The West End Horror (7 page)

“And McCarthy, you say, heard of the incident at the Albemarle?

Wilde nodded.

“I believe he knew of Queensberry’s intentions beforehand. He notified me and arranged a meeting at the Café Royal, where he declared his willingness to furnish certain correspondence of mine to the Marquess and his solicitors. He felt these documents would certainly prejudice my case.”

“And were you of that opinion?”

“It was not necessary yesterday, nor is it necessary today that I answer that question. I had cards of my own to play, and I played them.”

“I think it may be as well to lay them on the table now.”

“As you like. To be brief, I am the repository of a great many secrets myself, concerning alarums and excursions in the West End. Theatre people are so colorful, don’t you find? I know, for example, that George Grossmith, who does the patter songs for Gilbert (he played me, you know!), has been taking drugs. Gilbert scares him so at rehearsals that he has had recourse to them. I know that Bram Stoker keeps a flat in Soho, the existence of which neither his wife nor Henry Irving is aware. I cannot explain to what use he puts it, but my intuition tells me it isn’t to play chess. Then again, I know about Sullivan’s games of chemin de fer with–”

“And what did you know of Jonathan McCarthy?” Holmes interrupted, concealing his distaste.

Wilde replied without hesitation, “He was keeping a mistress. Her name is Jessie Rutland, and she is an ingenue at the Savoy. For a man who played the part of middle-class British rectitude to hypocritical perfection, such a disclosure would mean instant ruin. He understood that at once,” Wilde added as an afterthought, “and very shortly we discovered that we had nothing to say to one another. A sordid story, I fear, but mine own.”

Holmes stared at him for some moments, his face devoid of expression. He rose abruptly, and I followed suit.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilde,” said he. “You are certainly a font of information.”

The poet looked up at him. There was something so ingenuous and pleasant in his countenance that I found myself charmed despite everything he had said.

‘We are all of us,,as God made us, Mr. Holmes–and many of us much worse.”

“Is that yours?” I enquired.

“No, Doctor–” he smiled slightly–”but it will be.” He

turned again and faced the detective. “You do not approve of me, I fear.”

“Not altogether.”

Wilde would not relinquish his eyes. “I find myself wishing that you did.”

“It may be that one day I shall.”

It was twilight when Holmes and I left the Avondale and joined the rush-hour crowds in Piccadilly. The wind had risen, and
it
cut our faces, biting our throats, too, as we walked. Cabs were not to be had for love or money, but the Savoy Theatre was no great distance from the hotel. We simply trudged in that direction, elbowing our way amidst the throng and avoiding as best we could the dirty piles of snow shoveled up next to the kerbs.

I remarked as we walked that I could not remember encountering a more singular set of people than those we had met in connection with the murder of Jonathan McCarthy.

“The theatre is a singular calling,” Holmes concurred. “A noble art but a dreary profession and one that reveres that which the rest of society condemns.” He favoured me with a sidelong glance. “Deception. The ability to dissemble and deceive, to pass for what you are not. You will find
it
better expressed in Plato. These, however, are the actor’s stock in trade.”

“And the stock in trade of those who write their speeches for them,” I noted in addition.

“You will find that in Plato, as well.”

We walked for a time in silence.

“The chief difficulty with this case,” he observed at length, as we entered the Strand, “besides the fact that our client cannot afford to pay for his meals, let alone our expenses–the chief difficulty, I say, is the superfluity of motives. Jonathan McCarthy was not a well-liked individual, that much seems clear, which only serves to complicate matters. If half the tales Wilde told us just now are true, there may be upwards of a dozen people whose interests would be well served by eliminating him. And they all dwell within that circumscribed world of the theatre, where passions–real and feigned –abound.”

“What is more,” I pointed out, “their professional gifts are likely to render their complicity in a crime rather more difficult than usual to detect.”

Holmes said nothing, and we walked in silence a few paces more.

“Has
it
occurred to you,” I went on, “that McCarthy’s use of Shakespeare was meant to be taken generally?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Well, your friend Shaw–our client–cannot abide Shakespeare. The
Morning Courant,
for which McCarthy wrote, is well known as a rival to the
Saturday Review.
There can be little doubt that with McCarthy out of the way, Bernard Shaw’s star and literary following would rise more or less together. Could McCarthy’s reference to
Romeo and Juliet
possibly mean not the Montagues and Capulets but rather the two periodicals? Doesn’t Mercutio, dying, refer to ‘a plague
on both your houses’?
I continued, warming to my theme.

“At the same time, the use of Shakespeare, whom Shaw detests, might serve to point an unerring finger in his direction as the assassin.

“Watson, what a devious mind you possess!” Holmes stopped, his eyes twinkling. “That is positively brilliant. Brilliant! Of course, you have neglected all the evidence, but I cannot fault your imagination.” He resumed his steps. “No, I’m afraid it won’t do. Can you honestly envision our Shaw drinking brandy? Or smoking a cigar? Or running his rival through–apparently on impulse–with a letter opener?”

“He’s almost the right height,” I contended feebly, not wishing to abandon my theory without a struggle. “Besides, his objections to drink and smoke might merely have been lodged for our benefit.”

“They might,” he agreed, “though I have known of his prejudices in those directions for some time. in any event, why would he come to me at all if he wished to remain undetected?

“Perhaps his vanity was flattered by the prospect of deceiving you.”

He considered this briefly in silence.

“No, Watson, no. It is clever but rather too cumbersome, and what is more, his footwear does not match the impressions left by the assassin. Shaw’s shoes are quite old–it pains me to think of his walking about with them in this weather– whereas our man wore new boots, purchased, as I think I said, in the Strand. Oscar Wilde, at least, was wearing the right shoes.”

“What of Wilde, then? Did you notice that when he spoke, he continually covered his mouth with his finger? Do you accept at face value his story of having checkmated McCarthy’s blackmail scheme with knowledge of the man’s illicit liaison?”

“I neither accept it nor reject it at the moment,” he returned, undaunted. “That is why we are at the Savoy. As for Wilde’s peculiar habit of covering his mouth, you surely observed that his teeth are ugly. It is merely improbable vanity on his part to conceal them in conversation.”

“Did you see his teeth?”

“Didn’t I just say he makes a considerable effort to hide them?”

“Then how do you know they are ugly?”

“Elementary, my dear fellow. He does not open his mouth when he smiles. Hmm, the house is dark, tonight. Let us go ‘round by the stage door and see if there are folk within,”

We walked into the alley that led to the stage door and found the door open. There was activity within the theatre, though it was clear from the bustle backstage that no play was in progress, We threaded our way amongst actors and stagehands until our presence was discovered by the manager, who politely enquired as to our business there. Holmes tendered his card and explained that we were in search of either Mr. Gilbert or Sir Arthur Sullivan.

“Sir Arthur ain’t here, and Mr. Gilbert’s leading the rehearsal,” we were told. “Perhaps you’d best speak with Mr. D’Oyly Carte. He’s in the stalls. Right through this door and very quiet, gentlemen, please.”

We thanked the man and stepped into the empty auditorium. The house lights were on and I marvelled once again at the lighting in the Savoy. It was the first theatre in the world to be totally lit by electricity, and the resultant illumination differed greatly from that supplied by gas. I thought back fifteen years and tried to recall my first visit to the place. I had worried then about the danger of fire originating from an electrical failure, since I could not understand who Reginald Bunthorne was supposed to be and allowed my mind to wander from the piece. My fears were apparently without foundation, because years have gone by since and the Savoy still stands unharmed.

A lone figure was seated in the stalls towards the back, and he favoured us with a baleful stare as we walked up the aisle in his direction. He was a small man, dwarfed by his chair, wearing a dark, pointed beard that complemented his black eyes. Something in his glower, at once so regal and so forbidding, made me think of Napoleon. It was my subsequent impression that this was his intention.

“Mr. Richard D’Oyly Carte?” Holmes asked when we were close enough to be heard in a whisper.

“What do you want? The press is not permitted here before opening nights; that is a rule at the Savoy. There’s a rehearsal in progress, and I must ask you to leave.”

‘We are not from the papers. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” The name had produced the desired effect, and D’Oyly Carte’s countenance broke into a smile. He half-rose from his chair and proffered two seats beside him. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down! The Savoy is honoured. Please make yourselves comfortable. They have been at it all day and are at rather low ebb just now, but you are welcome, nonetheless.”

He appeared to think we had entered his theatre on a whim, having for some reason taken it into our heads to attend a rehearsal. For the present Holmes encouraged this view.

“What is the name of the piece” he enquired in a polite undertone, slipping into his seat beside the impresario.

“The Grand Duke.”

We turned our attention to the stage, where a tall man in his late fifties, of military bearing, was addressing the actors. I say “addressing them,” but it would be more truthful to say he was drilling them. It seemed in no wise inconsistent with his military stamp, which marked him as a compulsive man of precision. The stage was devoid of scenery, making it difficult to understand what the piece was about. Gilbert–obviously the military fellow was he–directed a tall, gangling actor to repeat his entrance and first speech. The man disappeared into the wings only to emerge seconds later with his lines, but Gilbert cut him off in mid-sentence and requested him to do it again. Next to us our host made several rapid notations in a book propped upon his knees. With some little hesitation the actor retreated once more upon his errand. Though nothing was said, it was clear that all were fatigued and that tempers were fraying. Carte looked up at the stage, pen in hand, a scowl creasing his features. He tapped the stylus nervously against his teeth.

“They’re played out,” he proclaimed in a mutter directed to no one in particular. From his inflection, it was impossible to determine whether he meant the players or the authors.

The actor made his entrance a third time and launched into his speech, getting somewhat further along before the author interrupted and asked him to repeat it.

“Our visit here is not entirely a social one,” Holmes leaned towards the impresario. “I believe there is a young woman attached to the company by the name of Jessie Rutland? Which is she?”

The manager’s demeanour underwent an instant metamorphosis. The harassed but generous impresario became the suspicious property owner.

‘Why d’ye want to know?” he demanded. “Is she in any difficulty?”

“The difficulty is none of hers,” Holmes assured him, “but she must respond to some questions.”

“Must?”

“Either to me or the police, quite possibly to both.” Carte regarded him fixedly for a moment, then slumped into his seat, almost willing it to swallow him.

“I could ask for nothing more,” he mused darkly. “A scandal. There has never been a breath of scandal at the Savoy. The conduct of the members of this company is beyond reproach. Mr. Gilbert sees to that.”

“Mr. Grossmith uses drugs, does he not?”

Carte stared at him from the recesses of his chair, wonder written on his face.

‘Where did you hear such a thing?”

“No matter where, the story will go no further than it has. May we speak with Miss Rutland now?” Holmes pursued.

“She’s in her dressing room,” the other replied gruffly. “Not feeling well–said something about a sore throat.”

On stage voices were being raised. “How many times will you have it, Mr. Gilbert?” the actor exploded.

“Until I have it right will do, Mr. Passmore.”

“But I’ve done
it
fifteen times! the actor wailed. I m not Mr. Grossmith, you know. I am a singer, not an actor.”

“Both facts are evident,” Gilbert responded coldly. “However, we must do the best we can.”

“I will not be spoken to in this way!” Passmore declared, and shaking with anger, he stamped into the wings. Gilbert watched him go, then turned his attention to the ground, apparently studying something there.

Carte rose to his feet. “Gilbert, my dear, let’s halt for Supper.

The author gave no sign of having heard.

“Ladies and gentlemen–” Carte raised his voice and adopted a cheerful timbre–“let us forbear for two hours and renew our energies over supper. We open within thirty-six hours, and we must all sustain our strength. Played out,” he muttered again as the group on the stage started to disperse.

“The dressing rooms are downstairs?” Holmes asked as we got to our feet.

‘Women stage left, men stage right.” The impresario waved us absently towards the proscenium, absorbed by a more immediate crisis. We had started down the way we had come when the air was rent with an unearthly wail. So odd was the noise that for a moment no-one was able to identify it. In the empty theatre the hideous sound echoed and reverberated. The people on stage, preparing to leave, stood momentarily frozen with surprise and collective horror.