Sherlock Holmes and the Apocalypse Murders

by Barry Day

  Wilde seemed to be determined that nothing should interrupt his flow.

  “Detecting must be such a fascinating occupation, Mr. Holmes. It reminds me of my visit to the so-called United States, which I found to be anything but. They maintain that America was discovered but I always say that it was merely detected …”

  “Yes, Oscar, that’s quite right. You always say it—just like you always say everything …!”

  The interruption was from Lord Alfred, who pushed his chair back from the table and rushed out of the restaurant, almost knocking over a waiter in his haste.

  There was a sudden silence before the buzz of conversation resumed. For some reason I had the distinct impression that this was not the first time the Cafe Royal had witnessed such a scene. And I was equally certain that Oscar Wilde was positively relieved to see his churlish guest depart.

  Wilde looked thoughtfully at the empty doorway.

  “There are times when I have likened his slim gilt soul to the proverbial perfection of the lily but there are, increasingly, others when the rather more constricting convolvulus comes to mind.”

  Holmes spoke for the first time.

  “Mr. Wilde, fascinating as I find your botanical speculations, I’m afraid we have pressing business elsewhere.”

  But as we began to move on, Wilde pushed himself to his feet.

  “In which you must permit me to join you. I have often thought that I would make an excellent detective. Find me a miscreant, Mr. Holmes and I will guarantee to talk him out of his evil intent.”

  To the hovering mâitre d’—“Charge it to my account.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilde, but Lord Alfred has already done so …”

  The news seemed to come as no surprise to Wilde, who linked his arms with those of Mycroft and Holmes and steered them firmly towards the door, allowing me to bring up the rear and observe the frankly relieved looks of the remaining diners.

  I must admit that my emotions were somewhat mixed but the sight of the Holmes brothers rendered jointly speechless for what must have been the first time in their lives provided a moment to treasure.

  Out in the street, to my surprise, a hansom was already waiting and the driver immediately touched his hat when he saw Wilde.

  As if in answer to an unspoken question, Wilde said airily—“Oh; when I find I have a good cab, I tend to keep him all day. It saves all that subsequent gesticulation. Where to?”

  “The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden,” I said weakly.

  The ride was a short one and within a few minutes we were bowling into Covent Garden. It was then that we noticed something strange. By rights the area should have been relatively quiet at this time of night. It had been arranged that we should meet Harcourt in his office after the curtain had risen. By now several hundred avid opera goers should be packing the hall and listening entranced to the strains of Richard Wagner’s music. Instead they appeared to be milling around outside and, even from here, the atmosphere did not have the normal buzz of anticipation one normally associates with a pre-theatre crowd. These people were certainly excited but I could sense hysteria in the noise they were making.

  “Hello,” said Holmes, “isn’t that our friend Lestrade?”

  As we decanted ourselves on to the pavement, a flustered Lestrade rushed up and seized Holmes by the arm. Now I could see that a number of his men were trying to control the crowd and move them away from the doors of the opera house.

  “Mr. ’Olmes … Doctor … I don’t know when I’ve been more pleased to see the two of you … and you, too, of course, Mr. Mycroft, sir,” he blurted out, totally ignoring Wilde—a fairly difficult feat, which he nonetheless accomplished.

  “What is it, Lestrade?”

  I had rarely seen Holmes so tense. “Is she …?”

  “She? There’s no ‘she’ about it, Mr. ’Olmes. It’s an ’im. I’ve never seen anything like it, straight I’ve not.”

  At that moment a cloaked figure ducked under the arms of two of the restraining constables and was at our side. The hood was pushed back and we were looking into the white and frightened face of Irene Adler.

  I say ‘white’ but that was not quite true. Although the woman was clearly fighting to control genuine fear, she was also wearing heavy stage make-up which created a melodramatic effect that was somehow totally in keeping with the maelstrom of madness that seemed to be surrounding us.

  “Oh, Sherlock … John … I’ve been praying you would get here! Yes, yes, I’m fine.” This in response to our anxious expressions.

  Drawing her to the relative shelter afforded by the waiting hansom, Holmes sought to calm her.

  “Take your time but try to tell us in your own words …”

  “It was a strange evening,” Irene began, “but I thought that was to do with me. I was feeling quite light-hearted after our talk this morning. After all, I had just this one performance to get through and all would be well, of that I was sure. Perhaps because of my own preoccupation, I missed something I would otherwise have noticed.

  “Anyway, the curtain rose on the first act. There was the usual sort of stage business to set the scene in the harbour and then, quite early on, the Flying Dutchman’s ship is meant to enter. The production is an elaborate one and the ship is almost a full size replica with the masts fully rigged. The stage hands have had quite a few problems in moving it during rehearsal, so all attention back stage was on the mechanics of the scene. As it enters, the sails are being furled—it is all very lifelike …”

  She paused, as the memory came back to her.

  “Take your time,” Holmes said gently.

  “And then, as the ship came into the audience’s view … I heard a gasp, then someone screamed. From where I was standing I could see everyone looking up into the flies. I did so, too, and there …”

  “Yes?”

  “… there was this man hanging from the top spar of the rigging. He was hanging there and just swinging to and fro like a rag doll … Then someone backstage must have seen what had happened and the curtain came down. The next thing I remember, the police were here and emptying the theatre. Remembering what you said, I rushed down and joined the crowd. I was afraid to go back to my dressing room, so I just snatched a cloak that was hanging on a peg backstage and …”

  Wilde was the first to speak and for once he set aside the well-turned phrase.

  “So some unfortunate stage hand …?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir … Mr. Wilde, isn’t it?” Lestrade seemed to have recovered his own professional composure now. “No, that was our first thought, of course—until we were able to climb up a ladder by the side of the stage and take a closer look at the gentleman concerned. No, the victim is …”

  “Mr. Henry Harcourt. Formerly Lord Justice Harcourt.” Holmes spoke quietly but we all heard him clearly enough.

  “And now quite decidedly ‘late’,” Wilde added but the flippancy was missing in his tone.

  And then Holmes did a surprising thing. Turning to Lestrade, he said—“I wonder if I could trouble one of your constables to go down to Printing House Square and fetch me an early copy of tomorrow’s Times?”

  Then, seeing that the Inspector was about to say something, he continued—“No, I realise it would be premature to expect an account of this evening’s events, however garbled. All I require is the agony column. Thank you.” This to the young constable, who saluted and rushed away.

  As he did so, I happened to be looking past Holmes and Irene into the crowds. People were still swirling around in the apparently haphazard fashion of eddies in a pool but somewhere in the foreground a bright splash of colour caught my eye.

  It was the strikingly blonde head of a tall man. No, it was the head of the man who had been scrutinising us last night inside this very theatre—and who was doing so again. At least he was until he saw me looking at him. He held my gaze for a moment then turned away and began to make his way back into the thick of the crowd.

  “Lestrade,�
�� I cried urgently. “That blonde fellow just moving away over there. Who is he, do you know?”

  “Oh, I can answer that, Doctor,” said Wilde. “He is a new planet that has recently swum into our little orbit. One Mr. Cain—Janus Cain, if you can believe such an appellation. Personally, I am inclined to believe he is but a poor figment of his own imagination.”

  “So that is Janus Cain?” Mycroft looked thoughtful. “Self-styled High Priest of …”

  “… the Church of the New Apocalypse,” Holmes finished for him, “and the latest addition to my Index for ‘C’, Watson. Remind me to re-read the item when we return to Baker Street. But I am inclined to agree with Mr. Wilde that a certain air of theatricality tends to attach itself to someone who appropriates such an ambiguous set of names and initials.”

  “What do you mean, Holmes?” I said, genuinely puzzled.

  “Well, old friend, I think you will find that Janus was an ancient Roman god, the keeper of doors and gates, the master of new beginnings, commonly represented with two faces—one in front and one at the back and, thus, all-seeing. And Cain, of course, was the jealous elder son of Adam and Eve, who did away with his brother, Abel …”

  It was Wilde who now picked up the thread. Staring at the back of the retreating object of our speculation, he said, barely perceptibly—“The question is—is this Cain able? And to do what?”

  “Nor,” Holmes continued, “do I think it entirely coincidence that he chooses to adopt the two most famous initials in the western world … ‘J.C.’… for ‘Janus Cain’ read ‘Jesus Christ’. He would presumably have us believe he has been sent to address our sins …”

  The six of us were a temporary oasis of silence in the hubbub all around us.

  Then Holmes seized the moment.

  “Come, Lestrade, we have work to do. Miss Adler will come with us. Watson, would you be so kind as to ensure …?”

  “You can count on me, Holmes. More than one of us can have eyes in the back of his head.”

  I thought I caught a lightning glance exchanged between the brothers before Mycroft said—“Too many chiefs—or do I mean chefs? I will take Mr. Wilde for a nightcap at my club and we will regroup first thing in the morning at Baker Street …”

  I had visions of the exotic Wilde shaking the Diogenes Club to its stuffy foundations, since it was a founding rule of the establishment that any member caught speaking to another could find himself disbarred. As if reading my mind, Mycroft continued sotto voce …

  “… it will be interesting to see what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object. Goodnight, madam—gentlemen …”

  As the two of them re-entered the cab—Wilde, I thought, rather reluctant to be missing the excitement but a Mycroft under full sail was not to be gainsaid—I heard him start to piece together his familiar persona.

  “Religion—as I’m sure you know, my dear Mycroft—is the fashionable substitute for belief … just as scepticism is the beginning of faith … I have often thought of founding an order for those who cannot believe—a Confraternity of the Faithless. After all, why should organised religion have all the best tunes …”

  And then the cab was out of earshot and we were making our way through the crowds with the aid of Lestrade’s sturdy fellows. I scanned the crowd carefully but there was no sign of the mysterious Cain.

  Jostled and buffeted, we finally secured the relative peace of the theatre lobby. I had done my best to protect Irene from those who recognised her and wished to speak to her. Inside we found a determined cordon of police preventing access to the auditorium. When they saw Lestrade, they parted ranks just enough to let us through, then joined hands again. Covent Garden had rarely seen a drama like this, even on its famous stage—not even on a Wagner night.

  The double doors swung to behind us and we were in a different world. Before us acres of empty plush seats. What little sound there was echoed round the empty hall and it came from the stage, where a large sailing ship seemed to have beached itself.

  The curtain had been fully raised and we could see the gantry and the platforms above the stage from which the scenery was suspended. Several men were being lowered in a cat’s cradle, while others had climbed high up in the ship’s rigging, all in an effort to reach the broken object that was hanging there. As we walked down the central aisle towards the stage, someone managed to loop a rope around the body and slowly it was lowered to the stage, as if in some elaborate pagan ritual. Ironically, its arrival there coincided with our own.

  In life Harcourt must have been a veritable martinet. A small, dapper man with iron grey hair cut short and a small, neatly-trimmed moustache. His suit of expensive tweed would have been equally immaculate, had it not been for the rope that had been wrapped around his torso in a kind of harness, so that it could be snagged on the ship’s rigging.

  In death he looked—as Irene had suggested—like nothing so much as a child’s rag doll, limp and without purpose. There would be no more harsh lectures or draconian sentences from this particular source.

  As I examined the body at Holmes’s suggestion, I could see that, once again, the throat had been cut and the signature ‘x’ marked the spot on the victim’s jaw. I turned from where I was kneeling to nod to Holmes and Lestrade, just as the young constable hurried down the aisle towards us and handed Holmes a folded newspaper:

  We gathered around him as he quickly turned the pages to find what he was looking for. I confess I have rarely scanned the racing results with greater interest.

  “Ah, here we are—as I thought …” Holmes folded the paper and tapped an item in the agony column. In the same place as we had seen for the item referring to Lady Hatton I read—

  “HANGING JUDGE”

  and beneath it …

  “Judge not, that ye be not judged”

  (Matthew 7:1)

  As I contemplated it, I heard Holmes say—“And then there was one.”

  Beside me Lestrade was clearly baffled by this recent turn of events.

  “But I don’t see how …”

  Holmes cut across him. “This event was carefully planned well in advance, Lestrade. We ought to know by now that our friend leaves few things to chance. Moreover, he wants us to know how clever he is. He feels he can afford to advertise what he is about and challenge us to stop him. So far, I must admit, he has the advantage of us. It is up to us to see that he does not retain it and take game, set and match.

  “Lestrade, I think what remains to be done here falls within your department. Doctor Watson and I have other business to attend to, so if you will excuse us …?”

  As we made for an Exit that would lead us back stage, we could hear the relief in Lestrade’s voice, as he began to deal with matters with which he felt more at home. I felt sorry for the many who would have to labour long and hard before they saw their beds this night.

  As we made our way through the corridors behind the stage, Holmes addressed himself to Irene, who seemed to have recovered her composure.

  “Tonight’s events make it even more imperative that you do not return to the theatre until we have brought these matters to a conclusion.”

  We had reached a sort of crossroads and Irene indicated a short corridor that ended in a cul-de-sac.

  “The dressing rooms are along here. Believe me, I shall be as quick as I can!”

  “Then Watson and I will wait here, where we can see if anyone tries to enter the corridor.”

  So saying, we took up our positions just around the corner, where we had an uninterrupted line of sight and we heard the tap-tap-tap of Irene’s feet receding and the sound of a door opening and closing. Up and down the other corridors there was not a soul to be seen. Clearly the police had emptied the premises as soon as the tragedy had been discovered. Even now the usual occupants must be being questioned in some other part of the building.

  “What do you make of it, Holmes …?” I was just starting to say, when I heard someone whistling those six unmistakable notes,
Auprès de Ma Blonde. Then—as if orchestrated in one of the performances for which the house was famous—in succession there was a woman’s scream, followed by a man’s laugh and the noise of a metal door being slammed shut.

  “Irene!” I don’t know if it was Holmes or I who shouted. It may have been both of us for all I can tell. We were around the corner and into the corridor that held the dressing rooms before the echoes had died away.

  The corridor was empty, then a door at the very end on the left was thrown open and Irene Adler dashed out and threw herself into my arms. She was wearing a robe and her face was scrubbed clean of the stage make-up, leaving it white and strained. Even in extremis, though, her beauty was remarkable.

  “He was here. He was here again! No, I’m fine,” she said in answer to Holmes’s concerned enquiry. “I didn’t see him—but he must have been close by. And then I heard him … And he left these …”

  Without turning her head to look at it, she indicated the door of what was presumably her dressing room. Before I could say a word Holmes was inside. My arm still around Irene, I approached the door more carefully.

  Inside was the usual clutter that seems to be the inevitable accompaniment of any woman of my acquaintance. Expensive dresses were draped across every available surface, shoes littered the floor. I have never understood why the process of tending to feminine beauty involves such apparent unawareness of the chaos created along the way.

  Then my eyes went to Holmes standing by the lady’s dressing table. In the full size mirror I saw not only our own reflections—two orphans of the storm, a heavy-set middle-aged man and a slender frightened woman—but the brooding aquiline presence of Holmes, his long, thin fingers sifting through something on that surface.

  Moving closer, I peered over his shoulder. It had once been a bouquet of white roses. Now they were fragments of petals and stems, which even I could see had been hacked to pieces in a frenzy. I felt that I would not have cared to run into whoever was expressing such savagery.

  What was even more chilling was the blood. It was as though the thorns of the roses had wounded the giver at the moment of giving, for the petals were now liberally dappled with blood. I tried to shield Irene from the sight but I had no need to. Her head was resolutely turned in the other direction.