by Barry Day
So Adler did just that. And while the audience was settling down and buzzing with the excitement of what they would tell their families and friends when they returned home, the rest of us exited stage left, as I believe it is called, to the relative peace of the actors’ dressing rooms.
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, turning to me, “I have never been good at goodbyes, so I propose we take a quiet stroll and leave these good people to their several devices. That will give us ample time to be back in Baker Street for what, I have reason to believe, will to be one of Mrs Hudson’s special dinners.” He answered my unspoken question. “Don’t worry, her mind was put at rest the moment you left Baker Street.”
“Just before you go, Mr Holmes,”—it was Carlotta—“may I thank both of you for all you’ve done? I know it sounds a funny thing to say after what’s just happened but a few days ago I was drifting and now I know where I’m going. I’ve rediscovered a few things I thought I’d lost …” She paused and in the silence we could hear Adler’s distinctive voice on stage. From the laughter and applause he was managing his audience effortlessly. Carlotta put her hand on Tallis’s arm and continued. “And I’ve found a few I never knew I had. And if there’s anything I can do to help that other young man, when …”
“I’m sure there will be, Mrs Adler. One of these days we shall understand the human mind a lot better than we do today. Great strides are being made by Freud and others and—who knows?—it’s not impossible, given time, that they may find a way to drive out those malevolent elements that are preying on your …” He sought for the word … “your young colleague. You must hold on to the fact that it was not he who did these things. Watson and I will to be sure to keep you informed. Right, Watson?” I mumbled something by way of agreement. I’ve never been good at dealing with a lot of emotion and the room was full of it.
Now it was Pauline French’s turn. “If we’re swapping exit lines, Mr Holmes, may I have one? What’s going to happen to Simon?” And she clutched that young man’s good arm protectively.
“I imagine he may be promoted to play Hamlet and receive rather good notices from the gentlemen of the press,” Holmes replied with a vestigial twinkle in his eye.
“Please, Mr Holmes, you know what I mean.”
Holmes looked at something about six inches above her left shoulder, an experience that was probably new to her. “I believe the police are having problems with the description of Allan’s companion on the night of Fiske’s demise. Apparently, it would fit just about any of several hundred thousand young men. Then again, I doubt that an inadequate masquerade in clerical garb ranks as a misdemeanour, let alone a crime …” and for the briefest of moments the rubicund cleric took him over again. “No Miss French, I fancy the services Mr Phipps has rendered recently will more than compensate for any earlier—shall we say—indiscretions.” Then, looking firmly at Phipps: “A man who fails to learn from his mistakes would do well to consider himself a mistake.” Phipps brightened immediately and for the first time looked my friend in the eye. “Wilde?” he asked. “No. Holmes. Good day to you all.” A few moments later and the wooden ‘O’ was behind us for the last time.
I looked for signs of the lassitude that invariably enveloped Holmes once a case was over. So far it seemed to have held off. We walked along in companionable silence for a while longer and then I could contain myself no longer.
“Holmes, why couldn’t you have told me? You must have some idea of what I’ve been through these past few hours?”
He stopped, put his hands on both my shoulders and turned me round to face him. There was no argument with the expression on his face. “Watson, you were the one person I could not tell. Your total and transparent sincerity was my trump card. It was imperative that word got back to Allan that I was really out of the picture in the most finite possible way. He had a competitor, someone dangerous enough to kill the redoubtable Sherlock Holmes. If there was any possibility of remorse or normal reaction, it might be possible to shock him back to a form of sanity—at least for long enough to let us get safely past the opening and to give Lestrade enough time to collect evidence to bring charges.”
“Frankly, I was not optimistic—particularly after hearing Sigmund’s opinion—and, as it turned out the dementia was too far advanced. That being the case, I had to be ready to provoke his madness and deal with it. It looked dangerous, to be sure, but in logic there was only one course open to him …”
“To kill the Queen?”
“To kill what he thought was the Queen.”
“But what about last night, Holmes? I know all about Pauline French. But you were dead on that stage. I saw you lying there with my own eyes …”
“No, Watson, I arranged it so that what you saw was the improbable not the impossible. You had the vital clue in your own words.”
“My own words?” I must have looked like the Idiot Boy.
“Do you remember a little tale I believe you called ‘The Empty Room?’”
In it you chronicled my return from the so-called ‘dead’ after the Moriarty affair at Reichenbach, pursued by one Colonel Sebastian Moran …”
“The ‘second most dangerous man in London,’ you called him.”
“The very same. Moriarty’s lieutenant. I lured him into believing he could shoot me as I sat at my Baker Street window from the empty house opposite but you will recall that his target turned out to be …”
“A wax bust!”
“The work of Monsieur Oscar Meunier of Grenoble—and an excellent piece of work it was. So much so that—and it’s possible I omitted to inform you of this—I had Monsieur Meunier execute a full figure dummy, just in case I had subsequent need of it. That was what you saw on the stage of the Globe last night I’m afraid the sandbag caused a certain amount of unavoidable damage but, considering the alternative as a means of creating verisimilitude, I fancy it as the preferred option …”
“But what about the fellow up in the gallery? The chap I fired at?”
“You very nearly succeeded in bringing my plans to a rather premature conclusion there, old fellow. That was me and you only just missed me. I had just had the rare satisfaction of arranging my own death, in a manner of speaking, and lingered a moment too long to admire my own handiwork. Frankly, I had assumed Miss French’s Ophelia might have detained you all a few moments longer. By the way, wasn’t she admirable? I can think of few women—well, perhaps one—who would have been as spirited as she.”
“Nonetheless, Watson, you were the true star of my little drama. And I must confess, it was the way that you reacted to my previous ‘departure’ that gave me the idea. Forgive me, old friend—I give you my word that this is the last time I shall employ that particular stratagem.”
His gaze was fixed on the opposite side of the river as he added—“By the way, I meant every word in my note. In more ways than you can possibly know you define me.”
I knew that the subject was effectively closed. We walked on in silence for several minutes before I said—in a tone I hoped would convey that I bore no resentment—“A penny for them, Holmes.”
He looked at me almost apologetically, I thought. “I’m afraid the Bard was on my mind, Watson, as he has been so much of late. ‘What manner of man?’ as he so presciently asked. In this play we have so recently witnessed and in which we have played our humble parts, have we not experienced so many of the motivations, the pain and the joy he chronicled so well? Who knows, perhaps from some celestial prompt corner he even orchestrated the whole thing.”
“Well, if he did, I sincerely hope his celestial audience knew more about the plot than I did.” I said and had the satisfaction of seeing a rare touch of embarrassment cross Holmes’s face. If I had hoped for a more formal apology, I was not about to receive one. Instead, half to himself, I heard him say …
Our revels now are ended. These our actors—
As I foretold you—were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
<
br /> And like the baseless fabric of this vision
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples …
He paused, then continued …
…the great globe itself
Yes, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a wrack behind …
“But not, I trust, for at least another three hundred years, eh Watson?”
We walked a little further and then I asked him a question that had been bothering me. “Holmes, when we left the actors, you went back to the yard. I couldn’t help notice the group that came in that you were talking to. Wasn’t Mycroft one of them?”
“Quite right, old fellow. You saw and you did observe. Surely you didn’t expect Her Majesty to miss the first performance at the Globe?”
“That was the Queen?”
“Most certainly. She had observed my performance from the seclusion of one of the boxes and was good enough to compliment me on the dignity of my bearing.” He threw his head back and laughed loudly, causing several passers by to turn and stare. “And was that all she said?” I prompted.
Holmes thought a moment, knowing the meaning of my question. “Come to think of it, there was a mention of some trifling honour. I’m afraid Mycroft has a bee in his bonnet about it. Which fortunately, gave me the clue.”
“And what did you say?”
“I thanked Her Majesty for the kind thought and suggested that, should she find me worthy in my next career, I should be pleased and honoured to accept.”
“Your next career?”
“I told her I intended to retire to the Sussex Downs and keep bees.”
“And what did she say?”
“She seemed quite amused.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by Barry Day
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN 978-1-5040-1649-0
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