The Last Moriarty Page 3

  One of the more remarkable qualities possessed by Holmes is his ability to focus his mind on what he chooses, rather than being distracted by each of the urgent matters that press upon him and that would, for persons of a different emotional makeup, be all-consuming. I was marveling at this ability of his that evening as we sat together in our mezzanine box at the Savoy Theatre. After the disturbing news of Colonel Moran’s escape, we had spent a fruitless several hours at the Savoy Hotel and much of the afternoon at the Bank of England inspecting its entrances, exits, and conference rooms. I was wondering why Holmes had decided to pause in the investigation, and, moreover, why he would choose to appear in a public venue without a disguise for the first time since his return from Reichenbach. I had even questioned him on these points, but his only response had been a shrug and an enigmatic “Because someone obviously wants Johnny Rockefeller to meet with someone named Lucy James at the Savoy Theatre. Because Mr. Foster was killed after he promised to check on Lucy James. And because life is short.”

  We were watching the revival of what I consider to be Gilbert and Sullivan’s masterpiece, The Mikado, from the same seats we had occupied for the original performance ten years earlier, thanks to Mycroft having kept up the payments for the box during Holmes’s three-year absence from London. As the first act unfolded, I sometimes imagined that I had gone back in the time machine of Mr. Wells’s novel, to those days when I had yet to meet my beloved Mary and when our all-too-brief years of married happiness were still before us. After I thought of the perils that lay ahead, I tried to anticipate how I could assist Holmes, scanning the audience from time to time for any sign of Moran’s presence. But each time I caught my attention wandering backward or forward in this fashion, I reminded myself that I should emulate Holmes’s example and appreciate the beauty of the performance that we had come to the theater to enjoy.

  Our box was on the second upper level, very near to the right side of the stage. While these seats were not the best to appreciate the symmetry of the colorful Japanese setting, they did allow us to hear Mr. Gilbert’s witty lyrics and spoken dialogue with remarkable clarity. The view from this angle also enabled us to see the facial expressions of the conductor and several of the violinists in the orchestra pit. Glancing at Holmes after the frequent moments of humor during the performance, I had been puzzled to see that he had apparently not been paying attention to the actors at all, but rather looking at the conductor and the musicians.

  Attempting to discern what in particular had merited Holmes’s attention, I took up the opera glasses that were provided by the management for long-preferred customers such as Holmes. Through the glasses, I scanned the faces below us, trying to identify some distinguishing expression or trait.

  At first I could see nothing of apparent interest. All were engrossed in their sheet music. From time to time, the conductor would glance up from his music stand to stay in time with the actors, and the musicians would glance up from their music stands to stay in time with the conductor.

  But then the aristocratic loveliness of one of the violinists caught my attention. Graceful as a swan, but with the large dark eyes of an Egyptian princess, she seemed to embrace her violin with a lover’s passion as she moved with the music. Then, as the song she accompanied came to an end, she lowered her instrument and leaned forward, like the other musicians, to prepare her sheet music for the next orchestral entrance.

  Unlike the others, she did not sit back and wait disinterestedly while the actors spoke their lines. Rather, she looked upward at the stage to view what she could of the scene, exhibiting the keenest interest and appreciation as she did so. I was unable to guess whether she was attempting to observe any one actor, but I remember thinking at the time that if one man was indeed the object of her attention, then he was a lucky fellow indeed.

  At that moment, however, something inexplicable occurred. She seemed to become aware of my speculation, for she glanced up in my direction, and then stared for a time that seemed like an eternity. She was looking directly at me, her dark eyes and lovely mouth widening in astonishment, as if to say, “How dare you, sir, to intrude upon my private thoughts!” Through my opera glasses, I even thought that I detected a blush suffusing her pale cheeks with a bright pink. I lowered my glasses with acute embarrassment, but I could not keep my eyes from her.

  She dropped her gaze and, in what I thought was a very marked manner, reached out to adjust her music. She then sat back with her instrument held primly on her lap, waiting impassively, just like the others around her.

  I puzzled over this for a few moments, but could not account for it. When the music resumed, the lovely violinist was once again engrossed as she performed with her companions.

  “Holmes,” I said quietly, without turning my head, “did you see the first violinist a few moments ago? She seemed to be looking directly at us.”

  There was no reply. I turned and saw that Holmes was not in his seat.

  I looked around to the entrance to our box and saw his retreating form as it passed through the maroon entry curtains. Quickly I followed, passing a black-uniformed usher who stared at me with disapproval, and found myself in the upper lobby.

  I saw Inspector Lestrade standing at the refreshment bar in his black overcoat, holding his fedora hat as he waited for Holmes. As I caught up to Holmes I noticed a white note card in his hand. No doubt Lestrade had given the note card to the usher I had just seen, with a message asking Holmes to join him.

  Soon the three of us were together beneath a glittering chandelier that commanded the center of the lobby.

  Lestrade’s sharp eyes darted around the room. “Mr. Holmes, further interviews with the hotel staff indicate Foster purchased a ticket for last night’s performance at this theater. But he did not pick it up from the box office. However, he was seen backstage yesterday afternoon.”

  “Where, precisely?”

  “In the workshop.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the set supervisor.”

  “The set supervisor remembered Mr. Foster’s name?”

  “Evidently. We have arranged with the manager of the theater company to interview the fellow after tonight’s performance.”

  “If you please, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “After we interview that gentlemen, I would appreciate a few moments with the actress named Lucy James.”

  “I’ll see to it, Mr. Holmes.”

  “And now, if you will excuse me, unless there is something else that is immediately pressing, Watson and I will return to our seats. With Colonel Moran at large, we will take care not to miss those few delights that present themselves for us to experience.”

  6. AN EFFUSIVE IMPRESARIO

  After the performance Lestrade took us into the recesses of the theater behind the glittering white marble lobby. We walked through a narrow corridor lined by colorful but fading posters of past productions at the Savoy. Soon we found ourselves at the door to the office of Richard D’Oyly Carte, a principal owner of both the Savoy Theatre and the adjacent Savoy Hotel.

  Lestrade opened the door. “Mr. Carte, these are the gentlemen I told you about. To interview the set supervisor and the actress.”

  Carte nodded absently, barely glancing up from behind a desk loaded with stacks of papers. Though he was in his fifties, his smooth, handsome features had retained a youthful firmness beneath his close-cropped beard and mustache, as if he were somehow protected from the ravages of worry and time. “He’ll be in the theater for the cleanup,” he said. “She’ll be in her dressing room.”

  “I’ll fetch the supervisor first,” said Lestrade. He motioned for us to enter, and then left, closing the door behind us.

  For a long moment Carte continued serenely to inspect the paper he was holding. His mild dark eyes appeared capable of facing any crisis with calm, even with friendliness. At the time it struck me that this attitude was likely the source of his stil
l-youthful appearance, and that it would be very helpful to him in his dealings, not only with hardheaded tradesmen and financiers, but with the emotional artistic sensibilities of the theatrical troupers in his employ.

  Then Carte looked up and saw us. His face registered frank and open amazement, and he moved quickly from behind the desk toward Holmes as if to embrace him. “Why, it’s Mr. Holmes, and in evening dress just as always! My dear fellow! Inspector Lestrade said there would be two gentlemen, but he did not say who—why, I can’t tell you how delighted, how astonished I am to see you! When I read Dr. Watson’s report—what was it called? Oh, yes, ‘The Final Problem’—I was deeply moved! Deeply! And so were we all! Barrington and Lely—you saw them tonight as the Mikado and Nanki-Poo, of course—both were hardly able to speak of it, and Jesse Bond, well, Jesse actually wept! By the way, did you like the way she handled the tea set in the second act? That was a new addition—”

  Here he broke off, for he had come close to Holmes, who, I suspected to avoid an embrace, had put out his hand. Carte clasped it, shook it vigorously, and then held it for longer than the customary time, looking into Holmes’s eyes. “And you are real, indeed, flesh and bone, solid, solid flesh! Oh, my dear fellow! What a relief!”

  He caught sight of me. “And look, here is Dr. Watson, whose narrative has caused me—caused all of us—such a feeling of, well, loss! Doctor, hello, and can you please explain yourself?”

  His emotion robbed me of any ability to dissemble. “I didn’t know at the time” was all I could manage to say.

  “But of course, you must have had some reason to keep the facts from the public now.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t tell me! Of course, you cannot tell me! Other forces must be working in opposition to you, Mr. Holmes, I quite understand that, and we ordinary citizens should generally be left to go on in our own little worlds without knowledge of what would no doubt distress and distract us—”

  Holmes spoke with his customary restraint. “Yes, thank you. We are indeed here on a case of some importance and would appreciate your assistance.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do. Anything!” He blushed. “Please forgive my effusiveness. Pass it off to the emotional shock, to my relief at seeing you again—”

  Here he broke off, and looked into Holmes’s eyes once more with a deep and sympathetic gaze. “But how difficult it must be for you, Mr. Holmes, to move about in anonymity, unable to share the affections and admiration of the hundreds and thousands of people who love and appreciate all that you do to keep us safe. Please allow at least one of us to express heartfelt thanks.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  “May I tell Barrington and the others?”

  “Please do not. Perhaps one day it will be safe for Dr. Watson to publish an account of my return. But for the moment it is best that I remain—how did Mr. Gilbert express it in tonight’s performance?—‘a disembodied spirit.’”

  Carte’s face lit up in a wide smile. “Oh, you are perfect, Mr. Holmes. And you have not lost any of your wit, I’ll be bound! You have my word. Or should I say, ‘The word for my guidance is mum’?”

  Carte waited expectantly for Holmes to acknowledge the quick-witted reference to another line we had heard from the actors this evening, which Holmes did, politely, but briefly. Then his expression turned serious once more, and we proceeded to the business that had brought us to Carte’s office.

  7. A SURLY SET SUPERVISOR

  The first person we interviewed was the set supervisor. He was tall and looked to be extremely fit, with a chest and upper arms that bulged beneath his black uniform coat. His face, dark-browed and shadowed with a stubble of black beard, seemed set in a perpetual scowl.

  “I found him outside your door,” said Lestrade as they came in. The two men stood at the side of Carte’s desk.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said Carte. Then to the set supervisor, “What did you hear of our conversation?”

  “Nothing” was the abrupt reply. Then, glancing quickly at Carte and then away, as if recollecting his place and the politeness owed to his employer, he added, “Sir.”

  “Then will you please state your name for these gentlemen and answer whatever questions they may put to you.”

  “Blake.”

  “Is that your surname?” asked Holmes.

  “What?”

  Carte interjected, “His name is James Blake.”

  “Well, then, Mr. James Blake,” Holmes continued affably, “we are looking for a missing person, a Mr. Foster, of New York City in America. We understand that you saw Mr. Foster recently.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell us when that happened?”

  “Thursday afternoon.”

  “And where?”

  “Why, ’ere, of course. In the theater.”

  “Where, precisely, in the theater?”

  “Where I was workin’, of course. In the shop.”

  “It’s all right, Blake,” Carte said. He nodded toward the one empty chair that remained before his desk. “Please take a seat and just tell us what happened, there’s a good chap.”

  The man sat and seemed to relax a bit. “I don’t want no trouble.”

  “So, where were you and what did you hear?” Holmes asked patiently.

  “I was puttin’ some reinforcements into the stand for Ko-Ko’s garden, and this man comes in. And I said, ‘What do you want?’ and ’e said, ‘My name is Foster, and I’m just making an inspection for Mr. Carte.’ And then ’e walked around the shop and then ’e left.”

  “And what did he look at?”

  “Nothin’ in particular. You might say ’e just nosed around the props. Looked under the platform once. I didn’t think nothin’ of it.”

  Holmes nodded. “Please describe his attitude, Mr. Blake. Did you get the impression he was in a hurry?”

  “Might have been.”

  “Might have? Did he seem suspicious of anything in the shop?”

  “Might have been.”

  “Of what, specifically?”

  The man shook his head resignedly. “I thought you’d be askin’ me that, but no, I don’t remember nothin’ special. I did think ’e was a copper, though,” he added, looking up at Holmes.

  8. AN ATTRACTIVE ACTRESS

  A few moments later Lestrade had ushered Blake from the office and returned with Lucy James. I recognized her as the young actress we had seen earlier that evening in the role of Yum-Yum. This puzzled me, as Yum-Yum was one of the leading characters in the operetta, and I recalled Johnny saying that Lucy James was in the chorus.

  She had changed from her Japanese costume, of course, into a perfectly ordinary white blouse and long dark skirt. Her abundant dark hair was swept up severely into a bun. There were no earrings on her small delicate earlobes, and she wore no rings or necklaces or bracelets. I thought the plainness of her attire was unusual for someone in the world of the theater. Yet one glance showed her to be far from ordinary. Slender and small-boned, she moved with a determined energy, yet with feline grace. At first impression she appeared haughty, due to her high-arched eyebrows, but it seemed to me that her lovely green eyes looked frightened. As she moved to her chair, the electric wall sconces behind Carte’s desk revealed the deep blue undertones in her eyes, reminding me of the brilliant spots that distinguish a male peacock’s feathers. What a shame, I thought, that the Savoy audiences were too far from the stage to appreciate those eyes!

  She sat before Carte and looked at him expectantly, her lips pressed thin as though she anticipated trouble.

  “Miss James,” Carte began, “let me first compliment you on your performance this evening.”

  Holmes added, “Your solo at the beginning of the second act was quite exceptional. Your tone, your expression, your clarity—all were very moving. You have a gift, Miss James.”
/>
  “Hear, hear,” I chimed in, not wishing her to think that I in any way disagreed with this praise, for I had been fascinated and delighted.

  She continued to sit stiffly upright, but she conveyed her appreciation with a polite smile. “Thank you, gentlemen. But Mr. Carte, may I know who these men are and why you have brought me to your office?”

  “Of course, Miss James.” Carte caught Holmes’s warning look and went on, “This is Inspector Lestrade, of the London Metropolitan Police. These other two gentlemen are . . . consulting with the force in the matter of a missing person.”

  Holmes added, “The person is of some importance and we would very much appreciate your telling us anything you may know of him. He is an American from New York City. His name is Mr. Frederick Foster.”

  She looked puzzled, then amused. “America is a pretty big country, sir. And though I am an American, I’ve never been to New York, except for last month when I sailed from there on the White Star Britannic. That was right after I got the telegram from Mr. Carte asking me to come and understudy for Yum-Yum. Which I was just pleased as punch to do, of course.”

  “You did not meet Mr. Foster here in London?”

  “Never heard that name before.”

  “He was staying at the Savoy Hotel, adjacent to this theater.”

  Her eyes narrowed and hardened. “And so am I, temporarily.” She sat up even straighter, clenching her hands into fists, lifting her chin abruptly. “But who do you think you are, to be making insinuations that I’d go meeting with a strange man? I’m a graduate of Miss Porter’s School, in Farmington, Connecticut, and I got straight A’s in deportment all four years I was there, and I don’t take kindly to some irresponsible smart aleck—”

  “Here, now,” cut in Lestrade, “you can’t talk that way to Mr. Holmes!”

  She stared, wide-eyed in disbelief, and then more closely. “Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  Lestrade grimaced and gave Holmes a look of apology.