by Roger Jaynes
‘My thoughts, exactly. I suspect, instead, that it was a payment in advance for services rendered – from our old
friend the professor. The clerk at Barclay’s recalled that the deposit was in cash.’
‘What of the landlady? Was she of any help?’
‘Not much. She told us she had last seen Potter on Saturday evening –’
‘The day your life was attempted! ’ I burst forth, immediately regretting I had done so. Embarrassed, I glanced away.
‘Precisely, Watson. It only confirms to me that Potter, upon orders from Moriarty, has been in hiding ever since. The landlady also told us Potter had few visitors, save for an older sister who lived in Chiswick; she gave me her address. So off I went to Chiswick, in the guise of a solicitor.’
‘A solicitor? Whatever for?’
‘To plant a seed I hope will germinate.’
‘A seed? I’m sorry, Holmes, but I do not follow you at all.’
‘Well, since the two are close, might not Potter visit her sometime soon? There are worse places to hide than Chiswick; it is off the beaten track. Should Potter decide to do so, I have left some bait.’
‘Bait now, is it! ’ I said. ‘Holmes, will you come to the point?’
My companion chuckled, allowing himself another sip of wine. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘what better lure is there to someone down and out than the thought of sudden wealth? I merely informed the woman that I represented one Thurgood Potter of Folkestone, recently deceased, and that she and her brother had both been named in the will. I told her it was a matter of several thousand pounds, to be divided equally, but that the papers required both their signatures before either could collect.’
‘And what was her reaction?’
‘Suspicion, until I showed her a document attesting to the fact, signed and dated.’
‘But how –?’
‘An easy ruse, Watson. It is a standard document I had purchased from an agent, and filled in myself while I was riding on the train. I told her she and her brother could contact me at this address. It is a bit of a long shot, I admit, but we do not have many cards which we can play –’
Holmes paused at the sound of footsteps on the stair. ‘That will be Wiggins,’ he said. I knew that he had recognised the tread. ‘Ah, and prompt as well, if we are to believe our mantle clock. Show him in, will you, Watson?’
A moment later, the scruffy young beggar stood before us, as smudged and unwashed as ever, wearing a shabby checked coat and woollen scarf, his crumpled cloth cap in his hand. By his flushed cheeks and wet shoes, I surmised that he had just spent many hours prowling the streets of the city, despite the adverse elements. It was, I realised guiltily, a mean way to earn a shilling.
Regretting my earlier remarks, I decided to offer the lad my chair before the fire, but Holmes, as usual, was a step ahead in his observations. Taking Wiggins by the elbow, he guided him to his seat, then proceeded to pour him a steaming cup of tea.
‘Well, Wiggins,’ he asked, ‘have you found our man?’
‘No, sir,’ the boy replied. ‘We hain’t. But I can tell you where he’s laid up the past few days.’
‘And where is that?’
‘A room on Butcher Row, sir – that is, ’til this morning. The bloke left quick, and stiffed ’em for a florin, Sticker says.’
‘Sticker?’ I enquired.
The urchin grinned, revealing a set of yellowed teeth, and a space where one was missing.
‘Ay, sir! My best man, ’e is! Sticks around longer than most, you know? An’ he’s got a way about ’im, Sticker has. People likes to tell ’im things.’
Holmes drew deeply on his pipe. ‘I doubt if our man has flown,’ he concluded, darkly. ‘After all, his business with Moriarty is not finished. More likely, he has been ordered to stay on the move. Now then, Wiggins. Where did your band get to today?’
‘We worked south from Stepney Station towards the Basin, sir, jes’ like you told us. But where this fly’ll light tomorrow is anybody’s guess.’
Holmes reached into his pocket for some coins, and handed the lad six shillings. This meant, I knew, that he desired the search to be continued, since he always paid the urchins in advance. ‘My suspicion, Wiggins,’ he said, ‘is that he’ll travel east, perhaps as far as Limehouse. Moriarty, I have heard, has a lair there. – Oh, and send one boy the other way to Chiswick! Here’s the address, and an extra three shillings for expenses. Tell him to be sharp, and follow the woman who lives there, should she decide to leave.’
‘Good ’nuf, sir.’ Rising, the grimy child tugged on his cap, and headed for the door. ‘And thanks t’ you, for the char.’
For some moments after Wiggins had gone, I sat silently before the fire, contemplating the considerable task his band of gritty gypsies faced. London, after all, was a huge metropolis; the odds of locating one man among its teeming millions seemed immense.
‘I hate to be a doomsayer, Holmes,’ I said, at last, ‘but do you really think it possible they will find Potter? The prospects, to me, seem rather bleak. I mean, it’s not as if he were an acrobat in a circus, and you had only to post a watch at centre ring.’
My companion’s reaction to my words was nothing I could have imagined. For a moment, he stared at me fixedly, then leapt suddenly to his feet. ‘My God! ’ he cried, slapping his hand upon his head. ‘Why did I not think of it before? Why, I spoke the very word myself at Trafalgar Square! ’
‘Word? Holmes, what –?’
‘Acrobat, Watson! Don’t you see! As you suggested, Potter is no acrobat. But what of the other man, who swung so easily atop King George’s horse, with paint and brush in hand? If Moriarty could hire both an artist and assassin, then why not someone who was quick upon his feet?’ He rushed to his desk, took up pen and paper, and began to scribble feverishly.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I am writing a telegram, to an old friend,’ he replied. ‘I am in hopes he will help us find our gymnastic brushman.’
‘And who, pray tell, is that?’
Holmes smiled faintly. ‘Come, come, Watson. You said yourself that all we need do was stand by centre ring. I am merely writing to the man who owns the most successful centre ring in England.’
‘Lord George Sanger! ’ I burst forth. ‘The showman?’
‘Who else? It is the dead of winter, after all, and his is the only circus in London. We shall visit him on the morrow, at Astley’s on Westminster.’
The happenstances of life have never ceased to intrigue me. Thus, I was struck by the fact that had Phillip Astley not helped George III subdue a spirited horse near Westminster Bridge in 1769 we should not have found ourselves alighting from a hansom in front of Sanger’s Grand National Amphitheatre, shortly before nine the following morning.
‘The monarch was so grateful,’ I said, as I mentioned it to Holmes, ‘that he granted Astley both the land and licence to perform. It was, I read somewhere, a horse show under a simple canvas tent in the beginning.’
‘I was not aware the circus, or Astley’s, held such interest for you, Watson,’ Holmes remarked, as he stepped down into the street. Like most Londoners, he still referred to it as Astley’s, even though Sanger had officially changed the name when he bought the giant showplace in 1871.
‘I have always enjoyed the circus,’ I rejoined. ‘Why, my father took me to see Mazeppa’s Rise, when I was eight.
Holmes, did you know this building has been destroyed by fire three times? Yet, here we are more than a century later, and the circus is still with us, upon this very spot.’
Holmes clapped me heartily upon the shoulder. ‘My dear Watson,’ he said, ‘I do declare! You are the very soul of English continuity and tradition. As long as stalwart fellows like yourself abound, the Empire, like the show, will most certainly go on! ’
That our arrival had been anticipated was clearly evident, when at the side door, Holmes had merely to mention his name, and we were quickly and graciously escor
ted inside to the office of a Mr Andrew Oliver, business manager for Sanger’s ‘London and Continental Circus’. He, in turn, guided us through a series of shadowy corridors and archways which led to the private sanctum of Sanger himself. As our footsteps echoed through the empty hallways, I felt a growing sense of expectation about meeting this man who, seventeen years before, had restored success to what was then a dying structure, and then proceeded to establish well-received circuses in Islington, Manchester, Liverpool, and many other cities as well. As to what Holmes’s previous involvement with Sanger had been, however, I could not dare to guess.
Before I had time to speculate further, we paused at a heavy, oaken door, upon which Oliver registered two light taps.
‘Who is it?’ a voice enquired, from within.
‘Oliver, sir. With Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.’
From behind the door, we heard the scrape of a chair, footsteps and a low metallic sound. Then after a moment, a bolt was pushed back, the heavy door swung open, and Sanger stood before us.
‘Sherlock Holmes! ’ he cried, pumping my friend’s hand. ‘It has been too many years! – And you, sir, must be Dr Watson! ’ he added, doing the same to mine. ‘Come in, gentlemen! Do come in! ’
We followed our host into the room, whose walls were decorated with bright-coloured advertising bills and other circus tokens, mementoes of shows long past. While Sanger was not a large man, he cut an imposing figure, elegantly dressed in black trousers and elastic side boots, a ruffled white silk shirt, and a black satin tie in which was nestled the sparkling, jewelled pin that had, I recalled, once been presented him by the Queen. His coal-black hair, moustache and eyebrows only added to the dashing effect.
‘I received your telegram, Mr Holmes,’ the showman said, as he motioned us to our chairs. ‘You stated you wished my assistance, in a rather delicate affair. Said is done for you, my friend! Was there any doubt you would receive it?’
Both the depth and sincerity of Sanger’s words caught me by surprise. And, of course, left me more curious than ever as to what had passed between these two remarkable men.
‘None, whatsoever,’ my friend assured him, warmly. ‘However, Mr Sanger, I fear the timing of our visit inopportune. You were, I gather, preparing to depart for Cox & Co., in order to make a quite large deposit?’
For an instant, the circus master, like myself, sat taken aback. Then, with a hearty laugh, he proclaimed his admiration. ‘Lord above, Mr Holmes! ’ he declared. ‘You read my very mind! Is there nothing, save the powers that be, that you cannot decipher? How were you aware that I planned to call upon the bank? And who informed you of my financial circumstances?’
‘Why, you did, Lord George.’
‘What –?’
Holmes gestured slightly, as if to signify to Sanger, as he had so often to me, that the matter was a simple one. ‘My conclusion is easily drawn,’ he stated. ‘According to your bill, the London and Continental performed last night, and there is not another show ’til Thursday. Thus, heavy money must lie about. And when I find you closeted behind a bolted door of heavy oak, I divine it must be here. A safe in that small closet, perhaps? Or beneath your desk? I am certain I heard it clang shut, after you had risen from your chair.’
Sanger eyed Holmes shrewdly. ‘And what if I was to tell you that the money had already been despatched?’ he asked.
‘Why, then I simply would not believe you! ’ Holmes declared, with some amusement. The two, I could tell, had squared off this way before. ‘If the money were gone, why bother to bolt the door, or close the safe at all? Besides, unless I am mistaken, that is a deposit book from Cox’s Charing Cross branch, lying next to your hat and stick. I seriously doubt that you would send a messenger without it.’
Sanger threw up his hands. ‘Splendid! ’ he cried. ‘Why, Mr Holmes, you are still as sharp as glass! Sharp as when you were Grimaldi the Illusionist, eh? – Now that, Dr Watson, was an episode truly worthy of your well-known journalistic talents.’
I could not hide my amazement. So Holmes had actually performed, in disguise, in one of Sanger’s circuses! And, given Sanger’s allusive remark, solved some sort of mystery for his employer.
‘Holmes, you never – ! ’ I began.
‘It was before your time, Watson; an unpleasant business, to be sure! With Lord George’s permission, I shall give the particulars later. Suffice to say, it concerned the untimely and violent death of Palmyra, an accomplished female aerialist– ’
‘ – And nearly cost me my show and reputation! ’ Sanger said. ‘Were it not for your cunning, Mr Holmes, I seriously doubt if I should find myself in the grandiose position I am today. – But come, gentlemen, enough of the past. You seek my help, Mr Holmes, and I am quite prepared to give it. Tell me what you wish.’
‘You are familiar with the recent crimes of the Crimson Vandals?’ Holmes enquired.
‘I am! The despicable curs! That any British subject could commit such acts, gentlemen, is quite beyond my contemplation! When they are caught, and I am confident they shall be, the deepest cell in Newgate Prison should serve as their reward.’
Holmes looked at the irate showman (who was well known for his patriotism) squarely in the eye. ‘I have reason to believe,’ he told him, ‘that one of your performers is involved.’
‘What! ’ Sanger exclaimed, smacking his desktop with such a blow that the inkbottle fairly jumped. ‘Tell me how, by thunder! For if it’s so, that person shall find himself promptly bundled off to Scotland Yard – and by God, by my own hand! ’
Holmes explained briefly to the incensed circus master why he felt sure both acrobat and artist had been recruited to perpetuate the bizarre series of crimes. Yet he was extremely careful, I noted, not to mention Moriarty as the suspected organiser behind the scenes. (By then, of course, both Holmes and I had learned to guard ourselves, for while the professor was famous among criminals, his darker side was virtually unknown to the general public. Any mention of such a respected academic as a criminal, and I have no doubt we would have found ourselves hauled into court, and been ordered to pay a hefty solatium to assuage his wounded character.
‘An acrobat, eh?’ Sanger considered, after Holmes had finished. ‘Well, gentlemen, we do have the best on the Continent. And, I’m not too modest to add, the best-paid lot as well. Shall we venture down to my back yard, then, and see if any have required more?’
Moments later the three of us were traversing the sawdust floor of the Amphitheatre’s giant centre ring, where some members of the company were already performing the daily chore of rehearsing their various acts. That the towering balconies about us sat dark and empty mattered little; one could not step into that torch-lit ring without immediately being caught up in the colourful and exciting atmosphere the artists of the circus always seem to provide.
High above, a pair of aerialists spun gracefully in unison from one trapeze to the next, while before us a pretty young woman (whose costume, I felt, was decidedly daring) artfully juggled tenpins as she balanced on a wire. Next we came to a giant grey elephant, which bellowed frightfully as it reared up on command, lifting its huge front legs into the air. Following our host, we passed amidst tumblers and clowns, a dark-skinned contortionist, and a sword swallower who made me cringe as he calmly ingested the gleaming blade. As we approached the far side of the ring, Sanger called out to a tall, red-headed fellow who was standing near the entrance, motioning for him to join us.
‘This is Archie Dennis, gentlemen,’ Sanger informed us, as we met. ‘If there’s a better gaffer in England, I’m not aware. He keeps the Luck Boys out, the Tin Plates happy, and he has his ear on every artist on my payroll.’
‘Glad ’a meet yuh, guvs,’ the tall man said. ‘Is there sumthin’ I kin do?’
‘I require some information,’ Sherlock Holmes replied. ‘In particular, if you have an acrobat who has kept nocturnal hours of late.’
The tall man eyed my friend suspiciously, then tossed his employer a glance.
‘Tell him what you know, Arch,’ the circus master ordered. ‘It could be nothing. Or, it could be business for the police.’
‘Only one I know is Ulric. ’E’s been leavin’ after close; but not every night, mind yuh. Got a wench in Lambeth, so ’e says. ’Er ’usband’s died, an’ she’s lookin’ fer another.’
‘How many times has he been to Lambeth in the last few weeks?’
‘Three, maybe four, that I know of.’
‘And this woman – have you seen her?’
‘No. But ’e said ’er name was Sally.’
‘I see.’
Holmes pointed toward a group of athletic-looking gymnasts, four of whom were practising the Risley Act, some feet away. ‘Which is Ulric?’ he enquired.
‘None of ’em, guv. Ulric ain’t come out yet. I ’spect yuh’d find ’im in ’is wagon, back behind Clown Alley. If yuh’d like, I can show the way.’
‘No need of that,’ Sanger interposed. ‘I’ll look into this myself. Come along, gentlemen.’
We followed Sanger out of the ring and into the Amphitheatre’s wide ‘back yard’, where the wagons and wardrobes containing the hundreds of properties used during each performance were stored. It was a busy place. All about us, workers were loading and unloading trunks and crates of various sizes, and moving tall, colourfully-painted backdrops to their respective and appointed places. Lions roared from their cages, a tethered line of horses was being fed, and the smell of coffee and spicy food was in the air. After passing between two rows of dressing rooms and tents, we finally came to a halt before a line of large, horse-drawn wagons, all brightly painted, the type of which all circus performers call home.
Sanger stepped up to the second of these, and pounded a harsh tattoo upon the door. ‘Ulric! ’ he cried. ‘Wake up, man! It’s Sanger here, and I wish to speak with you! ’
There was no answer, or sound from within. The curtained windows were dark. Again, Sanger knocked upon the door, and again there was no reply.
Anxiously, I glanced at Holmes, and felt my stomach tighten. His face was a grim mask. ‘Something, I fear, has gone afoul,’ he said. ‘Lord George, that lamp, if you please.’
