by Barry Day
“Pray continue, Mr Adler,” Holmes encouraged him and perched himself on the corner of the desk, motioning me to the vacant chair. He clearly had no wish to interrupt Adler’s flow.
“I’ve often wondered what became of them but somehow my own personal demons—guilt, I guess is a better word for it—would never let me make a serious effort to find out. Then, some years ago, I heard that Iris had died in England. At that point I did make some enquiries but by that time the boy was grown and gone. And that was that, gentlemen, until we arrived in England a few weeks ago. One morning I had a visit at my hotel from the representative of some big firm of hot shot lawyers—the name doesn’t matter. When he presented his card the name—Henry Tallis—didn’t ring a bell right away. Then he told me who he was and you can imagine how I felt. In a funny way he seemed to be enjoying it.
“Do not upset yourself, Mr Adler,” he said, as cool as may be, “You won’t mind if I don’t call you ‘Father’, I’m sure, under the circumstances? I am here strictly in a business capacity.” Then he told me his firm had been retained by a group of theatrical figures in England who had decided—rather late in the day, I might add—that they would now consent to buy me out, so that—as he put it—the Bard might be returned to his rightful owners.”
“I’m not good at holding my horses, Mr Holmes—never have been. And being already upset probably made it worse. I lost my temper and told ‘Mr Tallis’ what he and his principals could do with their offer. They’d had three hundred years to do what I’d done in a couple. I’d even offered to bring them in with me—but no. They wanted nothing to do with this upstart Yankee tourist, until they saw it was actually going to happen. Now I wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole …”
“And when did you see your son again?” Holmes asked quietly.
“I’ve had a series of reminder notes. Curt little things.”
“Written or typed?” “Typed, I think. I really don’t recall. I threw them away. He’s also been hanging around the theatre. I’ve seen him talking to several of the actors. Trying to set them against me, I guess. God, what a mess!” He laughed bitterly. “Not exactly the family reunion you see in plays, I’m afraid.”
“How did Mrs. Adler take the news?” I asked.
Adler’s expression looked for a moment as though he wouldn’t answer the question. Then he looked me in the eye. “I’m afraid I haven’t plucked up the courage to tell her yet,” he replied. “Things have been a little—difficult lately. And, of course, you’ve heard the dreadful news about Ham Fiske?”
It was as if the specific tragedy of Fiske’s death gave him something to hold on to. He stood up and his body seemed to fill out, his batteries to recharge in front of our eyes. “I can’t get a straight answer out of the police. What have you heard, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes looked his inscrutable best and I now recalled that in his parting words to Lestrade he had asked that there should be no public announcement for the next few hours, a request to which the bewildered inspector had been only too glad to agree. “I’m afraid we shall all have to wait until the medical report is complete which, I imagine, should be within a matter of hours. Meanwhile, as I believe you theatrical people say, the show must go on, surely?”
It was as if Holmes had given the man a call to arms.
“You’re quite right, Mr Holmes. Although that’s an old circus phrase—but let’s not split hairs. That’s precisely what Ham would have wanted. This afternoon we’re rehearsing a scene from Julius Caesar. When we lost Ham, we lost our Caesar as well as our Richard.”
The way he said it made it sound like a triple murder and there was little doubt that the fictional characters loomed larger in his mind than the real and recently departed one. It was as if the actor had somehow cheated them and him.
“Luckily, Mr Allan has stepped into his shoes. I’d better be getting over there to see how they’re getting on. You gentlemen come on over in your own good time. I fancy you know your way around here by now?” With that he hurried out of the room.
I looked at Holmes. “If I were to say ‘The plot thickens’, would I be quoting Shakespeare or Wilde? Most things seem to be one or the other.”
“I’m afraid you’d lose your money on both scores, old fellow,” Holmes replied with a laugh. “I think you’ll find it was George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham. If you’re looking for quotations, the one crossing my mind was more on the lines of your fellow Scotsman, Robbie Burns and his ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave …’ More than one person here is practising to deceive us, old friend.”
“Could young Tallis have been the bearded fellow plying Fiske with drink? Perhaps the landlady would recognise him? Adler did say he’d been making up to the actors.”
“Possibly,” Holmes replied, “but perhaps not likely. Quite apart from his clients’ ambitions, Tallis certainly has his own personal agenda and his own reasons for wanting to see Adler lose face. He’s clearly an intelligent young man and though we don’t know what he’s been doing these past years, apart from qualifying as some sort of solicitor’s clerk, I would venture a guess that he’s followed his father’s recent career with some interest, if not perhaps with the best of intent. The threats? We must certainly add him to our list of suspects where they’re concerned. But killing Fiske? Too many threads, Watson, too many threads. But we must not waste our time here. I asked Lestrade to meet us and, since punctuality is one of the qualities with which he is cursed, he is almost certainly here by now. The last thing I want is to have him interviewing the actors and telling them more than they tell him!”
Taking my arm, he hustled me through the unfinished corridors and into the yard of the theatre where, sure enough, Lestrade was in conversation with a group of the actors who were not involved in the scene being rehearsed on the stage. “If I didn’t know better,” Holmes murmured as we approached them, “I’d swear that Lestrade was holding court.”
And indeed the inspector did seem in an unusually expansive mood, basking in the attention of Dame Ivy, Pauline French and Carlotta Adler, all of whom appeared to be genuinely fascinated by what he had to say. Seeing us, Lestrade theatrically beckoned us to join the group. “I was just telling these lovely ladies a few of my own theatrical experiences, Mr Holmes. There was that very nasty murder at the Brixton Empire a few years ago. You may remember it …?”
“Remember it?” I snorted. “If Holmes hadn’t proved that her husband had been introducing arsenic into the leading lady’s make-up for months, you’d have arrested her dresser and been the laughing stock of London.”
“And then,” Lestrade continued, ignoring my interruption as best he could, “another case brought me into contact with Elsie Congreve. Now, there was a lady. The finest actress to grace the English stage …”
I looked at Holmes whose expression warned me to keep my peace. And in any case, I would only have been upstaged by Dame Ivy. In his ignorance Lestrade had mentioned the one name that was anathema to her. Every theatregoer knew that the two women were deadly rivals and hadn’t spoken for years. Drawing herself up to what appeared to be rather more than her full height, the Dame declared: “She may have graced the stage. She certainly never acted on it!” It is no mean feat to make an exit from a littered forecourt in full daylight but Dame Ivy managed it to perfection.
It was Holmes who broke the silence that ensued. “Lestrade, a word with you, if I may?” Over his shoulder I could see Carlotta and Pauline French, suddenly newfound friends, their heads together and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.
“Ah, yes, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade, patently grateful for the interruption. “I was just trying to distract the ladies from questioning me, like, until you got here.”
“So I see.”
“Yes, well, the police surgeon gave the body top priority and I’ve got his report right here.” He handed my friend a sheet of paper. “You were quite right. His blood sugar was way past the danger limit. The cause of death was actually cardiac arr
est but you’ll see that they conclude it was the sudden excess of alcohol that brought it on. We’ve also checked with his doctor and apparently he’s had a number of warnings about this very thing. He’s already had several heart attacks and his doctor told him the next one would kill him for sure. Seems he was right. The surgeon also notes that his liver and kidneys were in a right old state. Could have popped off any time.”
“Yes, but someone made good and sure he popped off this time—before his ship came in,” Holmes mused. “Thank you, Lestrade. Most helpful.”
“And now,” Lestrade was peering at the stage, “which of these young chappies is which?” It was, indeed, difficult to tell, since all of them were wearing white Roman togas, except Adler who—perhaps to insist on his own ‘costume’—still wore his cashmere coat slung around his shoulders.
I pointed out Ted Allan, made up to look older for the part of Caesar … Harrison Trent, an open-faced Brutus …the slighter figure of Simon Phipps as Cassius. Did he have a leaner, hungrier look since yesterday or was I reading into his face what I thought I knew of last night’s events? As for the rest of the group they were unknown to me—spear or, in this case, dagger carriers.
Finally, Adler seemed satisfied that they had understood his direction and stepped back, signalling the actors to continue. “Let’s take it from—‘I could be well moved’…”
Allan made his entrance from behind one of the stage pillars and once again I found myself marvelling at the actor’s art. He carried his slender frame as though it had suddenly added several pounds and as many years. His walk was now heavy. For that moment he was a Roman emperor.
I could be well mov’d if I were as you;
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:
But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament …
There was no doubt about it, the man was impressive. I turned to Holmes, only to find an expression I recognised all too well. His face had that pinched look that came over it when he sensed something was wrong. “What is it, Holmes?” I whispered. “Probably nothing,” he said, speaking so that only I could hear, “but doesn’t it occur to you that, if last night’s attempt had failed—which let us not forget, was a last minute improvisation—this was an ideal and prearranged moment when Fiske was supposed to be killed on stage—another Shakespearean murder.”
“But no one needs to kill Fiske now. Fiske is dead.”
“Just so, but the original scenario still holds. Adler is still determined to go ahead and open the theatre …”
But there’s but one in all doth hold his place:
So, in the world; ’tis furnished well with men,
And men are flesh and blood and apprehensive;
Yet in the number I do know but one
That unassailable holds on his rank
Unshak’d of motion …
“So …?”
“So perhaps our friend—now our killer—will choose to use the Ides of March after all to press his point.”
On the stage an outraged Caesar—for I no longer thought of him as Ted Allan—spoke his penultimate line …
Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?
On cue the actor playing Casca cried: “Speak, hands, for me!” and the crowd of actors surrounded the figure of Caesar like a flock of white carrion crows. At which point Holmes gripped my arm with painful strength. For instead of the line which every schoolboy knows—“Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!” an unearthly voice from that crowd was heard to shout—“Wither one rose and let the other flourish!”
“Come, Watson,” I heard Holmes cry, “there’s not a moment to lose!”
Luckily, there was a builder’s scaffold in place by the stage and we were up and running across it in a moment. I shall never forget the sight of that frozen tableau and the deathly silence that fell over the theatre. Adler looked like Lot’s wife, rooted to the spot, his mouth agape. Even the workmen had ceased whatever they were doing.
Slowly the white clad figures moved back—all except one. Lying on the ground was the figure of Ted Allan with blood beginning to spread over his white toga. I’m not an imaginative man by nature, as Holmes will attest, but it reminded me of nothing so much as a red rose opening its petals.
I was conscious of Holmes at my side, saying urgently, “Your department, I think, Watson.” I knelt and picked up Allan’s outstretched hand, feeling for the pulse. It seemed strong enough and then he began to stir. Taking out the penknife that had served me well in many a far flung spot over the years, I quickly slit the cotton of his toga and examined the wound.
“This gentleman appears to have been luckier than the character he was playing.” I looked up at Holmes, who was examining something in his hand which he held in his handkerchief. “The blood makes it look worse than it is. He seems to have been nicked in the side and the shock has done the rest.” Then what I had said struck me. “But surely they were using prop daggers?”
“All, it seems, except one,” Holmes replied, holding up the object he had been studying—a small but lethal looking antique dagger with unmistakable evidence of fresh blood on the blade. “No trace of fingerprints,” he continued, answering my unspoken question. “Whoever used it was careful to wrap it in the folds of his toga.”
I was aware of Carlotta Adler at my elbow holding out some sort of first aid kit. “Here, Dr Watson, this may at least help you to clean the wound until the ambulance gets here. I’ve sent off the boy in a cab. Luckily, there’s a hospital quite close by.”
A few minutes later I had Allan safely bandaged up. In fact, he had suffered little more than a fairly deep scratch. He was now fully conscious and apologetic, as so many of the injured are, for causing us all trouble. “Stupid accident,” wincing slightly as the hospital orderlies carefully moved him on to a stretcher, “somebody must have mixed up the props back stage. Have to be more careful on the night.”
“That’s right,” said Holmes, “the obvious explanation. Take good care of our star, gentlemen, he has many more parts to play.” As the orderlies negotiated their way off the stage, my friend then did a curious thing. He moved quickly to the spot where Allan had been lying, then bent down to tie a shoe lace that didn’t appear to need tying. Only I noticed him scoop up a piece of paper which must have been under Allan’s body.
After the real life drama a form of normality began to reassert itself. The Roman actors stood upstage in an anxious group, conversing in low tones. Elsewhere builders and stage hands were gradually picking up their various tasks where they had left them. Holmes and I walked over to where Adler was standing with a protective arm round his wife. It was as if the shock of events had broken down some sort of barrier between them and they were seeking each other out for mutual comfort. Carlotta looked strained but perfectly composed and, in fact, it was she who spoke first.
“I’ve been urging Flo to give up this whole venture, Mr Holmes. Or at least cancel the opening. Can’t you reason with him? I just know more terrible things are going to happen.”
I looked at Adler and saw the conflicting emotions playing in his eyes. For the first time I saw him undecided, as he turned and looked Holmes full in the eye. “Mr Holmes,” he said in a quiet voice, devoid of any theatrical mannerism, “nobody has ever called me a quitter but I confess to you, I just don’t know what to do for the best. My gut instinct tells me to go ahead and let the devil take the hindmost. But then, Lotta’s quite right—I am responsible for all these people.” He swept his arm around the ‘wooden O’ to encompass the theatre and everyone in it. “And being a foreigner and all, do I have the right to take any further chances? Whoever is behind all this certainly means business. There’s no doubt about that now.”
Holmes handed him the scrap of paper he had picked up from the stage. “Before you make your mind up, Mr Adler, perhaps you should read your correspondent’s latest missive. This one is addressed to you
personally.” And indeed, as Holmes passed it to the impresario, I could see the name typed on the outer fold. Almost tentatively, Adler unfolded the paper and perused its contents. His jaw muscles tightened and he was about to tear the paper into fragments when Carlotta Adler snatched it from him and read it aloud …
THIS VISITATION IS BUT TO WHET THY ALMOST BLUNTED PURPOSE
Hamlet
“The ghost of Hamlet’s father,” Holmes murmured, almost to himself. “He’s trying to tell us that, like a ghost, he can appear among us whenever he feels like it. And indeed, he does appear to possess a certain wraithlike quality.” Then, turning to Adler: “You asked me for my opinion. While the shape of events is becoming steadily clearer to me, I am not yet ready to attempt an explanation. In the past I have been tempted—occasionally even flattered by events—into seeking a complex explanation when a simpler one was close by and infinitely more likely. Few things turn out to be as unnatural as the commonplace and nothing more deceptive than the obvious fact. I sense that to be true in this case.”
“You above all, Mr Adler, must be aware of the seductive power of theatrical artifice. You spend your life willing people to think they see something when in reality it is something else. Our killer—or killers—is engaged in just such a piece of theatre and we are his intended audience. But strip away the smoke and mirrors of illusion and what are the facts? His timetable is precisely the same as yours but you have momentum on your side. Unless he can arrest that momentum, the theatre will open and he, as he sees it, will have lost. Furthermore, as the sand runs faster through the hourglass, he will become more desperate.”
“But, Mr Holmes, that’s just what I’ve been telling Flo,” Carlotta interposed, tightening her hold on Adler’s arm. “That’s why we have to call it off before he tries to kill him, too.”
“In my judgement, Mrs. Adler, your husband is the one person whose life is not in the slightest danger,” Holmes replied. “The main objective is to leave the Globe dark and empty and Florenz Adler personally and professionally humiliated. To achieve that end he must be alive for the killer to derive that satisfaction. Everything else is incidental. However, if I may continue with my train of thought …”
