by Otto Penzler
“Mr. Gillette!” cried Miss Fenton. “Do you mean to say you’ve found my brooch?”
“No, dear lady,” he said, “I haven’t. But I trust that it will be back in your possession shortly.”
“Gillette,” said Frohman, “this is all very irregular. Where is the stone? Who is the thief?”
“The identity of the thief has been apparent from the beginning,” Gillette said placidly. “What I did not understand was the motivation.”
“But that’s nonsense!” cried Arthur Creeson. “The sapphire is extraordinarily valuable! What other motivation could there be?”
“I can think of several,” Gillette answered, “and our ‘nefarious blackguard,’ to borrow a colorful phrase, might have succumbed to any one of them.”
“You’re talking in circles, Gillette,” said Frohman. “If you’ve known the identity of the thief from the first, why didn’t you just say so?”
“I was anxious to resolve the matter quietly,” the actor answered. “Now, sadly, that is no longer possible.” Gillette stretched his long arms. Moving upstage, he took up his pipe and slowly filled the bowl with tobacco from a ragged Persian slipper. “It was my hope,” he said, “that the villain would come to regret these actions—the rash decision of an instant—and make amends. If the sapphire had simply been replaced on Miss Fenton’s dressing table, I should have put the incident behind and carried on as though I had never discerned the guilty party’s identity. Now, distasteful as it may be, the villain must be unmasked, and I must lose a member of my company on the eve of our London opening. Regrettable, but it can’t be helped.”
The members of the company shifted uneasily in their seats. “It’s one of us, then?” asked Mr. Allerford.
“Of course. That much should have been obvious to all of you.” He struck a match and ran it over the bowl of his pipe, lingering rather longer than necessary over the process. “The tragedy of the matter is that none of this would have happened if Miss Fenton had not stepped from her dressing room and left the stone unattended.”
The actress’s hands flew to her throat. “But I told you, I had spilled a pot of facial powder.”
“Precisely so. Gervaise Graham’s Satinette. A very distinctive shade. And so the catalyst of the crime now becomes the instrument of its solution.”
“How do you mean, Gillette?” I asked.
Gillette moved off to stand before the fireplace—or rather the canvas and wood strutting that had been arranged to resemble a fireplace. The actor spent a moment contemplating the plaster coals that rested upon a balsa grating. “Detective work,” he intoned, “is founded upon the observation of trifles. When Miss Fenton overturned that facial powder, she set in motion a chain of events that yielded a clue—a clue as transparent as that of a weaver’s tooth or a compositor’s thumb—and one that made it patently obvious who took the missing stone.”
“Gillette!” cried Mr. Frohman. “No more theatrics! Who took Miss Fenton’s sapphire?”
“The thief is here among us,” he declared, his voice rising to a vibrant timbre. “And the traces of Satinette facial powder are clearly visible upon—Wait! Stop him!”
All at once, the theater erupted into pandemonium as young Henry Quinn, who had been watching from his accustomed place in the wings, suddenly darted forward and raced toward the rear exit.
“Stop him!” Gillette called to a pair of burly stagehands. “Hendricks! O’Donnell! Don’t let him pass!”
The fleeing boy veered away from the stagehands, upsetting a flimsy side table in his flight, and made headlong for the forward edge of the stage. Gathering speed, he attempted to vault over the orchestra pit, and would very likely have cleared the chasm but for the fact that his ill-fitting trousers suddenly slipped to his ankles, entangling his legs and causing him to land in an awkward heap at the base of the pit.
“He’s out cold, Mr. Gillette,” came a voice from the pit. “Nasty bruise on his head.”
“Very good, Hendricks. If you would be so good as to carry him into the lobby, we shall decide what to do with him later.”
Miss Fenton pressed a linen handkerchief to her face as the unconscious figure was carried past. “I don’t understand, Mr. Gillette. Henry took my sapphire? He’s just a boy! I can’t believe he would do such a thing!”
“Strange to say, I believe Quinn’s intentions were relatively benign,” said Gillette. “He presumed, when he came across the stone on your dressing table, that it was nothing more than a piece of costume jewelry. It was only later, after the alarm had been raised, that he realized its value. At that point, he became frightened and could not think of a means to return it without confessing his guilt.”
“But what would a boy do with such a valuable stone?” Frohman asked.
“I have no idea,” said Gillette. “Indeed, I do not believe that he had any interest whatsoever in the sapphire.”
“No interest?” I said. “What other reason could he have had for taking it?”
“For the pin.”
“What?”
Gillette gave a rueful smile. “You are all wearing costumes that are several sizes too large. Our rehearsals have been slowed for want of sewing pins to hold up the men’s trousers and pin back the ladies’ frocks. I myself dispatched Quinn to find a fastener for Mr. Lyndal.”
“The essence of theater,” I said, shaking my head with wonder.
“Pardon me, Lyndal?”
“As you were saying earlier. An actor must consider even the smallest object from every possible angle. We all assumed that the brooch had been taken for its valuable stone. Only you would have thought to consider it from the back as well as the front.” I paused. “Well done, Gillette.”
The actor gave a slight bow as the company burst into spontaneous applause. “That is most kind,” he said, “but now, ladies and gentlemen, if there are no further distractions, I should like to continue with our rehearsal. Act one, scene four, I believe…”
—
It was several hours later when I knocked at the door to Gillette’s dressing room. He bade me enter and made me welcome with a glass of excellent port. We settled ourselves on a pair of makeup stools and sat for a few moments in a companionable silence.
“I understand that Miss Fenton has elected not to pursue the matter of Quinn’s theft with the authorities,” I said after a time.
“I thought not,” Gillette said. “I doubt if her gentleman friend would appreciate seeing the matter aired in the press. However, we will not be able to keep young Quinn with the company. He has been dismissed. Frohman has been in touch with another young man I once considered for the role. Charles Chapman.”
“Chaplin, I believe.”
“That’s it. I’m sure he’ll pick it up soon enough.”
“No doubt.”
I took a sip of port. “Gillette,” I said, “there is something about the affair that troubles me.”
He smiled and reached for a pipe. “I thought there might be,” he said.
“You claimed to have spotted Quinn’s guilt by the traces of face powder on his costume.”
“Indeed.”
I lifted my arm. “There are traces of Miss Fenton’s powder here on my sleeve as well. No doubt I acquired them when I was searching for the missing stone in the dressing area—after the theft had been discovered.”
“No doubt,” said Gillette.
“The others undoubtedly picked up traces of powder as well.”
“That is likely.”
“So Quinn himself might well have acquired his telltale dusting of powder after the theft had occurred, in which case it would not have been incriminating at all.”
Gillette regarded me with keen amusement. “Perhaps I noticed the powder on Quinn’s sleeve before we searched the dressing area,” he offered.
“Did you?”
He sighed. “No.”
“Then you were bluffing? That fine speech about the observation of trifles was nothing more than vain posturing?
”
“It lured a confession out of Quinn, my friend, so it was not entirely in vain.”
“But you had no idea who the guilty party was! Not until the moment he lost his nerve and rain!”
Gillette leaned back and sent a series of billowy smoke rings toward the ceiling. “That is so,” he admitted, “but then, as I have been at some pains to remind you, I am not Sherlock Holmes.”
The Adventure of the Dorset Street Lodger
MICHAEL MOORCOCK
ONE OF THE most prolific writers in the world of science fiction and fantasy, Michael John Moorcock (1939– ) is also one of the most honored. He has received lifetime achievement awards from every significant organization in those genres. He was inducted into the Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame in 2002 and the ultimate awards for his body of work have been presented at the World Fantasy Convention in 2000 (World Fantasy Award), at the Utopiales International Festival in 2004 (Prix Utopia), from the Horror Writers Association in 2004 (Bram Stoker Award), and from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2008, when he was chosen as its twenty-fifth Grand Master. He was the Co–Guest of Honor at the 1976 World Fantasy Convention in New York City and also a Guest of Honor at the 1997 World Science Fiction Convention in San Antonio, Texas.
He has produced work in other forms, notably literary fiction, and The Times of London named him to its list of “The 50 Greatest British Writers Since 1945.”
His most popular works have featured the antihero Elric of Melniboné in a series of fantasy novels in which Moorcock deliberately reverses the clichés of such “sword and sorcery” authors as Robert E. Howard and Fritz Leiber (whom he nonetheless admires).
“The Adventure of the Dorset Street Lodger” was originally privately printed as a chapbook for David Shapiro and Joe Piggott (1993); it was first collected in book form in The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, edited by John Adams (San Francisco, Night Shade Books, 2009).
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DORSET STREET LODGER
Michael Moorcock
IT WAS ONE of those singularly hot Septembers, when the whole of London seemed to wilt from over-exposure to the sun, like some vast Arctic sea-beast foundering upon a tropical beach and doomed to die of unnatural exposure. Where Rome or even Paris might have shimmered and lazed, London merely gasped.
Our windows wide open to the noisy staleness of the air and our blinds drawn against the glaring light, we lay in a kind of torpor, Holmes stretched upon the sofa while I dozed in my easy chair and recalled my years in India, when such heat had been normal and our accommodation rather better equipped to cope with it. I had been looking forward to some fly fishing in the Yorkshire Dales but meanwhile, a patient of mine began to experience a difficult and potentially dangerous confinement so I could not in conscience go far from London. However, we had both planned to be elsewhere at this time and had confused the estimable Mrs. Hudson, who had expected Holmes himself to be gone.
Languidly, Holmes dropped to the floor the note he had been reading. There was a hint of irritation in his voice when he spoke.
“It seems, Watson, that we are about to be evicted from our quarters. I had hoped this would not happen while you were staying.”
My friend’s fondness for the dramatic statement was familiar to me, so I hardly blinked when I asked: “Evicted, Holmes?” I understood that his rent was, as usual, paid in advance for the year.
“Temporarily only, Watson. You will recall that we had both intended to be absent from London at about this time, until circumstances dictated otherwise. On that initial understanding, Mrs. Hudson commissioned Messrs. Peach, Peach, Peach, and Praisegod to refurbish and decorate 221B. This is our notice. They begin work next week and would be obliged if we would vacate the premises since minor structural work is involved. We are to be homeless for a fortnight, old friend. We must find new accommodations, Watson, but they must not be too far from here. You have your delicate patient and I have my work. I must have access to my files and my microscope.”
I am not a man to take readily to change. I had already suffered several setbacks to my plans and the news, combined with the heat, shortened my temper a little. “Every criminal in London will be trying to take advantage of the situation,” I said. “What if a Peach or Praisegod were in the pay of some new Moriarty?”
“Faithful Watson! That Reichenbach affair made a deep impression. It is the one deception for which I feel thorough remorse. Rest assured, dear friend. Moriarty is no more and there is never likely to be another criminal mind like his. I agree, however, that we should be able to keep an eye on things here. There are no hotels in the area fit for human habitation. And no friends or relatives nearby to put us up.” It was almost touching to see that master of deduction fall into deep thought and begin to cogitate our domestic problem with the same attention he would give to one of his most difficult cases. It was this power of concentration, devoted to any matter in hand, which had first impressed me with his unique talents. At last he snapped his fingers, grinning like a Barbary ape, his deep-set eyes blazing with intelligence and self-mockery…“I have it, Watson. We shall, of course, ask Mrs. Hudson if she has a neighbour who rents rooms!”
“An excellent idea, Holmes!” I was amused by my friend’s almost innocent pleasure in discovering, if not a solution to our dilemma, the best person to provide a solution for us!
Recovered from my poor temper, I rose to my feet and pulled the bellrope.
Within moments our housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, was at the door and standing before us.
“I must say I am very sorry for the misunderstanding, sir,” she said to me. “But patients is patients, I suppose, and your Scottish trout will have to wait a bit until you have a chance to catch them. But as for you, Mr. Holmes, it seems to me that hassassination or no hassassination, you could still do with a nice seaside holiday. My sister in Hove would look after you as thoroughly as if you were here in London.”
“I do not doubt it, Mrs. Hudson. However, the assassination of one’s host is inclined to cast a pall over the notion of vacations and while Prince Ulrich was no more than an acquaintance and the circumstances of his death all too clear, I feel obliged to give the matter a certain amount of consideration. It is useful to me to have my various analytical instruments to hand. Which brings us to a problem I am incapable of solving—if not Hove, Mrs. Hudson, where? Watson and I need bed and board and it must be close by.”
Clearly the good woman disapproved of Holmes’s unhealthy habits but despaired of converting him to her cause.
She frowned to express her lack of satisfaction with his reply and then spoke a little reluctantly. “There’s my sister-in-law’s over in Dorset Street, sir. Number Two, sir. I will admit that her cookery is a little too Frenchified for my taste, but it’s a nice, clean, comfortable house with a pretty garden at the back and she has already made the offer.”
“And she is a discreet woman, is she Mrs. Hudson, like yourself?”
“As a church, sir. My late husband used to say of his sister that she could hold a secret better than the Pope’s confessor.”
“Very well, Mrs. Hudson. It is settled! We shall decant for Dorset Street next Friday, enabling your workman to come in on Monday. I will arrange for certain papers and effects to be moved over and the rest shall be secure, I am sure, beneath a good covering. Well, Watson, what do you say? You shall have your vacation, but it will be a little closer to home than you planned and with rather poorer fishing!”
My friend was in such positive spirits that it was impossible for me to retain my mood and indeed events began to move so rapidly from that point on, that any minor inconvenience was soon forgotten.
—
Our removal to number 2, Dorset Street, went as smoothly as could be expected and we were soon in residence. Holmes’s untidiness, such a natural part of the man, soon gave the impression that our new chambers had been occupied by him for at least a century. Our private rooms had views of a garden which mi
ght have been transported from Sussex and our front parlour looked out onto the street, where, at the corner, it was possible to observe customers coming and going from the opulent pawn-brokers, often on their way to the Wheatsheaf Tavern, whose “well-aired beds” we had rejected in favour of Mrs. Ackroyd’s somewhat luxurious appointments. A further pleasing aspect of the house was the blooming wisteria vine, of some age, which crept up the front of the building and further added to the countrified aspect. I suspect some of our comforts were not standard to all her lodgers. The good lady, of solid Lancashire stock, was clearly delighted at what she called “the honour” of looking after us and we both agreed we had never experienced better attention. She had pleasant, broad features and a practical, no nonsense manner to her which suited us both. While I would never have said so to either woman, her cooking was rather a pleasant change from Mrs. Hudson’s good, plain fare.
And so we settled in. Because my patient was experiencing a difficult progress towards motherhood, it was important that I could be easily reached, but I chose to spend the rest of my time as if I really were enjoying a vacation. Indeed, Holmes himself shared something of my determination, and we had several pleasant evenings together, visiting the theatres and music halls for which London is justly famed. While I had developed an interest in the modern problem plays of Ibsen and Pinero, Holmes still favoured the atmosphere of the Empire and the Hippodrome, while Gilbert and Sullivan at the Savoy was his idea of perfection. Many a night I have sat beside him, often in the box which he preferred, glancing at his rapt features and wondering how an intellect so high could take such pleasure in low comedy and Cockney character-songs.
The sunny atmosphere of 2 Dorset Street actually seemed to lift my friend’s spirits and give him a slightly boyish air which made me remark one day that he must have discovered the “waters of life,” he was so rejuvenated. He looked at me a little oddly when I said this and told me to remind him to mention the discoveries he had made in Tibet, where he had spent much time after “dying” during his struggle with Professor Moriarty. He agreed, however, that this change was doing him good. He was able to continue his researches when he felt like it, but did not feel obliged to remain at home. He even insisted that we visit the kinema together, but the heat of the building in which it was housed, coupled with the natural odours emanating from our fellow customers, drove us into the fresh air before the show was over. Holmes showed little real interest in the invention. He was inclined to recognize progress only where it touched directly upon his own profession. He told me that he believed the kinema had no relevance to criminology, unless it could be used in the reconstruction of an offence and thus help lead to the capture of a perpetrator.