Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  * * * *

  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 on him before,” Holmes replied calmly, lighting a cheroot cigar. 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 begin to pace the dressing room. It was a nervous habit 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 extract a terrible price.

  “Well, Holmes, have you seen anyone else you suspect?”

  He shook his head. “It is early yet. Is there anyone who would benefit monetarily from your death?”

  “I am worth much more alive; a great many people depend upon me for their livelihood.”

  He blew a smoke ring into the air above his head; it curled and dissipated into a thin grey mist. “If we rule out money as an explanation, then we are left with more personal motives.”

  “But who would hate me so much they want to kill me?”

  “Oh, it is not 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?”

  He ran a finger through the faint ring of face powder on the make-up table and gazed at the clutter of cards, dried flowers and notes from well-wishers pasted upon the mirror that adorn every actor’s dressing room.

  “The mind is a curious thing. Once 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 art than science. Likewise, the diagnosis of crime has its challenges—in this case, 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 especially smitten with you?”

  I sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.” (Some have described me as handsome; I do not agree. 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 women, though 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 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.

  He beckoned me to open the door.

  Kitty was standing in the hall, dressed as a lady in waiting in the Danish court. She dearly wanted to play the part of the doomed Ophelia, but she settled for a non-speaking role instead. It pleased the gentlemen of New York when I sprinkled the stage with comely young woman, and I had no objection to bringing in more audience members, even if they were not there to admire Shakespeare’s verse.

  “Hello!” Kitty said brightly. Her blond hair bounced in tight ringlets around her face, and her blue eyes were cheerful as spring daisies. “Oh,” she said, peering around my shoulder to spot Holmes. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you had company!”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Please come in.”

  “Hello, Mr. Helms,” Kitty said.

  “Holmes,” I corrected.

  “Yes, yes—I am sorry, Mr. Holmes!” Kitty corrected herself, blushing prettily.

  “You remember Kitty,” I said to Holmes. “She plays a lady-in-waiting.”

  “Of course,” he said graciously. “Come in, please.”

  She gave a little curtsy in response; she came from the slums of the Lower East Side, and was forever at pains to behave like a lady. She entered the room, her fluffy white terrier Prince trailing behind her, his sharp little eyes just visible under the shaggy fur on his head. When he saw Holmes, he gave a high, piercing bark, wagging his stub of a tail.

  “Stop it, Prince!” Kitty cried, picking him up and cradling him in her plump white arms.

  “Your dog does not appear to like me,” Holmes commented.

  “Oh, no—he does!” Kitty protested. “He only barks at people he likes.”

  “Curious,” said Holmes. “He wouldn’t be much use as a watchdog.”

  Kitty erupted in peals of silvery laughter. “He’s not a watchdog, silly! Did you hear that, Princey? Mr. Holmes thinks you’re a watchdog.”

  She hugged the dog close to her lilac-scented bosom and fluttered her blond eyelashes at us. I mused that she would be more attractive if she weren’t so overplaying her hand; as for Holmes, he seemed immune to her charms.

  “What can I do for you, Kitty?” I said.

  “I was just wondering if it might be a good idea to have more of the members of the court onstage for the final scene,” she said, putting the dog back down and twirling a lock of golden hair between her dainty fingers. “It would heighten the tension to have more spectators onstage.”

  I smiled. Kitty was always anxious to spend more time onstage.

  “You may be right,” I replied, and her already pink cheeks reddened even more.

  “Thank you for the idea,” I continued, ushering her to the door.

  “You’re welcome. Good-bye,” she called to Holmes. “Welcome to the company!”

  “Thank you very much,” he replied. Then, with a rustle of skirts and a flash of yellow hair, she turned, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume, her little dog trotting obediently after her.

  “A very cheerful young woman,” Holmes remarked dryly when she had gone. “And a very ambitious one.”

  I stared at him. “You don’t suspect—”

  He smiled grimly. “My dear Booth, I suspect everyone.”

  “But surely—” I began, reddening.

  “Your gallant attitude toward the fairer sex does you credit, but one of the most charming women I ever knew drowned all three of her children in a bathtub.”

  I shuddered.

  “Really, Holmes, I would not care to have your perspective on humanity.”

  “If one wants to engage in solving crime, one must not shy away from the truth.”

  * * * *

  I was just about to turn my attention to a platter of cold roast beef that had been delivered to my dressing room when the bell rang to resume rehearsal. As the manager of the company as well as its star, I tried never to be late to rehearsal. Disappointed, I gazed longingly at the beef as we hurried off to the stage.

  As we approached the famous scene with the gravediggers, I realized I had left Yorick’s skull in my dressing room. I
hurried back to retrieve it, hoping secretly to grab a piece of roast beef before returning.

  The door was ajar, and when I opened it, I saw Kitty’s little dog Prince lying on the floor. He was unnaturally still, and I feared the worst. I knelt beside him; he did not appear to be breathing. I felt for a pulse but could find none. I noticed some white foam clinging to the corner of his mouth. I also saw that a chunk of meat had been bitten from the joint of roast beef on the table.

  My head began to spin and my knees suddenly went weak. I realized immediately what had happened: the poisoned meat was meant for me. I took several deep breaths in an attempt to steady my nerves. I leaned against the dressing room wall and ran a hand across my clammy forehead; I had broken out into a cold sweat.

  There was a quick, light knock at the door. I hesitated for a moment.

  “Who is it?”

  “Holmes.”

  Relief flooded my veins, and I opened the door to admit him to the room. He took one look at the poor dog and grasped the situation immediately.

  “Dear me,” he said, frowning. “This is very bad indeed.”

  “What should we do?”

  “We must remove the dog from here immediately—the killer must not know we are onto him.”

  “What about that?” I asked, indicating the joint of beef.

  “If anyone asks you about it, say you were not hungry and intend to dine tonight at your club.”

  “Poor Kitty,” I said as we lifted the small, lifeless body.

  “Yes; it will go hard with her when she discovers him in her dressing room.”

  “But shouldn’t we tell her—”

  Holmes shook his head. “It is most regrettable, but also vital that the dog appears to have died of natural causes.”

  We took the poor creature down the hall to the dressing room Kitty shared with the other ladies in waiting, and left him next to her chair. I felt my throat thicken as we closed the door behind us, and my forehead burned with shame at the ruse we were perpetrating on poor Kitty. I understood Holmes’s reasoning, but it did not sit well with me.

  “And now?” I said.

  “Now we return to rehearsal as though nothing happened.”

  And so we did. I made some excuse for having been detained for so long, something about being approached by the theatre owner for this month’s rent. That went over without a murmur of suspicion; several of the company members nodded in sympathy when I made a disparaging remark about the greed of theatre owners.

  But all the while I was on the lookout for any unusual or suspicious behavior—a sideways glance here, a shifting of the eyes there. However, I saw none. Perhaps this was to be expected, I reflected bitterly; after all, I was surrounded by actors, who spend their entire lives dissembling; what could be more natural for a trained actor than to play the role of the innocent, even if he is guilty?

  We had just begun Act II when a bloodcurdling wail came from the direction of the dressing rooms. Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened, horrified. It was a woman’s voice, and it was a chilling sound that made my skin prick out all over in goose bumps.

  I knew, of course, only too well who it was, and why she was crying. Moments later, one of the other young actresses, Carolyn Maloney, rushed into the room, tears streaming down her face.

  “It’s Kitty!” she wailed. “Her poor little Prince is dead!”

  Moments later Kitty appeared, carrying the inert body of her pet dog, her pretty face swollen from crying. I admit my own eyes did not remain entirely dry—the sight was so piteous that I doubt any of us remained unmoved by it.

  Kitty was petted and hugged and made much fuss over, but she was inconsolable. No one was more solicitous than young Nate Carlisle, who took her hand in his, and with a trembling voice, expressed his sincere regret. When Kitty wouldn’t stop crying, he looked beseechingly at the rest of us.

  “You can always get another dog,” he suggested hopefully.

  “I don’t want another dog!” she wailed. “I want my Princey!”

  Poor Nate looked miserable, as if he was about to cry himself, and I decided to save him by calling everyone back to rehearsal. It would have been nice to take the rest of the day off, but we were scheduled to open in a week.

  Kitty struggled bravely through rehearsal, but it was clear that the death of her beloved dog had devastated her. The shock of grief was stamped on her face—her lower lip trembled during the Queen’s speech about Ophelia’s death, and she shed real tears during my death scene at the end of the play. If she were only able to summon up such real emotion consistently onstage, she would have been a more successful actress.

  * * * *

  After rehearsal, I was waiting in the lobby for Holmes to join me when I saw Joe Jefferson hurrying toward me. He was a tall, lanky gentleman with thin lips, serious dark eyes and a severe face—yet his nature was anything but severe. He came from a theatrical family, as I did, and was one of the leading comedians—perhaps the leading one—of his generation. I had known him since my days in California. He had agreed to play the small but key role of the First Gravedigger in our production. It was a role he had played many times before, and he was always an audience favorite. The repartee between Hamlet and the Gravedigger is some of Shakespeare’s wittiest, one mark of his genius being his ability to relieve the mounting tension of the tragedy with this brief comic scene.

  “I say, wait up for a moment!” Jefferson panted, running after me on spindly, stork-like legs. A long black greatcoat hung off his lean, slightly bowed back, and with his coarse black hair and piercing dark eyes, he reminded me of a bird of prey—a crow, perhaps, or a raven.

  “Edmund, my boy,” he said, catching up with me, “I have something for you.” It was one of his little jokes to call me Edmund, which was the name of the evil bastard son in King Lear.

  He fished a slip of paper from his pocket and thrust it at me. “Geoff Simmons gave this to me to give to you. You were busy talking with the costume mistress, and he said he was late for an appointment.”

  “Very well—thank you, Joseph,” I replied, slipping the note into my pocket.

  “Don’t mention it.” He began to leave, then turned back to me, his black eyebrows furrowed. “I say, old man, is everything all right?”

  “Yes, perfectly—why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that you look a bit—distracted, I suppose.” He leaned closer to me, and I could see the yellow in his eyes. “I say, it’s not your wife, is it? Taken a turn for the worse, has she?”

  It was Joe Jefferson who had first introduced me to Mary Devlin, my beloved first wife, and I always thought he found my current wife a poor substitute.

  “No, no—she’s much the same,” I answered.

  “Poor thing,” he clucked, his eyes crinkling sympathetically. “Madness runs in that family,” he added with a conspiratorial nod.

  “Well, I must be off,” I said, buttoning my coat.

  Still he lingered, and I began to feel irritated that he would not take a hint and leave.

  “That fellow playing Horatio—what’s his name?” he said, clearing his throat loudly.

  “Uh—Holmes,” I replied.

  “Yes, Holmes—he’s quite good, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Where did you say you knew him from?”

  “California.”

  He frowned. “I don’t remember him in California.”

  “He showed up after you left.”

  “It’s odd that your father never mentioned him.”

  My early years in California were spent following my famous father around from town to town, trying to keep him from indulging one of his notorious drinking sprees.

  “My poor father’s memory was rather affected by his drinking, I’m afraid,” I replied with a heavy sigh.

  But even the best actor cannot always fool another actor—as with confidence men, we know the tricks of the trade. Jefferson peered at me intently for a moment, looking a
s though he was about to speak, then shrugged his shoulders and shoved his bony hands deep inside his coat pockets.

  “Well, well, do take care, won’t you?” he said.

  “Yes,” I replied, thinking his comment somewhat odd.

  “Right, then, old man—see you tomorrow.”

  With that he loped off into the night, his great coat flapping around his ankles like the wings of a giant black bird.

  As I stood watching him, I was suddenly aware that someone was behind me. I turned to see Holmes standing there silently, arms folded, looking after Jefferson.

  “Curious man,” he remarked.

  “How do you mean?” I was both fascinated and irritated with Holmes’s ability to pluck observations out of thin air.

  “What are your conclusions regarding Mr. Jefferson?” I inquired.

  “Oh, nothing much,” he answered airily, “other than he owns a Springer spaniel of advanced years, is overly fond of coffee, and is quite the amateur gardener. He is quite keen on roses in particular, I should think.”

  I stared at him.

  “Really, Holmes, how on earth—?”

  “Do not distress yourself, my dear Booth. That he owns a dog is evident from the short, curly hairs clinging to his trousers. That it is a medium-sized dog is evident from the fact that the hairs are to found only as far up as his knees. As the hairs and both black and grey and curly, the most obvious choice would be a spaniel, probably a Springer, which is a very popular breed just now.”

  “But the age of the dog—”

  He smiled. “There I confess I was surmising. A man his age does not get a young dog—in fact, if he has a dog at all, it is likely to be as advanced in a dog’s years as he is. That and a preponderance of the grey hairs led to my conclusion.”

  “And the rest of your conclusions? The coffee drinking, for example?”

  “One of the first things I noticed was the color of his teeth—and nothing except tobacco can stain the teeth quite that shade of grey. However, as he has not a whiff of smoke about his clothing or his person, I discounted that conclusion and surmised that he is overly fond of coffee.”

  “And the gardening?”