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

After a while – perhaps forty-five minutes, although it was difficult to judge the passage of time with any accuracy – there came the sound of footsteps, and several distinct voices, from the stage above us. Shortly afterwards, I heard someone playing what sounded like an oboe and the sound of other instruments being tuned up. The general hubbub gradually increased, over the course of half an hour or so, and many footsteps and gay voices passed by in the basement corridor outside our room. Then, at length, the noise in the basement died away, as that on the stage above us increased, and it was evident that the rehearsal was about to begin.

A few minutes later, there came a moment or two of relative silence, during which I heard what was probably Hardy’s voice, then the orchestra struck up what I took to be the overture and soon the rehearsal was in full flow. The music, the singing and the dancing seemed very loud in our chamber, but they were punctuated at regular intervals by quieter passages, when the characters in the play were speaking. During these interludes, although the voices of the actors came to my ears clear enough, I found it impossible to pick out their words. For perhaps another forty-five minutes, I followed the progress of the first act of the play, then, after a particularly rousing song, there came the sound of a general exodus from the stage. I also heard odd, isolated footsteps in the passage outside our room, but most of those who had left the stage appeared to have remained upstairs, no doubt watching the progress of the rehearsal from the wings. All at once, I realised that I was holding myself very tense. Intuitively, I think I knew that if the mystery figure were going to put in an appearance at all, it would probably be in the next few minutes.

Scarcely had this thought crossed my mind when I heard the door of our chamber open softly. For a brief moment, a flash of dim light from the lamp in the corridor lit up the ceiling, then vanished, as the door was closed again. Every nerve in my body tensed and I longed to see who had entered, but I dared not make any sudden movement, lest I give away our presence. Above our heads, the first act of The Lavender Girl was continuing with a quiet scene. A moment later, I heard a match being struck, somewhere on the other side of the crates of boots, then a hiss, as the gas-jet by the door was lit. For a moment, the light flared up, casting strange black shadows on to the walls of the room, then the gas-tap was evidently turned right down, for the illumination subsided to a dull glow.

I had positioned myself so that by leaning out sideways I should be able to see round the side of a large crate. Slowly now, and with infinite care, I inched my head and shoulders to the side in that direction. Near the centre of the room, beneath the trap-door and facing away from me, stood the figure I had encountered in the corridor the previous day. Though I could make out little more than a silhouette against the dim light of the lamp beyond, there could be no mistaking that long robe and large, enveloping hood. Beside me, Inspector Jones was peering intently through the narrow gap between two boxes and, beyond him, Holmes was craning over the top of a wicker hamper.

From above us now came an increase in the noise and I judged that the whole of the chorus had returned to the stage. This passage was brief, however, ending with a rousing flourish from the orchestra. Then came softer music, which I recognised from the day before, and I realised that the rehearsal had almost reached the end of the first act. A moment later, Isabel Ballantyne began her song and her dance across the stage to the fatal trap-door. The hooded figure looked up, clearly following the tap-tap of her footsteps, and reached out a white hand to where the end of the cord was coiled round the hook on the wooden pillar. Slowly, without a sound, he uncoiled it and held it looped in his hand. Miss Ballantyne had paused in her dance now and was, I reckoned, standing upon the trap-door itself.

All at once, with a suddenness that startled me, there came an abrupt scraping noise from beside me. Inspector Jones, in craning forward, had evidently leaned too heavily upon the box in front of him, which had abruptly given way and had slipped forward across the floor. The hooded figure looked round sharply in our direction. Within the hood, nothing was visible but unfathomable blackness. At that instant, Sherlock Holmes stood up and stepped forward.

‘I should not pull that rope if I were you,’ said he in a clear firm voice.

The figure started visibly. Then, as Jones and I also stood up, he took a quick pace backwards and surveyed us all. An instant later, he had thrust his free hand into a pocket in the robe and brought out a large revolver.

‘You!’ said he to me in a deep, growling voice, directing the pistol in my direction. ‘Get over there with the others!’ Then, as I took a pace sideways, he glanced up at the trap-door above him. Isabel Ballantyne had almost reached the end of the verse and would at any moment dance away from where she stood.

‘Don’t be a fool!’ cried Jones. ‘If you pull that rope, and she falls, you’ll hang for it.’

‘Quiet!’ cried the dark figure in a loud, angry tone, raising his pistol and pointing it at the policeman’s face. Then, as the music above us reached a crescendo, his grip on the cord tightened and, stepping backwards, he gave it a firm tug. The cord went taut, Inspector Jones cried out and I looked up at the trap-door with a hollow feeling in my stomach. But nothing happened. The dark figure grunted with surprise and anger, looked up and pulled hard on the cord again. In the split second that his attention was concentrated upon the trap-door, Sherlock Holmes sprang forward, like a tiger upon its prey, and seized the hand holding the revolver in both of his, forcing it up and back.

His adversary at once released his hold on the cord and brought his free hand down upon Holmes’s throat, his fingers closing in a powerful grip. But Jones and I sprang forward and threw our weight into the struggle. Our enemy was a very powerful man, of that there could be no doubt, but between the three of us we forced him off his feet and down to the floor. In another moment, Holmes had wrestled the gun from his grasp and Jones had managed to clap a pair of handcuffs upon his wrists. At that very moment, as we struggled to regain our breath, the door from the corridor was flung back with a crash. In the open doorway at the top of the steps stood Count Laszlo of Sipolia, a pistol held rock-steady in his hand.

‘What is happening here?’ he demanded in a fierce voice. ‘Hah!’ he cried, as he caught sight of our prisoner on the floor. ‘I thought as much! Stand aside, and I will put a bullet in that blackguard’s heart!’

Inspector Jones rose quickly to his feet.

‘I am a police officer,’ said he in a voice of authority, ‘and I must ask you, sir, to put that firearm away. The situation is under control, and no assistance from the public is required.’

‘More’s the pity!’ said the Count. ‘I had hoped to catch the villain alone and to deal with him myself.’ With an air of reluctance, he thrust his revolver deep into his overcoat pocket. ‘If any harm had come to Isabel Ballantyne, I can assure you that this man would never have left the theatre alive!’

He was interrupted as a stream of the most foul oaths and vicious abuse poured from the lips of our prisoner, who lay, breathing heavily, upon the floor. ‘You infernal, interfering busybody!’ he cried at last at Sherlock Holmes, in a voice which was wild with anger. ‘Damn you!’

‘Now, now,’ returned Holmes in a calm voice, as he adjusted his collar. ‘You know it is every man’s solemn duty to interfere and be a busybody if he knows that murder is planned!’ Then he leaned down and, in one swift movement, pulled away the velvet mask, to reveal the features of Captain William Trent, so twisted with rage as to be almost unrecognisable.