George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

He pulled me closer. “If your husband was here, and paid to enter that pit, then perhaps there will be something that will give us a clue to his whereabouts.”

“You’re joking?” I gasped. “You want us to actually get into the thing?”

“If there’s something there, no matter how small, it might be just what Holmes needs. While I would never pretend to share his talents, I can describe a scene as well as the next man, maybe even better.”

“Even if the next man is a woman?” I joked, trying to alleviate my own misgivings.

“We must record everything we see, no matter how insignificant. Holmes can see things that others–”

He broke off as the waitress returned to our table. “Two hundred francs,” she reported flatly. Beside me Watson swallowed and reluctantly drew out his wallet.

The moment came just twenty minutes later. The master of ceremonies danced to the front of the stage and made a great show of poking the musicians with a pitchfork before addressing the crowd.

“Prostrate yourself, sinners,” he squealed, “before the angel of the bottomless pit, the father of lies and the King of Tyre. Behold, our Lord Satan!”

With a crash of symbols, and a puff of billowing smoke, a mountain of a man strode onto the stage, resplendent in a swirling blood red robe and brandishing a wicked-looking sword. His moustache was waxed into rakish points, while pointed teeth gleamed in a wolfish smile.

“Who summons me?” Satan demanded, the master of ceremonies prostrating himself. “Who invites judgement for all eternity?”

All the time, the photographers’ cameras flashed, dazzling us all, as our waitress returned, indicating that it was time. As the pantomime played out in front of the corybantic assembly, we were led to the back of the room, narrowly missing a collision with the bearded drunk who once again fought to stay on his stool.

The serving girl held aside the curtain and we entered a gloomy antechamber, packed full of crates and bottles. The place was filthy, from grime-covered floors to the cracked window-panes of a side door that led to who knew where. I brought my hand to my nose, the fetid stink of stale beer and rat droppings threatening to overwhelm me.

“Good lord,” Watson exclaimed, sharing my disgust. “Two hundred francs for this?”

“No,” the girl said, walking towards a trapdoor in the floor, and struggling with its large iron ring. “Two hundred francs for this !”

“Allow me,” Watson said, springing forward. The girl protested, but soon stepped back to allow the doctor to haul the trapdoor open.

To the sound of the performance in the next room, we peered down into the abyss beneath our feet. Watson found an old lantern on a nearby shelf and lit it, swinging the light over the pit to reveal a short ladder, rough brick walls and a grime-covered floor at the bottom.

“And people find this pleasurable?”

“You saw the scum this place attracts, Doctor,” I replied, the waitress stiffening beside me. “No offence meant.”

“None taken,” she insisted, “but now I must ask you to descend into the pit, and I will close you in.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Watson said hurriedly. “You can go about your business, my dear, and leave us to ours.”

The serving girl looked unsure. “But I am supposed to seal you in myself–”

I reached into my jacket pocket to retrieve my wallet, producing a generous note, which I pushed into the girl’s hand. “We won’t be, if you keep watch.”

She looked back at Watson, lowering the lantern down into the darkness, and nervously made her decision. “Very well – but you only have ten minutes, while the show is underway. After it is finished, someone is bound to check.”

“Then we’d better hurry,” Watson prompted and, giving him one last worried glance, the girl slipped back into the drinking hall.

I turned and crouched beside the pit. “So, what are we looking for?”

“ We’re not looking for anything,” Watson said, passing me the lantern. “I’m not about to allow a lady to put herself through such an ordeal, no matter how she’s dressed.”

I argued, but the doctor was having nothing of it. He stood, removing his jacket and placing it on a pile of crates. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he made his way around to the ladder.

“I shall enter the pit, while you hold the light over my head. There looks to be rubbish on the floor down there. If your husband were here, he might have dropped something – a ticket or some such. If there’s something that can help Holmes I’ll find it.” He paused, steeling himself. “Right, let’s get this over with.”

Carefully, Watson swung himself onto the ladder and climbed down into the pit. Beyond the curtain, the crowd cheered – Satan’s act reaching its climax.

“A little more light, if you please,” Watson called up, choking on the dust that had been disturbed by his descent.

“Are you all right?”

“Never better,” he said, as if this was an everyday occurrence. “That’s it. Keep the lantern steady.”

“Can you see anything?”

Watson crouched on his haunches, running his hand over the grime-covered floor.

“Nothing yet, which in itself is curious. If someone had recently been down here, you would expect this grime to have been disturbed.”

I pointed down at the far corner of the pit. “What about that?”

“What?”

“I saw something glint in the light.”

“Really?” Watson exclaimed, turning in the tight space. As soon as his back was towards me, I placed the lantern on the edge of the pit, leaning down to grab the ladder. As smoothly as I could, I pulled it up from the hole in the ground.

Feeling movement behind him, Watson turned, staring up in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

My only reply was to place the ladder against the wall and retrieve the doctor’s jacket. I tossed the garment down into the pit and crossed to the trapdoor, heaving it shut with all my might.

“Mrs Langtry!”

The trapdoor was heavier than it looked. No wonder the waitress had struggled, but I had come too far to be confounded now.

Grunting with the exertion, I slammed the door shut, sealing Watson inside. I froze for a moment, convinced that the crash would have been heard in the drinking hall, but the music from the band blared on, and no one rushed to see what had occurred.

Of the doctor, there was barely a sound, the thick trapdoor muffling his cries for help. No one would find him here, not until I was long gone.

Stepping over the wooden lid, I put the lantern back where he had found it and extinguished the flame. The room was plunged into blackness, but I had already committed the route to memory. I was out of the side door and into the service corridor beyond within seconds, hurrying towards the back entrance that I had arranged to remain unlocked. I stepped out into a moonlit alley and was away, leaving John Watson to pay for his sins once and for all.

Back at my lodgings, time was of the essence. The train was leaving within the hour, but that would be ample time. It wasn’t as if I had much to take with me, not any more. I had packed, ready to leave, long before meeting Holmes and Watson that morning. All that remained was for me to cast off my disguise.

I made for the dressing table, intending to remove the damned wig that threatened to itch my scalp red raw, when there came a knock at the door, two sharp raps.

“Who is it?” I asked. There was no answer, save for another dreadful knock.

“Give me a minute!”

There was nowhere to run. The room’s small window led only to a three-storey drop, and certain injury. Out of options, I pulled open the front door.