Sherlock Holmes and the Shakespeare Globe Murders Read online

  “No, no,” Freud interrupted irritably. “Not Oxford. The Oxford Music Hall of which your friend speaks so highly. To see Mr George Robey …” and he consulted what I could now see was a theatre programme. “What means—‘The Prime Minister of Mirth’? I did not know there was such an office. For what is it responsible?”

  For once I saw my friend nonplussed. “For public morale,” was the best he could offer. To help him, I suggested—“Didn’t you find his humour rather—local?”

  “Oh, it was not Herr Robey who interested me,” he replied. “I have long ago given up your English humour as impenetrable. No, it is the audience which find such a man amusing that I wished to study.”

  “And what were your findings?” I was foolish enough to ask.

  “I think the British have many problems.” And with a brief fusillade of handshakes, he was gone.

  I turned from watching this remarkable man depart to find Holmes slumped back in the well-worn upholstery of his armchair, his fingers tented in front of his face—a piece of body language I knew denoted intense concentration. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to say what was on my mind.

  “Surely in the light of this you must call the whole thing off and have Allan arrested?”

  “On what grounds, pray?” Holmes was speaking into the middle distance. “We are morally certain that he is responsible for the death of two people and is prepared—there can no longer be any doubt of his intent or ability—to contemplate at least one more. Despite that, any competent lawyer would have him out on bail within hours, forcing him to go underground.”

  “Don’t forget what Sigmund said, Watson. This man is more than one personality. Block one and you release another. Are they all guilty—or just the one? No, we need friend Allan in plain sight for the next little while, not lurking somewhere in the shadows, ready to strike. I am now totally convinced that I must put my plan into practice, though I had hoped to avoid it.”

  “What plan?” I asked.

  Holmes continued as though I had not spoken. “There’s a part for you in it, my old friend, as there always is, and I must ask you to stick to it to the letter—no matter what happens.”

  “You can count on me, Holmes,” I said gruffly.

  “I know that,” he said rising to his feet and clapping me on the shoulder. “How many of my strategems have been built on this rock!”

  As we left the hotel a thought seemed to strike him. “You know, Watson, Mr Shakespeare really is a remarkable fellow.”

  “I’ve never doubted it but in what way do you mean?”

  “Just when you think you know what he means, life peels away another layer and reveals a new meaning in his words. Take the quotation about ‘we three’… How blind I’ve been! First I thought he meant the three of us … then I thought he meant the three of them—himself and his accomplices. Yet in reality—and whether he’s even conscious of it himself, I doubt he’s referring to the three of him. The three personalities fighting within him. How many of them shall we meet before this is over, I wonder?”

  Although the sun warmed my face as we stood looking for a cab, I felt as though someone had just opened a door at my back and let in a draught of cold air.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was one of those evenings we so rarely enjoy in London these days but which I seem to remember being so commonplace in my youth. The air was warm and still and the moon sent silver ribbons along the surface of the Thames as my cab drove along the Embankment. Because I had a little time to spare, I had asked the cabbie to take the longer route, so that I could enjoy the view. If I’m honest, I think I also wanted to give myself longer to prepare for the evening ahead.

  Holmes, I felt, had been almost offhand as I left. Ever since we left Brown’s I had sensed him retreat further within himself. It was a pattern I had become familiar with over the years, as a case reached a critical stage. It was as though he was husbanding his resources for the final throw and felt that any unnecessary word of action would only serve to dilute his energies.

  As I was putting the final touches to my evening toilet and consulting my watch—I’m afraid army life makes one a stickler for punctuality—he emerged from his room, clearly far from ready.

  “Watson, be a good fellow and go ahead, will you? It would be discourteous if we were both late. Apologise for my tardiness. I shall join you all later.” Naturally, I agreed. Holmes could be somewhat unpredictable on social occasions. As I had my hand on the door knob, however, he said something that surprised and—the more I thought about it—concerned me. “Oh, and by the way, you would oblige me if you were to take your service revolver along.” Before I could question him, I heard his door quietly close.

  By the time the river came into view I had got over any irritation I might have felt In any case, the beauty of London never fails to lift my spirits and tonight she was at her most radiant Even now I could observe a host of little boats were busy plying their various trades up and down Old Father Thames and in my mind’s eye—even though it was too far down river for me to see it, I could envisage the Globe standing proud and expectant as it looked across at the steps of Wren’s mighty St. Paul’s. What would the next two days hold, I asked myself as the cab pulled up at the riverside entrance to the Savoy?

  As the page showed me up to Adler’s second floor suite with its river view, I found myself entering with Henry Tallis. It was only by the merest flicker of his eyes that I recognised my co-conspirator, Henry Adler. Seeing him and mentally adjusting to the role I had been assigned for the evening ahead, triggered off a parallel thought. Here was I, someone who never knowingly thought of the Bard from one year to the next, unable to get the fellow out of my head. I kept thinking of the line about one man in his time playing many parts. Was there anyone in the room we were just about to enter who was really what they seemed on the surface? But then I reflected that they were, after all, actors. Perhaps this was their normal modus vivendi, merely complicated by a little matter of murder?

  Tallis’s was as good as his word and proving to be a match for any of the professional actors in the room. The supercilious expression was never far from his lips as he circulated and I caught snatches of … “You say when the Globe opens. I should have thought it was a question of if the Globe opens …” For his part, Adler played the diplomatic host, choosing to ignore the obvious provocation. It was as though the two men had picked up the scene where they had left it in Adler’s office. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn the thing that concerned him most was to ensure that everyone’s glass was full.

  Over by the window Harry Trent was deep in conversation with Ted Allan. I went over to join them. Allan was none the worse for his ‘accident’, he claimed, though I noticed that every now and then, when he was fairly sure that someone was noticing, he would unostentatiously put a hand to his side and allow his lips to tighten briefly. I felt inclined to advise him to practice the role of the invalid a little more before he took it on stage. At one point I fancy he interpreted my expression, because he changed the topic of conversation rapidly. “Mr Holmes will be joining us, will he not, Doctor Watson? I’m longing to be able to tell the folks back home that I actually sat at dinner with the famous detective.”

  I murmured something about my friend being detained on some important Government business but that he had assured me he would be along presently. At that moment Simon Phipps joined the group. Tonight he looked rather less ironed and polished than usual and the aphorisms didn’t appear to be flowing. When there was a gap in the conversation and with the advantage of a second whisky and soda, I couldn’t resist mentioning that Holmes and I had recently spent a most pleasant day in Oxford. “Do you know Oxford at all, Mr Phipps?” I asked. He mumbled that he was afraid he didn’t, no. “Perhaps not the best time of the year to see it in some ways,” I went on, the bit between my teeth. “Hardly a student to be seen. The place seemed to be full of vicars.” And I found myself laughing loudly at my own joke.

 
There was an undertone of suppressed hysteria in every conversation that took the form of overly loud voices and excessive laughter. It was as though no one wanted to be the first to bring up the topic that was on everyone’s mind—the death of Dame Ivy.

  Suddenly there was one of those silences that sometimes occur during a party where there is no real chemistry between the guests and the first rush of conversation has been exhausted. With his sense of theatre Adler filled it superbly.

  “First of all, let me thank all of you for giving up your time to be here but there are matters that affect us all which must be discussed openly. Second, let me be the one to mention what I know is on all our minds. The theatre has lost two of its most revered actors and we have lost two dear colleagues and friends …”

  Knowing what I did, I couldn’t help but feel that he was somewhat overstating the case. Nonetheless, he did it with total apparent sincerity. “The police assure me that everything possible is being done to bring the perpetrators of these appalling crimes to book but they can promise no immediate result. As a result, nothing has essentially changed since we last spoke. It is up to us to decide on our future course of action. But before we do, let us raise a glass to—‘Absent Friends’…”

  So saying, he proceeded to match the action to the word and there was another awkward moment as we all responded to one degree or another. I would have given a great deal to have been able to read the private thoughts in that room.

  Then Adler continued—“I think we’re all here, except for Mr Holmes, who has sent his apologies via Doctor Watson and will be with us shortly.”

  Carlotta whispered in his ear. “Oh no, I’m sorry we do have one absentee—the lovely Miss French. However, since one of the few people in the world who scares me is the Savoy chef, I suggest we be seated. You’ll find place cards by your seats.”

  And so the meal began and, while it wasn’t a group that would ordinarily have made for an ideal social gathering, the drinks and Adler’s words had softened the edge of understandable nervousness and general conversation flowed smoothly enough. Trying to think as Holmes would, I covertly surveyed the table.

  On my right was Carlotta Adler, smiling brilliantly like the trained performer she was. As she questioned me about my wife’s taste in opera—I had been foolish enough to offer up the subject to fill in a conversational lull but it served as well as anything—an anxious look would occasionally cross her face. In turn, I tried to convey reassurance that her secret was safe with me, though I doubt my acting skills were adequate for the purpose.

  She was on firmer ground when she turned her attention to Harry Trent on her right. On the few occasions I had seen him I had noticed nothing to shake the impression of stolid, well meaning predictability. There was the same country boy courtesy about him tonight with a polite ‘Ma’am’ for the ladies and a ‘Sir’ for the two men—Adler and myself—who were his seniors. But would the colour in his complexion that was rising as the drink took effect show us another side of Mr Trent as the evening wore on?

  Ted Allan on his right had apparently spotted the same signs as I had and at one point laid a restraining hand on Trent’s arm, as if to discourage him from raising his glass—only to have it shaken off angrily. As far as I could tell, I was the only one to witness the incident Allan appeared no more comfortable with his other neighbour, Simon Phipps, who seemed to have little appetite for the excellent Sole Walewska the chef had provided. Instead, he was draining his glass at regular intervals and on one occasion held it up peremptorily for the waiter to refill it. As he did so, I noticed that his finger nails were badly bitten, a feature at odds with the elegant appearance he had been at pains to present at our first meeting. I made a mental note to report that fact to Holmes. How often has he not lectured me on the significance of detail? The man’s nerve was unravelling. Phipps’s lapse earned him a muttered reprimand from Allan. On the surface, a friend concerned to prevent a friend from letting himself down in public. In reality, a general losing command of his troops. It was not proving to be a relaxing evening for Mr Allan.

  Phipps perhaps had some excuse in that next to him was the empty chair set aside for Pauline French’s arrival. As we were now well into the main course, it began to look increasingly likely that she would not be coming. On the other hand, this was not by its nature a casual invitation and one would have expected at least a note of regret.

  On the other side of the gap and at the head of the table was Adler, of course. Knowing as I did, the game within the game—or, at least, the rudiments of it, I was fascinated by his performance. The concerned host, jovial at one moment, sincere and attentive to his guests the next, he managed to make everyone feel they were the sole object of his attention. Even now that people were seated and the noise around the table was rising as everyone competed to be heard, he somehow managed to catch enough of each separate conversation to be able to contribute. The man missed nothing and once again, I was forced to own a grudging admiration for him, having some knowledge of the pressures weighing upon him. From time to time out of the corner of my eye I was aware of his glance towards Henry Tallis, when he thought himself unobserved.

  Tallis himself, kept up his end of a conversation with me about such uncontroversial topics as the situation in South Africa (worsening) and the political scene (which never appears to improve, whichever party happens to be in power).

  This, then, was the happy band of pilgrims breaking Florenz Adler’s bread and Sole Walewska that Sunday evening of September 17th, 1899.

  It was Phipps who broke the thin veneer of pretended normality. Draining his glass, he put it down on the table with an audible crash and rose unsteadily to his feet, leaning across Pauline French’s empty place towards Adler. “Well, Mr Impresario Adler, when are you going to tell us what you intend to do? All of this is just a facade—I mean charade, isn’t it? You’ll decide what you want, no matter what we say, won’t you?”

  There was complete silence round the table. Then Adler rose to his feet. Whether he was setting out to act ‘Florenz Adler’, it was difficult to tell but he cut an impressive figure with his napkin bunched in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other—so impressive that Phipps immediately subsided into his seat.

  His eyes passed dismissively over Phipps and took in the rest of the table. “You’re quite right, Simon. I shall decide. As they say in my country—‘Money talks’. But my money has no intention of talking until it hears from all of you. So, since you were so anxious to speak, let’s hear from you first. What do you think we should do?”

  In my medical experience I have frequently noticed that inebriation can be temporarily arrested by a sudden shock and that is precisely what I saw happen to Phipps. He had been deliberately trying to drink himself into a state of oblivion until Adler had called his bluff. Now I fancied I saw a range of emotions pass across his face as he sat slumped in his chair. Unless I had lost any ability to judge another human being, this was a man who was not evil but lost. He seemed about to speak when, sitting immediately opposite him as I was, I saw something that none of the others except perhaps Carlotta Adler was in a position to see—I saw Ted Allan pull at the back of his jacket. In a voice that could barely be heard Simon Phipps, if that was indeed his real name, said—“I vote ‘No’.”

  Adler looked at him for a moment to let the words sink in, then he raised his eyes to meet the rest of us. “Thank you, Mr Phipps. We have one ‘No’. Mr Allan …?”

  A clear but quiet ‘No’. No explanation was offered and the look he directed over Adler’s right shoulder was devoid of expression.

  “Mr Trent?”

  All eyes turned to Trent and I would have lost the rest of my pension if I had bet on the answer. Trent drew himself to his feet and almost stood to attention as he said with that mid-Western drawl that I had supposed to be at least partly affected. “Mr Adler, when he died my father hated your guts and, as I stand here right now, for that selfsame reason I hate your guts, too, but what you are
doing is what he would have done. One of these days you and I are going to have a reckoning but on this issue—I say ‘Yes’, we go ahead.”

  Around the table I could hear the sound of breath being slowly expelled and I realised that I had been holding mine, too—so much so that I barely heard Carlotta murmur: “My heart says ‘No’ but I’ll back you in whatever you decide to do, you know that, Flo. May I please abstain?”

  The look between Adler and his wife was beyond my powers to describe. Then he scanned the table once more. “By my reckoning that makes it one for, two against. Doctor, you’ll excuse me if I leave you out of the reckoning but since we’re involving interested parties, I think it’s only fair if we let Mr Tallis have a say for the home team, so to speak. Though I guess we know how he’ll vote, don’t we? Mr Tallis, should we pull up sticks or should we go ahead?”

  People talk about the silence of the tomb and until that moment I had always thought of it as one of those phrases used by writers of popular fiction. Then Tallis raised his eyes from the napkin that had been riveting his attention. “Well, if somebody’s going to do it, I suppose it might as well be you. I vote ‘Yes’.”

  The ripple of sound around the table was greater than such a small group should be able to generate. When it had died down, Adler said to no one in particular—“By my reckoning we have two ‘Yeses’ and two ‘Nos’. And since those who are not with us cannot vote, that leaves the casting vote with me. It will hardly surprise you to hear that I vote that we continue. On Tuesday the show goes on. Mr Shakespeare has waited long enough. End of discussion. Now I suggest we …”

  We never heard what he was about to suggest, for at that moment the door of the suite opened to admit a waiter carrying a silver salver. For no reason I could account for except the artificially charged atmosphere, every eye followed his progress as he crossed behind Carlotta and myself and approached Adler’s chair. All conversation ceased as he presented the tray to the impresario. On it we could see a single folded piece of paper. Slowly Adler picked it up, unfolded and read it. His face was a mask as he looked across the table at me.