“I should think there are dark enough hearts abroad in a city this size without resuscitating Moriarty,” said I, “even in the present season.” I hoped by this to begin a debate that might stimulate him until such time as his thoughts turned in a more wholesome direction.
“Dark enough, perhaps. But black is an exceedingly dull colour without the scarlet stain of imagination. Even the agony columns have nothing more original to offer than the common run of spouse beatings, lost Gladstones, and stray children. It’s enough to make one cancel all his subscriptions.” He waved a slim white hand towards the mountainous rubble of crumpled newspapers that had accumulated around the basket chair in which he sat coiled like Dr. Roylott’s adder. The hand went on to scoop up his charred brier, which he filled with shag from its receptacle of the moment, a plaster cast of the skull of the murderer Burke, currently on display at Scotland Yard. The top had been hinged to tip back for convenient storage.
“You once ventured the opinion that your absence from London for any length of time encouraged boldness in the criminal classes. Perhaps you should consider a trip to Paris.”
He smiled without mirth. “Good old Watson. You were less transparent when you urged me as my physician to go on holiday, without resorting to subterfuge. I should be just as bored there as here, with the added exasperation of all those cream sauces. No, I shall stay here and await the diversion of a good poisoning.”
I should have argued the point further had not someone chose that moment to ring at the street door.
“Hark!” exclaimed Holmes, shaking out the match with which he had been about to light his pipe. “There is a merry bell, and there to answer it the stately tread of our esteemed Mrs. Hudson. She may bring us glad tidings yet.”
Within moments his prediction was confirmed, as I swung open the door to the landlady’s polite tap. “A delivery for Mr. Holmes, Doctor,” said she. “I gave the fellow tuppence.”
I handed her that sum and accepted a cylindrical package, wrapped in ordinary brown paper and bound with string.
“Who delivered it, pray?” asked Holmes, who had unwound himself from his chair with a panther’s quickness at the first touch of her knuckles against the door. He stood behind me crackling with energy, the indolent lounger vanished.
“A commissionaire, sir. He said the package was waiting for him when he reported for duty and no one seems to know who left it.”
“Did you believe him?”
That good Scotswoman drew herself up to her not inconsiderable height. “I’d sooner question the character of the prime minister than a veteran.”
“The king himself could not have said it better,” Holmes said, when we were alone once again. “What do you make of it, old fellow?”
“It’s a package.”
“Pawky elf!” He snatched it from my hands and carried it over to the gas lamp, where he studied the object thoroughly from end to end and all around. It was less than five inches in length, with a diameter of some two and one-half inches, and weighed rather less than a common box of matches. “No return address or postmark, just ‘Sherlock Holmes, Esq.’ and the address, written in block.” He sniffed it. “Petroleum-based ink, obtainable in any stationery shop for less than a shilling.” He shook it. It made no noise.
“Careful, Holmes! It may be an explosive device.”
“If so, it cannot contain enough powder to snuff out a candle. I examined quite thoroughly the weight and volume of the various volatile compounds in my monograph on demolitions.” Absorbed in the package, he fished a hand inside a pocket, appeared to realize tardily that he was wearing his dressing gown, and charged to the deal table where he kept his chemical apparatus and instruments. He used a surgeon’s scalpel to slit the wrapping from end to end.
The gaily decorated cardboard canister that emerged brought an expression of chagrin to his face that nearly made me smile. The red-and-gold lettering described an undulating pattern across the adhesive label, spelling out EDISON GOLD-MOULDED RECORD.
“It’s a wax recording cylinder!” I cried.
“That is obvious. Its significance is somewhat more obscure.”
“Perhaps someone knows you’re a lover of music. An anonymous admirer.”
“Perhaps.” He removed the lid and peered inside. Then he tipped the contents out onto the table. The glistening roll of hardened wax rotated to a stop against the base of his microscope.
“Nothing else inside,” Holmes reported, groping at the canister’s interior with the ends of his fingers. “The cardboard doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. I doubt any messages are hidden between the layers.” He set it down and lifted the cylinder, submitting it to the same scrutiny.
“Play it,” said I. “Perhaps it’s a recorded message.”
“My conclusion precisely. I will make a detective of you yet.” He carried the cylinder to the parlor phonograph, slid it into place, worked the crank, and applied the needle. A second or two of hoarse scratching issued from the horn, then the sweet strain of strings, accompanied by the singing of an accomplished male tenor:
After the ball is over,
After the break of morn,
After the dancers’ leaving,
After the stars are gone.
Many a heart is aching,
If you could read them all;
Many the hopes that have vanished,
After the ball.
The refrain was repeated, after which the recording scratched into silence. I could make nothing of it, but Holmes was galvanized. He charged towards the basket chair, and there on his knees sorted feverishly through the wrecked newspapers, snapping open the sections and raking them with his eyes, disposing of each as it disappointed him and seizing upon the next. At length he shot to his feet, folding one over.
“Hullo, Watson! Listen to this.”
He read:
All of London society is expected to gather at Balderwood House, home of Sir John Whitsunday, M.P., and his wife Alice, where on the 23rd a ball will be held to honour their guest, the Marquis DuBlac, of Paris and Bordeaux, France. The Marquis is popular in this country, as his efforts on behalf of the French Republic to cement peaceful relations between his homeland and England are well known.
“ ‘After the Ball’ is a popular song in America,” said I. “How can you be certain the recording refers to this event?”
“You must agree that this recording arriving on the night of this affair is an unlikely coincidence. Use your imagination: ‘Many a heart is aching’; ‘Many the hopes that have vanished.’ What cataclysm might we expect to cause these tragic considerations?”
I frowned. “War?”
“Bravo! The friendship between DuBlac and our government is a slim barricade against the centuries-old differences that have plunged England and France time and again into bloodshed. Certain foreign powers would have much to gain by eliminating so well-known a French dignitary on British soil.”
“Good heavens! Are you suggesting he may be assassinated at that ball?”
“There is no time to discuss the matter. How soon can you be dressed for a gala evening?”
“Ten minutes from here to my house, and twenty minutes to change.” I snatched my coat and hat off the peg.
“I shall be there with a hansom in thirty minutes. Do not forget to add a revolver to your ensemble. A well-armed man is dressed for any occasion.”
“How are we to get in without an invitation?”
His eyes were bright. “I am Sherlock Holmes. My presence is always welcome among the law-abiding.”
Balderwood House had been built under Charles I upon the foundations of a monastery burned during the Reformation. In those days it had occupied a country plot far from the bustle of Medieval London, but in the ensuing three centuries the city had spread to encompass its walls; a twenty-minute hansom ride deposited us at the gate, which stood open for the convenience of the evening’s guests. Notwithstanding the gay occasion, the dour fog, and beneath it the
stark fact of a nation bereaved, cast over the estate a sombre, even baleful aspect. The candles burning in the windows created the impression that one were under the hostile scrutiny of a many-eyed beast from pagan mythology.
The butler, a cherubic enough fellow, bald of head and pink of cheek, frowned decorously at Holmes’s admission that we had not been invited, but accepted our cards and asked us to wait in the entryway. Moments later we were joined among the room’s baronial trappings by a handsome woman in her middle years, attired in a black evening dress of dutiful mourning and a minimum of jewels, who introduced herself as Alice Whitsunday, wife of Sir John.
“And which of you is Mr. Holmes?” asked she, looking from one of us to the other. “You do us a great honour, along with embarrassment that we omitted you from the list of our guests.”
Holmes accepted the well-bred rebuke with equal grace. “I am Holmes, dear madam, and by that admission the man who must apologize for this breach of protocol. This is Dr. Watson, my friend and confidant. It is my belief that someone intends to do your party a great deal more mischief than mine.”
“My stars! A theft?” Her hand flew to her busom.
“No, madam. A murder.”
She paled suddenly, and I stepped forward. However, she was an estimable lady, and instead of swooning tugged at a bellpull. Instantly the butler appeared.
“Gregory, please fetch Sir John.”
The servant withdrew. Within a short space of time the doors to what once must have been the Great Hall slid open, emitting music, sounds of merriment, and the lord of the manor, who drew the doors shut behind him and stood looking down at his two unwanted visitors from his astonishing height. He was a full head taller than my friend, but weighed not a copper more; beneath a shock of startling white hair the very bones of his face protruded beneath his bluish pallor like stones in a shallow pool. The black satin mourning band sewn to the sleeve of his evening coat was not darker than his gaze.
“What is this outrage?” he demanded coldly.
Holmes wasted no time in niceties. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It has come to my attention that your guest of honour, the Marquis DuBlac, is in grave danger. He may not leave this house alive.”
“Indeed. Where did you obtain this information?”
“There is no time, Sir John. Is there a room where we can be alone with the Marquis?”
Parliament has never been known for swift action. I was impressed, therefore, when this esteemed member directed us immediately to a room at the top of the stairs and joined us there within five minutes, accompanied by the Frenchman. The room was Sir John’s study, spacious and scholarly, with books on all sides and claret and cigars on a table opposite his desk, an uncommonly fine one of carved mahogany.
“A very great pleasure, Monsieur ’Olmes. Your services to my country are known in every corner of the Republic.”
The Marquis was a small man as was common to his race, with a large head adorned by a neatly pointed moustache. A red satin sash described a violent diagonal across his starched shirtfront, with the golden starburst of the Legion d’Honneur appended to his right breast. He bowed deeply.
“I hope to do it one more this night, on behalf of both our homelands,” replied Holmes. He proceeded to tell both the Marquis and our host, in the sparest possible terms, the circumstances that had led us to this meeting.
“And what do you propose to do?” asked the honoured guest when the detective had finished.
“Nothing, your excellency.”
“Nothing?” The Marquis’s great brow creased.
“Nothing?” Patches of unhealthy colour appeared upon Sir John’s hollow cheeks.
“Nothing,” confirmed Holmes.
“Holmes!” Even I, who knew never to expect anything but the unexpected where my companion’s methods were concerned, was astounded.
“Then I trust you will have no objection to my sending Gregory out to fetch the police.” Sir John reached for the bellpull beside the desk.
Holmes held up an admonitory hand. “Forgive me for assuming too much, Sir John. There is no reason to expect a busy M.P. to be familiar with the lyrics to a popular American song. I call your attention to the first stanza.” Whereupon he astonished us all further by singing, in a pleasant tenor:
After the ball is over,
After the break of morn,
After the dancers’ leaving . . .
“The message is clear,” he said, abandoning the rest of the composition. “Our assassin will not strike before the end of the evening. If we disrupt the entertainment with an aggressive investigation, we will put him on alert, and merely postpone the inevitable until another time when we are less prepared. Whoever our unknown benefactor is—we shall assume he is a traitor in the enemy camp—we must not waste the clue he has sent us by behaving rashly.”
Our host withdrew his hand from the bellpull. “Do you mean to suggest that we go on with the ball as if we knew nothing?”
“That is the impression we must leave. In reality, of course, we will be wary. Is there a location from where Dr. Watson and I can observe the activity in the ballroom without calling attention to ourselves?”
“There is a landing on this floor where you can stand between the staircases and look down. There will likely be other guests there,” added Sir John apologetically.
“All the better for us to lose ourselves in the crowd. Au revoir, your excellency,” Holmes executed a smart bow in the Frenchman’s direction. “I pray that you will be able to enjoy your fête without fear for your safety.”
“I do not see how it could be otherwise, with the great Sherlock ’Olmes as my protector.” The Marquis responded in kind and took his leave.
Following him, Sir John Whitsunday paused at the door to peer down at my friend. “I should warn you that if it turns out my guest’s trust is misplaced, you will have to answer to all of Europe.”
The ballroom had been refurbished in the grand Victorian manner, with a high vaulted ceiling and twin staircases swooping down from a balustraded landing, where we stood among a group of gentlemen elders who had sought refuge from the energetic activity on the floor to smoke cigars and pontificate upon the situation in South Africa. To one who recalled the bright hues and laughter of happier times, it was a sobering experience to observe the subdued fashions of the dancers moving decorously to restrained music from an orchestra clad in black from neck to heels. Even the wreaths and coloured glass ornaments that decorated the hall were understated to a degree which seemed funereal.
Holmes, I saw, was in no such reverie. In spite of his own assurance that nothing would happen for several hours, his hatchetlike profile and intense gaze as he gripped the marble railing made him resemble a bird of prey. I slid my hand into my coat pocket and found comfort in the cool touch of my old service revolver, veteran of so many adventures.
I directed my attention to the Marquis, who stood drinking wine and chatting with the Whitsundays beneath a huge full-length portrait of our late Queen, suitably framed in black crepe. When that proved uninvolving, I endeavoured for some time to pick out the villain or villains who had infiltrated the gathering. It seemed that this swarthy fellow standing by the refreshments table fit the bill, but then that nervous dancer drew my suspicions regarding the source of his unease. Such diversions are contagious; at the end of an hour I had decided that everyone present, with the exceptions of my friend and I, our hosts, and of course the Marquis himself, was capable of assassination.
I became particularly interested in a stout, red-faced guest who shared our landing, whose vehemence against the French government for criticizing our stand against the Boers rose shrilly above the music—loudly enough, in fact, to draw annoyed glances from the floor below. Holmes was sanguine when I directed his attention to the tirade.
“That is Lord Sutworth,” said he. “He’s been in the House of Peers since Gladstone was a boy. In any case I have eliminated the men on this landing. Their tailoring will not admit th
e accessory of an air rifle or a crossbow. The range is too great for any accuracy with a revolver.”
“Perhaps we should move closer to the Marquis. ‘After the break of morn’ may be a ruse to divert us from the actual timetable.”
“I considered that. The floor is too crowded for the killer to make good his escape. He will wait until the guests thin out.”
I resolved thenceforth to withhold my opinions, which were clearly an irritation to my companion.
Sometime later I suppressed a yawn and withdrew my hand from my weapon to reach for my watch. Holmes’s sudden grip upon my arm arrested the movement. Belatedly I became aware of the tune the orchestra was playing.
“ ‘After the Ball!’” I whispered.
“I’ve been a fool, Watson! The clue was not in the lyrics, but in the song itself. It is a signal for action!”
“But the killer’s escape—”
“No time!” And with that he was gone from my side, flying down the stairs with his tails fluttering behind.
I strained to catch up, drawing my revolver and shouldering aside a number of guests who were climbing the steps to escape the heat and noise of the ballroom. A middle-aged woman in black taffeta shrieked when she spied my weapon.
Holmes was halfway across the floor, shoving men and women sprawling in his anxiety to reach the guest of honour, by the time I quit the stairs. I hastened in his wake, dodging and leaping over the hunched forms of outraged dancers attempting to regain their feet. I overheard a Scotsman declare in an angry, burring baritone that this was what one might expect now that Edward was on the throne.
Now the refreshments table was the only thing separating Sherlock Holmes from the endangered Marquis. He seized it in both hands and flung it over. It was a twelve-foot trestle, and it went down in a flurry of white linen, flashing silver, and shattering crystal as Holmes vaulted on over, bound for the shocked trio of DuBlac, Sir John, and Alice Whitsunday.
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 9
