Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street by David Marcum (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

I – so much so, in fact, that when the performance had ended, I sent my card backstage – it contained my true name – to enquire if I might greet the actors. After all, it was not as if I was unknown in artistic circles. When Jones learned that I was a recognised author, however, he offered no inclination to share the limelight and said he would await me in the lobby.

It was William Escott who, upon hearing my name, had told the stage manager to allow my admission. He was able to identify me by dint of having attended a reading of mine at Hatchards and, after removing his false leg and giving the real limb a few swings, he took the lead in introducing me to the rest of the company.

“Your panto was just the antidote I craved,” said I to a collection of pirates, cannibals, and villagers. “I’ve been at sea for ten depressing days. I only just arrived this afternoon.”

Scattered applause greeted my explanation.

“In fact, I’m leaving for California tomorrow.”

“So soon?” someone said.

“What’s in California?” asked another.

“Fanny Osbourne,” I answered without thinking. “The woman I love.”

A warm-hearted sigh embraced me, and not a few female performers did the same. Yet people had their jobs to perform, and even as some of the men patted me on the shoulder or put an arm round my waist in congratulations, the stagehands began moving props about in preparation for shutting down the set.

It took about a quarter-hour for the farewells to dissipate, but with the auditorium empty and the actors ready to leave, I offered my final compliments and began to move towards the exit and my meeting with Jones.

It was then that the trouble began.

Reaching the wings to my left, I patted my pockets, as men are wont to do to check on their contents. Suddenly, I stopped and methodically began searching in earnest within all the pockets of my trousers, jacket, and raincoat.

“My wallet’s missing!” I shouted. “My railway ticket is inside.”

All the players on the stage instantly froze. Then there was chatter, and then there were people looking at the floor to see if the wallet had simply fallen out of my clothes. An usher dashed to the rear of the theatre to the seat I had initially occupied and then to the seat I had later appropriated. In neither case did he find anything.

Watley muttered something about sending for the police, but Escott, harbouring a gleam in his grey eyes, immediately spoke up.

“Let’s try solving this problem on our own,” said he. “We don’t need the authorities to settle the matter.”

Watley’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Escott took the expression as one of approval and immediately directed the stagehands to commandeer the exits so no one could leave the stage. He then asked all the actors to assemble before the scrim. It was strange to see people gathering in front of a background that depicted the shingle of a deserted island. Some had already changed into their street clothes, and even I understood that the process had provided them an opportunity for hiding the pilfered billfold, a supposition that provoked Escott to request that a pair of workmen canvass the dressing areas. It was apparent from his lack of interest in the search, however, that he believed anyone trying to make off with the wallet would more than likely still have it on his person in order to facilitate a quick escape.

At the same time Escott began manoeuvring people about, Jones reappeared at a rear door. My outburst had obviously summoned him back into the auditorium. You must know that I never considered him capable of stealing my billfold. I would never believe the man could do me such a wrong, but for good measure his absence from the stage ruled him out as a suspect. Even now he displayed the common sense to occupy a seat at the back and not become involved in the confusion. On the contrary, he understood that yet another stage performance – a more serious production – was about to begin.

“I suggest, Mr. Watley,” Escott now said, “that first we begin by searching the group. We might ask Miss Ross to conduct the service for the women. Her Crusoe costume is so form-fitting that it precludes any opportunity for hiding away a billfold.”

The young woman blushed, but began to assemble the other females in the cast. Escott himself began to group the men together. In retrospect, such actions must have been a diversion. For after he had placed his arm about one man’s shoulders and ushered him to centre stage, it seemed obvious that Escott had reached a preliminary conclusion.

James Flint had already exchanged his pirate’s costume for tweed coat and trousers and was carrying a raincoat in preparation for departing. With chiselled high cheekbones, a strong chin, flashing eyes, and luxuriant black hair, he had many of the features required for major roles. But standing barely five feet high, he remained too short.

“Mr. Flint,” said Escott. “Might we check your pockets? You – ”

Before he could say anymore, the actor pulled a brown-leather billfold from inside his coat. With a mocking grin, he announced, “Just my own wallet,” and he held it high in the air for all to see.

Escott looked at me questioningly.

“Mine’s black,” said I, shaking my head.

“Let’s see what your other pockets hold.”

Flint turned out all his pockets, maintaining his grin all the while.

But Escott was not to be denied. With the silly wooden parrot flopping on his shoulder, he turned and began to stride towards the back of the stage. His short trek was uphill as the floor was raked about five degrees. The rest of the company followed, and after some ten steps, he pointed downward.

“Here!” he announced to the self-appointed audience. His