“For old acquaintance sake!” Holmes said with a groan “Appropriate for a New Year’s Eve joke, is it not? I do not, however, treat this as a joke, despite the thousand witnesses. I recall Jenks as a histrionic egotist. Wherever he is, trouble attends him—and spreads to those around him.”
I glanced at the paper again.
“Caradoc Price was a Knight Commander of the British Empire!”
My friend adjusted his cravat and wrapped himself in his plaid overcoat.
“Brother Mycroft assures me that Mr Gladstone was determined upon the award before he resigned his premiership,” he said as he fastened the buttons. “Indeed, the Grand Old Man shed tears during Caradoc’s last performance as King Lear. Everything was forgiven the old scoundrel when WG made his recommendation to Her Majesty. Public hostilities and scurrilous innuendoes, not to mention irregular romances, were overlooked. So were two famous backstage fist-fights with other actors.”
“Fist-fights?” I pulled on my pumps with a shoe-horn.
Holmes reached for a silver-topped stick.
“Do you not recall his Arthurian drama,
I remembered the story now, but Holmes continued with a chortle.
“Phipps brought his mailed fist crashing down—and nothing happened. He struck four times with increasing force and desperation—at which point the wrong half of the table fell off. There was giggling in the stalls and a fist- fight with Caradoc behind the scenes. Rosemount Phipps was a young man of promise and he left the company next day.”
He turned to the velvet-suited messenger, who waited with insolent impatience.
“And now, sonny, we will proceed to the cab, which I assume you have ordered to wait.”
A quick movement of the boy’s eyes confirmed that he did not care to be addressed as “sonny.”
“Yes,” he said gracelessly.
“Then perhaps we may reach the Herculaneum before Lestrade or his cohorts take possession of the premises.”
The malevolent stare of the velvet-suited infant did not falter. He had been watching his chance to put an oar in.
“Murder,” he said with childish satisfaction. “That’s what they say it is.”
Holmes remained unruffled.
“Do they? Do they say that? The wonder is that it has not happened long before. However, I suppose it is of some importance that we should go and see if they are right. Be so good as to fetch the black bag on the floor by the hat-stand, and carry it out to the cab.”
We followed the sullen child downstairs, climbed aboard the waiting hansom and set off at our best speed for the Strand.
The wheels jolted uncomfortably over the packed snow of Baker Street and Oxford Street, onwards down Regent Street and into Pall Mall. Conversation was curtailed by the presence of the velvet-suited Mercury. In the end I decided to ignore the little shaver.
“I do not recall, Holmes, that we have ever before had a client who killed his victim in front of a thousand witnesses. Short of slaughtering Caradoc in a Roman arena …”
“I never cared for Caradoc as a man, Watson. However, I never liked the histrionic pip-squeak Carnaby Jenks much more.”
As we passed down Regent Street I guessed this was no hoax. A small group of sightseers stood at the window of the London Stereoscopic Company. An array of famous figures was on show. One in particular attracted these idlers. I had passed it the day before and knew that it was a sturdy, self-confident image of Sir Henry Caradoc Price. It had been snatched by a sly street photographer. Caradoc in top-hat and tails had been walking down Piccadilly when a removal man passed him, staggering under the load of a grandfather clock. The great tragedian, according to the caption under the photograph, was saying to the man, “My poor fellow! Why not buy a pocket watch?”
West End street-rumours of murder at the Royal Herculaneum had no doubt brought these window-gazers to peer at the illustrious victim. Our cab crossed Trafalgar Square to Charing Cross. The sky of a Lapland night now glowed pale above Nelson’s column and Landseer’s lions.
Our cabbie reined in his horse, weaving into the lamp-lit traffic of the Strand. To our left, at almost equal distances, stood the white facades and Grecian columns of three famous theatres. The first was the Royal Herculaneum. Beyond it rose the Lyceum and the Adelphi. Though it fronted on the Strand, the “Herc’s” rear doors and windows looked on to the narrower and more squalid cobbles of Maiden Lane.
Long before we reached the front of the building, the posters on its tall hoardings were legible. They proclaimed “Sir Henry Caradoc Price” in lettering about two feet high and “Hamlet” in much the same size. “William Shakespeare” was somewhat reduced. At the foot of each bill a small and discreet announcement confirmed that on Mondays, Wednesdays and at afternoon matinees the part of Hamlet would be played by Mr Carnaby Jenks. Sir Caradoc would still be seen, playing the less taxing role of King Claudius. New Year’s Eve was a Wednesday. The curtain would rise at 6.30 in order to liberate the patrons in good time for their midnight festivities.
The octagonal lamps of the portico shone white and stark, though the carriages with the patrons of the boxes and the front stalls had departed an hour ago. Through the glass doors I glimpsed four men in the foyer. They stood by a broad flight of marble steps, carpeted in red, which led to the dress circle and the boxes.
Carnaby Jenks, thin and angular, was waiting by the pay-box next to a uniformed constable. I had seen him only two or three times on the stage, but he was watching for a chance to step forward and open the door of our cab as soon as we arrived. With his dark, tousled hair, the neurotic energy of his walk and a look of latent anxiety. He would not be at his best under police questioning.
Holmes stepped down, a tall figure who just managed not to knock off his hat in the process. He stood on the pavement, which had been scraped and cleaned but sparkled with ice. Looking at the pale, bony actor, he produced the sheet of paper and asked sharply, “Jenks! Will you please explain this message? Is it a Caradoc joke?”
At that moment Jenks looked like a tramp in fear of a savage dog. He had just been able to pull on a jacket and trousers in place of his stage costume, but his hair was awry and the orange tan of stage make-up had been imperfectly wiped from his features.
“Thank God you have come, Holmes! I am in earnest! You are a true friend, if ever there was. Caradoc is dead. I appear to have killed him.”
“Really?” said Holmes in the same sceptical manner. “Are you under arrest then? It does not seem so.”
“I may very soon be arrested. They will not let me out of their sight, but I have declined to answer any questions.”
“That is, no doubt, why they will not let you out of their sight,” I said helpfully. Holmes dismissed this with a half-wave of his hand.
“I must have a chance to talk to you first,” pleaded Jenks. “Caradoc is lying dead in his dressing-room. Cyanide! That can only be murder. Surely?”
Holmes seemed almost relieved to hear it. It certainly clarified the situation.
“After such a message, Mr Jenks, I was not expecting anything less. I assume you did not literally kill him with your own hands?”
“But it seems I did! Quite literally! On the stage! Do you suppose that I should have sent for you otherwise? I gave him poison—cyanide.”
Holmes turned to the two men whom Jenks had been watching over our shoulders. In any event, we were
