To Holmes’s right was a woman I recognized, although I had never had the pleasure of being introduced to her personally. Mrs. Ellen Terry was by far and away the most glamorous, most accomplished, and most admired actress in the West End. For the past decade, she had drawn rave reviews for her portrayals of almost every leading female role in the canon of English-language drama. Her tours of America had been stellar successes. I had seen her several times on stage at the Lyceum, but I would never, not in a month of Sundays, have expected to see her sitting in my armchair in 221B Baker Street. “Ah, Doctor Watson,” beamed Holmes. “I was hoping you would get away from your practice a little early. Excellent. Reverend Black, you already know, and may I introduce you to our honored guest, Mrs. Ellen Terry?”
I walked over to the famous actress, who extended her hand, and I bent over in my most self-consciously gallant fashion and kissed it. “Enchantée madam,” I said, hoping that I was not coming across like some oaf from Yorkshire. She looked up me, her wide mouth and lovely round face smiling, with a tiny wrinkle appearing at the top of her aquiline nose.
“Oh, the one and only Doctor Watson — the most popular writer in all of London. It is a delight to meet you in person.”
From the other side of the room came the friendly drawl of Reverend Black. “And I must say it is just a real sight for sore eyes to see you again, Doc.” He extended his large right hand and slapped it firmly into mine.
“A brandy, doctor?” asked Holmes. “And do pull up a chair and join our merry troupe.”
I did as requested and accepted the snifter that Holmes offered. I took a sip and said, to whoever might be listening, “Thank you, but would somebody please tell me …”
“What’s going on?!” all three of them chorused back in unison, and then they burst into laughter, having thought themselves the embodiment of wit for having done so.
“You did, I believe,” said Holmes, “read the articles in the newspapers that Lord Backwater gave to us, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Excellent. And what did you deduce from them?”
I really did not like it when Holmes asked me questions like this. My answers invariably exposed me as next thing to a dunce, and I found it particularly trying when he launched into the routine in front of others, especially someone like Mrs. Terry upon whom I had hoped to make a passably good impression. With no alternative, though, I soldiered on.
“All of them were newspaper reports of an outrageous scandal involving a gentleman who was caught in a compromising situation. In two of the reports the man was murdered by his wife, in one, he took his own life, and in another his death was attributed to friendly fire, but his wife was falsely accused of conspiracy to murder him.”
“Jolly good,” said Holmes. I could tell I was being damned with faint praise and was perplexed as to what I had missed.
“My hypothesis,” said Holmes, “which in fairness I must attribute to the leading of Lord Backwater, is that all of these tragic events are connected to each other. Rather than wait for the next one to come along, we are going to stage it, and in doing so draw out and expose a murderer.”
I was confused. “You are going to stage a scandal? How in heaven’s name do you go about doing that?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. The Reverend Mister Black, as you know, is a respected man of the cloth. For the purpose of our little drama, he has also acquired the identity as an emerging American revivalist, a latter-day Dwight L. Moody, according to the dossier provided to the press. And he has in America, according to the same dossier, a long-suffering saintly wife, and five children.”
“Yes,” I said tentatively.
“This devout minister of the gospel has come to London in preparation for an evangelistic crusade that is to be held in the new year. It is expected that, like those crusades of Mr. Moody in the past decade, thousands will come to listen, will hit the sawdust trail, and have their souls saved.”
“Saved from what?” I asked, seeing Holmes’s intent only through a glass, very darkly.
“Oh, that matters not, for no such crusade will ever take place.”
“Oh, why not?”
“Because the esteemed Reverend Black will by chance make the acquaintance of the glamorous Mrs. Terry and become utterly smitten. He will be overtaken by his carnal desires and engage in a most unwise liaison. This will be discovered by the press and become an enormous scandal.”
I have never claimed to have as adventurous an imagination as Sherlock Holmes and in my limited sphere of speculation, I must admit that what I was hearing rendered me befuddled. For the past decade, Mrs. Terry had been romantically associated with a score of different men. Some were married, others not. Some were nobility, others the commonest of commoners. Some were Americans, some Welsh, and there had even been a Peruvian. News that she was seen with another man, regardless of who he was, would simply not be news. She would have to be with His Holiness Pope Leo himself in flagrante delecto before the jaded British public would do more than yawn and turn the page to the football scores.
Mrs. Terry read my mind and burst out laughing. “Oh my, but doctor you do know when something is missing from the plot, do you not? Of course, it will not be enough to merely appear to seduce Reverend Black, I am going to have to shoot him. And now, I do think that should be worthy of coverage all over Fleet Street.”
Holmes explained his plan. In order to be convincing it would take several weeks to implement. Mrs. Terry, whose schedule was usually packed with performances and rehearsals was free to assist.
“It is approaching the Christmas season,” she said, “and the theater has been taken over with the Christmas pageants. The only decent roles for women are Saint Anne, Cousin Elizabeth, and the Virgin Mary. I fear that I am not considered appropriate for any of those, and so I am free to take on a much more demanding one than I had ever had on stage.”
“How is that, madam?” I asked.
“In the theater, rarely is anyone in front of the audience for more than ten minutes. Then we can run off to the wings and catch our breath, have a bit of brandy, and rehearse our lines for the next scene. Pretending in real life requires that I act non-stop and cannot let down for a second or it will all be for naught. It’s a lovely new role.” She laughed again and I could see why both audiences and her fellow thespians alike adored her.
“Are you sure,” I asked, “that you wish to portray a murderess? That might not be good for your reputation.”
This statement elicited yet another irrepressible laugh. “Oh, my dear doctor. In this past year alone, I have been Goneril, Regan, Cleopatra, Tamora, and Lady Macbeth. I could not be nastier in real life if I tried. As for my reputation in front of my adoring fans, I will have you know that in the new year we are staging Coriolanus, and I have the role of Volumina. It is a terrible play and a terrible part, and frankly, ticket sales are dismal. I can only hope that my upcoming scandal with Reverend Black makes it to the front page and stays there. It will do wonders for the box office.”
“Oh. Yes. I suppose you must be right. So, is the Reverend to be our guest here in Baker Street and Mrs. Terry to be a frequent visitor?” I asked, thinking that it was a sensible question.
This time, Holmes laughed. “Oh, my dear friend, that would never do. Reverend Black is staying at the Metropole, courtesy of the tithes and offerings collected in his previous crusade in Dallas.”
“Why that,” I protested, “will cost at least a thousand pounds for a three week stay. That is far too dear for you Holmes. Are you mad?”
Holmes smiled. “You are quite right, but we are not paying for it. I reviewed the plan with Lord Backwater and he has enthusiastically agreed to be our patron. In fact, for a fleeting moment, he suggested that he should play the role of the leading man gone astray and asked if I knew any good reason why not. I told the dear fellow that right off I could think of sixty, equally divided between each year he would have to roll back off his age, and each pound he w
ould need to shed. He jovially agreed and is cheering us on. So, I contacted our good friend, the Reverend Mr. Black, and asked if he could come and play the role. As he still has questions about the untimely death of our client’s first husband, he enthusiastically agreed. And here we are now gathered, doctor, and about to get to work on writing our script. As the most accomplished scribe of the lot of us, I hope you will condescend to join us. The play, my dear friend, is the thing.”
My initial reaction was to think that this was madness. All sorts of terrible things could go wrong, up to and including having someone murdered. After a moment’s pause, I confess, the lure of the chase and the irresistible temptation of intrigue, lubricated perhaps by another brandy, overcame my better judgment, and I threw my lot in and joined the dramatis personae.
The play unfolded more or less according to the script. In Act One, Scene One, Reverend Black entered the Lyceum Theatre to make inquires about the use of it for his upcoming revival meetings. He was met there by London’s leading dramatic partners, Mr. Henry Irving, and Mrs. Ellen Terry. As Mr. Irving’s schedule was already chock-a-block, it fell to Mrs. Terry to conduct the business meeting, which she elected to do in the comfortable setting of the front room of the nearby Savoy Hotel. As she was, next to Her Majesty, possibly the most recognized face in London, her presence there was duly noticed. It was noticed again in the same location over tea two days later. While they had dossiers and files spread out on the table, they mostly engaged in conversation and laughter. After a third meeting two days after that, over whiskeys and sodas in the Metropole, an item appeared in the gossip column of one of the newspapers that was consigned by decent society for the wrapping of fish.
Since such newspapers religiously read each other’s pages to make sure they are not missing anything, it took only one more day before three reporters were surreptitiously following her and dogging her every step. They had, as hard-working reporters, already revealed the identity of Reverend Black and described him more or less as provided to them by Sherlock Holmes.
Holmes had also slipped an anonymous note to one of the reporters informing them that this tall American had presented Mrs. Terry with a quintessentially American gift, a Remington Model 1895 Derringer. The story was immediately reported in the gossip pages.
With each passing day, the times they spent together became more lengthy and more reckless. Reverend Black was seen entering Mrs. Terry’s elegant home in Chelsea at lunch time. They were spotted walking together on a sunny early winter morning in Kew Gardens. Eventually, she was seen holding his arm as they emerged from The Haymarket Theatre after a performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. Yet, as Mrs. Terry herself had predicted, there was nothing newsworthy in these reports. Her being seen with yet another tall, handsome, wealthy gentleman was old hat. Reverend Black could have moved into her house and claimed to be saving her soul, and it would only have amounted to one more paragraph in the back pages. Try as they might, with torrid vocabulary and hints of things unimaginable, the reporters could not get their stories moved forward, and the readers responded in kind by refusing to purchase a single additional copy of a newspaper.
Chapter Eleven
Act Five: The Climax
CLEARLY SOMETHING MUCH MORE DRAMATIC was required, and Act Five furnished that incident on cue. One evening during the third week Reverend Ezekiel Black and Mrs. Ellen Terry spent far too long together in the bar of the Metropole Hotel and appeared to consume far too much alcohol. By ten o’clock at night, she was laughing loudly and constantly placing her hands on the face, arms and torso of the good preacher. When they finally got up to leave, he walked a little unsteadily towards the staircase and she toward the front desk. Throwing a look behind her to make sure no one was looking, she turned abruptly and entered a door to the service area. As soon as she did, three men sitting in the lobby immediately rose from their chairs, gave looks to each other and followed her.
“Ah yes, the reporters,” said Holmes.
Two of them snuck into the service corridor, and the third, sensing where she was headed, moved quickly up the main staircase to the fourth floor. Holmes and I, with feigned nonchalance, followed him.
We hid ourselves in an alcove on the fourth floor, from which vantage point we could see the reporter who had climbed the stairs, and the door to the service staircase. The service door opened slowly and we watched as the head of Mrs. Terry emerged, and slowly looked in one direction and then the next, as if she was acting in a door-slammer bedroom farce. Then, crouched over, she snuck her way along the hall until she reached the door of Reverend Black’s suite. This she quietly opened and slipped inside. She had no sooner done so than the reporter waiting in the hall rushed to that door, dropped to his knees and put his eye to the keyhole. The two other reporters, who had followed Mrs. Terry up the service stairs, appeared as well and, being denied the keyhole, fixed their ears to the door panel. After ten minutes one of them looked at his watch, and then the three of them departed.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled and shook his head. “If we could put this farce on the stage I am sure we would surpass Charlie’s Aunt. Our reporter boys have to run back to Fleet Street if they are to file their stories in time for the afternoon editions. But come, the real drama is about to unfold.”
We walked to Reverend Black’s door and knocked. Mrs. Terry opened it with a beaming smile. “Well, tell me. Was it a good performance? Will the critics like it?” And then she burst into her easy and contagious laugh. Although he did not indulge himself, Reverend Black poured the rest of us a whiskey and soda.
“My friends,” said Holmes, “this is now the Intermission and it is time to get some sleep. Our leading lady will enjoy the privacy of the bedroom, and I suggest that Reverend Black use one of the sofas while Doctor Watson stretches out in the other. I shall remain in this chair as I may be coming and going before dawn.”
Thanks to my years in the BEF in Afghanistan and the dull persistent throbbing pain of the Jezail bullet in one of my limbs, I am a light sleeper, especially under conditions of potential danger. I dozed off briefly and woke to see Sherlock Holmes slip out of the room around midnight. I slept fitfully until six o’clock in the morning, when the door opened and he returned. From the light of the hallway lamps I could discern that there was a chap following him. A shadowy glimpse of his familiar face revealed Inspector Lestrade. He was wearing a pea-jacket and cravat and looked a little too nautical for a select hotel. Holmes gestured to me and Reverend Black to be silent, and he and the inspector took a seat.
“There is still an hour to go before the climax,” said Holmes.
Forty minutes later Reverend Black stood up. “Time for me to get into my costume,” he said. He entered the large closet and returned ten minutes later dressed in his night shirt, covered by a dressing gown. His feet were bare. “Don’t go believing those rascals that tell you us men of the West sleep with our boots on. Powerful uncomfortable that would be.” He smiled and knocked on the bedroom door.
Mrs. Terry emerged, clad likewise in her night clothes and a dressing gown. “Is everyone in their places?” she asked cheerily. “Ready to open the curtain? Lovely. Let the play begin. I shall be in the bath if anyone needs to find me.” Again, she laughed and retreated and we soon heard the sound of water running full bore. Reverend Black entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
Holmes stood by the window and a few minutes later raised his hand. “He’s coming. Into the closet.” Lestrade, Holmes, and I stepped into the closet and closed the door behind us, leaving it open a little more than an inch. Lestrade, being the most agile, crouched on the floor with one eye to the small opening. I bent over above him and Holmes, being the tallest, leaned in on top of me.
I saw the French doors to the balcony slowly open and a slight, wiry man enter. He looked around the room briefly and walked over to one of the side tables on which sat Mrs. Terry’s purse. He quietly opened it and withdrew a small revolver. “How sweet of you, dar
ling, to provide the murder weapon,” I heard him whisper to himself.
He then walked to the bedroom door, gave a sharp knock, and then quickly crouched behind one of the sofas.
The bedroom door opened and Reverend Black emerged. “Who knocked?” he said in a loud voice. “Who’s in here?” He strode over to the balcony door and looked out. When he turned around the man behind the couch rose and lifted the small gun and fired four shots directly at Black. I gasped in horror, but Holmes gently squeezed my arm. Reverend Black shouted in pain and slumped to the floor, turning onto his side as he did so. The killer moved quickly to the body and rolled it to face him, whereupon Reverend Black looked up at him and said, “Hey there feller, you missed me. Why you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn door with that pea-shooter.”
The killer leapt back and fired the two remaining bullets in the chamber. Then our US Marshall brought his right hand out from behind his back and pointed a long-barreled Colt 45 directly at his would-be assassin.
“Whoa there, feller. Unlike your toy gun this here one has real bullets in it, so how about you just stick ’em up.”
At this point, Lestrade pushed the door of the closet open. “Scotland Yard here. Thank you, Marshall. You there, you are under arrest.” He gave a short blast on his police whistle and immediately three uniformed police officers entered from the hallway, put firm hands on the now trembling criminal and locked his hands into a set of cuffs.
Mrs. Terry had emerged from the bedroom, not at all wet from the bath. “Oh, the climax, and I wasn’t even on stage. Will no one introduce me to the villain? He did play his role so awfully well.” Except for the man in handcuffs, the rest of us indulged in a brief laugh.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 16
