He replaced the peculiar instrument into the box and wrapped it in both our handkerchiefs. I ran to the window and thrust it open. Holmes carefully set the box down, binding it further with a dark blue scarf unwound from his neck. He coughed again, then joined me at the window.
We both breathed in fresh, icy air.
‘Watson, this killer is remarkably creative,’ said Holmes, breathing heavily. ‘The methods are outré yet well-conceived. We must discover what happened to Enrietti two years ago.’
‘Perhaps Giulia, the daughter in the photograph, will know? Or the newspapers,’ said I, anticipating a visit to their archives.
Holmes stared out at cold light and the snowflakes that had begun to drift past the window. His face was eager, and he nearly vibrated with excitement. ‘This case grows more complex daily! Anomalous murders. Eminent victims. And then there are peripheral deaths! They seem randomly occurring, perhaps not part of the master plan. And yet—’
‘Are you sure these connect, Holmes? Each victim is famous but … the methods are so varied. Can you be certain all this is the work of a single person?’
Holmes removed from his pocket a small card and held it up by his face with an impish smile. It bore a blue pattern on the back. He turned it over to face me. The Devil. Exactly as the one planted on me at Speakers’ Corner. And probably the same as at the murder site of Horatio Anson, whom Holmes believed was the first victim.
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