“As I understand it, sir, the performance would require him to drink two or three draughts during the duel, as well as two before it, which was the way he usually played the part. We reckon, at least a third of a bottle of wine in all.”
Holmes nodded and the inspector added,
“Then there was the make-believe of Mr Jenks forcing him to drink from the other goblet and rolling him over the battlements. It seems Sir Caradoc played his part to the end. As for what came next, Mr Holmes, we calculate he could be in his dressing-room—with or without the door locked behind him—a minute or so after coming off the stage.”
“What was his routine?”
“As a rule he never called his dresser, Alfred Cranleigh—a loyal old fellow—until he had relaxed for fifteen or twenty minutes. He needed to ‘calm down,’ as he called it. That was when he had his regular cigar. He’d read the evening paper while he smoked. After that, he would call for Cranleigh. Tonight Cranleigh received no call and would never have gone into the dressing-room without one. Sir Caradoc might have had company on his sofa, if you believe what you hear.”
“How was the alarm raised?”
“The play probably ran for ten or fifteen minutes after he came off. Plus, of course, the curtain calls, compliments and little speeches. No sign of him. I’m told he disliked being present when anyone else was applauded as the hero. He’d even started talking of playing Claudius under a
Hopkins fell silent and I took my chance to establish the order of events.
“He left the stage at about twenty-five minutes past nine. After the final speeches and the curtain calls, the performance was over by quarter to ten. No one saw him until his dressing-room was opened. Why did they become suspicious?”
“Why, doctor? He never missed his chance to perform at the green room supper on New Year’s Eve. It was to be at half past ten, and by just after ten there was still no reply to knocks on his door. Lady Myfanwy had tried once or twice by then. The door was locked, but they checked that he hadn’t gone up to the Dome. Where else could he be?”
“And this was some three-quarters of an hour after he came off the stage?”
“If you put it like that, Mr Holmes. Lady Myfanwy lost her patience. She seems to have been sure he was in there. There was certainly a light on. Harry Squire the stage-door keeper said it was shining out into Maiden Lane. The windows are frosted glass so that’s all you can see. He might have been taking a bath—or he might not have been alone. There is that sofa in there, Mr Holmes.…”
“So I understand.”
“The trouble was, sir, if they used the pass-key to open the door, everyone was crowded in the main passage waiting to see what was going on. And all the world would hear about it.”
“I assume this was not the first time that the problem had occurred?”
“Once before, Lady Myfanwy had gone outside into Maiden Lane which runs along the back of the building. After what she saw when she opened the window, there had been all hell to pay, if I may use the expression. She did so again tonight. The dressing-room windows are at street level, of course. That’s why they have iron bars on the outside to keep out sneak-thieves. Being sash windows, they are also fastened by a catch at night when the stage-door keeper goes round last thing. During the day they are free for ventilation. The bars still keep intruders out.”
“There was no interference with the bars?”
“Perfectly secure, Mr Holmes. Lady Myfanwy put her hands through the bars and raised one of the windows to see if he was there. Supposing he was in the adjoining bathroom, she could call out and he would hear her. What she saw was Sir Caradoc dead on the floor.”
“And what was happening on the stage all this time?”
“No one was on stage just then, except passing to and fro. Fortunately the goblet hadn’t been touched. It was kept for Sir Caradoc to finish his wine at supper. No one would have dared to drink it meantime!”
“When does Dr Hammond suggest that he died?”
“It must be by about ten o’clock or soon after. That’s all anyone can say at present. It could easily have been half an hour earlier.”
“I know something of poisons,” I said hastily. “Prussic acid is notorious for acting quickly. Contrary to popular belief, however, death is not always instantaneous. If it were, presumably Sir Caradoc would have died on the stage. The victim may not be aware of what is amiss for ten or fifteen minutes. Even so, I should be surprised if he was alive at ten o’clock. How was he found precisely?”
“The doublet and hose from his costume were hung over a chair. He was wearing his green silk dressing- gown but the tasselled cord was lying halfway between the desk and the door, as if it had dropped there. The key to the door lay close by it. Sir Caradoc was on the floor by the desk, looking as if he had toppled from his chair. Lady Myfanwy first thought he must have suffered an attack or a fit of some kind. She ran back and the door was opened with the pass-key. Everyone could see that he was dead.”
“Face convulsed and bloated?” I asked. “Wet around the mouth?”
“Just so, doctor. Dr Worplesdon was called at once. Mr Gwyn, the stage manager, sent to Bow Street police station to report an unexplained death. After Superintendent Bradstreet arrived, he put through a call to the Yard. Being duty CID inspector tonight, I was here about twenty minutes later with Dr Hammond. So far as location goes, Mr Holmes, I’d say this was about the most convenient murder I’ve ever known.”
“A little too convenient,” said Holmes sardonically.
“Mr Gwyn ordered that nothing should be touched—onstage or off. Very helpful. Both goblets were still on the table. As soon as Dr Hammond smelt the second one, the look on his face said everything.”
“An exemplary investigation, Mr Hopkins. How conveniently the obvious facts present themselves to us. That is the one thing which causes me to treat them with suspicion. If you do not mind, I should like to see the scene of the crime for myself. It may help to point us in the right direction.”
“The stage, sir?”
“Dear me, no, Hopkins. The dressing-room.”
3
We passed ladders and rolls of carpet, an upright piano, heights of blank, dark wood. There were structures of canvas and ply-wood painted as chairs, tables and armoires—makebelieve furniture that could almost be lifted with one hand. Here and there we managed not to stumble over counterweights of rope and iron that supported scenery as a guy rope supports a tent. The main curtain was still raised. Through a gap we glimpsed the set, looking strangely small from this angle, and the darkened auditorium of a great theatre beyond it. The angled mattresses below the rear of the set remained where they had been. Nothing appeared to have been moved since Caradoc Price tumbled onto them.
The dressing-room passage itself was distempered in cream above and dark green below, a black dado running its full length. At its far end was the stage-door which came out near a corner of Maiden Lane. As we approached it, I noticed a young couple coming towards us. I had the strong impression that they had stepped outside for a moment, perhaps to find privacy for a conversation. They were both in their early twenties. She had the youthful flaxen beauty of a Dutch doll. He was tall and lean, with a certain fair-skinned handsomeness.
The young man’s grey herring-bone overcoat and calf-skin gloves suggested that he had not long arrived from somewhere else. His care, as he kept one arm about her in almost brotherly comfort, caused him to walk with a slight stoop. When they came closer, the girl’s simple beauty was blemished by flushed cheeks and reddened eyes.
