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

‘He looks as if he’s seen one, Kathleen,’ remarked the woman holding the iron.

‘Did you hear anyone pass this way in the past few minutes?’ I asked.

‘No, sir,’ replied Kathleen. ‘Sir, your head is bleeding,’ she added, picking up a scrap of cloth from the table and handing it to me.

‘It’s nothing,’ I responded, dabbing the cloth on my left temple, where the block of wood had struck it. ‘There was somebody out there just now.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. The same person as your friend saw yesterday, I believe.’

‘Why aren’t there any lamps lit in the corridor?’ asked the woman, peering out of the doorway.

‘He must have turned them all off,’ I replied. ‘I’ll re-light them now. I should stay in here for the moment if I were you. I’ll probably be back in a few minutes.’

I re-lit the gas-jet on the wall outside their room, then made my way back along the length of the corridor. There was no sign of anyone there and, after re-lighting the gas-jet which I had seen the mystery figure extinguish, I made my way up the stairs to the auditorium and through to the front of the theatre. There, I found Holmes in the small office by the entrance lobby, in which we had earlier left our coats. He was busily rooting through a deep drawer in a desk, but looked up as I entered.

‘I do apologise for keeping you waiting for so long, Watson,’ he began, rising to his feet. ‘Mr Hardy has misplaced the keys. And now he has been drawn away by the arrival of a reporter from the Globe , who wishes to interview him about the forthcoming production. But, you are injured, old fellow!’ cried my friend all at once. ‘You have a cut on the side of your head! What ever have you been doing with yourself?’

‘I have had an encounter with the mystery persecutor,’ I replied.

‘What!’ cried Holmes. ‘Where?’

‘In the basement corridor.’

‘Is he still there?’

‘No. He got away.’

‘Sit down here,’ said Holmes, pushing a chair towards me, and seating himself on the edge of the desk. ‘Tell me precisely what happened, Watson.’

I quickly recounted my recent experiences.

‘How very interesting!’ said he as I finished, a thoughtful expression upon his face. ‘I shall just complete my search for the keys while you sit there, Watson, and then, if you are up to it, we can take another look in the basement and see if we can find any fresh traces of this mysterious visitor.’

‘I am up to it,’ I returned vehemently. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to get my hands on that villain!’

I watched as Holmes turned out the contents of the drawer. In truth, I was glad to sit there and do nothing for a few minutes. My adventure in the basement had left me somewhat shaken and my nerves felt a little raw. The cut on the side of my head had stopped bleeding, but my head had begun to throb painfully. As I watched my friend’s efforts to find the keys, I could see, also, through the little windows which overlooked the entrance lobby, the comings and goings of various of the theatre staff, as they bustled about their work. I wondered what they would say if they knew of my recent strange and unpleasant encounter in the basement. It was certainly difficult to imagine, in broad daylight and in the midst of all this determined activity aimed at getting everything ready for the opening of The Lavender Girl on Saturday night, that, moving stealthily and secretly in the darkness beneath the theatre, was someone who was equally determined to thwart that aim.

I was recalled from my reverie by a groan of disappointment from my friend. It was evident he could find no sign of the keys and, with a sigh, he stuffed everything back into the drawers again. ‘Mr Hardy assures me,’ said he, ‘that there are – or were, at any rate – two identical bunches of keys, the one being the duplicate of the other. But one of these bunches seems to have disappeared completely and the other has been recently mislaid somewhere in one of these offices. He says he saw it only the other day, but he cannot recall where. I may as well abandon logic and look anywhere,’ he continued in a dry tone, as he pulled open the door of a tall broom-cupboard. At the back of the cupboard was a row of hooks, upon which several coats were hanging, including our own, but otherwise the cupboard was empty. One by one, Holmes lifted the coats from the hooks and looked beneath them, until, with a sudden cry of triumph, he stood aside, a coat in his hand, and I saw that on one of the hooks hung a large rusty iron ring, upon which were two dozen or more large keys. ‘Success at last!’ cried he. ‘Of course, even when acting in an apparently illogical manner, one never really abandons logic. It is merely a question of casting one’s logical net a little wider. I remembered hearing a little metallic noise as we hung our coats up here earlier and I was not mistaken! Are you prepared to re-enter the fray, Watson?’

‘Perfectly so!’

‘Good man!’ cried my friend, as I rose to my feet. ‘Let us make haste, then, before the trail goes cold!’

We were destined to be delayed a little longer, however. We were about to leave the office, when Holmes put his hand on my arm and indicated that we should wait a moment. Hardy was approaching, across the lobby, shaking hands with a thin, middle-aged man, as they made their way towards the front doors. ‘It will be in the paper tomorrow evening, Mr Hardy!’ said this latter. ‘Have no doubt! A good paragraph from me will add two hundred to the audience!’

‘I am more anxious at present as to whether you will be washed away, Mr Edgecumbe!’ returned the theatre manager, opening the door for his visitor. Outside, as I could see, the rain was teeming down again.

‘Don’t you worry, Mr Hardy!’ returned the newspaperman, holding aloft an umbrella. ‘I am equipped for all eventualities, as you see!’ With a final farewell, he slipped out of the front door, put up his umbrella and disappeared into the pouring rain.

For a moment Hardy watched the heavy downpour, splashing up in fountains from the surface of the street, and had only just turned away from the doors when they were flung violently open again and a thin, wiry man, clad only in a light suit, burst in with a loud groan. He pulled off the bowler hat he was wearing and cast it to the floor.

‘What a day!’ cried he, shaking himself like a dog, to fling off the rain. ‘Ho, my liege!’ he continued in a jocular tone, as he caught sight of Hardy. ‘What news from Ghent? How fares our cousin’s quest to smite the sledded Polak?’

‘I don’t know about any of that, Jimmy,’ returned Hardy with a chuckle; ‘but there’s no news to speak of here. You’re the first to arrive, I believe.’

‘More fool me! I was in a coffee-shop down the road and thought I’d make a dash for it as the rain seemed to have let up. Of course, I’d got precisely halfway here when it came down again heavier than ever! My own quest had better be for a towel to apply to this idiotic head of mine.’ So saying, he picked up his hat and hurried on into the theatre.

Hardy turned away, but even as he did so the front doors were pushed open once again, this time by a large, well-built man with an upright military bearing. He was dressed in a heavy overcoat and top hat, and had a cape about his shoulders, from which water was streaming.

‘Wretched weather!’ said he, as he unfastened his cape and shook the water from it.

‘Good afternoon, Captain Trent,’ said Hardy. ‘Yes, it is certainly dismal. I am hoping it does not affect the turnout on Saturday evening. I have just had Edgecumbe of the Globe here. He is going to give us a paragraph in the paper tomorrow.’