by David Marcum
“It’s a far cry from the Alhambra,” said the woman, with a braying laugh, “but it’s all the same at the bottom.”
“I had also heard of the Aoede,” I pressed. “And I wished to make a comparison of the two.”
“Writing for the guidebooks, what?” joked a male neighbor, who had ignored me until this point.
“Er. More like, an investment,” I said. “Suppose I wanted to invest in a music hall or a supper club. Is the Cyder Cellar an example of a successful enterprise?”
“Comic singers do best on stage,” said the woman promptly, “but the music halls would be empty if it weren’t for the people what comes to them.”
“Yes, I believe that’s rather self-evident,” I began.
Another braying laugh.
“Take this act, for example,” I pressed on hurriedly, indicating the one-legged dancer who capered onstage. “Suppose he has booked himself in three different venues on one night, one of which was mine. How can he be relied upon to faithfully make his appearance at all three locations? That’s rather a hectic schedule. Surely the Cyder Cellar must have an appreciable number of no-shows, merely due to unavoidable obstacles that life places in one’s way.”
The woman appeared unconcerned. “We all like to eat, don’t we? If he don’t perform, he don’t get paid, and if he don’t get paid, he don’t eat.”
“My brother did turns in music halls for years,” said the man. “The stories he had! The problem was, the music halls don’t pay enough to keep body an’ soul together, so you needs to stack ‘em. The music halls complain that the same turn appears three times on the same street. They needs to pay more if they wants an exclusive.”
Once the conversation had started upon this path of remuneration and employers, there was no retrieving it, despite numerous attempts. It was with relief that I escaped from the oppressive atmosphere of the hall to the chill of the overcast winter night and met Holmes outside the coffee house two blocks away at our designated time. Yet again, he had transformed himself with his usual deftness. Slouching about in a suit of third-hand clothes, his accent as unintelligible as any other in that shabby den, I felt a pang of envy at the realization he was always at ease, whether in the midst of kings or costermongers.
“All I could determine was that Bill’s seems to have no trouble with irresponsible artistes,” I reported. “I could find no instances of turns listed upon the programme, where the artiste failed to appear.”
“Of course not,” said Holmes. “You’ll find this specific trouble is endemic to Mrs. Hughes’ establishment, and will not be found plaguing her neighbors.”
“Then I can’t say I see the point of this wasted evening,” I said, with some asperity. “Unless you discovered something you would care to share.”
“We’ll see how the Aoede is on Monday,” he replied, “and that will give me a better idea of the facts in play.”
By “we”, Holmes obviously meant “I”. He emerged from his room before dawn, this time dressed as one who had seen former affluence, but had come down in the world. He disappeared, violin case in hand, not to be seen again until the lamps had been lit.
“Congratulate me, friend Watson,” he said, “for I am to make my stage debut on Friday evening at the Aoede. Or rather, congratulate James Gray, if all goes well.”
“Whatever for, Holmes?”
“A simple experiment which may help us determine what outside forces may be meddling with the Aoede’s contracted artistes, or if, perhaps, there is an explanation closer to home for Mrs. Hughes.”
“And if nothing comes of it?”
“Then perhaps the labourers of London will enjoy ten minutes’ worth of Mendelssohn, or what they can hear of it, and then I shall be followed by an adagio act and quickly forgotten,” came the tranquil reply. “I spent several hours of my time observing the day’s auditions and contracts. Next, I visited a jeweler’s shop. Then, I placed an advertisement for the services of a reliable wall-paperer. The remainder of my day was spent investigating records of the area’s criminal activity. Matters proceed in a satisfactory manner.”
Contrary to expectations, however, by Friday afternoon, nothing had interfered that would cause any cancellation of plans. Holmes, under his alias, took the stage as Number Eight on the evening’s bill, and executed his piece with much gravity. As Holmes is in the indulgent habit of compensating my patience with flurries of Mendelssohn and other favored melodies, I privately sorrowed over the indifference that met his performance.
The Aoede, even in its current state of disfavor, still held more than treble the number of patrons that Bill’s Cyder Cellar had boasted. The atmosphere, with its high ceilings and glittering chandeliers and heavy velvet drapes, held pretensions of affluence which contrasted sharply with the dinginess of the Cellar. The ventilation was also distinctly superior, although the class of individuals who frequented the hall were still of the poor and humble sort, and crudity and double entendre abounded throughout the evening’s entertainment.
Three of the twenty billed performers were unable to make their advertised appearances: Sevastyanov the Russian illusionist; the Barzotti Brothers, who performed feats of strength; and “Hamlet in Eight Minutes, performed with the greatest possible success” by Henry Jones. They were all key pieces, and despite the audience’s apparent lack of attentiveness, the subtraction of these three turns from the programme was met with great hostility. Although I had little fondness for music halls, it saddened me to see our client’s livelihood in such unfavourable straits.
It was quite late by the time the hall closed and the crowd dispersed. The staff was left to clean and tidy. Holmes gestured for the manager and Mrs. Hughes to join him in conference, and we all seated ourselves around a table. He introduced the manager as Mr. Munby; Mr. Munby seemed quite at a loss as to why Number Eight had called a meeting, but despite his bull-like appearance, he followed his employer’s lead with docility.
“I hope things have been quiet these last few days? No intruders?” inquired Holmes.
“Nothing’s come to my attention,” said Mrs. Hughes, glancing at Mr. Munby for affirmation.
Holmes nodded his approval. “One will find, with observation, that there has been an increase in the foot-traffic around your establishment these last few nights. It cost but a trifle and makes prowlers cautious. Have you had any defectors amongst your staff?”
“Wednesday, one of the waiters quit without notice,” said Mr. Munby. “We’ve been shorthanded as a result, but I was instructed to leave the vacancy until further notice.”
“Most excellent,” said Holmes. “If you don’t mind, I believe half of your problem could be solved by fresh wall-paper. I have taken the liberty of advertising around, and am in communication with four wall-paperers. They will come by in the morning, take measurements, and give their price. We will be here at nine in the morning to meet them.”
“That’s absurd!” exclaimed Mr. Munby. “We’ll shut our doors before Christmas at this rate; this is no time for foolish spending.”
“I believe the other half of the problem,” continued Holmes, unperturbed by this interruption, “would be solved by the immediate termination of your employment, Munby.”
Munby turned quite pink. “I’ve been here a month and am doing my best under the circumstances.”
Holmes directed his conversation to Mrs. Hughes and myself, with the occasional gesture towards Mr. Munby as though he were some scientific specimen of mild interest. “You will recall that Mr. Jacobs passed on at the beginning of November. Concurrently with his illness and passing, you received an offer from an anonymous purchaser, which you refused. By midmonth, you had hired on Mr. Munby, and from the moment Mr. Munby took the reins, your artistes have begun to fail to appear in ways they had not hitherto.”
“I say, that’s not-” interrupted Mr. Munby.
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“And not just small artistes who would be easily missed. Not a sentimental singer, or one juggler who is very much like another. Intriguing artistes with acts that capture the imagination, such as, say, a Russian magician, or an amusing interpretation of The Bard, or a comic skit. It is my assertion that there never was a Sevastyanov; there never were any Barzotti Brothers; and while I’m sure London is full of Henry Joneses, I doubt any of them is capable of performing ‘Hamlet in Eight Minutes’ with the greatest possible success. Certainly, none of them auditioned on Monday. I posit to you that all of these acts were fictions, created with the sole purpose of disappointing the audience by their failure to materialize.”
“What of ‘Harlequin and Cinderella’?” demanded Mrs. Hughes. “Surely I didn’t wear my fingers to the bone stitching costumes for no one.”
“Oh! Surely they were real enough flesh-and-blood humans. Perhaps they even had acquired a genuine script to rehearse. But they were mere confederates, and there was never any intention of bringing their harlequinade to opening night. You yourself said they had reported for the curtain, yet had turned around and promptly disappeared moments later. If merely Pantaloon had turned up missing, or you had mislaid a policeman, one might consider the possibilities. But to have your entire cast vanish into the night minutes before taking the stage! How can that be anything but deliberate? Especially when occurring as part of a pattern that has continued for a month now? London has its share of the criminal class, but I doubt there’s much profit in the chronic kidnapping of stage magicians and songsters, especially when it’s only from one stage on one street.”
“I don’t see-”
“Which brings us to motive,” continued Holmes. “Mrs. Hughes lives a quiet, isolated life. She is content to focus on her business, which thrives under the care she and Mr. Jacobs had invested in its success. There are other similar businesses as well. All know the Alhambra, the Argyle, the Barnes - but they are geographically remote and may be, for the moment, disregarded. Looking within the immediate neighborhood, who would benefit if the Aoede closed its doors? There are numerous victuallers, of course, but Bill’s Cyder Cellar is the only local establishment in direct competition for the cheap dining-and-entertainment crowd.
“Having visited the Cyder Cellar earlier this week, it was easy to tell that it is doing a poor business these days. At the peak of the evening, there were hardly a hundred individuals upon the premises, and of those, a tenth or more were children and infants! The spirits were adulterated; the food was lacking; the atmosphere was fetid; the cleanliness left everything to be desired. Bill is not the proprietor of a successful establishment; Bill is the captain of a sinking ship.
“Mrs. Hughes has told us she has no interest in marriage and is content to live quietly, yet she has received three propositions for marriage in the last six weeks, each, presumably, from a man who knows little or nothing of the woman to whom he proposed. One anonymous letter-writer; one from Mr. Ferguson himself; and one, as it happens, from you, Mr. Munby. When a man proposes marriage to a woman who is nearly a stranger, it is rarely from honorable motivations. Perhaps it is cynical of me, but ninety-nine times of a hundred, it is to gain access and control of whatever property she might bring to the union. And Mrs. Hughes is a prosperous, practical widow, having cultivated the diamonds of her youth into a tidy income. When Mr. Ferguson sensed his competition’s vulnerability, upon Mr. Jacobs’ illness and death, he attempted to buy her out for whatever pittance he could. When that failed, he attempted to again play upon the abandonment and isolation of a widow who has lost a trusted friend. And when that approach was rebuffed, he sent you in, Mr. Munby, to destroy from within as a ship-worm sabotages a ship. You made a halfhearted effort at a proposal yourself, but as that had failed twice before, it obviously did not work the third time it was tried. Instead, you concentrated your attack on her purse-strings. You advertised creative, inventive acts which could not possibly appear on stage, and attempted to destroy the credibility of her establishment, in the hopes that it would drive more patrons to Bill’s Cyder Cellar, which, I’ve discovered, is unlikely to keep its doors open more than three months. He has enough bills from creditors to paper his office.”
“It sounds plausible, but why should Mr. Munby go through all that effort?” I asked.
“Watson, you know that the study of physiognomy is just as important to me as the study of tobacco-ash or soil particles,” said Holmes. “I had the opportunity to observe Mr. Ferguson himself earlier this week. He possessed a strong forehead with very square eyebrows. His earlobes were quite attached to the side of his head; he has a very square jaw; and there were seven or eight other unique points about his appearance. Looking at our friend Mr. Munby, you can easily observe that same phenotype, suggesting hereditary characteristics.”
“He has no children. I’m not his son,” said Munby sullenly.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. You may be a nephew of his, or something else, but the pair of you certainly share the same blood,” said Holmes. “I wonder what he could have offered that made you think it prudent to partake in such an infantile scheme.”
Munby arose abruptly and stalked past three waiters, who had spent the last ten minutes rubbing down tables nearby with more care than was strictly necessary. “I’ll not take this abuse any longer. Unfounded, that’s what it is,” he shouted over his shoulder as he departed the room.
“Of all the - !” exclaimed Mrs. Hughes, who was still processing the torrent of explanation. “What can I do about it?”
“Munby may or may not be his real name,” said Holmes. “And there’s no physical evidence, of course, to bring him to a court of law. No phonograph recordings of him and Mr. Ferguson plotting against you, or a useful outline of ‘Steps to Destroy One’s Competitor’ in their own hand. Still, I believe you can take solace in the fact that Bill’s shall be a distant memory soon enough. The wicked do not always prosper. Now, this shall suffice for tonight. Let us retire, as the wall-paperers will be here soon enough.”
“The wall-paperers! Surely that was a joke,” said Mrs. Hughes.
“As I said, ridding yourself of Munby was only half your problem,” said Holmes. “This has been slow enough to play out, but things must be done in the proper order.”
It seemed like no time before we were back at the Aoede, the chilly grey mist swirling through the streets. Mrs. Hughes was instructed regarding her part, and Holmes and I stationed ourselves behind the heavy drape of the closed curtain, where we could see but not be seen in turn.
Three different wall-paperers arrived in succession. Each time, Mrs. Hughes would go up to her office to take care of some papers while they and their assistants took measurements of the room. Mrs. Hughes would return after an interval. They conversed with Mrs. Hughes; she thanked them and they took their leave. Holmes sat quietly and made no movement.
With the fourth set of wall-paperers, however, it was different. As soon as Mrs. Hughes had departed, he scooted his ladder from its station by the wall, and dragged it to the center of the room while his assistant stood watch near the door. The one with the ladder then commenced a thorough investigation of each of the large chandeliers which depended from the ceiling. He gave a muffled cry of excitement as he found something. Holmes stepped calmly from behind the curtain, stick in hand, and said, “Don’t get too excited, friend. It’s only paste.”
The wall-paperer nearly fell from his ladder, but quickly recovered himself. He looked at the glittering handful he had pulled from the profusion of crystal swags, then tossed it across the room in disgust. His companion had already bolted from the scene.
“I presume you’re looking for the jewels that Philip Tull hid there ten years ago,” said Holmes. “I assure you, they have been found and are returned to their lawful possessor.”
Mrs. Hughes had re-entered the room during this exchange. “What, and diamonds, too?”
“Imagine, if you will, ten years ago. You are a young man named Philip Tull, who has recently involved himself in some sort of criminal activity involving the possession of stolen property. With the police hot on your trail, you run to seek refuge on the premises belonging to a relative, but you are unaware that relative has relocated, and sold the property to another. You enter the premises; you see scaffolding has been erected for the post-fire renovation. You scramble up the scaffolding and hide sparkling jewels amongst a chandelier full of sparkling crystals. By the time the police capture you, ‘the goods’ are no longer in your possession, and they cannot arrest you on that... but there are other excuses for your detainment, as your existence has not been an honest one, and you find yourself in prison, where you die of influenza a few years into your term.” Looking at the wall-paperer, he added, “I presume that is where you heard of the diamonds?”
“He knew he wouldn’t make it out alive,” said the wall-paperer gruffly. “There was three of ‘em, and not as careful as they could be. His companions were caught with the goods on ‘em, and met their ends on the scaffold. The jewelers got back everything in the end, excepting that piece. Its secrets would have died with him, if it weren’t for his bragging.”
“A collet necklace of considerable value,” said Holmes, retrieving the dummy and pocketing it. “An odd subject to contemplate upon one’s death-bed. Now that you know Philip Tull’s ill-gotten goods have been returned to their rightful owners, and you have no further reason to pester this establishment, I will give you three minutes’ head start before I call the nearest policeman.”
