That evening we sat amidst a varied crowd in the cavernous, drafty stalls at Wilton’s Music Hall, located in Grace’s Alley, Whitechapel. While the place lacked the cachet of a West End theatre, it was a storied venue for variety acts and attracted a wide range of London’s social classes.
We did not know it at the time, but the place would be shuttered within a year and turned into a mission for feeding the poor, but at this moment it was filled with eager theatregoers. Above our heads, with elbows resting on the overhanging balcony surrounding on three sides, was a noisy crowd of working-class men, women and children. One small boy – his mother occupied with her flashy swain seated beside her – was folding tiny pieces of paper and dropping them on the heads of the better-dressed patrons sitting beneath him in the stalls.
I had been only ten years old myself when I first saw a magic show. That one had featured dancing dogs, and I recalled the canines were infinitely more entertaining than the florid, grotesque man who had performed after them, sweating under his battered top hat and manipulating cards on a stained, felt-covered table. But that was long ago.
The Great Borelli promised to entertain at an entirely different level. A spangled red and silver curtain billowed at the back of the stage. In front were arrayed various gleaming contraptions and velvet topped tables.
Seated next to me in the stalls, Holmes drummed his long thin fingers on his knee, as impatient as the young boy above us.
At the sound of a musical flourish from a small band on the right side of the stage, the lights dimmed. Followed by a spotlight, the Borellis appeared from behind the curtain. Tall, dark-skinned, with the pointed beard and trimmed moustache of Renaissance portraits, the Great Borelli boasted an athletic physique and the light-footed movements of a sportsman in his youthful prime.
Madame Borelli was glamorous far beyond her already striking appearance at Baker Street earlier in the day. A red silk gown draped over her statuesque figure like molten lava, adorned with red and black sequins that seemed to give off sparks from the limelights at the front of the stage.
The act proceeded with a fast-paced series of magic tricks, most employing lavishly decorated pieces of equipment, including a gold filigreed coffin-like box into which Madame Borelli was locked, her head and feet sticking out of either end, promptly followed by Borelli piercing the coffin with swords. Holmes leaned in to whisper, ‘Either careful choreography, and Madame is a contortionist, or trick swords which fold in on themselves.’
I nodded. ‘Shhh.’
Holmes leaned in again. ‘Those feet sticking out are false feet. Look, the soles are unworn!’ whispered the spoilsport.
‘Let me enjoy this!’ I hissed back.
Borelli flung a red satin drape over the whole thing, intoned incantations, then tossed it away with bravado, revealing Madame Borelli standing intact next to the gold coffin. The audience erupted in applause.
More tricks followed, in which the magician seemed to be in flirtatious competition with his mischievous wife. The charming Ilaria threatened to upstage him at every turn, but he won the day by making a variety of objects – including a teacup apparently filled with liquid, and a small, live rabbit – appear and disappear into his hat.
‘Fabric pocket at the edge of the table. See there, he drops the rabbit in while you are watching the scarf, it never goes in the hat,’ said my companion. ‘And there is no liquid—’
‘Oh, Holmes,’ I groaned.
A woman in front of us turned to look at us. ‘Yes, go home, you rude man!’
Holmes chuckled, but for the next several illusions did manage to hold his tongue.
After more remarkable hat tricks, the audience exploded into enthusiastic applause. I leaned over and said, ‘Now that was well done, wouldn’t you say, Holmes?’
‘Mmph. Sleight of hand. Misdirection. Pre-rigged table and hat,’ came the reply. ‘This is not what I came for.’
But the music started up again, and the stage lights dimmed. The table was whisked away and a large tank was rolled in, some six feet high and four feet square. A spotlight followed it in. It was filled to the brim with water, which sloshed over the edges as the thing was wheeled to the centre of the stage. Lowered from above was a large clock, with a vivid second hand slowly ticking round.
The band’s music grew ominous. The top of the tank was removed and in it were embedded two iron cuffs.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! In our next adventure,’ the Great Borelli boomed with his Italian accent, ‘holding the breath is important. First, I ask you to try. Do I have a volunteer to be submerged with these iron cuffs around your ankles and try to escape?’
The audience went silent, except for some nervous laughter. I stole another glance at Holmes. ‘Not ready for this one?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps one day,’ said Holmes.
I regretted my joke.
‘How long can the average man hold his breath?’ Madame tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Or woman?’ He looked out over the audience. ‘Let us see. Will you give it a try? Upon my signal, my assistants will keep watch. Keep your eyes on the clock. Raise your hand to start. Lower it when you must take a breath. We shall see who is best among you. Ready? Deep breath in now, ready … go.’
There was a collective gasp from the audience and many hands went up. Why not? I thought, and raised my hand, taking in a big breath.
As the clock ticked and we literally held our breath with one hand in the air, the Great Borelli stripped off a layer of clothing, revealing a grey woollen bathing costume underneath. After displaying his remarkable physique in a classic strongman pose, he removed his shoes and socks. He then made as if to remove his bathing costume to a collective gasp from the ladies. He stopped with a wink. The clock ticked on … thirty seconds, forty seconds.
Borelli next climbed up a ladder to the top of the tank and sat on a small platform. Two assistants removed the top, displayed to the audience the iron cuffs securely welded into it, then carefully locked his ankles into them, clicking them shut like handcuffs and then adding padlocks on top of these.
They fastened a thick chain around his waist, and to this, a pair of what looked like police regulation handcuffs. Once locked, the assistants gave a sharp tug, showing that the cuffs were not only secure, but tight.
Around us a series of gasps sounded out and one by one the hands went down—forty-five, fifty, sixty seconds. I made it to seventy-five, then gasped. The Great Borelli smiled. ‘The longest an audience member has ever held his breath was eighty seconds. One minute and twenty seconds. Most of you can do this for less than a minute. I will now escape this tank, but it will take time. Longer than two minutes. It is extremely dangerous. A colleague of mine recently drowned attempting to duplicate this trick. Are you ready?’
The audience responded in affirmation. Holmes leaned forward in his chair. The Great Borelli, now upside down with chains connecting his handcuffs to his waist, was upended so he was hanging from his pinioned ankles.
The entire thing was winched into the air and Borelli was suspended upside down, over the tank. He took in a deep breath of air, and nodded at his assistants to lower him in.
The clock began.
Madame Borelli stepped forward. ‘My husband is risking his life. In the case that something goes wrong, we do not wish for you to see him drown.’ A curtain on a frame was then rolled in to block our view of the tank.
The audience gave audible disapproval. Some boos were heard.
Madame Borelli smiled. ‘Oh … you want to see?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ came the louder response.
‘He’s unlocking the handcuffs just now,’ whispered Holmes.
‘Stop it.’
She nodded at an assistant and the curtain was wheeled off. Forty seconds, fifty, a minute. Borelli could be seen writhing as he seemed to struggle with the handcuffs.
‘I think he’s having trouble,’ I whispered to Holmes. He just smiled at me.
Borelli continued to struggle. The music began to play ominously.
‘I don’t know. This looks like a problem,’ I said.
Ninety seconds. Suddenly Borelli cast off the handcuffs. A ripple of applause. Then the illusionist contorted in the narrow tank to bend at the waist to address his ankle restraints. The clock indicated two minutes.
The audience vocalized its thrilled concern. I glanced at Holmes. He was watching closely. I turned my attention back to Borelli, who was working at the ankle cuffs. One ankle was free, the other still trapped. He paused and threw his head back in seeming despair, beating his hand against the window.
Two minutes and twenty seconds.
Madame Borelli appeared concerned.
‘Holmes!’ I said.
He seemed fascinated. Perhaps not as wide-eyed as those around us, but definitely interested.
Borelli once again attacked the remaining ankle cuff.
Two assistants approached Madame Borelli and appeared to confer with her in something of a dither. She shook her head.
Two minutes and forty seconds.
‘That is a terribly long time to hold one’s breath,’ I said.
‘He is practised, Watson,’ said my friend.
One ankle was free. The other was not. Borelli worked at it, apparently frantic. One assistant came out with a sledgehammer. Then the second.
Three minutes. Were we going to watch a man die before us?
‘Holmes?’
‘He is having trouble with that second ankle cuff,’ said Holmes.
Three minutes and ten seconds. The music stopped. Silence. Borelli seemed to collapse and float downward, becoming caught halfway, still bent at the waist, against the side of the tank, unconscious perhaps. The assistants raised their sledgehammers and glanced at Madame Borelli.
Her posture had changed. She was leaning forward, the picture of alarm.
‘Oh no!’ I said.
Suddenly Borelli gave a great twist and his second ankle came free. He folded like a jackknife, reversed position in the water, and shot to the top.
He pushed the top free! Borelli surfaced, gave a huge gasp, and then shook his head violently, sending a spray of water into the air.
The musicians played a triumphant flourish. The audience burst into applause.
The top was taken in hand by the two assistants who had scrambled up two ladders on either side. One assistant held a hand down to pull him out of the tank. Borelli waved the man away and stayed in the tank, perched on the edge and leaning on his two arms. He gave a salute to the audience, who continued to applaud wildly.
The assistants looked a bit confused. I glanced at Holmes. He was staring at Borelli, his forehead creased in a frown. What had just happened?
Borelli waved to the two assistants. They clambered down the ladders, and with the help of two more stagehands wheeled the giant tank off the stage, Borelli still within. Madame Borelli came to the front of the stage. She bowed deeply.
‘On behalf of the Great Borelli and myself, we thank you for coming today. Grazie. Grazie.’ She bowed again, blew kisses as the music played, and the curtains closed.
I looked at Holmes.
‘Backstage, Watson,’ he said. ‘I am curious about what just happened.’