Free The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson

done as you requested and have asked all the artistes to assemble on the stage for questioning. If you care to come this way, sir. You, too, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.’
    As we followed Merriwick out into the passage, Holmes murmured to me under his breath, ‘Hardly a necessary confrontation since we already know the name of the murderer but one with which I shall comply. After all, Watson, as this is a music-hall theatre, it seems entirely appropriate that the denouement should take place on stage.’
    Then, raising his voice, he hurried after Lestrade who had gone ahead with Merriwick.
    ‘Inspector, if I may be allowed to give you a word of advice?Make sure your constables are posted in the wings. Once he is named, our man may try to make his escape.’
    ‘That’s all very well, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade protested. ‘But who am I supposed to arrest?’
    Whether Holmes genuinely failed to hear him or whether he preferred to pretend that he had not, I cannot say although I suspect the latter. Still in his exultant mood, my old friend strode forward and, pushing open an iron door, made his way across the back-stage area, as much at home, it seemed, in this cluttered world of stored props and leaning pieces of unused scenery as he was among his books and scientific apparatus in our Baker Street lodgings.
    If my illusions had not already been severely damaged, they received a further blow when I walked on to the stage. Without the footlights to cast their dazzle and with only a few harsh lights for illumination, the scene which presented itself was a bitter disappointment, so different was it to the magical display I had observed with so much delight from my seat in the stalls.
    At such close quarters and in the bleak lighting, the charming back-cloth of the garden scene with its trees and blossoms was reduced to mere daubs and splashes of colour while the rose-decked bower, under which the French Nightingale had posed so enchantingly, was nothing more than a frail arch of trellis, covered with wilted crêpe flowers, their petals dusty.
    The artistes who had taken part in the first half of the bill fared no better. They stood about on the stage in small groups, some still in their gaudy costumes of silk and spangles, a few already changed into their street clothes, and all of them looking strangely diminished, ordinary mortals against this shabby background of painted canvas and paper blooms.
    With Holmes leading the way, we walked to the front of the stage to stand before the drawn curtains, our feet echoing on the boards. Meanwhile, the constables, on Lestrade’s orders, posted themselves in the wings on either side to cut off the murderer’s retreat should he attempt an escape.
    But who was he? One of the two male high-wire performers, who were huddled together with their female colleagues, or the contortionist, a dressing-gown flung over his shoulders andlooking much smaller than he had on stage? Or was it the low comedian in a quite deplorable checked suit, or the man with the performing seals, on this occasion thankfully without his charges?
    While I pondered on this, a whispered altercation was taking place between Holmes and Inspector Lestrade who was wagging the programme under my old friend’s nose. Although I could hear nothing of the exchange, I could guess its contents from Lestrade’s expression of baffled rage and Holmes’ raised eyebrows and look of smiling insouciance.
    Which one is he? Lestrade was demanding.
    Have you still not deduced the answer? came my old friend’s reply.
    It was quite clear that Holmes, who himself possesses a strong propensity on occasions towards theatricality, was thoroughly enjoying the situation.
    And then he relented. Taking the programme from Lestrade, he produced a pencil from his pocket and, with a flourish of the wrist, drew a heavy line under one of the names before handing the sheet back to the Inspector with a small bow.
    Lestrade looked at the name, gazed at Holmes in