by Val Andrews
Possibly he spoke further words but these were drowned by a sudden scream from Marina. She all but shrieked, 'It's true, there really are spirits! Oh Robert how wicked we have been to use trickery to falsify that in which we did not even believe! Sir Arthur, Lady Doyle, please forgive me. God forgive me...I have sinned!' Much to the amazed consternation of the Doyles she continued to make confessions concerning her activities as a spirit medium.
Holmes's voice eventually commanded me, 'Turn on the light Watson, I think enough has now been heard, particularly by our friend Richard Hawke.'
I switched on the light. This immediately made it obvious that Holmes was flesh and blood rather than spirit. Marina dropped her head into her hands as Doctor Blackthorne said, 'Very clever Holmes, so you falsified your death as well as your spirit-self. You are as guilty as we are of deception.'
Holmes replied, 'Not quite, for I have no doubt that you had much to gain from making Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle believe that you could contact the spirits of those who had passed on - or is it over?'
Doyle then spoke. 'We had been upon the point of making a large donation to Doctor Blackthorne to build a special spiritualist church.'
'Sir Arthur, now do you not see that I had only your own good at heart when I claimed that you had been deceived so often and so easily by people like the Blackthornes?' Houdini broke in.
'Houdini, my faith in spiritualism and the ability of so many of the mediums we have encountered is not shaken in any way by the events of this evening. There are black sheep in every fold. As for you, Holmes, I am disappointed with your behaviour tonight. Was it kind to expose my wife and I to the shock of believing someone, for whom we had the greatest respect, to be dead?'
As the Blackthornes prepared to depart a voice was heard, the harsh voice that we had heard at the previous night'thevious ns seance. 'Death to Holmes. Death to Houdini!' Wallace was indeed displeased with recent events.
The Conan Doyles departed, much offended, and it was only then that I started to notice the actual mechanics of Holmes's deception or transformation from Septimus Carstairs to his own spirit. There beneath the table lay the cassock, long grey wig, thick spectacles and collar of the cleric.
'Where did that faint blue light come from Holmes?' He opened his jacket - for he had been wearing his normal attire beneath the cassock - and revealed to us a trumpet-shaped article; so constructed that it might be inserted at its tapered end into the top of his waistband. He explained, 'It is a sort of battery-operated torch with, as you have seen, an eerie blue glow. It is manufactured specially for those who deceive the unsophisticated who so wish to believe. Earlier today I went to Green Street, just off Leicester Square, to visit the emporium of one Will Goldston, an enterprising gentleman who deals in apparatus for illusionists. He is well known to you of course, Mr Houdini, and I knew him from that occasion in 1918 when he was as interested as I was in the rather strange death of William Ellesworth Robinson, whose nom de theatre was Chung Ling Soo.
'You may remember, Watson, that Mr Goldston had an eccentric theory that Robinson had planned his own death which we were able to disprove. Mr Goldston supplied this little contraption which was just the icing on the cake.
'It was a brilliant touch, Mr Holmes, and I was shaken by it myself; even though I had some idea what you were up to.' Houdini turned to Hawke, 'You have enough to enable you to expose the Blackthornes?'
The journalist nodded. 'Marina has held her last seance as far as what you would call the big-time is concerned. People of influence like the Doyles will never touch her again. As for your crusade, Mr Houdini, you have another notch to carve on your magic wand. I'll make it certain that every reader of the Daily Falcon is aware of this evening's incredible happenings, especially those outbursts from Marina.'
All known rules of the Charing Cross Railway Hotel were broken for Sherlock Holmes as we were served in the dining room with a meal of cold cuts and salad washed down with a bottle of claret. There were just the two of us, for Houdini, after expressing his profuse thanks, had departed to placate an irate wife and Hawke had sped to Fleet Street where the lights burned twenty-four hours a day. The snack was welcome and enabled us to replace the energies both physical and mental that had been consumed over the previous two days.
'Holmes, will you mind the return to notoriety which tomorrow's papers may bring you?' I asked my friend.
He smiled. 'You are mistaken Watson, it will be Houdini who stars in tomorrow's dramatic disclosures. As Hawke and Houdini left us, they were deep in conversation and our American friend is very plausible. By tomorrow it will be he who exposed Marina. But that is as it should be, for he is a showman courting publicity at all times, whereas I am but an elderly retired investigator not requiring such limelight.'
Rather to my surprise, I was able to entice Holmes to stay with me for a day or two before he returned to Fowlhaven. It was in my study at Finchley where I had made a fire despite the season, that we sat and studied the front-page item in the Daily Falcon. Holmes had been right, for it read: 'HOUDINI EXsat 'HOUDIPOSES MEDIUM MARINA! That great American showman, the man who can escape from any restraint and make a live elephant disappear, last night exposed the so-called medium, Marina, by himself conjuring up the spirit of the famous Baker Street detective Sherlock Holmes at a seance attended by Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle.'
There followed an account of those events of the night before which seemed to bear little likeness to what had actually occurred. It was evidently Houdini who had conceived the idea of the faked death report and the transformation of the bogus cleric into the enigmatic sleuth. The article finished with a puff for Houdini's latest appearances as a spook-buster and the forthcoming premiere of his moving picture The Man from Beyond in which he himself played the starring role.
Of course, Holmes had suspected that this would happen and had told me that it would. But even though I knew that he was untroubled by Houdini's seeming - to me -ingratitude I was still a little surprised by his unruffled calm. I said, as I felt I must, 'Really Holmes, you have allowed Houdini to walk all over you!'
'Houdini has his problems, Watson, it is not all glory for him. I doubt if Sir Arthur will ever again give him more than a polite nod, however unreasonable that may sound.'
'Just one last point upon this subject Holmes, what did you make of that coarse voice which threatened both Houdini and yourself?' He did not laugh as I had half expected that he might.
'Yes, Wallace was furious was he not? I think Marina should go on the halls as the world's greatest ventriloquist, for that indeed she is. But she has a spitefulness, Watson, the last demonstration of which we might not yet have seen.
Holmes glanced at an envelope which stood propped up against an ornament upon the mantelpiece. 'Ah, a woman's handwriting if I am not mistaken.' He arose and without touching the envelope he investigated it with his prominent nose. 'Traces of perfume. You are a dark horse Watson.'
'If you must know everything Holmes, it is from that young woman to whom I loaned the money on the Embankment. No letter, just a five pound note in the envelope but obviously it is from her.'
'Well there you are, Watson, your trust was not unfounded and you are as ever a good judge of character.' He glanced at me with an expression of - for him - great kindness but I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye.
As for Houdini, he was soon to return to the United States and would continue to make headlines almost daily for the next several years. He toured extensively in America giving a lecture entertainment almost entirely devoted to the exposure of fake mediums or spook crooks as he called them. He was loved, applauded, threatened and hated in turns. Then, towards the end of 1926, I learned that he had returned to a programme of escapology - as he called it -and magical entertainment. But early in November of the same year I read in the Daily Falcon that he had died, not from the hazardous effects of the underwater escape that was his featured item, but from peritonitis triggered by a blow to the stomach deliver
ed to him by a student who had read that he could withstand such treatment without ill effect.
I was saddened by the news of his death. I had never quite known if I had liked Houdini or not but I had always recognized him as an exciting and enigmatic perevenigmatisonality impossible to ignore. I corresponded with Sherlock Holmes upon the subject of Houdini's death. From what he wrote to me I gained the impression that he had admired - almost liked - Houdini. One of his letters ended, 'One thing is certain Watson, we will not look upon his like again, yet I have a strong feeling that we have not heard the last of him.'
PART TWO
The Secret Box
It was upon a balmy midsummer evening in 1927 that a sudden banging upon my front door startled my reverie. There upon the doorstep stood Sherlock Holmes whose arrival had not been predicted by any sort of warning or message.
'Good evening my dear Watson, your lupins will soon be giving you a splendid show!' With bewildered mutterings I ushered him in, taking his hat and cane which were those one would normally associate with a country squire. His tweeds completed the picture; that of a gentleman suddenly called to the city upon urgent business.
I noted the overnight case that he had thrown down near my umbrella stand. I seated him in my favourite chair and plied him with coffee. I first welcomed him and then asked him, 'How many nights do you intend to stay?'
'Ah, you have noted the Gladstone? Well, that will rather depend upon the outcome of a meeting which we have tomorrow at the Ritz Hotel.'
'Please, Holmes, elucidate as soon as you have refreshed and composed yourself.'
'Watson, I do not undertake investigations any more as you well know, unless they are of great personal or national interest. But that which has torn me away from my rustication in Sussex is really by way of being the settlement of unfinished business. Remember friend Houdini whose spiritualistic and theatrical activities were so rudely interrupted by his death last Halloween? Well his wife, Mrs Beatrice Houdini, wishes to consult me concerning some aspects of his demise untimely. That death was, as you will remember, part of a scenario which he might have dictated himself. He went out in a blaze of publicity.'
'When did you hear from the lady?'
'She wrote to me some weeks ago, before taking ship for Southampton, but she assumed the date of her arrival and establishment at the Ritz. The rendezvous is for tomorrow but I received the letter but hours ago; so the lady is somewhat less businesslike than her husband. I apologize for this sudden intrusion but time has not been on my side. You will, I trust, be able to arrange for your practice to be managed by others for a day or two?'
This last remark surprised me because when last we had met, perhaps a year before, I had been all but retired, having but recently been thrust back into medical activity through force of circumstances. Reading my mind, as always, he said, 'The iodine stain on your left hand tells its own story. I'll have another cup of that which passes with you for coffee. That you have run out of your usual brand and fallen back upon bottled Empire tells me also that you have been more than busy, for you were always well organized in such matters. By the way, have you quite eliminated the mice from your spare bedroom? I would hate to be kept awake by their scamperings.'
Despite thirty-five years of exposure to his methods he never ceased to amaze me. I had not, until very recently, been troubled by mice in my house; only one room being affect"JUred and the matter resolved.
Almost apologetically, he explained, 'I'm afraid I took a glance at the side of your house before I raised your knocker. Call it force of habit or just plain curiosity, as you wish. I noticed that you had erected a garden shed - since my last visit to you - of the kind which almost always attracts the attention of the common fieldmouse. The shed was immediately below the window to your spare bedroom which has a section of trellis reaching from the ground to the sill. I noted the marks left by our little friends as they transferred their attention from shed to trellis and trellis to windowsill. But don't worry, Watson, the fieldmouse is a cleaner animal than his indoor cousin but at certain times of the year not averse to an indoor life.'
'Holmes, it cost me several pounds paid to an artisan who professed expert knowledge to rid me of the mice. From what you have told me it would have been so much easier for me to simply move the shed - and cheaper!'
'Don't forget my present rural surroundings,' my friend responded.
We talked for several hours about old times, great days and remarkable events. Indeed, it was well past midnight when I showed him to my mouse-free spare bedroom. On the following morning, I rose rather later than usual. Washing, shaving and dressing hastily, I descended to my dining room where I found Holmes, immaculate and freshly shaved, sitting with a coffee pot and the remains of a substantial breakfast.
'Doctor, I hope you will forgive me for taking such advantage of your hospitality. I took the liberty of admitting your daily woman when she arrived.'
Then, as if on cue in a theatrical piece, Mrs Morgan, my domestic, entered - all smiles - bearing a fresh supply of toast and another pot of hot coffee.
Holmes beamed at her. 'Bless you my dear Mrs Hudson, you are really quite spoiling me!'
Mrs Morgan simpered, 'It's a pleasure Mr 'Olmes, I always followed the accounts of your carrying-on in The Strand. At least, my Albert did, an' 'ee used to tell me all about them!'
Holmes bowed his head and then with a gesture towards myself said, 'You have the good doctor to thank for all that and, of course, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.'
She simpered again and, as she left the room, she whispered to me, 'Such a nice gentleman, but why does 'e call me 'Udson?' I shrugged, feeling it better not to try to explain. As I partook of my breakfast, we discussed the course that the next few hours would take.
'Watson, our appointment with Mrs Beatrice Houdini is for midday at the Ritz. I suggest that we take the underground railway. If we leave here at about ten-thirty of the clock we should be in good time.' Unmindful that I was still eating, he brought forth his pipe and pouch, soon filling my dining room with clouds of blue smoke and an atmosphere strangely reminiscent of our old rooms at Baker Street.
As I drank my coffee, I asked a few questions. 'You have told me why you have decided to see Mrs Houdini, Holmes, but I wonder if you have considered just what her present problems might be?'
'I imagine the lady has shared my own feeling that there was something not quite right about the circumstances of her husband's d I husbaneath. That is if you discount the possibility of her rendezvous suggestion being merely a friendly gesture.'
Perhaps, on reflection, I said, a little too quickly, 'I do indeed discount that possibility. Mrs Houdini showed very little desire for our company during her last visit to London.'
Holmes chuckled. 'I couldn't have put it better myself, Watson.'
The half-hour spent travelling by underground proved uneventful enough to allow us to indulge in gossip concerning the events in our lives that had occurred since our last meeting. Holmes told me about one or two events in Fowlhaven that had involved him in assisting the one local representative of law and order. 'I do not seek to involve myself, Watson, but then neither I imagine do you any more wish to concern yourself with the health of the populace. You are a humanitarian and, whilst I would not apply that term to myself, there are times when I can hardly refuse to use my talents - such as they are.'
There was time to spare when we arrived at Green Park, so we took a stroll along Piccadilly to gaze at the place where once had stood Maskelyne's Egyptian Hall Theatre; the scene of an adventure in which we had both participated so many years before, when the game had been well and truly afoot.
Picking up my own thoughts, Holmes said, 'The times change, as do tastes Watson, but not perhaps always for the better.' I gazed at the shopfront, which replaced the previous stately columns, and nodded my agreement.
As we entered the huge residential lounge of the Ritz, we at once perceived the lady we were seeking. She was handsomely gowned a
nd coiffured; though clearly middle-aged. Beatrice Houdini had never been a great beauty but, as of yore, she still presented an attractive appearance; amplified perhaps by the fact that her dark hair was now shot with startlingly white streaks. She inclined her head in recognition as we neared her. 'Mr Holmes and dear Doctor Watson too! Say, can I call you Doc, Harry always did? It is good of you both to give me your time.' We both made suitable polite rejoinders and I made no comment about being called Doc.
She had a somewhat younger woman with her, also expensively gowned and introduced to us as, 'my companion, Daisy'. We sat upon a long sofa opposite the two women and divided from them by a low coffee table upon which were cocktail glasses. Mrs Houdini asked us if we wanted any refreshment, 'A Martini, or a Manhattan?'
We settled for a pot of tea which was brought for us by a waiter who bore also replacement cocktails for Beatrice and Daisy. Niceties over, Mrs Houdini got down to brass tacks. 'Mr Holmes, I want to remind you of the details of the events that led directly to my poor dear Harry's death last fall. Peritonitis was the official cause of his death, following a ruptured appendix; the result of a series of blows to his abdomen, delivered by some fool student from the McGill University.'
