The Three Locks

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Like this?’ asked Holmes. He placed one hand on the cauldron and gave it a shove. The thing was set to rotate on the chain hanging from the rafters above the stage, twirling easily so that now the back faced us. Holmes stopped its movement with a hand. ‘Except for this well-disguised hatch, here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Initially I saw nothing, but I leaned in closer … and could just perceive the outline of another large hatch on the opposite side of the sphere from the front opening. It was well-hidden among the rivets and piping.

  ‘Go on,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Then Dario, he gets in from the front and the girl locks it very good, many locks in front here.’ Fricano spun the cauldron, so the front now faced us again. That opening remained ajar and I got another strong whiff of that awful smell. I sneezed. Fricano closed the front hatch.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Holmes. ‘I suppose Borelli normally slips out the back hatch and makes his exit through the split in the curtain behind this contraption?’ Holmes spun the sphere again, so the back faced him. He opened the secret hatch an inch or so, then closed it. He ran his hand along the edges.

  ‘Yes. Normally he is out in five seconds through the back.’

  Fricano attempted to spin the thing again facing front, but Holmes stopped it from moving.

  ‘But not this time?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did he not come out?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I do not know. Maybe he fainted.’

  ‘There are fumes, Holmes,’ I offered. ‘Shall I take a closer look now?’

  ‘It’s bad, doctor,’ said Hamilton, who had shadowed me and now stood behind Fricano.

  ‘In a moment, Watson. Stay with me. Mr Fricano, do continue. Were you not waiting to help him out?’

  ‘No, at this part, I am under the stage, tending to the fire. Another man, Paolo, is in back. The girl pretends to light the fire onstage, which I help from below. When Borelli did not come out, Paolo ran to get me.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Paolo yells at me that Dario is still inside the cauldron. Since I cannot stop the fire, I ran up from backstage and put my hands though the curtain, trying to open. But the hatch will not open.’

  Holmes unlatched the secret back hatch easily, opened it and closed it again.

  ‘Hmm. It seems to work fine now. Ah, but what is this small bolt?’

  ‘What bolt?’ Fricano’s eyes widened.

  Holmes leaned in, pulled out his magnifying glass and said, ‘This bolt here that – yes, if I slide it like so – would secure the hatch shut. Seems to have been attached recently. Look, the soldering or brazing is pewter-coloured. The rest here is brass or copper.’ Holmes handed me his glass. ‘With this shut, the person inside could not open this door.’

  ‘Oh God, we tried to pull it open but did not see.’ said Fricano.

  With magnification, the bolt indeed looked different from the nearby pipes and ornamentation. I would never have noticed, either. It was a subtle piece of work. I handed the glass back, nodding.

  ‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘Nicely hidden. What happened next? In the act, that is. The audience sees Borelli get inside. The front hatch is apparently secured. What does the girl do?’

  Fricano took a deep breath. ‘The girl lights fire under the cauldron. Then she climbs up this ladder and stands up high next to top of the cauldron. She touches the surface and pretends it is very hot. Ssss! Of course, it is too soon and not really hot yet. It makes drama. The whole act designed to make big drama.’

  ‘You have succeeded, I would say.’ Holmes’s humour could suffer in the timing, I noted.

  ‘Then the girl opens the top latch and calls down to Borelli, pretending to hear his answer. She smiles at the audience, then picks up the bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Whisky? That bottle over there? All part of the act?’ Holmes pointed to a bottle lying on the stage near the girl’s body.

  ‘Yes, and she pours it down in on him. That gets a big laugh from the audience.’

  ‘Big laugh. Right. Meanwhile you are still trying to open the back?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I pictured the frantic efforts. I glanced again at the newly added back latch, which was nearly impossible to see. But of course, Holmes had the eyes of a bird of prey.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Then the girl leans down on top and looks in, but she pretends she cannot see.’

  ‘Still part of the act?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Holmes glanced over at me. ‘Watson, could you retrieve that bottle and smell it, please?’

  I complied. Given the overwhelming odour of burnt flesh in the room itself, smelling anything else would be difficult, but I inhaled deeply. ‘Nothing,’ I reported.

  ‘What was in that bottle, Mr Fricano?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Just coloured water. Is all a trick.’

  Holmes hesitated, and I could tell he had some doubts. ‘Yes, go on,’ he said.

  ‘After she pours it in, she calls down but gets no answer.’

  ‘Part of the act as well?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Normally no one is inside by this time. So then she lights a match and holds it at entrance as if to look, and then pretends to drop match in by accident. Audience cry “Oh no!” because they think it will ignite the alcohol. Big excitement.’

  ‘Again. Still part of the act?’ prompted Holmes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But this time …?’

  ‘This time … oh …’ Fricano put a hand to cover his face a moment, then recovering, he continued, ‘She drops the match in, and a big flame comes out top. And there is a big sound. Like … FOOOF! We hear screaming from inside cauldron. And the girl … her face … oh, horrible! She is burned! She falls back off the ladder. The audience screaming … it was terrible.’

  ‘What did you do then, Mr Fricano?’

  ‘I am on stage, trying to help the girl. But it is too late, she is dead. Then I unlock the cauldron’s front hatch. I burn my hand, you see!’ He held up his hands.

  Holmes took them in his two hands, and jerking Fricano forward examined them closely. The man winced in pain. ‘Ah! Yes, burns!’ said Holmes. He dropped Fricano’s hands. The man backed away, affronted.

  ‘And then?’ Holmes prompted.

  ‘I find … I find … Oh, God,’ moaned Fricano. He covered his face with his injured hands. ‘I find Dario.’

  ‘Doctor? The body, now, inside the cauldron, if you please? Take a very close look.’

  I moved a few feet around the sphere and spun it so that the front opening faced me and was well lit from one of the stage lights. Hamilton appeared behind me, a pocket lantern in his hand to help illuminate the interior.

  While my wartime experiences had somewhat inured me to the sight of grievous injury and death, what I encountered here sickened even me. I opened the front hatch and the stench of burned flesh gagged me, but there was another smell as well, a metallic odour – not exactly paraffin, not exactly petroleum, but similar. I quickly placed my handkerchief over my nose and mouth.

  Inside was an image that will forever be seared into my mind.

  It was the figure of a large man, contorted into a kind of foetal position, arms raised in what is known by coroners as the pugilistic pose. The clothes, the shoes and most of his skin was burned away, leaving a shiny black coating overall. The face was unrecognizable.

  I was filled with revulsion, but I had a job to do.

  Gingerly, I leaned in through the opening and touched the corpse’s shoulder. A large flake of cinder fell off, leaving what looked like raw meat below. I have seen many a gruesome death, but this was a horror. I backed out to catch my breath.

  ‘Dear God, Holmes. The man was incinerated under some extreme and sudden heat. All the clothes and skin are gone,’ I said. I leaned and in continued my examination.

  After few terrible minutes, my investigation was done. I stood next to Holmes, wiping my hands as best I could on my handkerchief. Hamilton
, much affected by the sight, had followed and stood behind me.

  ‘An accelerant, then, Watson?’ said Holmes.

  ‘Definitely,’ I replied. ‘It was a kind of flash burn. Uniformly across the entire body. No one’s skin and clothes would ignite in such a way without some kind of chemical present.’

  ‘A petrochemical from the smell, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t recognize the odour.’

  ‘Could it have been poured in from that bottle by the young lady?’

  ‘I would say not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get this result, you would need much, much more. And uniformly covering the body. Perhaps in some kind of gel or powder.’

  ‘The entire body?’ asked Holmes. ‘Prepared, then?’

  ‘It would appear so. That body was … soaked with it. Or painted.’

  ‘Death would have been instantaneous, then,’ remarked the detective.

  ‘We heard screams,’ said Fricano.

  ‘Well, very quickly then,’ said Holmes.

  I shuddered. ‘Yes.’

  Fricano looked aghast at the thought. It seemed the man might pass out. I felt in my pocket for my smelling salts.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. I must sit down a moment,’ murmured Fricano, seemingly overcome with the emotion of the events. He moved away, offstage.

  Holmes turned to the young policeman. ‘Hamilton, stay with Mr Fricano, would you?’ Hamilton, relieved to have something to do, nodded.

  At precisely this moment, Lestrade entered at the other end of the hall with two of his men.

  ‘Lestrade!’ cried Holmes. ‘Have you found Madame?’

  Lestrade approached, coughing at the terrible odour. ‘Madame Borelli has fled! Flown the coop. All her things – her clothes, her personal items – packed up and gone.’ He waved a slip of paper in triumph. ‘I found this receipt for a train to Palermo. The Borellis had a huge row earlier today.’

  He arrived on the stage to stand near us and gestured towards the cauldron. ‘It is clear that the lady engineered this terrible thing. I’m sure you concur!’

  ‘Madame is now en route to Italy, then?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Ha! I have men on their way to the station and have cabled ahead,’ Lestrade crowed. ‘We will catch this murderous witch!’

  ‘What of Mr Borelli’s things? Are they still in the hotel room?’

  ‘Well, they were all still there, of course.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘So far as we could tell. He expected to return, but obviously she killed him here and escaped.’

  ‘So it appears,’ murmured Holmes. ‘Were his things of an elegant or expensive nature? A silver hairbrush, jewelled cufflinks, a silver-tipped walking stick – anything like that?’

  ‘Mr Borelli’s? Why?’

  ‘Please, just answer the question.’

  Lestrade bristled. ‘I can’t say they were. Just … regular, rather ordinary ones.’

  ‘New or used?’

  What was Holmes on about, I wondered.

  ‘I did not notice,’ the inspector snapped. ‘Well, newish, perhaps. But everything was still there. I don’t think he was a wealthy man.’

  ‘Perhaps. But Mr Borelli had a taste for fine things,’ remarked Holmes.

  ‘You digress, Mr Holmes, at a terrible moment!’

  I will admit that thought was mine as well. Just then a cry was heard from behind a makeshift wing at stage left. I dashed towards the sound and found Fricano crouched over the floor, looking behind a stack of bulky, fake boulders. Hamilton stood next to him.

  Fricano arose with a shout! ‘Come quick! Come quick! It is Madame Borelli!’

  And then I recognized the lady’s red scarf. It snaked out across the floor, seeming to ooze from behind the boulders like a bloodstain.

  CHAPTER 26

  The How and the Why

  Holmes and I knelt beside the prostrate form of Madame Borelli. I felt for a pulse. ‘Alive, Holmes!’ I said. He exhaled in relief.

  One of her arms cradled an empty bottle of gin, the other was splayed out along the dusty floor. Her flamboyant clothes in her signature red and black were awry and spread out around her. She reeked of alcohol.

  I patted her cheek gently and applied smelling salts. She snorted and opened her eyes.

  ‘Madame Borelli?’ I whispered, leaning in.

  She belched and struggled to consciousness. I could smell cheap gin.

  ‘Where am I?’ she slurred. ‘And what is that smell?’

  ‘Your own breath,’ snapped Lestrade. ‘Get up.’

  ‘You are backstage at Wilton’s,’ I said.

  She blinked and stared up at Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘What has happened? How did I get here?’ She sniffed the air. ‘What burned?’

  She struggled to sit up, discovered the bottle of gin in her hands, looked at it in surprise, and pushed it away.

  ‘What is the last thing you remember, Madame Borelli?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Let us not waste time, Holmes,’ barked Lestrade. ‘Madame Borelli, I am arresting—’

  ‘One moment, Lestrade, please!’ said Holmes. ‘Madame?’

  ‘Our room at the hotel. I entered and I … someone came from behind and—’ She paused, struggling for clarity.

  ‘… and did what? Were you drugged?’ asked my friend.

  ‘Stop this, Holmes. You give her ideas!’ cried Lestrade.

  ‘Someone hit me in the back of my head,’ murmured the lady. ‘Suddenly I was choking. A cloth … I don’t remember what …’ She blinked and shook her head. ‘And now I am here.’ The poor woman remained on the floor.

  I felt her pulse. It was racing. ‘Gentlemen, where is your sympathy? Help me lift her to a chair,’ I said. Soon, Madame Borelli was seated, with all of us clustered around her.

  ‘Take slow, deep breaths, Madame,’ I said.

  ‘Where had you been,’ asked Holmes, ‘just before this happened?’

  ‘How is this our concern?’ cried Lestrade. ‘This is clearly a ruse!’ The policeman leaned past Holmes and placed his face inches from Madame Borelli’s. ‘I am not interested in your made-up stories, Madame! It is all too clear what happened here.’ He stood back and gestured for his second man to approach. ‘Madame Ilaria Borelli, I am arresting you on the charge of the wilful and sadistic murder of your husband, Dario Borelli. Boys, take her away.’

  ‘Murder? Dario?’ Her face went white. ‘Dario? Mi Dario is dead?’

  Hamilton and a constable each took Madame under an arm and dragged her roughly to her feet. She moaned as they held her facing Lestrade.

  ‘Careful there!’ I said. ‘This lady is in shock.’

  ‘Your husband is dead, and you know it,’ said Lestrade. ‘He was burned to a crisp tonight in that infernal prop over there, which I understand you designed.’

  Madame Borelli gagged. She wrenched one arm free and covered her mouth. ‘No!’ she sobbed.

  Lestrade leaned in close to Madame, sniffing her breath, then with a pointed look at Holmes, picked up one of her hands and smelled it. He smiled proudly. ‘You have gin on your breath, some kind of chemical on your hands – and your husband was soaked in it. A receipt for a one-way ticket through to Palermo was found in your hotel room, and … here …’ Lestrade leaned into her and plucked out a small white token which protruded from the pocket of her skirt. ‘Aha! Yes, just as I thought! Here is a token for a locker at Victoria. Will we find your packed valise in there, Madame?’

  She stared at him in apparent confusion.

  ‘I wager we will,’ said Lestrade. He turned to Holmes triumphantly. ‘Two can play at your game, Mr Holmes. Sometimes, you see, things are best left to the professionals.’

  ‘Bravo, Lestrade. A remarkable chain of inferences, all based on solid evidence,’ said Holmes quietly. Lestrade beamed and nodded to his two men.

  ‘Except that you are entirely wrong,’ added my friend.

  The room went silent. I became a
ware of the soft sobbing of Annie Duggan’s friend near the entrance.

  ‘Do you think so, Holmes? Let us see you prove it,’ said Lestrade, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘This lady is in distress. Allow her to sit,’ I demanded.

  Lestrade waved at his to men to comply. Madame was returned to the chair. I moved to the lady’s side and patted her shoulder.

  ‘Try if you must,’ said Lestrade, ‘but you know you are beaten this time, Holmes.’

  Holmes knelt down before the lady, taking both her hands in his. ‘Madame,’ he said gently, ‘what was your errand when you left the hotel?’

  ‘Dario sent me to pick up a velvet jacket he had had made on Jermyn Street.’

  ‘Expensive tastes, as I said, Lestrade. What then, Madame Borelli?’

  ‘I returned to our hotel room. I stepped inside and it looked like a tornado had passed through. Then from behind someone put a cloth on my face, pressing, pressing. I could not breathe … a terrible smell—’

  ‘You smelled the petrochemical and the gin, but missed the third odour which lingers under the gin, Lestrade. The lady was chloroformed. The gin was applied to her lips later.’ He gestured politely towards the woman’s face.

  Lestrade hesitated, then leaned in for a sniff.

  ‘Ah, well, possibly. But to what purpose?’ sneered Lestrade.

  ‘Obvious. She is being framed for a murder,’ said Holmes.

  ‘By whom? Who would want Borelli dead and his wife in gaol?’

  ‘Well, that’s the other little problem with your theory.’

  Holmes strode over to the cauldron and opened the front hatch wide, so we all had a clear view of the blackened remains inside.

  ‘This body is not Dario Borelli,’ said Holmes.

  Even I was surprised at this revelation.

  Oblivious to the lady’s extreme distress, the two detectives faced each other. But Madame Borelli was transfixed on the body. I stepped in front of her to block the grisly sight.

  But Lestrade was not swayed. ‘Of course it is Borelli, Holmes,’ said he. ‘Smith, bring out what you found.’

  A young policeman with thinning blond hair and drooping eyes came forward with something wrapped in a handkerchief. He drew back the covering to reveal a ring and two shiny buckles, married by ash.