by Val Andrews
He seated us comfortably enough, yet this vast attic room had not the order or comfort of Devant’s lair. It was for the most part a vast workshop with portions of partially dismembered automata everywhere. Strange glass-eyed mannikins gazed fixedly from hooks upon the wall, and most of the floor space was occupied by cabinets and boxes decorated with mysterious hieroglyphics. A work bench occupied one wall, covered with wood and steel working implements.
A miniature turbanned Turk sat cross-legged atop a glass pillar. Maskelyne gestured towards it. ‘Psycho… my most famous creation!’
‘Retired?’ I jested.
‘No, simply resting.’ He took my jest at its face value.
I could not help but notice that Maskelyne had the room arranged as if he were used to keeping visitors at arm’s length from his inventions. Holmes asked, ‘You were in this room at the time of the tragedy Mr Maskelyne?’ ‘Yes, I spend most of my time here when not actually upon the stage. The running of the hall I leave to young Devant and this gives me the time I need to work upon my inventions. Before he joined me I used to use the dressing room in which poor Cyrano met his end.’
Holmes asked, ‘And your automata?’
‘There is a room next to that dressing room which can be more than securely locked. I keep my “secretary” automata there at present, because it is near to the stage.’ ‘May we be taken into that room sir?’
Maskelyne was not delighted at Holmes’ request, I could see. But he did not lose his composure, and said, ‘If you deem it absolutely necessary Mr Holmes?’ The detective nodded and Maskelyne took a key from a hook on the wall. We followed him down the stairs.
I noticed that Maskelyne turned the key several times in order to open the lock on the door next to Cyrano’s dressing room. ‘It is my own invention, it would take considerable skill to pick it. I may patent the lock.’
The room was almost bare except for the stenographic automata. Holmes studied the mechanical wonder with acute interest. ‘May I be permitted a view of the inner mechanism?’ Maskelyne, a little reluctant, opened a panel to reveal a series of cogs and levers. Holmes looked at them keenly. ‘Ah yes, most ingenius!’
Maskelyne seemed happier once the panel was closed. Holmes glanced around the room, but there was little else of interest to him. He opened the cupboard which corresponded with that in Cyrano’s room. Then closing it again he smiled disarmingly at Maskelyne and said, ‘Well I do not believe that there is much in here to capture our attention. I am sorry to have put you to this inconvenience Mr Maskelyne. We need keep you from your work no longer.’
Maskelyne relocked the door as carefully as he had unlocked it, and, with his friendly manner restored, bade us good day. ‘Devant will see to your wishes and requirements Mr Holmes. He has so much more a finger on the pulse than I.’
As the ‘Grand Old Man’ made his exit, leaving us standing in the corridor, one of the white-faced clowns, still in his full motley, appeared on the scene. He almost grovelled as Maskelyne passed him. Then he turned to us and said, ‘If you’re the new stage hands you want to steer clear of that room…’ He pointed to the door which Maskelyne had just locked. ‘It’s haunted! Why, when the old man had the dressing room next door, several of the artistes heard voices coming from that room when it was known to be empty! Strange noises too!’
The clown scampered off toward his dressing room, and I glanced at Holmes to see if he considered the information from our capering informant to be of importance. He returned my glance with raised eyebrows and a shrug, and in that clairvoyant manner of his, remarked, ‘Maybe Watson, maybe. But that which I saw within the room was of more interest than any number of ghost stories!’
Holmes knocked politely upon the door of the dressing room which had been Cyrano’s, but now bore a paper name plate, ‘Buatier De Kolta’.
‘Entree, entrée…’ We entered as bidden but the continental illusionist, who looked still very untidy in his street clothes, politely addressed us in English, ‘Mr Detective and good Doctor, please to come in. This is my assistant, yes, Matthew Craig.’
He introduced a tall man in early middle-age, with a very distinctive quiff. He was spare of figure and had a thin face, rather like Holmes.
De Kolta was not backward in speaking to us upon the subject which was on all our minds. ‘I admit I did threaten Cyrano, but I spoke, how you say, in the hotness of the moment? Why even the good Inspector seems happy on that matter, and Maskelyne would not at once have thought of me had he not decided on my innocence.’ Holmes spoke, as if assuming De Kolta’s innocence. ‘I am more interested in how Cyrano pipped you to the post with the “expanding cube’’.’ The illusionist said, ‘It is a mystery! I only had plans and a working model, but he was actually able to produce the illusion!’
I could not help thinking that even Holmes was getting a little out of his depth. Was a murder investigation not enough for him without the complication of stolen secrets of illusion? Especially as he had only been brought on the scene to find a missing ring, which he had already found. But as these thoughts passed through my mind, my eyes and ears detected Holmes questioning Matthew Craig.
‘I imagine that the piracy of the expanding cube must have bothered you quite a lot Mr Craig. As a long standing retainer of Mr De Kolta you must have felt the loss almost as keenly as he did?’
‘Oh yes, and my anger was almost as great. Mr De Kolta has been very good to me since we first met on a fairground in Vienna.’
‘You were working on the fairground?’
‘That’s right, I was an acrobat, but reduced to appearing with freaks, dwarfs, dog-faced people and the like. However, I also made and decorated all the facades and properties for the sideshow, and Mr De Kolta recognised my talent. He makes the rough models and I make the finished illusions.’
Holmes nodded with evident interest and when he noticed a portfolio upon a high shelf, he asked, ‘Is that your album Mr De Kolta?’ ‘Why no, I imagine it was left there, it probably belonged to Cyrano… that rascal…’ Holmes reached for the article. I knew it was within his grasp or just beyond but even though he could reach it, he feigned an inability to do so. ‘Mr Craig, do you think you could reach the album and hand it to me?’
Craig, who was about the same height and reach as Holmes, gained it with ease. However, I noticed that in so doing he dislocated his shoulder, and just as quickly returned that member to its normal position. He handed the portfolio to Holmes who, I felt sure, had noticed the unusual movement.
Holmes flicked through the book, and announced, ‘It appears to be Cyrano’s scrap book. Evidently Inspector Lestrade has overlooked it. There would seem to be little harm in my borrowing and studying it.’
We all nodded our assent.
Before leaving the Hall, we looked in on Devant in his lair. I had assumed that Holmes simply wanted to bid him goodnight, and perhaps to thank him for his cooperation.
But the detective had a request to make. ‘Mr Devant, do you think you could forgo your cantor on Hampstead Heath tomorrow morning, and rendezvous with me here at seven?’ A somewhat puzzled Devant agreed to this.
*
That night we sat comfortably in the living room at Baker Street, partaking of the succulent snacks provided by Mrs Hudson, the hour being rather late for dinner. Afterwards, Holmes filled a pipe which he lit with a Vespa. I enquired, ‘One last smoke before bed eh?’ My friend informed me that he had Cyrano’s scrapbook to study first. He transferred himself to the table, where he spread open the volume and carefully studied its contents. From my armchair I could see that it contained those items which you would expect an actor’s press book to hold: newspaper cuttings, interspersed with tipped-in theatre programmes and photographic portraits.
Suddenly Holmes extended a hand toward me and demanded, ‘Watson, be so kind as to pass my lens!’
For reasons that I could not imagine the lens was on the mantelpiece. Somewhat reluctantly I rose from the comfort of my chair, took up the lens
and handed it to my friend. He used it to peer at a large photograph which depicted a number of performers outside a booth, upon a platform. Even with the naked eye I could pick out the central figure which clearly, and not surprisingly turned out to be Cyrano. He was holding a paper cornucopia from which peered a white rabbit. He looked younger, as indeed did Madame Patricia at his side. To the left there was a group of small people who appeared to be dwarfs. Holmes handed me the lens and asked me to tell him what I could see.
I looked again, this time through the lens. I said, ‘Cyrano, Madame Patricia, and some dwarfs…’ He interrupted, ‘Midgets, not dwarfs, for see how perfectly proportioned they are despite their Lilliputian size. What else?’
I peered again through the lens. ‘Some sort of large poster or banner, depicting a contortionist. It reads “The Fellow in the Flask’’, and… by Jove, I do believe it is Matthew Craig!’
‘Exactly! So he and Cyrano were acquainted, and Craig was a contortionist as well as a gymnast. I had suspected as much when he dislocated his shoulder to reach that high shelf. This business is rather more complex than I had imagined Watson.’
Tired by the day’s activities, within half an hour I was quite ready for bed. Before retiring I said, ‘I would advise you to try and get some sleep Holmes, if you are to meet Devant at seven.’ Then I added, a little accusingly, ‘As you have said nothing, I assume I am not to accompany you tomorrow?’
Holmes turned upon me his most enigmatic expression as he said, ‘My dear Watson, even such a competent gentleman as yourself can hardly be in two places at once!’ I said, ‘But I have no plans for tomorrow.’ He said, ‘Oh but you have Watson, or rather I have plans for you.’ I dared to ask, ‘Might I enquire as to their nature?’
Holmes closed the portfolio, and put down the lens. Then taking up his Turkish slipper, he recharged his pipe. As he filled it I glared at him, knowing how he loved to keep me in suspense. But he spared me waiting until he had lit it and said, ‘Someone, and someone that I can trust completely, will have to return Lady Windrush’s ring. As you know, I have not the time to journey to Sussex myself.’
I was not too sure if I should feel flattered with the seeming importance of the errand or put out by the thought of being a courier or Jack of all trades. After all, Holmes had assumed automatically that I would undertake the mission without question. He must have read my mind, for with the skill of a ‘Zanzig’, he said, ‘The ring is worth many thousands of pounds Watson. Who could any man trust with such a mission except his dearest friend? You are my dearest friend Watson… come to think of it, my only friend!’
It was very like Holmes to issue a compliment with a sting in its tail. What could I say but, ‘Very well Holmes, I will look up the trains for Haywards Heath at once. That is, I believe the nearest railway station to Windrush Towers?’
‘That is correct Watson. I have been in contact with Lady Windrush. You may possibly have noticed a crested envelope among my letters? Her Ladyship has requested me to keep the whole matter from the attention of the police and newspapers. So far, this has been possible. But just how long I can keep up this confidence I am not sure. So you see, the matter is a delicate one.’
Chapter Six – Windrush Towers
The bustle of Victoria Station has always fascinated me. The great number of people arriving, full of excitement at the thought of a visit to the Zoological Gardens, or the Tower of London. Then there are the hordes who descend upon the station in the summer months, bound for Brighton, Worthing and other resorts, clutching buckets and spades and wicker hampers filled with comestibles. The air is often unbearably filled with the fretful cries of over-excited children and the laments of elderly persons who have lost either their baggage or their train…
I did not await my train in the apartment designated for that purpose: rather in the comparative comfort of a vast refreshment hall, with its marble columns and steaming urns. It has been said that if one were able to sit long enough in such a place one would eventually see almost everyone that one had known, assuming that they were still in the land of the living. I partook of a cup of coffee and a Chelsea bun, which for their price were good enough, although the china cup was a little on the thick side (which I find dulls the taste). Thence to the bookstall to purchase a newspaper and a copy of ‘The Strand’, and at last I was able to sink back in the tolerable comfort of a first-class carriage.
Although empty when I entered it, alas, before the train started, my carriage was invaded by a rather wild-looking man with a bush of hair and a demoniacal expression. I was about to go to the trouble of changing carriages when the whistle blew, the guard waved his flag, and I realized I had left it too late. I felt sure that the bizarre fellow did not have a first-class ticket and said as much. He leaned toward me from the opposite seat and said, ‘Ticket? I don’t need a ticket! You see, I am the German Kaiser, here on a special mission.’
There followed one of the most terrifying half hours that I have ever spent. The fellow was clearly both demented and dangerous, and I had omitted to bring my service revolver with me. He started to march up and down between the seats, causing me to hastily withdraw my feet. He leaned out of the carriage window, shouting ‘Deuchland Uber Alles!’ He had some ‘secret plans’ for the destruction of Buckingham Palace, which he insisted on showing to me. There was no way in which even an experienced medical man like myself could judge if he would become violent, as such lunatics (sometimes said to have the ‘strength of ten’), quite often do. For the first time that I could remember I found myself wishing that I had taken one of those irritating trains which stop at every town, village and hamlet.
At long last the train shuddered to a stop at a village called Three Bridges and the door of the carriage opened to admit a railway official. ‘All tickets please!’ he demanded. As I always do in such situations I thought quickly and said, ‘Ticket Inspector, please pay attention to this fellow here, he has been behaving wildly and claims that he is going to blow up Buckingham Palace!’
By one of those miracle transformations that only the cunning of a lunatic seems able to produce, the strange fellow had smoothed back his hair and reverted his facial expression to one of extreme normality. He sat quietly, reading my copy of ‘The Strand’. The ticket inspector said, ‘We’ve had a warning to look out for an escaped patient from the asylum.’ The lunatic pointed to me and said, in a quiet, pleasant voice, ‘There is your man Inspector, he’s been behaving wildly since we left Victoria. Furthermore, he has had the audacity to steal my ticket!’
The inspector asked for my ticket and demanded to know my name. I said, ‘Certainly, here is my ticket, a first-class one to Haywards Heath, and my name is John H. Watson, colleague and confidente of Sherlock Holmes, the famous Baker Street detective!’
I thought that I had played a trump card, but evidently I had not. The lunatic laughed merrily and held open the ‘The Strand’ at the page where commenced one of my accounts of Holmes’ adventures. He shrugged as to ‘rest his case’. The uncouth inspector dragged me to my feet, out of the carriage and onto the platform. ‘Unhand me! I’ll have you know that I am on an extremely delicate mission for Mr Holmes!’ A station-boy grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back, as the train door was slammed shut, and the whistle and flag sent it speeding toward my intended destination.
I am a very tolerant man but I confess that at this point I lost my temper.
‘I have an important appointment at Haywards Heath!’ I insisted. The inspector nodded wisely, ‘Very true sir, they have a very famous asylum there.’
Of course, in the fullness of time the misunderstanding was settled. I was taken to the station master’s office, where that worthy, having looked at my card and listened to my story, issued me with a hand written ‘emergency ticket’ and sent me on my way with his apologies. But I had a long time to wait for another train, and I knew that I would be late in keeping my appointment.
The rest of my journey was mercifully uneventful until I
secured a cab outside the station at Haywards Heath. To call it a ‘cab’ is hardly accurate. The shoddy equipage, horse and driver, were not of a standard that could have plied for hire in London.
‘Where to Squire?’ The driver was over-familiar in his manner, and before I could reply he had added, ‘Is it the asylum?’ I said, ‘Certainly not, take me to Windrush Towers without delay, I’m in a hurry!’
The horse managed a fast walk… I can hardly refer to it as a trot, and after some time we arrived outside the entrance of a large and rather run-down country house. For his rudeness I gave the cabby his exact fare. He looked at the coins in his hand and said, ‘Don’t ask me to come back for yer!’ I replied, ‘Certainly not, Lady Windrush will doubtless have me driven to the station!’ He laughed sardonically and his vehicle left as fast as his horse could walk.
I was admitted to Windrush Towers by a very elderly retainer who all but creaked as he walked. I diagnosed, without examination of course, advanced arthritis and slight senility. Having taken my hat and cane, he ushered me to the open double doors of a large reception room. I could see at its far end a handsome woman in a silk gown, her right hand resting upon the jewelled collar of a female mastiff.
Prompted by my calling card, the senile retainer shouted, ‘Doctor John H. Watson!’ Then in a rather hoarse whisper he said to me, ‘Look out Cully, she’s a man-eater!’
I was taken aback, until I realised that he must be referring to the dog. Indeed as I entered, the mastiff started such a growling and barking as I have seldom heard. The retainer took it out of the room, with a considerable struggle. As the noise of its barking gradually subsided, Lady Windrush spoke.
‘Doctor Watson, so nice of you to come. I get so few visitors.’ ‘A pleasure dear lady, I know that my colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes, has informed you of the purpose of my visit, the return of your ring?’
She patted the embroidered cushion on a chair, as if directing a pet dog to ‘sit’. As I collapsed onto the Chippendale she said, ‘Of course, and I was so delighted when I got his wire. I had as a matter of fact expected you earlier, but I expect you had trouble with the trains, such wretched things.’
