Free The West End Horror by Nicholas Meyer

observation that they sounded like themselves–that is to say, like a chorus of Savoyards, singing, “Now what is this and what is that and why does father leave his rest, at such a time of night as this, so very incompletely dressed?” Suddenly into their midst, parting them firmly left and right as though he were breasting the Red Sea, strode Gilbert. His muttonchop whiskers bristled, his blue eyes were very bright.
    ‘What is happening here?”
    “Sherlock Holmes is endeavouring to find out,” I gestured behind me to the closed door. The large blue eyes blinked in the direction of the door, then refocussed themselves on me.
    “Holmes? The detective?”
    “That is correct. I am Dr. Watson. I sometimes assist Mr. Holmes. The woman who screamed, I take it, was Miss Rutland,” I went on. “She complained of not feeling well, and you sent her downstairs to rest.”
    “I dimly remember doing something of the kind.” He passed a weary hand over his broad forehead. “It has been a tiring day.”
    “Do you know Miss Rutland well, sir?”
    He answered my question automatically, too preoccupied to object to my forwardness in quizzing him. “Know her? Not really. She is in the chorus, and I do not engage the chorus.” A trace of bitterness crept into his voice, undisguised.
    “Sir Arthur engages the singers. Sir Arthur is not here at the moment, as you have quite possibly divined. Sir Arthur is either at cards with some of his titled friends or else at the Lyceum, where he is wasting his talents on incidental music for Irving’s new Macbeth. It would be too much to ask him for the overture to our piece before opening night, but I daresay he will deign to have it ready by then. Perhaps Sir Arthur will even find time to coach the singers once or twice before we open, but I am not sure.” Now he turned and spoke to the company. “Here, everybody!” he cried, “go and have your supper. We shall continue at eight o’clock sharp with Act One from the sausage-roll number. Go on and eat, my dears; there’s nothing of consequence that need detain you here, and you must keep up your strength!”
    They dispersed on cue, Gilbert patting a head occasionally or saying something encouraging in a low voice to another as they passed by, until we were alone. For all his military gruffness, a reciprocal bond of affection and trust between him and the players was evident.
    “Now let me pass,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no objection. Before I could answer, we were interrupted by a clatter on the spiral stairs at the end of the corridor as Carte descended hurriedly with another man, whose black bag proclaimed him a member of the same profession as myself.
    Carte, rushing towards us, cried, “Dr. Watson, this is Dr. Benjamin Eccles, the doctor who is on call at the Savoy.” I shook hands briefly with a man of medium height and pale complexion, with deep-set green eyes and a small, delicate-looking nose.
    “I make the rounds of several theatres in the district when I am on call,” Eccles explained, looking past me at the closed door, “and I’d just stepped into the stalls to see how the rehearsal was getting on when Mr. Carte saw me and summoned me downstairs, as he seemed to think I might be needed.” He glanced from one to the other of us–uncertainly, confused, perhaps, by the presence of another physician.
    Behind us the door opened and Holmes stood there in his shirt-sleeves. Clearly he had only been waiting for the members of the chorus to depart. I introduced Dr. Eccies, and Holmes favoured him with a curt inclination of his head.
    “There has been a murder,” he announced in sombre tones, “and all must remain as it is until viewed by the authorities. Watson, you and Dr. Eccles may come in. Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Carte, I must ask that you remain beyond the threshold. It isn’t a pretty sight,” he added under his breath, standing aside to let me in.
    The sight, indeed, had little to commend it. A young