The Wonderland Mystery

by John Pirillo

  “That’s remarkable,” Watson said with admiration.

  William laughed. “Watson, the only thing that is remarkable is that I never run out of ideas.”

  He frowned a moment in thought. “Even if they occur at the most dreadful of moments at times.”

  He gave the headless body on stage a sad look and then said, “And that my wonderful new idea should come at the cost of a dear life.”

  He shook his head sadly again. “God only knows what that man did to deserve such a punishment.”

  Holmes eyed William. “Punishment. Why do you say that?”

  “Holmes, you spent years in India. Do you not now believe in the wheel of life then?” William replied and walked off.

  As if that settled everything, he gathered a still solemn and much subdued Lewis Carroll to his side and they headed for the box-office area and the exit out.

  Holmes and Watson went the opposite direction.

  “Holmes,” the Inspector spoke up.

  Holmes turned back to look.

  The Inspector shook his head. “It was no ordinary axe, was it?”

  Holmes didn’t answer. He turned around and exited the theater with Watson.

  The Inspector sighed. “That man frustrates the dickens out of me sometimes.”

  Chapter Four: 221B Baker Street

  Holmes stalked back and forth in front of the window, hands folded behind his back.

  Watson sat at the table chatting quietly with Mrs. Hudson as she worked on her knitting, which she had set in a tiny pile between them.

  Harry sat near the fire, musing over something distant.

  “Holmes,” Harry finally spoke up.

  Holmes stopped and looked to Harry.

  “I think we are dealing with a curse of some kind.”

  “You think that why, Harry?”

  “I spoke with the actress who plays Alice. She told me the man who played the Joker was a kind man and a sweet actor. It was totally unlike him.”

  Holmes nodded. “That matches the description I received as well from the rest of the cast.”

  Watson looked over. “The Inspector said he has been unable to get hold of his wife.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows.

  Chapter Five: Alice Dies

  Jessica Harper, the actress who portrayed Alice of Wonderland in the play knocked on the door of the flat where Mrs. Forbes lived. She was sure the woman would need all the moral support possible once she learned about the murder her husband had committed.

  Had she been a lesser woman, she might have had a second thought about visiting the home of a killer, but her heart was good. All she could think of was helping her dear friend.

  She fretted outside the door, shivering from the cold. A brisk wind was coming from the Thames and cooling everything down.

  She still wore her red outfit for the Red Queen of Hearts. People had given her strange looks as she walked to the flat, but she ignored them. She was an actress and used to getting attention and wherever she got it from didn’t much matter these days.

  She sighed unhappily.

  Poor Mrs. Forbes. Betty.

  Such a kind soul.

  And who would ever have thought Myron would turn out to be a killer? It was all so…so…impossible!

  She knocked again, growing more and more nervous. Why wasn’t the woman answering the door? Then she admonished herself for being so silly. It was after Midbells, no wonder. Few stayed up during the week days after MidBells unless they were drunk or Midnight Angels out for a date with a drunken sailor.

  She sighed again. At least Betty had a loving husband for a time. Even if he had gone mad for whatever reason, she, at least would have some fond memories to hold onto while others reminded her of her husband’s incredible swing into madness.

  She shook her pretty shoulders. How can life so suddenly turn around and grow so dark? She mused.

  She knocked one more time. More loudly. She feared the neighbors would complain if she did it much louder or longer. She was just about ready to turn away from the door, when she heard it unlatching and the door knob turning.

  The door opened slowly.

  She sighed with relief.

  “Betty, I’m so glad you’re awake, I have something horrible to tell you. You must be brave,” she said as she entered.

  The door closed behind her.

  She stood there a moment, frozen in horror, for on the floor before her, was the head and body of Betty, and quite separated from each other. That’s when she realized she had entered without seeing who had opened the door.

  She spun around.

  Myron stood there, axe over his right shoulder, blood stains all over it. His face smiled kindly, but his eyes were cold and hard as ice. And distant, as if someone else were gazing through the lens of them.

  “Alice, how kind of you to come and pay your respects to my dear wife. I would like to introduce you to my new friend. She’s been dying to meet you.”

  Jessica screamed as the axe swung towards her.

  Once.

  Chapter Six: Just another Rabbit Hole

  Holmes and Watson battered at the door. Behind them were Constable Evans and several other constables.

  One of the constables muttered, “Just another blooming rabbit hole for these fiends to hole up in.”

  Constable Evans fixed a warning stare at the constable and he shut up.

  “Open up!” Holmes exclaimed.

  They banged on the door one more time, then Holmes and Watson stepped aside.

  The two constables came up with a small wooden battering ram and swung it hard.

  The doors shattered into two pieces.

  Holmes, Constable Evans and Watson dashed inside, and then froze.

  Laying on the floor, side by side, hands clasped in each other’s hands, lay Jessica Harper and Betty Forbes’ bodies, their heads seated squarely on their chests, eyes frozen open in horror.

  Constable Evans turned about and rushed outside, making gagging sounds as he did so. The other constables blanched as pale as ghosts and crossed themselves.

  Holmes and Watson said nothing.

  Chapter Seven: Painful Memories

  Inspector Bloodstone stared at the dossier in front of him and the monochromatic photos of the two dead women. He rubbed his forehead in a futile attempt to wipe away the migraine he was feeling. The disgust. The anguish for yet another pair of souls he couldn’t save, couldn’t help.

  And the thought of that brought back memories, painful ones from the past of dear friends whose lives had been cost because of his inability to save them, to make a difference.

  Also something else. But it hadn’t quite surfaced clearly in his mind yet.

  How the years do fade the memories, he thought, and then said, “This case reminds me of something that happened some years back, but I can’t blasted figure out what it was!”

  He growled angrily at himself, then up at the sound of footsteps. Welcome ones.

  He smiled into the face of his son, Constable Evans, as he entered with a tray of tiny sandwiches and two steaming cups of coffee.

  “Father.”

  “Son.”

  “I thought this might help…” Constable Evans said tentatively.

  Inspector Bloodstone sighed. “Please son, don’t think I’m hold out on you, or angry with you. It’s more me than anything or anyone else.”

  Constable Evans set the tray down on his father’s desk and sat opposite him.

  “I know.”

  The Inspector felt his eyes wetting for a moment. “What have I done so well in my life to deserve you?”

  Constable Evans looked into his lap. He had seen his father’s tears and it broke his own heart. There had been a time when it had not been like this. Darker times indeed.

  Finally, the Inspector broke the sudden silence. He looked up and said, “You look like crap!”

  “And you!” Constable Evans replied with a grin.

  “More like crap with more cr
ap on top of it,” the Inspector joked, feeling some of his tension spilling off with the lightness of the humor between them. His son was like the sugar in coffee to him. Sweeted everything bad he seemed to experience so much of these days.

  They both laughed. These days crap was getting used a lot, but usually with a bit more foul language firing it off than just this time.

  The Inspector cradled the warmth of the coffee cup in between his beefy hands and took a long sip, then sighed with pleasure.

  “These days even a simple cup of coffee is starting to look like a vacation.”

  Constable Evans smiled. “Speaking of which.”

  The Inspector almost spilled his coffee. “What!”

  “I mean neither one of us has done anything fun for years now.”

  The Inspector sighed very deeply, set his coffee down and rubbed his forehead again. “Dratted headache!”

  “I think it’s time we let the boys take over for awhile, Dad.”

  The Inspector looked up the same time as his memory of the past rocketed into the forefront of his mind. He jumped up and slammed both hands hard against the top of his desk, sending both coffee cups up into the air slightly, and spilling coffee all over.

  He ignored it and rushed from the office.

  “Hurry up; we’ve got to catch Holmes before he takes off somewhere!” He hollered over his shoulder.

  Constable Evans swept the sandwiches in to his coat pocket and followed after his father, cramming two sandwiches into his mouth as he did so. God only knew when he or his father would eat a sit down meal again. God only knew.

  Chapter Eight: Edgar Rice Burroughs Theater

  Harry stood in the center of the Edgar Rice Burroughs Theater, which had huge cycloramas depicting the savage forests of Fairie, mystical beasts and a savage man, who looks suspiciously like Lord Graystone, swinging from a ceiling painting onto the cyclorama.

  “It is my pleasure to bring attention to several celebrities here to watch my show tonight.”

  The audience began twisting about to see whom he might be talking about.

  “Please rise, so everyone can see you,” Harry announced.

  “I give you Sir Lewis Carroll, the famous author of Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass and the soon to be released Alice’s Flight through the Mirror World. Also author of the current smash play at the Globe Theater, “The Wonderland Mystery.”

  The crowd broke into cheers and applause as Lewis rose, his face turned deep red with embarrassment.

  “And,” Harry announced, his smile broadening. “I give you one of his lead characters, “The Door Mouse.”

  The Door Mouse rose, the actor still in costume, and took a long bow.

  The crowd broke into laughter and then applause.

  “Thank you very much,” Harry said, then turned back to the audience as Lewis and the Door Mouse both sat down.

  Lewis commented to the Door Mouse, “Maybe now all that horrible stuff that happened will be forgotten and we can get our show back to normal once more.”

  The Door Mouse nodded vigorously, but inside himself, doubted anything could ever be normal again. His friend, the Mad Hatter, had gone mad. Why?

  Harry stood in three spotlights, each a primal color: blue, red and green. He appeared almost diabolical as he spoke to the crowd filling the theater, which held thousands, starting with the hundreds on the first layer of the theater floor to the additional hundreds in the balconies that rose five floors above.

  He walked back and forth across the stage, all three lights pinpointing him and casting garish shadows of his moving form as he strut to and fro. “It is my belief, ladies and gentlemen, that magic is like a good draft of mead. One sip and you are in heaven. Two sips and you savor the aroma and bouquet of the fine fluid, but after the third sip your mind is flung into a nebulous panorama of sights and sounds no well wishing man would ever desire.”

  Lots of snickers arose from the audience, many whom on the first floor, also happened to be sipping from mugs of mead which waiters, walking to and fro were, bringing them by the dozens.

  “Laugh you might, but when the mind is inflamed with coarse materials, it no longer functions on the same high plane as before,” Harry went on.

  He raised his right hand and it began to glow a bright blue. “There is pure magic,” he commented, his eyes on the blue light and then…”

  He gestured to stagehands on the left and a mechanical dragon dropped from the ceiling and clanked to the stage floor behind Harry, spread its wings and spurted a burst of bright, red flames which engulfed Harry and hid him from view.

  The people in the front rows jumped up and scattered as the heat from the flames came in their direction.

  The rest of the audience grew nervous and jittery, not sure if this part of the act was supposed to happen or not, even though the posters throughout town proclaim: The Miracle of Fire, a performance with dragons by the Great Harry Houdini.

  The dragon flames sputtered and faded from the stage where Harry had stood, revealing a heap of smoking, charred clothing.

  Several women in the audience and some men are overcome by what they see and faint dead away.

  Others are now even more nervous. Has Harry succumbed to the dragon’s breath? But it’s supposed to be mechanical, not real?

  The mechanical dragon flapped its wings and rose from the stage. The lights blacked out, plunging the entire theater into a stygian black darkness.

  Panicked screams.

  The lights go back on.

  The dragon is now flying towards the audience. They screamed and prepared to flee, when they see a figure riding the Dragon’s neck. He waved at everyone and put a bullhorn to his lips. “Behold, I have conquered the Dragon’s Fire and the Dragon!”

  The audience broke into cheers, applause and began tossing roses at the stage as Harry and the Dragon descended gently to a landing.

  The lights in the theater go dark yet again. More screams, but not sounding quite as genuinely frightened.

  Flashing lights make Harry sparkle with a living form, made of rainbows. He slid off the neck of the mechanical dragon and landed lightly on his feet and walked to the stage’s apron edge and took a bow.

  In moments the cheering has grown tumultuous.

  Harry straightened up with a smile on his face and then froze when the lights began to crank back up again.

  Harry’s eyes widen in shock when he sees Myron Forbes, still dressed in his Jack of Spades outfit, standing behind Lewis Carroll and the Door Mouse swinging his axe at the author’s neck.

  Chapter Nine: Shocking Death

  A single gunshot! Then a second!

  The axe flies from Myron’s hand. He looks out into the audience, trying to figure out who shot him, his face revealing confusion and fear. He is dying and knows it. But how did it happen?

  Myron Forbes stumbles a moment, as if he has lost his balance and then spills over the seats towards Lewis and the Door Mouse, who both scramble to get away from him.

  The theater audience is frozen with fear, but then Sherlock Holmes and Watson step in front of the stage and raise their hands.

  “Please do not panic, ladies and gentleman,” Holmes announced.

  He looked to Watson, who then scurries off for where Myron has fallen.

  The Inspector Bloodstone and Constable Evans enter from side exits, and constables flood in from the back and sides to corral the audience and herd them outside.

  Chapter Ten: The Lost Prop

  “What do you mean the axe is missing?” The Inspector blasted at the constable who had been leading the squad taking out Myron Forbe’s body.

  “I mean exactly what I said,” he replied, “There was no axe by the man when we picked him up.”

  Lewis Carroll fretted nervously to the left of Holmes, whose face was like stone at that moment.

  “An axe does not pick itself up and just vanish,” he commented drily.

  Harry stepped to the defense of the constabl
e. “A magic one might.”

  Holmes eyed Harry thoughtfully a moment and then turned to the Inspector, “I want a complete list of all who sat in this area.”

  The Inspector eyed his son, who stood behind Holmes and he hurried off towards the box office of the theater.

  Harry rubbed his chin nervously a moment. “You think someone knowingly took the axe?”

  Holmes took Harry and the Inspector to the spot where Myron had fallen.

  He pointed to a spot of blood on the chair he had fallen across. “Where he fell.”

  He pointed to the seat just ahead and then to the right and left. “The axe was medium to heavy weight. The metal was tarnished somewhat, which means it has been used for similar work in the past. The axe handle was made of a hoarish wood found only in Yorkshire and made only in the fifteenth century.”

  “And you know this how?” The Inspector inquired.

  Holmes replied, “Myron had to use two hands to swing the axe.”

  “Which any man striving to hack off a head might do,” the Inspector insisted.

  “Yes, but when he swung the axe, he let go with his left hand.”

  “And?”

  “Myron was left handed, was he not, Mister Carroll?”

  “Yes, yes. Most indubitably,” Lewis Carroll replied. “And a wimpish man. He could never have swung a proper axe with any force; he could barely pick up a broom or mop without straining himself. He had an ongoing deterioration of his spine and skeletal structure which would one day have killed him anyway.”

  Holmes looked at Watson, who nodded.

  “Yes, that’s true, Holmes. I observed the curvature of his spine right away as being not normal and a deteriorating spine would put a lot of pressure upon it to hold up a head, let alone a failing hand.”

  “I see,” the Inspector begrudgingly agreed.

  “A weak man, such as he was, could not have used the heartier heavy wood of the oak normally used for an executioner’s axe, but this axe handle was not made of oak. The color was wrong. Aged oak turns yellowish brown especially with the addition of sweat, which typically is quite a bit on the hands of executioners.”