Game is afoot, p.46
Game Is Afoot, page 46
“….. a full account of Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife.”
-SHERLOCK HOLMES
The Musgrave Ritual
Professional actor, singer and one of New York’s most popular improvisational comedians, Carole Buggé is an award-winning poet and the author of short stories that have appeared in my anthologies Haunted America, Lovers and Other Monsters and Masterpieces of Terror and the Unknown. In addition to the following superior pastiche, Ms. Buggé recently composed and wrote a new Sherlock Holmes musical.
The Strange Case of the Tongue- Tied Tenor
Carole Buggé
The spring of 1890 brought a week of grainy London afternoons which depressed my medical practice as well as my spirits, and so it was on one of those dull grey days that I escaped my dreary surgery and headed for my old digs at 22IB Baker Street to pay a visit on my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Mrs. Hudson greeted me with more than her usual effusiveness, for she had not seen me for some weeks, and the company of her only tenant, while undoubtedly invigorating, was also a trial which she bore with the fierce stoicism of her Scottish ancestors. As we ascended the familiar staircase, she threw her hands up in dismay.
“Oh, Dr. Watson, thank heaven you’ve come—maybe now he’ll eat and sleep like a normal human being for a change!”
If Holmes was neither eating nor sleeping—bodily necessities which he did not always regard as such—it meant either that he was on a case or subject to the influence of the evil drug he turned to in his constant battle against ennui.
As I entered Holmes’ sitting room, I saw that he was not alone. Seated on the sofa opposite the door was a stocky, red-faced gentleman with a full head of curly ginger hair and a face which was the likely result of a cross between a cherub and a bulldog. Holmes was sprawled out in his usual chair.
“Ah, Watson—come in; you are just in time to hear a most amusing little problem.”
The red-faced man appeared to bristle at Holmes’ words.
“My dear Mr. Holmes, forgive me for saying so, but to me there is nothing amusing about it/* he said, or rather whispered, for his voice was nothing more than a faint throaty croak.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure—please forgive me/’ Holmes replied, with more impatience than contrition. “And allow me to introduce my colleague and very good friend, Dr. Watson, Watson, may I present Mr. Gerald Huntley.”
“Not the Gerald Huntley—”
“The one and same—operatic tenor extraordinaire. Mr. Huntley has come to me on a matter of some distress to a singer of his caliber. Simply put, Watson, he has lost his voice.”
Mr. Huntley’s free grew redder as Holmes spoke.
“Well, that’s terrible, of course, but surely that is a matter for a medical doctor—”
“Ah, but there’s more, isn’t there, Mr. Hundey?” Holmes said smoothly, with a smile which in the dim light looked almost predatory. The tenor blinked rapidly and shook his red curls, which offset the deepening flush on his face.
“I don’t know what you mean, exactly—”
Holmes rose and stood over Hundey, his tall, spare frame looming like a bird of prey over the man.
“Mr. Hundey,” he said in a sharp voice, “I am a busy man, and an impatient one, as you have perhaps gathered. I therefore suggest to you that you withhold nothing from me, either now or later, if you have any hope of my taking your case. You will therefore start by telling me why you feel you are in mortal danger and what connection that might have to your current clandestine love affair.”
The singer swallowed hard and fell back against the couch. He drew a lace handkerchief from his breast pocket and passed it over his damp brow.
“You are truly everything they said you were, Mr. Holmes, and more,” he croaked, making another pass with the handkerchief.
“That’s better,” said Holmes, settling into his chair again with a satisfied smile, though whether he was referring to the implied cooperation or the compliment I could not say.
“You are correct, sir, in everything that you say, though before I tell you my story I must say I cannot see how you could possibly know—”
“Tut, tut, man, there is nothing so mysterious about it,” answered Holmes, though evidently pleased to have scored an impression. Holmes was, in his own way, no less a performer than our tenor, and his most faithful audience—apart from myself—was his steady stream of clients. No magician ever flourished his hat and cape with more relish or flair than Holmes unveiled his deductions to the breathless gasps of his admirers.
“That you are frightened is not hard to deduce. I happened to be looking out the window when you alighted from your cab, and only a criminal or a man who believes his life is threatened looks about furtively the way you did. I do you the honour to suppose you are not the former; I may therefore logically take you to be the latter.”
Our illustrious guest hung his head.
“Quite right, I’m afraid, Mr. Holmes.”
“As to the woman, there are so many signs I hardly know where to begin. If your fresh manicure and haircut had not alerted me, I could not have helped but notice that your boots, though unaccustomed to frequent polishings, have recently been shined to a glimmer. Your hat”—and here he brandished our guest’s bowler—“is scented with one cologne, and yet this morning you put on quite a different, muskier scent. Add this to the baggy appearance of your vest and the fact that you have cinched your pants in an extra loop. When a man changes his perfume, takes extraordinary care over his person, and on top of that loses weight so rapidly that he cannot change his wardrobe quickly enough to keep his clothes from hanging loosely upon him—surely even to the inexperienced eye that bespeaks a recent and consuming infatuation of the most virulent kind.”
With that Holmes went to the mantel, where he kept the Persian slipper which contained his shag tobacco. From the pipe rack he selected a long carved cherrywood pipe and stood waiting for our guest to recover his breath. Mr. Hundey looked very sheepish and defeated; at last he spoke.
“I must admit everything you say is true, and that furthermore, everything I have done has been in spite of my better instincts.”
Holmes smiled disdainfully. “Affairs of the heart usually manage to override one’s better instincts. Pray continue, Mr. Hundey,” he said, folding his long frame into his favourite chair.
“There is not much to tell, really,” the tenor whispered, and I felt a pang at witnessing the ruin of so great a voice. “I have been engaged to sing Don José in a production of Carmen; it is a role I have done many times, of course, but this was the first time I had performed with—her.”
“You refer of course to Madame Olga Rayenskavya, the Russian mezzo-soprano. ’ ’
“Well, yes, but how—?”
“Oh, come, come, Mr. Huntley; a casual perusal of the entertainment section of any number of London dailies would reveal that you are both appearing in Carmen in repertory for the next two weeks at the Royal Albert Hall.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So how did you come to be involved with this—temptress?” “Enchantress would be more like it,” said our guest, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I have neither eaten nor slept more than a few hours since she wrapped her spell around me. It is a sickness, a fever; I am like one of Ulysses’
men Circe turned into pigs: it seems all I can do is grunt and grovel at her feet. I am powerless to extricate myself, even though I feel this affair has brought danger upon my head.”
“What form has this danger taken?”
“Well, there have been several signs, but last night I stayed somewhat late after the performance; it is my custom to take tea in my dressing room after I sing. When I had finished my tea I remembered I had left my scarf in the wings somewhere; the Royal Albert is very drafty, as you may know, and so I had worn my scarf about my neck right up until my first entrance. It was very dark and quiet, as most everyone had gone home. Nonetheless, I thought I heard footsteps on the catwalk above the stage as I crossed to get my scarf. As I reached the stage left wings I heard a sound directly above me, and if I had not had my wits about me and leapt out of the way, I doubt that I would be sitting here now.”
“Out of the way of what?” I asked, caught up in his story.
“A sandbag fell directly upon the spot where I had been standing. I had thought up until that moment that I was imagining everything, but sandbags do not simply fall from the sky for no reason at all. After last night I am convinced that someone is trying to get me out of the way.”
“Out of the way of what, I wonder,” said Holmes, pulling pensively at his pipe.
“I don’t know, but I am convinced there is a connection with this wretched affair.”
“The lady in question is married, is she not, to a conductor?” I said, recalling having read something about her engagement in the paper.
Mr. Hundey smiled bitterly. “Oh, yes, and that is not the least of the irony in my situation. Her husband is none other than Sir Terrance Farthingale, the maestro for this production of Carmen.”
“Hmm, I see,” said Holmes, tapping his pipe out into a potted plant on the tea table, a habit Mrs. Hudson hated. “You have pitched your tent rather close to the lion’s den.”
“I have made a rotten mess of things, if that’s what you mean,” said our downcast friend with a sigh.
“From what you know of Sir Terrance, do you think he would be capable of—?” I started to say, but Mr. Hundey interrupted me with a gesture.
“Dr. Watson, if I have learned one thing from all of this it is that when it comes to love, a man might be capable of anything at all.”
“But what makes you think that losing your voice is somehow connected to all of this?” I inquired.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s a connection, except maybe that it was brought on by fatigue and worry—”
“Oh, but there I disagree with you, Mr. Huntley,” Holmes interrupted. “Quite the contrary: I believe it to be a key to solving the case.” Both of us stared at him. He proceeded to fill and light his pipe before continuing, increasing our anticipation by making us wait for his response. He took a deep draught and exhaled slowly.
“Consider the facts. A man has a liaison with another man’s wife. Soon he comes to feel his life is in peril. Shortly after a narrow escape he finds himself unable to perform his chosen profession—in short, he finds himself out of commission, temporarily or otherwise. He is still alive, but harm has undoubtedly been done to him; more importantly, as you yourself stated, Mr. Hundey, he is out of the way. So it seems it was not necessary to kill him after all, merely get him out of the way.”
“Out of the way of what?” I interjected.
“That is precisely what we must find out, Watson.” Holmes laid down his pipe and rose from his chair. “Good day, Mr. Hundey—if I have need of further information I shall be in contact with you.”
Mr. Hundey scrambled to his feet rather confusedly, not used to Holmes’ characteristically unceremonious treatment.
“We did not discuss the subject of fee—”
“There will be plenty of time for that, Mr. Hundey; I think you will find my fees by no means extravagant,” said Holmes, bustling him to the door.
“Well, then, I will take my leave of you—”
“What about Mr. Hundey’s safety?” I asked, seeing the anxious expression on his face.
“Oh, I should think Mr. Hundey’s safety is for the time being assured; so long as he has no voice, he is certain to remain alive and well. Good day, Mr. Hundey. I shall let you know if there are any developments.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Good day, Dr. Watson.”
“Good day.”
“Oh, one more question, Mr. Hundey. Who serves you your tea?” “My dresser, McPearson. He has been with me for years.”
“Very well. Thank you—I will be in touch.”
After our guest was gone Holmes sprawled out on the couch and intertwined his long fingers behind his head.
“There, you see, Watson: you upbraid me with my refusal to have anything to do with the fairer sex, and yet this is the likely outcome of such an encounter. A man loses his means of livelihood and nearly his life, all for the sake of a woman.”
“Oh. Holmes, you’re incorrigible. Mr. Hundey has acted indiscreetly, to say the least. To use this as a moral for the entire—” but I stopped when I saw Holmes laughing that peculiar silent laugh of his.
“Ah, Watson, forgive me for taking advantage of your earnestness. Sometimes I cannot help tweaking you to see how you will react.”
“I should think you would find the consistency of my responses rather boring by now,” I said, feeling somewhat put out.
“Oh, come along, Watson, don’t be cross! Let me make it up to you by standing you to the Wellington at Simpson’s: I do believe theirs is the best Yorkshire pudding in town.”
1 am used to accompanying my friend in the testing of his many various hypotheses, but I must say this was one theory I was by no means averse to examining. And so it was that less than half an hour later I found myself seated across from Holmes, confronted by an undeniably agreeable specimen of Wellington’s lesser known victory.
“Well, Watson,” said my companion after we had finished our cigars and coffee, “what do you say to a little trip ’round to the Royal Albert, to the scene of the crime, as it were?”
“No crime has as yet been committed, Holmes.”
“As yet, Watson; but it is only a matter of time.”
“What do you expect to find at the Royal Albert?”
“I expect nothing, but I shall know when and if I find it.”
The backstage area at the Royal Albert Hall is not usually accessible to the public, but the man guarding the stage door was more impressed by the mention of the name Sherlock Holmes than by the considerable tip offered to him by that august person. In any event, we soon found ourselves in the winding corridors leading to the various dressing rooms. Holmes headed straight for Gerald Hundey’s, and upon knocking was greeted by an ancient gentleman of impressive sidewhiskers and rheumatic eyes of a remarkably pale blue hue.
“Ah, Mr. McPearson, isn’t it?” said Holmes brightly.
“At your service, Sir. I’m afraid Mr. Hundey isn’t in at the moment, Sir,” he wheezed in a burr as Scottish as a field of mountain heather.
“Yes, yes, I know,” answered Holmes, “we’ve come on his behalf. I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion, Dr. Watson.”
“Well, I’m glad he finally had the sense to see a doctor,” the old man snorted. “I told him something like this would happen if he didn’t cake better care of himself.”
I opened my mouth to explain but a look from Holmes silenced me. “Yes, well, my colleague here has reason to believe Mr. Hundey may have ingested something—hazardous.”
“Hmmp! Not very likely—he hasn’t ’ingested’ much of anything in the last few weeks!”
“You serve him his tea, do you not?”
“Indeed I do, as I have for the last eight years. That’s one thing, at least;
I’ve never known Mr. Gerald to refuse a good cup of tea, if it’s made the way he likes it, and I know just the way he likes it.”
‘‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you do,” said Holmes, trying unsuccessfully to bury the edge of impudence in his tone. ‘‘I wonder if you would grant me a very great favor—”
“If it’ll help Mr. Huntley get better, I’d be glad to.”
“Would you show me how you make him his tea? I—uh, that is, Dr. Watson here wants to assure that Mr. Hundey’s routine remains undisturbed during his—convalescence.”
McPearson seemed pleased by Holmes’ interest in his tea-making skills. He bent closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Do you know you’re the second man who’s asked me about my methods in the last week?”
“Oh, really?” Holmes said casually.
“Aye; Mr. Hundey has always said no one could brew a cup quite like myself, and if I do say so—”
“You said another gentleman inquired earlier in the week—?” Holmes interrupted, his tone one of absent-minded disinterest.
“Aye, and a strange one he was at that. I fancy I have a fair eye for a man, and he was a right odd laddie. Said he was a stagehand here, but I can’t say as I ever noticed him around. A fellow like that would be hard to miss, too—”
“What was he like?”
“Well, first off he had this yellow hair—it was really more like straw than hair, and so pale that it was almost white—as though he had been scared by something. It weren’t the white hair of an old man—he was just a young laddie. And he spoke with a stutter, which was so bad that sometimes I was wantin’ to finish the word for him just so’s we could get on with it.”
As our garrulous Scotsman described his visitor, Holmes’ eyes narrowed and his lean face tightened.
“What did you show him?”
“I just showed him how I make the tea—my little ‘secret’, if you can call it that, is that I put just a wee bit of water in at first and let it steep in that and then add the rest of the water straight from the kettle right at the end. That way it’s strong and hot and warms you up, and Mr. Hundey swears the flavor is better, too. I learned the trick off a Norwegian sea captain by the name of Olaf Niels.”
Holmes glanced around the dressing room.
“Is that your teapot?” he said, pointing to a stout blue willow pot which looked as though it had seen years of service.
