“Hector, would you show my visitor up to the second floor lounge?” I said. “And bring us up a bottle of brandy and two glasses, please.”
The lounge was a small room on the east side of the building, mostly used for playing cards, and was unlikely to be occupied in the middle of the afternoon.
I settled my tab in the grill room and headed up the stairs after them. When I entered the lounge, my visitor had folded his long body comfortably into a leather burgundy armchair.
“I am perhaps not what you expected,” he commented as I took the chair opposite him.
“I must admit I was expecting a somewhat . . . rougher type of man.”
“Rest assured that I am the man you seek,” he replied smoothly. “My name is Holmes—Sherlock Holmes.”
“Holmes, is it? What a curious thing indeed.”
“What is curious?”
“My dear first wife Mary’s maternal family name was Holmes.”
“Her mother, then, was a Holmes?”
“Yes.”
“It is not an uncommon name.”
“True . . . this will sound hopelessly superstitious, but we actors are superstitious folk, so forgive me. But it feels almost as if your coming here was an act of providence—as if my dear Mary were somehow looking after me from beyond the grave . . .”
“I am very sorry to hear that your wife has passed away.”
“Thank you.”
“And yet you are remarried,” he commented, indicating the ring on my left hand.
“Yes . . . my current wife’s name is Mary also. She suffers from brain seizures and now lives with her parents. She hardly knows who I am—or who anyone is, for that matter.” I sighed deeply. “But on to the matter at hand,” I said, doing my best to shake off my black mood.
“Yes indeed,” he replied. “Now, then, what can I do for you?”
I realized at that moment he had been interviewing me, rather than the other way around, and was now operating under the assumption that the job was his. I felt a bit put out by this, and wanted to protest, but something in me silenced the words.
Instead, I blurted out, “I’m afraid someone is trying to kill me.”
He nodded, as if completely unsurprised by this. “I see. In that case, I may be of some assistance.”
“You have experience in these matters, then, Mr. Holmes?”
“I can provide references, should you require them.”
“Somehow I don’t think that will be necessary,” I replied.
“Good. Now then, please tell me everything, being careful to omit no detail.”
He was the kind of man who immediately inspires confidence; the mere fact of his presence was mysteriously calming.
“Well, the first incident seemed innocent enough at the time: a hanging flat in the theatre swung down during a performance, and I ducked—just in time to prevent being decapitated.”
“I see. Was the cause of the accident ever determined?”
“It seems someone had forgotten to tie up the rope holding it in place—or tied it so loosely that it came undone. No one came forward to confess to having tied the rope badly.”
Holmes nodded gravely. “And the second incident?”
“A trap door on the stage collapsed during rehearsal. When I stepped on it, it gave way and I nearly fell twenty feet into the building’s basement.”
“And did you ascertain the reason for this odd occurrence?”
“The bolts holding the hinges on had been removed, so that when I stepped on it, the entire thing gave way. Fortunately, an alert stagehand who happened to be standing next to me grabbed my arm and prevented me from falling. I am not an alarmist, Mr. Holmes, but it quite unnerved me.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his long fingers together.
“Who else knows about this?”
“Well, everyone saw the incidents take place, so my entire company, I suppose.”
“Was any innocent explanation for this possible?”
“It just so happened that some workmen had been installing some new floorboards the day before, so everyone blamed them. I felt differently, of course.”
“Have you told anyone else about your suspicions?”
“No. I kept them to myself—except for the anonymous advertisement in the paper which you answered.”
He smiled grimly. “That is good—that is very good. Be certain that you continue to keep your own counsel. It is essential that we preserve as much secrecy as possible.”
“I agree.”
“Good.” He leaned forward to sip his coffee, the lamplight shining on his thick black hair, which he wore combed back from his high forehead. “And the third incident?”
“You’re quite right, Mr. Holmes—there was a third incident.” I paused and took a sip of brandy, which burned my throat with a comforting familiarity. “A few days ago someone tried to shoot me.”
Holmes raised a single eyebrow. “I assume you failed to get a look at your assailant?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid I didn’t see him at all. It was dark, and—”
He waved a long hand impatiently. “Tell me what happened. Omit no details, no matter how trifling.”
“I had just finished a rehearsal, and I was leaving the theatre after lingering to talk to the stage manager about the following day’s rehearsal. As I turned the corner out into the street from the alley leading to the stage door, I heard the report of a gun.”
“You are quite certain that it was a gunshot?”
I took a deep breath; I was not pleased to dwell on the sound of gunshots in theaters. “Yes, quite certain. I immediately heard a whistling in my ear, then felt a burning sensation on the side of my neck.”
I opened my collar and showed him the thin red slash across my neck. Holmes examined it, frowning, then leaned back in his chair. “That is indeed a bullet crease. You didn’t by any chance recover the bullet in question?”
I shook my head. “I was too shaken to even think to look for it. That corner is very dark late at night. The lights in front of the theatre had long since been turned off.”
“I see. Were there any other people about?”
“No; as I said, it was quite late by then. The street looked deserted.”
“I’m sorry to say that your fears seem to be quite justified, Mr. Booth. Not only is someone trying to kill you, but I am very much afraid it may be someone known to you—perhaps even a member of your company.”
He now accepted my offer of a glass of brandy, and I poured myself some more as well, my hand shaking a little as I grasped the crystal decanter. Alcohol is my only true vice, as it was my father’s before me. I have struggled all my life to control my drinking, but now I felt that I might be forgiven for indulging in a glass of brandy.
“What do you propose I do?” I asked Holmes. “I cannot simply refuse to go out in public—I am an actor, for God’s sake!”
“What about using an understudy? Surely you must—”
Now it was my turn to dismiss him impatiently. I rose and began to pace the room distractedly. “If I put on an understudy in my place, people will demand their money back. I say this in all humility, Mr. Holmes: people come to the theatre to see me as Hamlet, as Brutus, as Iago. They do not come to see an understudy.”
“I quite understand. But is not disappointing your public worth paying for with your life?”
“It is not that simple, Mr. Holmes. Scores of people depend upon me for their livelihood. I can’t cancel performances indefinitely—the theatre and its employees would lose hundreds of dollars every night.”
I gazed out of the window, where cold gusts were whipping the tree branches along Gramercy Park. It was May, but a chill wind had overtaken the city in the last few days. People passing by drew their cloaks close around them as dried leaves scattered by the gusts circled them like miniature tornados; the wind seemed to be bent on knocking them from their feet. I looked back at Holmes, who sat still as a sphinx, his profil
e sharp in the dim light.
An idea suddenly seized me. “Have you done any acting, Mr. Holmes?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“I knew it! You can always tell a man who has been upon the stage—the way he uses his voice, the way he holds himself. I have recently lost my Horatio. I was about to hold auditions for the role, but now it occurs to me . . . have you ever done Shakespeare?”
“I confess I have—a little.”
“Would you be so kind as to take over the role?”
He paused for a moment. “I think I perceive where you are headed with this. Being a member of the cast would give me unparalleled access to the people who surround you professionally.”
“Exactly! Well—what do you say? I’ll pay you a salary of twenty dollars a week—in addition to your fee, of course.”
He smiled, softening the angular planes of his long face, like the sun breaking through the clouds on a gloomy day.
“Why not? I don’t see what we have to lose, and we may have much to gain.”
“Capital! I shall introduce you to our stage manager tonight at rehearsal. Where are you staying while in New York?”
“At the Hotel Washington.”
“You must stay here as my guest—there is a spare bedroom on the third floor, just down the hall from my own. I will see that Hector lays out all the necessary items for your comfort.”
“Thank you. That will enable me to watch out for your safety more effectively.”
“And now, if you don’t mind, I think I shall perhaps try to catch a few hours’ sleep, as it promises to be a long evening.”
“Certainly.”
I went upstairs and lay down in my bed, but I could not sleep. Why would someone in my own company want to kill me? Including stagehands, actors, and theatre staff, the list of suspects numbered well over sixty—just for our current production alone. Eventually I must have fallen into a fitful sleep, because I dreamed that my father was standing in the corner of my room, his face sad and mournful. I tried to speak to him, but no words would come. He raised an arm toward me, as though he wished to beckon me to him—or perhaps it was in warning; I couldn’t tell.
Then the chimes on the grandfather clock in the hall struck five, and a moment later Hector appeared at the door with a cup of coffee.
Dressing quickly, I went downstairs to find Holmes waiting with his overcoat on his arm. We walked briskly to the theatre, which was in Union Square, only about half a mile from the Players.
When we arrived, I introduced Holmes to the assembled company with a story about knowing him from my youthful days in California. Everyone appeared quite pleased that we had a new Horatio so soon—except for Geoffrey Simmons, our Polonius, who frowned and pulled at his beard. Geoffrey was a fine actor but an odd fellow. He was short and round, so corpulent that he appeared almost as wide as he was tall. His skin was pink and smooth as a baby’s, and with his small, bright blue eyes and mane of white hair, he rather resembled a cherubic Santa Claus. He was a moody and private man, and did not socialize much with the rest of the company; no one could claim to know him very well. But he was a great favorite with audiences; his Polonius was both a comical bumbler and an oddly touching father figure to Laertes and Ophelia.
The rehearsal went smoothly; Holmes was an even better Horatio than I had imagined—noble, resolute, and sensitive, all the qualities the character should have. He also possessed a darkness that contrasted wonderfully with the upright, steadfast Horatio. He was very effective in his closing speech at the end of the play. Several of the actors congratulated him on it—but Geoff Simmons continued to scowl and pull at his beard.
However, our Laertes, young Nate Carlisle, seemed much taken with him. He watched Holmes with great interest during his scenes, and made a point of talking to him during breaks. Nate was a lively, nervous young man with golden curls and intense, deep-set eyes of the palest blue. His Laertes was fiery and passionate, and he was an excellent swordsman, equally skilled with the epée and the rapier. I am no mean swordsman myself, but the final duel scene with him was a challenge that kept me on my toes. I had never acted with him before; he had come to me with a recommendation from a theatre manager in Savannah.
He reminded me of my younger self—energetic, eager, and athletic, full of desire to light the world on fire. By the time rehearsals began he had his lines completely memorized. I watched him during rehearsals somewhat wistfully, knowing that those days were behind me.
But though age has much to tell youth, remembering too well what it was to be young, youth has little interest in listening, because it does not believe it will ever be old. But I knew that one day he would look back, as I have, and wonder where it had all gone—the promise, the adventure, the glamour of a life just beginning, a career on the verge of glory. The sweetest moment of all is the one just before the doing—the breath taken before the fulfillment of a long-sought dream. The savoring afterwards is always tinged with sadness, with a bitter aftertaste, and is never as sweet.
At our first break Nate stood in the wings, conversing with Holmes, his face eager and flushed with the excitement of youth.
“Have you acted in London?” he asked Holmes.
“Only at university, when I was in school—and not very much; I was more interested in other things,” Holmes replied.
“I would love to go to England—I want to see how the English do Shakespeare!” Nate exclaimed as Geoff Simmons sauntered up to them.
“It’s highly overrated, my boy,” Simmons remarked, never taking his eyes off Holmes.
“I quite agree,” Holmes replied, turning a level gaze upon Simmons. “Your Polonius is as good as any I’ve seen in England.”
Simmons was utterly flustered by this, and before he could respond, the bell rang to resume rehearsal.
To my distress, I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the play. I was now in the uncomfortable position of watching everyone around me, studying them and wondering what grudge they might possibly hold against me, what the content of our last exchange was, had I ever slighted them, and so on, as my thoughts circled through the past hunting for any motive one of them might have for taking my life.
During the break Holmes and I sat in my dressing room talking quietly, and Holmes remarked that we had better keep an eye on Simmons.
“Do you know him from elsewhere?”
“I have never laid eyes on him before,” Holmes replied calmly, lighting a cheroot. He seemed to smoke as much as I did—my doctor had warned me about it, but I found it even more difficult to give up than alcohol.
“He doesn’t appear to have taken a shine to you,” I observed.
“Yes, I noticed that.”
I rose from my chair and began to pace the dressing room. It was a nervous habit I inherited from my father, who would often pace when he was ill at ease. I had spent my childhood years following him from town to town, trying to soothe his restless spirit with my banjo playing or storytelling—anything to keep him away from the bottle. Most people regarded him as the greatest American actor of his generation, but even as a young boy I saw that the gift of genius could exact a terrible price.
“Well, Holmes, have you seen anyone whom you suspect?”
He shook his head. “It is early yet. Is there anyone who would benefit monetarily from your death?”
“Not especially. I am worth much more alive; as I said, there are a great many people who depend upon me for their livelihood.”
He blew a smoke ring into the air above his head; it curled and dissipated into a thin gray mist. “If we rule out money as an explanation, then we are left with more personal motives.”
“But who would hate me so much that they want to kill me?”
“Oh, it is not at all necessary that they should hate you personally in order to want to kill you—only that they hate someone or something.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mind is a curious thing,” he replied slowly. “Onc
e a diseased thought has taken hold, the symptoms may present in a variety of ways. In that respect it is not unlike the body, actually, in which the same disease may present with radically different symptoms in different people.”
“That’s true,” I said. “When my brother John and I got chicken pox as children, all I had were a few spots and a mild fever, whereas Johnny nearly died . . .” I fell into silence, suddenly struck by the disturbing thought that it might have been better for the world if he had died.
“Exactly,” Holmes replied. “And there are even more bizarre cases than that in the medical literature—which is why diagnosis of disease is so much more of an art than a science. Likewise, the diagnosis of crime has its challenges . . . in this case, for example, several things present themselves to me. Firstly, the would-be killer is very patient. Secondly, he or she is equally determined. That would most probably rule out a crime of passion—though not necessarily. Are there any ladies in your company who are especially smitten with you?”
I sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.” (Some have described me as handsome; I do not agree with them. It is true that I have my father’s dark eyes—critics are fond of using such words as “luminous” and “lustrous” to describe them—but I think my nose is too prominent and my lips too thin to rank me as truly handsome. I would reserve that description for my brother John, whose high forehead, strong jaw, and noble profile made him a great favorite with the ladies.)
“Do you have a particular admirer in mind?” Holmes inquired.
I sighed again. “Her name is Kitty, and she is a perfectly nice young woman, but not much of an actress, I’m afraid. I also suspect that her admiration is not for my person so much as my position, to be quite honest.”
Just then there was rapid, lively knock on the door; and, as if responding to a cue, Kitty’s voice sounded in the hallway.
“Edwin!” she sang out in her high, bell-like voice. “May I come in?”
“That’s her now,” I whispered to Holmes. “Should I—?”
He nodded, and I rose to open the door.
Kitty was standing in the hall, dressed as a lady-in-waiting in the Danish court. It pleased the gentlemen of New York when I sprinkled the stage with comely young women, and I had no objection to bringing in more audience members, even if they were not there to admire Shakespeare’s verse.
Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Page 16
