Disquiet at Albany (9 page)

‘The body’s gone! I only went into the bathroom to splash water on my face – I tell you it’s completely disappeared!’

We rushed into the sitting room and all stared dumbly at the space on the Turkey rug where Ethby Sands should have been lying dead . . . but wasn’t.

21

Mr Shadwell Returns

The autumnal gales and spell of wet and windy weather in London were succeeded by a static, impenetrable pea-souper. The dun-coloured fog blanketed the capital, refusing to budge for days on end, making travelling outdoors unpredictable, many of us preferring, unless absolutely necessary, to stay closeted indoors by our fires. At least our chimney had ceased to smoke and we were no longer susceptible to sudden gusts of wind dislodging soot into our grate, causing a mild panic.

‘The new musical at the Wimborne has been fêted by the critics as “an unstoppable success”, said I, turning over the pages of my Daily Telegraph while Mrs Hudson cleared away the breakfast things. My companion merely assented.

‘Lovell and Lemon must be over the moon,’ he answered, ‘and Broadway beckons, I hear. To have achieved a guaranteed move to New York in such a short space of time is extraordinary. I suppose Christopher Chymes must be lapping up the adulation.’

‘And raking in the really big money.’

‘Certainly.’

‘And nothing has been heard or seen of mutated old Sands – thank God.’

‘If Doctor Wu Xing’s prognosis is to be believed, he is of the opinion – and he backs this up with scientific testimony – that like many animals, particularly rodents, Ethby Sands has, in all probability, skulked off to die in some dark corner, cleaving to the shadows. A nest in a Metropolitan Line underground tunnel, or a remote alley, or an old, unused warehouse. The cyanide dose, Watson, was significant. It could have killed an elephant! Granted, Wu makes the point that Sands’s rejuvenated system could have been resistant to the poison, showing only initial heart and respiratory collapse before recovering enough to escape Albany, but, really old man, that is just too far fetched.’

‘Is it?’ I shrugged.

‘Well, let’s hope. . .’

A knock at the door to our rooms heralded the rather faltering, hesitant figure of Lew Shadwell, as before, bowler held penitently in hand as though we might be about to reprimand him over some paltry misdemeanour – filching tuck-shop money, selling postcards to tourists at overly-inflated prices. He made his appearance once more wearing those maroon trousers with the distinctive emerald green strip running down the side, marking him out straightaway as a house porter at prestigious Albany – one of the finest addresses in the West End.

‘Lo! I has a very urgent and unpleasant matter to inform you about, Mr Holmes. I h’am frantic with worry and beg you’se and Doctor Watson to accompany myself back to Piccadilly this instant.’

‘My dear fellow!’ exclaimed Holmes, rushing forward to assist our visitor. ‘Come closer to the hearth. Watson, a stiff brandy – hurry, for Mr Shadwell is on the precipice of utter collapse. What is it man? What the deuce causes you to look so pale and distressed?’

‘Blood.’

‘Great heavens, not that blasted Cherry Blossom shoe polish again,’ I gently chided the porter in an ill-conceived attempt to lighten the mood.

‘I’se certain this time, gentlemen. Blood h’it is. Blood. H’it was the high-class milliner in No. 38 what alerted me to his ceiling, like. “It ain’t bathwater, is it? Overflow?” says I. Well, Gryce Wharton is almost royalty – he designs elegant hats for Her Majesty, turns out all manner of flamboyant creations for aristocratic ladies – European princesses amongst ’em – I mean, Wharton’s of Bond Street is an institution. Mr Wharton has occupied a set at Albany for close on twenty years, and I never once heard a word of complaint or ’ad any bother concerning noise or rowdiness. Like all our residents, ’e is a confirmed bachelor who keeps himself to himself and demands complete privacy. Correctly so, in my opinion, for ’e is a gentleman most proper and upstanding.’

‘Here, drink your brandy Mr Shadwell. You are amongst friends – you have my complete attention.’

Leaning forward in the fireside chair, the porter held his head in his hands and openly wept.

‘I’se just can’t bring myself to do it – open that bleedin’ door. No matter how much I tried I was froze. I was trembling so much I couldn’t even hold the key straight. And downstairs on the landing Mr Wharton hysterical – sobbing like me now, clinging to ‘is assistant Frederick like ’is life depended on it. You’ve gotta come to Albany right away, Mr Holmes, there’s blood dripping from the ceiling in Mr Wharton’s bedroom.’

‘Who lives upstairs? Whose door can’t you bear to open, Shadwell? Who is it residing in the apartment directly above Gryce Wharton? Come on man, out with it.’

‘Mr Christopher Chymes, sir.’

22

Bloodbath

Holmes and myself have long been acquainted with pathology and human anatomy. After all, I am a trained doctor who saw service in Afghanistan, and he a consulting detective. Mr Shadwell, a decent, caring sort, was also in his profession used to dealing with crises. Even so the horror of the murder scene proved too much for the poor fellow to stomach and he quite properly left us to it, fully resigned that for the first time in its long and illustrious history, Albany should play host to a fully-fledged murder inquiry instigated by none other than Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I promised Holmes not to irritate readers by ‘sensationalising’ certain forensic details. The minutiae of examination of the scene by police officers can be found on file (incidentally, the case remains unsolved), but I shall instead relate that the composer appeared to have been caught unawares, asleep in the master bedroom, and that he was clawed to pieces and his body parts distributed around the flat.

‘So, Ethby Sands was definitely shamming, then,’ said I, as our cab trotted along Piccadilly, bell tinkling, carriage lamps dimly aglow. ‘The cyanide had little effect.’

‘By Jove, that appears to be the case, my dear Watson. I think, for diversion, despite this fog, we shall seek out St James’s Hall, for there is a first-rate recital of Mozart’s Overture to
The Magic Flute
starting in half an hour.’

23

Letter from New York

The Giant Rats of Sumatra
was enjoying its season on Broadway to great acclaim, the London production coming to the end of a highly successful run. It is certain the murders of its composer Christopher Chymes and lyricist Philip Troy, generated a huge wealth of interest amongst members of the public, but it would be on the whole wrong to judge the success of the light opera solely on the grounds of morbid publicity, for many of the tunes were first-rate and audiences both here and in America flocked in droves and applauded the stage presentation. The choreography, most importantly the show, appealed to all ages and a wide range of social classes. But, I digress.

Eighteen months had passed and I was married to the love of my life, Miss Mary Morstan. I had since established a modest practice in Paddington inherited from my predecessor, who had retired on the grounds of ill health.

One warm evening in July, it so happened that both of us were absent from home, walking out in Regent’s Park and attending a bandstand concert given by the Royal Grenadiers. Our maid answered a summons to the front door of our modest terrace and, as she later put it, ‘a tall chap, pale an’ thin as a beanstalk with a big beaky nose what made ’im look like a vulture asked me to give you this, sir.’

Here, then, was a manila envelope addressed to me and bearing my dear friend’s neat, copperplate writing.

Mary was for an early bed, so I hurried to the privacy of my surgery and tore open the envelope. Lighting my pipe, I settled down behind my desk and perused the contents – a couple of pages, the top missive a letter from Ethby Sands in New York, the other a short printed article cut out from the New York Times and gummed on a piece of paper with an accompanying note in the margin by Holmes:

My Dear Holmes,

I am in New York for the Broadway production of the light opera
The Giant Rats of Sumatra,
for which incidentally I do not receive a penny. This, despite the whole concept being an original idea of mine and the stirring ‘Flight of the Birds of Paradise’ overture my own composition. By the time you receive this letter, both Langton Lovell, the theatre impresario, and his business partner Charles Lemon, the actor will be dead – murdered in customary fashion. I am living in a warehouse district of New York harbour. At night I am unable to resist the lure of the water and go for long contemplative swims round the bay to the Statue of Liberty, wondering what fate holds in store for me.

Yours ever, Ethby Sands

Extract from the
New York Times

Mister Stacey Davidoff Harbour Master, only confirmed what Captain Szyliowicz of the N.Y.P.D. had told the press earlier. The propeller of a New York harbour steam ferry became fouled up yesterday evening, causing the vessel to partly capsize. Nobody was injured and the passengers were all accounted for. Using a searchlight, it was determined that a rodent of unusual size had become tangled with the propeller after swimming out into the bay. New Yorkers are amazed that large vermin are allowed to flourish and, presumably, proliferate in the vicinity of the harbour. Sanitation Officer Stephen Bonetti assured the public that similar to the ongoing argument over giant alligators inhabiting New York sewers, a giant rat is nothing more than a myth.

Note: Both Langton and Lemon, then in New York, were unaware that any attempt was to be made on their life, and it appears Ethby Sands died before he was able to implement his plan to murder the impresario and actor respectively.

S.H.