by David Marcum
Holmes and I watched the spectacle. The room was large, spacious, and highly decorated with gold leaf wallpaper, wood floors covered with expensive Middle eastern rugs, and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling that, when fully lit, would look as if the sun was exploding inside the room. A pair of French doors against the back wall were closed, the keys still dangling out from the keyhole. An oak music stand stood in front of the doors, stacked with penciled-in music sheets, and at its feet was an open, empty violin case. A fireplace as tall as a person stood against the north wall. On the mantel were seven empty wine glasses, lined up side-by-side. A strange place to store your wine glasses, I thought.
Lestrade finally saw us and made our presence known to the other men. They silenced their debate immediately.
“Thank heavens you’ve arrived, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said through a relieved sigh. “A few moments more and I would’ve arrested the lot of them.”
“I appreciate your patience in the matter, Detective Inspector,” Holmes said as he approached the men. He greeted Dyson and Archer with a few shallow-pumped handshakes, then took the red haired man’s hand. “I’m Sherlock Holmes-”
“I know who you are, Mr. Holmes,” the man abruptly interrupted as he took his hat off and bowed slightly. “My name is Bartholomew Oxtoby.”
“And what is your association with these two men?” Holmes motioned at Dyson and Archer as he said this.
“An unhealthy one at the moment, Mr. Holmes,” Oxtoby replied. “I own the New Britain Performing Arts Theatre.”
“On Charterhouse Street?”
“The very one.”
“That’s a few blocks from the Garrick. May I assume there is a bit of competitive blood being spilt here?”
“More than that, Mr. Holmes,” Oxtoby said. “They accuse me of kidnapping the boy! I came over here to have it out with them before I involve the courts. My good name is at stake!”
“Good name? Bah!” Archer spat. “You’ve been trying to steal young master Eric away from me for years. Well, you finally did it - by kidnapping him!”
Oxtoby’s green eyes popped out again and his face flashed red. “My representative will peel your skin like an onion in court, Archer! Your lies won’t stand up against a barrister’s questioning!”
“Is this true, Mr. Oxtoby?” Holmes interrupted. “Have you been trying to steal the boy away from the Garrick Theatre?”
“Of course I have!” Oxtoby replied, his temper still white hot. His red hair was no lie. “The boy is overworked and treated like a stable mule. More than once his parents came to me, pleading for me to buy out his contract from Archer, but Archer refused to sell, even at one-hundred percent profit.”
“There’s nothing that says I have to sell his contract to you or anyone else, Oxtoby,” Archer interjected. “He’s my legal property for five more years.”
“You talk of the boy like he’s a piece of furniture!” Oxtoby bellowed. “It’s outrageous! He’s a human being!”
I noticed that Conrad Dyson stood in the background, his mouth locked shut like a bear trap. Holmes noticed it too.
“Mr. Dyson,” Holmes began. “Were you aware of this plotting between Mr. and Mrs. Leighton and Mr. Oxtoby?”
Dyson’s eyelids fluttered like moth wings as he answered. “Yes, I was, Mr. Holmes. They asked my opinion in the matter a few weeks before they went abroad.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“That I thought it best to fulfill the remaining years of the contract out. Then, if they still felt the same about it, make the change - sign with Oxtoby.”
“Did you fear they might change you as well?”
Dyson’s bird face went pale. “Now wait a minute, Mr. Holmes, I’m the only person in Britain young master Eric trusts. I’ve been with him since the beginning. Mr. and Mrs. Leighton would never-”
“Mr. Oxtoby,” Holmes interrupted. “In your negotiations with the Leightons, did they include anything about Mr. Dyson’s services being carried on while under contract with you?”
“Never, Mr. Holmes,” Oxtoby snarled. “It was understood that I would tutor the boy, give him my undivided attention.”
“Yes, all the while filling your seats and swimming in the windfall of treasure that was sure to come your way!” Archer shouted.
“Hmm,” Holmes mused as he rubbed his chin, his eyes closed in thought. “So you see, gentlemen,” he said. “The three of you have perfect motives for kidnaping the boy - all of them rooted in greed.”
“I love the boy!” Dyson exclaimed.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night. I put him to bed myself. When I awoke this morning, he was gone.”
“Where’s your room in relation to the boy’s?”
“Across the hall.”
“And you heard nothing during the night?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. Nothing!” Tears began flowing out of Dyson’s eyes. Whether they were real or not I couldn’t judge. He was either very clever or genuinely upset.
“What happened to Wyckoff, the butler?”
Dyson composed himself enough to answer. “A few days after Mr. and Mrs. Leighton went abroad, he informed me he was leaving the estate’s employment.”
“Did he give a reason why?”
“None, Mr. Holmes. But after all the rigorous questioning and chaos generated by you and Scotland Yard during your initial investigation, I assumed he’d found other - quieter - employment elsewhere.”
“And you, Mr. Archer?” Holmes asked. “When did you see the boy last?”
“At his last performance in the Garrick, two nights ago.”
“Mr. Oxtoby?”
“Not since his parents disappeared.”
Holmes, as he listened to their responses, made his way across the room to the music stand. He paged through the sheet music, then knelt down next to the empty violin case. He stared at it a moment and stood up again. Lestrade and I exchanged quick glances, knowing Holmes was onto something. Holmes turned and faced the three men, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “You may be guilty of greed, but not of kidnapping the boy.”
“Are you mad, Holmes?” Archer muttered. “Of course Oxtoby here kidnapped the boy, and he had good reason. He stood to make hundreds of thousands of pounds!”
“Would that be the same amount you’re currently making off the boy, Mr. Archer?”
That shut the tiny fat man up.
Holmes shook his head. “No. It’s clear to me after seeing the evidence that young master Eric ran away. The real questions are why and where to?”
“Ran away?” Dyson asked, his hands up. “That’s impossible! Young master Eric would never do such a thing. He’s not capable of it.”
“You underestimate the boy, Dyson,” Holmes said. “He’s smarter and more aware of things going on around him than you realize.”
“How can you possibly know that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve never personally met him.”
“Look for yourself,” Holmes said as he pointed at the French doors. “No evidence of break in here or anywhere else on the grounds.” He pointed at the empty violin case. “And the boy’s violin, a rare, priceless 16th century Amati, is missing.”
“Perhaps the boy’s kidnapper, realizing how much it was worth, took it with him. Perhaps he plans to sell it on the black market,” Archer reasoned.
“Ridiculous, Mr. Archer,” Holmes said, almost laughing. “Something like an original Amati violin suddenly appears in the black market, flags go up, police are brought in. Black marketers don’t like that. The violin would be useless to them. The boy took it with him. For proof of what I say, gentlemen, come have a look for yourself.”
The three men ambled over and looked into the violin case
.
“You see it?”
Only Dyson answered. “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”
“Please tell the others what you see, or should I say, don’t see.”
Dyson sighed so loudly it almost became a whistle, then he looked up at Archer and Oxtoby. “The bow... it’s missing,” he said.
“Exactly,” Holmes said. “What interest would a kidnapper have for a bow? Absolutely none, but it’s of vital importance to someone who plays the violin. That’s why it’s missing. The boy took that with him also.”
“So, young master Eric ran away, taking his violin and bow with him,” Dyson repeated, sounding almost relieved. “But that’s wonderful. He’s not in danger.”
“Oh, he’s very much in danger, Dyson,” Holmes said. “I suspect the special way his brain works is strictly centered on music. Am I correct, Dyson?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. In fact, the only way he communicates with me is by music, either written or played. The way he plays a note, for example, lets me know what he wants or doesn’t want, or if he’s hungry, thirsty or sleepy.”
“Like these compositions?” Holmes asked as he swept the sheet music off the stand and held them out. “Are they written by young master Eric?”
Dyson went over, took the pages from Holmes and fanned through them. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, that’s his handwriting. And these compositions are new.”
“So, realizing that his mind only relates to things concerning music, he wouldn’t have thought to bring food and water with him wherever he went?”
This idea struck Dyson like an earthquake. His eyes grew large, his face went pale again. “Oh, dear, Mr. Holmes! You’re right. He’s like an infant that way.”
“We’ll have to find him before he starves to death or dies of thirst,” Holmes suggested.
“Call out the bloodhounds!” Dyson panicked. “Get every constable in Scotland Yard on the job, search every field, wood, river, cave, home - before it’s too late!”
“We could do that,” Holmes said taking the sheets from Dyson. “Or I could decipher this sheet music the boy left behind.”
“What does that sheet music have to do with the boy running away?” Archer asked.
“Everything, Mr. Archer,” Holmes replied.
“But, Mr. Holmes,” Dyson said. “Those compositions are unlike anything I’ve ever seen young master Eric write before. Much more sophisticated. They made no sense to me at all.”
“Because they’re maps, Mr. Dyson. Musical maps!”
Back in the privacy of our Baker Street flat, Holmes and I worked diligently on deciphering the music maps hidden in young master Eric’s compositions. Lestrade gave us until morning to decipher the sheets, and then we’d have to return them to Scotland Yard where, even now, they were organizing search parties to find the boy.
Presently, we’d gone through two pots of tea and I was boiling another when Holmes called me over where the sheet music was spread out across the table. He had a pipe in his mouth and a magnifying glass in his hand.
“See here, Watson,” he said, leaning over the glass like a hunchbacked monk reading a scroll. “There are two separate compositions here.”
“How can you tell?” I asked, inspecting the pages myself but without the benefit of the glass.
Holmes pointed at one of the pages. “This first composition is only one page in length. See the Coda mark at the bottom of the last measure?”
“I do, Holmes,” I said, remembering some of what I learned from piano lessons during my childhood. “But there’s only one note throughout the entire thing - a high ‘A’ on a ledger line above the staff.”
“Correct, Watson, all of them joined by a slur signature, which means we are to play them in one breath, forming a single musical phrase. And the Fortississimo above the notes mean we are to play it as loud as we can.”
“What does that ‘D.C.’ in front of the Coda mean?”
“Da capo, or to repeat from the beginning.”
“Very curious,” I said. “What are all those ‘N’s’ above the bars?”
“I believe it means ‘North’,” Holmes said. “They’re on the second composition as well, along with ‘E’s’ and ‘W’s’, meaning ‘East’ and ‘West.’”
“Direction prompts,” I said.
“Quite right, Watson. I’m impressed.”
I counted out the pages of the second composition, ending at thirty-three. But most of the pages were riddled with single ‘G’ notes played Pizzicato, or by plucking the violin strings along the measure in four-four time. Then, on the last three pages, the staffs broke into two lines, each in treble clef, which meant two violinists were playing at the same time. Or was one playing and the other responding, like a conversation? Strange. I’d never seen anything like it before.
It was all too much for my meager detecting skills, so after I took the tea pot off the burner and filled Holmes’s cup, I retired to bed, knowing my compatriot would burn the lamp oil all night trying to decipher young master Eric’s map.
It was near dawn when I was awoken by the unmistakable violent poundings of an altercation going on in the parlour. I threw my robe on, ripped the door open, and ran out just in time to see Holmes lying on the floor rubbing his head and the swift shadow of a man running out through the open door of our flat. Heavy feet thundered down the stairs as the intruder made a break for it.
“Holmes! Are you all right?” I asked as I knelt next to him.
“Yes - yes, I think so. He took the compositions, Watson.”
Realizing that sheet music was our only hope for finding young master Eric Leighton, I jumped to my feet to give chase but Holmes grabbed my arm.
“No! Stay put, Watson. It’s fine,” he said as I helped him to his feet.
“But, Holmes!” I protested. “He’s run off with-”
“I suspected something like this would happen, Watson, so I took the precaution of copying the compositions down to the last detail. I was just finishing up when the assailant burst into the room, knocked me over, and stole the originals.”
I should have known Holmes was a step ahead of everyone else.
“But who was he? Did you get a good look?”
“Unfortunately no, Watson,” he replied as he sat down at the table. “He was wearing a black mask. But I have a suspicion. We’ll wait a few hours until we hear from Scotland Yard.”
“Concerning what, Holmes?”
“What else, my dear Watson? Murder.”
And hear from Scotland Yard we did.
At nine, Lestrade sent a cab for us, and we were taken to an alley a few blocks from our flat. It was a warm but drizzling morning with puddles already filling in everywhere we stepped. Constables had the entrance to the alleyway cordoned off. Lestrade met us there and let us through.
“We received word of this about a half hour ago, Mr. Holmes,” he said as he led us down the alleyway. “When I saw who it was I knew you’d want to see him for yourself. He’s been dead approximately three to four hours.”
“Which puts time of death just before dawn,” Holmes added.
“The same time as our assailant,” I said.
“Assailant?” Lestrade asked, his eyebrows went up like two birds taking flight.
“Yes, Inspector,” Holmes said. “We had a break-in at Baker Street. The thief stole young master Eric Leighton’s original compositions right off my table. Tell me, was anything found on the corpse?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. Not even a wallet.”
“How was he killed?”
“Stabbed once in the lower back and once in the abdomen. No sign of the weapon anywhere.”
We came to where the corpse lay, dressed all in black, its arms and legs still grotesquely deformed from the effects of rigor. The black mask Holmes had spoken about ear
lier had been pulled off and lay next to the body.
“Yes,” Holmes said, staring down into the face of the dead man. “Just as I had suspected.”
I leaned over and had a look for myself. “Why, that’s Wyckoff,” I said, nearly breathless. “The original butler, missing from Leighton Manor!”
Finding nothing of consequence on Wyckoff’s body, and deriving no clues from the bleak alley surroundings, Holmes told Lestrade to once again assemble Archer, Dyson and Bartholomew in young master Eric Leighton’s rehearsal parlour that evening. Everything would be cleared up for Scotland Yard in the matter of both Mr. and Mrs. Leighton’s and young master Eric’s disappearance once and for all.
I waited the rest of the day at Baker Street, ruminating over that confounding sheet music, while Holmes went off to the Public Records Office to do some research. When he returned, just before dusk, he had a sparkle in his eyes and a confident grin on his face.
“Come, Watson,” he said, as he grabbed his violin case. “Take up those compositions I copied and bring them with you, or would you miss my first public performance?”
Flabbergasted at the prospect of such a thing, I nearly knocked the table over in my exuberance.
“At once, Holmes!” I said. “At once!”
The last one to arrive in young master Eric’s rehearsal parlour was Bartholomew Oxtoby. Killkenny escorted him in, and he took his place next to Dyson and Archer in front of the giant fireplace with the seven wine glasses on the mantel, which was unlit due to the very warm late summer weather.
“Honestly, Holmes,” Oxtoby started, removing his hat and running his hand through his fiery red hair. “I don’t know why I have to be involved in all of this nonsense. The only thing I’m guilty of is thinking of young master Eric’s best interests.”
Holmes, standing in front of the music stand, nodded. “This will be over very soon, Mr. Oxtoby,” he said. “I appreciate your cooperation. Killkenny, please lock the door.”
