Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch

by Edward D. Hoch

  At that instant, we heard a squeak on the stairs. Someone, something, was approaching. I gripped the revolver more tightly as the door to the room opened slowly inward. The figure that entered could barely be discerned in the darkness. It crossed the room quickly and seemed to kneel by one of the chairs.

  That was when Holmes moved.

  He struck a match and yelled, “Don’t move! There are two of us!”

  The figure gasped and Holmes sprang forward, his right arm raised as if to ward off a blow. The burning match fell to the floor and went out, plunging us into darkness again. I heard the struggle, the panting breath, and hurried forward with my weapon.

  “Holmes! Are you all right?”

  “I think so, Watson, though it was a close call. Strike another match, will you?”

  I did so and, by its glow, I saw now that he had pinned Sarah Dade to the floor. In her right hand, carefully held in Holmes’ powerful grip, were a pair of hypodermic needles tied together with string, side by side.

  “Here, Watson,” Holmes gasped as she struggled to free herself. “Here are the fangs of the speckled band, and no less deadly than the real thing!”

  After Constable Richards had been summoned and Sarah Dade was placed in custody, Sherlock Holmes explained.

  “I felt certain she’d come tonight to retrieve those needles. The Scotland Yard people would be searching the place in the morning and she couldn’t risk their being found.”

  “I still don’t understand, Holmes,” I admitted. “Henry Dade showed every symptom of having been killed by snakebite.”

  “It was a clever plan to dispose of a husband she’d married only for his gold. Dr. Roylott’s crime was well-known in the village, of course, despite the verdict of accidental death, and my part in the investigation was known, too. When Henry’s brother Ramon showed Sarah the snake and made some ambiguous comments, she chose to interpret them as threats. She even went further, persuading her husband to summon me here to protect them. With us on the scene when Henry Dade was killed, it was sure to been seen as another crime like the earlier ones involving the deadly snake. She arranged the crime in such a way that it seemed impossible for her to have committed it.

  “It was impossible, Holmes!” I insisted. “Sarah Dade was with us in the blacksmith shop when her husband was killed.”

  “So it seemed at the time, Watson. Remember, though, that Henry went upstairs to rest a bit, and he even seemed to be dozing when we entered the room. That is exactly what he was doing…sleeping in his chair, until Sarah ended his life by injecting the poison into his neck in our presence.”

  “You mean we saw the murder committed?”

  “I fear so, Watson. Remember how she clutched the shawl around her, hiding the twin needles she’d prepared earlier. She even shook him to cover his involuntary jerk as she injected the poison. He was dead almost instantly, and she shielded his face from us in those crucial seconds. Then she had only to dispose of the needles. She pretended to faint and, while on the floor, pushed them into the bottom of the chair. She was attempting to retrieve them tonight when we surprised her.”

  “What was in those needles, Holmes?”

  “The poison Ramon Dade had milked from the fangs of the swamp adder. Remember he told us he did that for safety’s sake and, no doubt, he told Sarah as well when he showed her the snake. I feel certain she paid the dim-witted Manuel to steal the venom and bring it to her. He often did errands for them, and he would not have realized the full import of his task.”

  “How did you know she was guilty, Holmes?”

  “It was more a matter of knowing the snake must be innocent. She relied on the window being left open a bit, but Henry must have closed it when he came up for his nap. There was no way the snake could have escaped, and it was not in the room when we searched it. The twin punctures in his neck were also suggestive to me. They were right where Sarah would have stood, bending over the sleeping man. But, to be certain, I still needed to catch her in the act of retrieving those hypodermic needles.”

  “She might have killed you, Holmes!”

  “So might the speckled band on our last visit.”

  “The next time we come to Stoke Moran…”

  Sherlock Holmes interrupted with a laugh. “I hope, Watson, that we have had our last visit here. Let us return by the earliest train to the peace and quiet of London!”

  THE ADVENTURE OF VITTORIA, THE CIRCUS BELLE

  MY FRIEND, MR. SHERLOCK Holmes, upon looking through his fabled index of past cases, took occasion to remind me that I have never recorded the remarkable affair of Vittoria, the Circus Belle. My only excuse for this dereliction is that the Summer of ’85 had furnished us with a long series of interesting cases and somehow my notes for this one became buried among them.

  Certainly by that year Vittoria was known even to those who never attended a circus. In America during the year 1880, a rival of Barnum and the Ringling Brothers named Adam Forepaugh came up with a unique idea for promoting his tent show. Forepaugh was one of the circus world’s most picturesque characters, forever coming up with new schemes. Inspired by America’s first beauty contest held at a beach in Delaware, he sponsored a competition with a $10,000 prize for the country’s most beautiful woman, resulting in the selection of Louise Montague as the winner. Forepaugh promptly hired her to ride in his circus parade and proclaimed her as “the $10,000 beauty.”

  It did not take long for a similar promotion campaign to take root in England. In 1882, the Rover Brothers, who imagined themselves to be our British version of the Ringlings, launched their own contest for the loveliest young woman in the country. The winner was Vittoria Costello, a young shop girl who was immediately transformed into “Vittoria, the Circus Belle.” When her likeness began to appear regularly on circus handbills and posters, there was some grumbling about the similarity of her given name to that of Her Majesty, but it was the young woman’s true name and she could not be prevented from using it.

  This was all either Holmes or I knew about her when Mrs. Hudson announced an unscheduled visitor—a veiled young woman—on a sunny morning in early August.

  “Show her up by all means!” Holmes instructed, putting down his pipe and rising to greet our visitor. “Clients who attempt to conceal their identity always intrigue me!”

  After a few moments, we were joined by the woman herself. She was tall and willowy, dressed in a black riding costume with hat and veil. I could barely distinguish her features through the double layer of netting.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Be assured it is a matter of utmost urgency that brings me here.”

  “Pray be seated, madam. This is my friend and associate, Dr. John Watson. We are at your service.”

  She took the chair opposite the door, as if fearful of someone who might be following her.

  “Mr. Holmes, I believe my life to be in great danger.”

  “And why do you think that, Miss Costello?”

  Her body jerked in surprise at his words. I admit I was surprised myself.

  “You know me?” she asked. “We have never met.”

  “Your veiling implies that your face would be known, and I note the unmistakable odor of tanbark about you, suggestive of a circus ring. No, no…it is not an unpleasant odor. It brings back memories of childhood. I believe there is even a bit of the bark itself clinging to your riding boot.”

  My eyes were drawn to her boot, almost as large as my own and, to the trim of the calf that showed beneath her skirt.

  “Since the Rover Brothers Circus is the only one in London area at the present time and, since Vittoria, the Circus Belle rides in their parades, it seemed obvious to me that you were Vittoria Costello. Please continue with your story.”

  She lifted the veil, revealing a face of striking beauty. Her eyes, though troubled, still sparkled with youth and her hair had the shimmer of raven’s wings. The sketches on the circus posters hardly did her justice.

  “I had
heard of your remarkable powers, Mr. Holmes, but you astonish me. As you may know from the newspaper accounts, I was employed by Hatchard’s bookshop on Picadilly when friends persuaded me to enter the Rover Brothers’ contest. I never thought I would win and, when I did, I’ll admit I was a bit reluctant to give up my old life and become Vittoria, the Circus Belle.”

  Holmes retrieved his pipe and studied her with piercing eyes. “I admit to knowing very little about circuses. Exactly what duties do you perform with the show?”

  “When the Rovers hired me directly after the contest, they said I only had to ride a horse in the circus parade and, perhaps, once around the ring at the beginning and end of the shows. Of course, until recently, circuses were mainly equestrian events, with a clown providing some acrobatic comedy and joking with the ringmaster between riding demonstrations. Now things are changing. P.T. Barnum in America has a tent that will hold twenty thousand spectators and has three rings, after the American custom. Astley’s here in London has a permanent building with a large scenic stage for horses and other animals. The trapeze acts introduced by the French gymnast Leotard are becoming increasingly popular with many circuses. And they say the Hagenbecks will soon introduce a big cage for wild animal acts.”

  “You know a great deal about your profession,” Holmes murmured.

  “It may not be my profession much longer, Mr. Holmes. You see, the Rover Brothers suggested last year that I develop some sort of talent to enhance my image, something besides my horsemanship. They even suggested I might try tightrope walking or snake handling. I was horrified by both suggestions. This spring, they put me into a knife-throwing act with a Spaniard named Diaz.”

  She showed us a slight scar on her left forearm. “This is what I received from it, and just during the rehearsal!”

  “Is that what has brought you here?”

  “Hardly! There is another young woman with the circus, an acrobat, who feels she should have the title of Circus Belle. Her name is Edith Everage. She has suggested several times that I leave my position and now I believe she is trying to kill me.”

  “Has there been an actual attempt on your life?”

  “Two, in fact. A week ago yesterday, when the circus played at Stratford, a horse I was riding tried to throw me.”

  Holmes waved his hand. “A common enough occurrence.”

  “Someone had placed a burr beneath my saddle. When my weight pressed it into the animal’s flesh, he started to buck. Luckily there were people nearby to rescue me.”

  “And the other attempt?”

  “Much more serious. Two days ago, shortly before the Monday afternoon performance in Oxford, the knife-thrower, Diaz, was poisoned. You may have seen it in the papers. The poison was in a water bottle I used between rides. I’m convinced it was meant for me.”

  “The knife-thrower died?”

  “Yes. It was horrible!”

  “Where is the circus playing now?”

  “They’re setting up in Reading for a performance tomorrow afternoon. A new tiger is arriving with its keeper tonight. I fear they might want me to perform with it and I’m afraid for my life, Mr. Holmes.”

  “The two earlier incidents may have no relation to each other. Still, I have not attended a circus since my youth. What say, Watson? Shall we journey to Reading tomorrow for the big show?”

  We caught a mid-morning train at Paddington Station. The weather was warm for his usual traveling cloak and he wore simple tweeds. As was his custom, Holmes read through several papers during the journey, expressing pleasure when he came upon an account of Diaz’s death in Oxford. He had died from poisoning, but no further details had been given by the Oxford police.

  “Perhaps it was an accident,” I ventured. “She may be worried about nothing.”

  “We shall see, Watson.”

  He put down the last of the papers as the train was pulling into Reading Station. Off to the right, we could see King’s Meadow, where a circus tent had been erected. Already carriages and strollers were heading in that direction, and there were children gathering at the animal enclosures.

  The first thing we saw on alighting from the train was a large wall poster for the Rover Brothers Circus, featuring Vittoria, the Circus Belle. A banner had been pasted across the bottom corner of the poster announcing a new wild animal act with a man-eating tiger, to be introduced that very afternoon. Having now seen Vittoria in person, I was reminded again of how little the drawing revealed of her true charm and beauty. Holmes studied it for a moment before we continued to the street, where he hailed a carriage to take us the short distance to the circus grounds.

  Vittoria had arranged that two admission tickets would be left for us at the box office. As we passed through the main gate, I caught the odor of tanbark, so slight on our client but now bringing with it my own memories of childhood.

  “You’re right, Holmes,” I said. “There is a pleasant, nostalgic smell about a circus.”

  A small tent near the entrance bore a sign indicating it was the office of the Rover Brothers Circus, and Holmes made for it without hesitation. A slender, dark-haired young man with a bushy mustache was at work inside, scanning the pages of a ledger.

  “Mr. Rover, I presume?” Holmes addressed him.

  The man looked up with a scowl. “Mr. Charles Rover. Do you want me or Philip?”

  “Either one will do. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson. One of your star performers, Vittoria, has invited us here to investigate the suspicious death of the Spanish knife-thrower known as Diaz.”

  Charles Rover grunted with something like distaste. “Nothing suspicious about it! An accident!”

  “Vittoria believes he was poisoned and that the poison was meant for her.”

  “Who would want to kill that sweet child? She is the star of our show!”

  “Then we have come here for nothing?” Holmes asked.

  “It would seem so.”

  “Since we have made the journey from London, perhaps we could speak with some others—your brother, Philip, if he’s available, and one of the acrobats, Edith Everage.”

  Charles Rover consulted his pocket watch. “It’s noon already. By one o’clock we will be preparing for the afternoon performance. See who you wish before one, then be gone.”

  “Where might we find Miss Everage?”

  “In the main tent, rehearsing her act. We are introducing an Indian tiger into the show today, and the timing must be adjusted accordingly.”

  I followed Holmes as we left Rover and headed for the main tent. Along the way, food vendors were beginning to set up their wares and a pair of brightly painted clowns were inspecting each other’s greasepaint. With the gates open, the trickle of arrivals was building to a steady flow, exploring the sideshows, but not yet allowed into the main tent. Holmes and I ignored the signs and slipped through the closed tent flap.

  In the big circus ring, a half-dozen acrobats, clad in the tight-fitting garments developed by Leotard, were tumbling, somersaulting and cartwheeling. One was even swinging from a trapeze.

  When they came to rest for a moment, Holmes asked the nearest of the women, “Are you Miss Edith Everage?”

  “Edith!” she called out to one of the others, a brown-haired girl who appeared to be of school age. Her fine figure in the skin-tight garment made me blush as she walked up to us, though her face seemed too hardened for one so young.

  “You want me?” she asked with a trace of London cockney in her voice.

  Holmes introduced himself and came directly to the point. “We are investigating the recent attempts upon the life of Vittoria Costello, the so-called Circus Belle. Do you know anything about a riding accident?”

  “The horse threw her. That wasn’t an attempt on her life?”

  “She thought it was. And what about the poisoning of Diaz?”

  Edith Everage shook her head. “They say that was an accident.”

  “Didn’t he cut her once during his knife-throwing act?”


  “Naw. They were thick as thieves.”

  “But you would like to replace her as the Circus Belle.”

  “I deserve it! I’ve worked for the Rovers since I was fifteen. I’m even learning to do a trapeze act. They hired her with no experience at all, just because she won that bleedin’ contest. And Mr. Philip, he makes sure she treats him nice, if you get what I mean.”

  While they talked, a cage had been wheeled into the ring. Though its bars were covered with canvas, the growls emanating from inside left no doubt that the tiger had arrived. The trainer, armed with a whip, and a man in a frock coat accompanied the cage. Even at a distance, I could recognize an older version of Charles Rover.

  Holmes must have had the same impression, for he asked her, “Is that Philip Rover?”

  “It is,” Edith acknowledged. “It’s a wonder we ever see him, between Vittoria and that blonde doxy he brings on the road with him.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Milly Hogan. She was in a show at the Lyceum Theatre once and she considers herself above mere circus performers. She usually stays in his tent during the performance, but I saw them out playing with the new tiger this morning.”

  “All right,” Philip Rover called to the acrobats. “Everyone out of the ring. We’re going to start letting the crowd in soon. I want them to see nothing but that cage as they take their seats.”

  Edith hurried off with the others and Rover turned his attention to us. “You must be Sherlock Holmes. My brother told me you were in here but, for the life of me, I can’t imagine why. That Spaniard’s death was an accident. The poison bottle had been prepared to dispose of an aging python. Diaz drank it by mistake.”

  “Your star, Vittoria, tells a different story. She fears for her life. Does she have any enemies here?”

  “None,” Philip Rover assured us.

  “What about Edith Everage?”

  “Everage? She’s one of the acrobats, isn’t she?”