Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘Who?’

‘She could not make it out. All she can say is that it was a dark figure, wearing some sort of hood, which hid his face. Then he blew out the lantern, leaving her in the dark, and ran off. Of course, she screamed and carried on screaming until the other seamstresses, hearing her cries through the adjoining wall, hurried to see what had happened. It took them some time to calm her down, as you will imagine, and then they all came together to report the matter to me. I have promised them that I will take steps to improve the lighting in the basement and have given them strict instructions not to mention the incident to anyone else. If it were to become public knowledge, I have little doubt that the result would be absolutely disastrous. My staff would resign in such numbers that it might prove impossible to keep the theatre open at all. It is bad enough having the needlewomen upset. It would be even worse if everyone else was in the same state! As it is, one of the other needlewomen told me that she, too, had heard odd noises in the costume store a week or so ago, but had kept the matter to herself. Whether that is true or not, I don’t know; but in any case they have all vowed not to enter the costume store alone in future.’

‘When this dark figure ran off,’ Holmes interrupted, ‘did the girl see in which direction he went?’

‘Unfortunately not. The light had, as I say, been extinguished, and in any case, she was too frightened to look. She heard his footsteps in the corridor, that is all.’

‘Very well,’ said Holmes. ‘You are returning to the theatre now, I take it? Will your seamstresses still be there?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then I shall come with you, take a look about, and interview these ladies of yours. Would you care to accompany us, Watson? It may prove an interesting experience!’

I readily agreed, and three minutes later, heavily muffled against the bitter cold, we were in a cab and rattling through the West End towards the river. As we passed along the Strand, a heavy shower of hail beat upon the roof of the cab like lead shot. This was followed, just moments later, as we turned on to Waterloo Bridge, by sheets of icy, driving rain.

‘Thank the Lord for civilisation!’ cried Hardy in a humorous tone, as he surveyed the dismal scene outside. ‘Thank goodness for coal fires and warm sitting-rooms! Let us just hope the weather is not so bad on Saturday, when The Lavender Girl opens, or no one will turn up! I don’t suppose,’ he continued, turning to Holmes, ‘that you have been able to form any theory as to why we have been suffering such persecution lately, at the Albion?’

Holmes shook his head.

‘The data are very meagre,’ he replied, ‘and one cannot make bricks without clay. There are too many possibilities for it to be worth our while even enumerating them.’

‘Oh, quite,’ said Hardy, sounding a little disappointed at the response.

‘Nevertheless,’ continued Holmes with a chuckle, ‘I am confident of turning something up. I appreciate how highly you esteem your needlewomen, Mr Hardy, and shall devote all my energies to bringing peace and tranquillity to your sewing-room once more!’

The rain had stopped by the time we reached the theatre, but the pavements were wet and greasy, and the front of the theatre, its brickwork darkened by years of exposure to London soot and smoke, had a damp and dilapidated appearance after the recent showers. A grimy glass canopy stood out from the wall all along the front of the building and protected the lower part, which was adorned with bright posters announcing the forthcoming play, upon which the name of Isabel Ballantyne was prominent.

‘This way, if you please,’ called Hardy over his shoulder, as he led us in through the front entrance of the theatre. Off to one side, just inside the doors, was a small room, with little windows which overlooked the entrance lobby, and here we left our coats before following our guide through into the auditorium. There, a group of cleaners was at work in the stalls, and from the rear of the stage came busy sounds of sawing and hammering. We passed through a door on the right, near the front of the auditorium, then through a second door, and down a stone staircase to the basement, where corridors went off to right and left.

‘That way leads only to the stage door and the caretaker’s office,’ said Hardy, pointing to the right, as he turned left, into a long and dimly lit corridor, the walls of which were covered with grimy, whitewashed plaster, which was flaking off in many places. Near the top of the walls ran numerous water-pipes and gas-pipes. On the left side of the corridor was a pair of doors, which, our guide informed us, gave access to the chamber beneath the stage and, on the right a whole series of doors, closely spaced. ‘Miss Ballantyne’s dressing-room,’ remarked Hardy, as we passed the first of these; ‘Mr Xavier’s; Miss Summers’s; female chorus; male chorus; store-room for swords and umbrellas – equally dangerous objects, in my experience; store-room for hats and bonnets.’ The corridor then took a sharp turn to the right and, a few yards further on, a turn to the left.

‘Mr Webster’s dressing-room,’ said Hardy, as we passed another door on the right. A little further on was an open doorway. It was dark in the chamber beyond, but I had an impression of rows and rows of dresses. ‘One of the costume stores, as you can see,’ remarked Hardy, ‘for ladies’ day-dresses and historical costumes. The doors are always open, for it is important for the clothes to have air circulating about them all the time.’

As he spoke, we passed another open doorway. The room within was, like the previous one, full of ladies’ costumes.

‘Ladies’ evening-dresses,’ explained Hardy. ‘This room has an interconnecting doorway with the other one, and to the rear of both of them are further rooms, containing the gentlemen’s costumes. And this,’ he continued, stopping before a closed door, ‘is the sewing-room. Further along the corridor is the boiler-room and another stair up to the main part of the theatre.’

He pushed open the sewing-room door and we followed him in. It was a crowded room, with a very large table in the centre, several large rolls of material leaning against the walls, and three or four tailors’ dummies dressed in a variety of colourful costumes. A stove in the corner was blazing away and made the room seem very warm after the chill air of the corridor. An animated conversation appeared to be in progress, but it stopped as we entered.

‘Good afternoon, ladies!’ cried Hardy, in a cheery voice. There were four women there, engaged in various tasks. One was standing at the large table, cutting out a piece of material with the help of a paper pattern. Another was working a sewing machine, a third was by the stove, pressing some garment with a heavy iron, and the fourth woman was seated on a chair in the corner, with a highly decorated costume draped across her lap, and a needle and thread in her hand.

‘These are the ladies who make the costumes which are the envy of all other companies!’ cried Hardy in a tone of great pleasure. ‘I am sure there are no finer seamstresses anywhere in London! From near and far they have come, to help make our company the success it is! Isn’t that so, Kathleen?’

‘From the four corners of the Earth, as you might say, Mr Hardy,’ responded the small sandy-haired woman he had addressed. ‘Greenwich, Hackney, the wilds of Norfolk and—’ she paused and glanced in the direction of the small, dark-haired girl, who was frowning with concentration at the ornate dress on her lap ‘—the North,’ she concluded at length.

‘Excuse me,’ responded the dark-haired girl, without lifting her eyes from her needlework, ‘but Dudley is in the Midlands.’