We arrived at Wilton’s Music Hall to find the auditorium had been emptied except for one slender young lady sobbing in a corner, attended by a matronly figure I recognized as the ticket taker.
‘Annie! Oh, Annie!’ wailed the young woman.
At the end of the hall, a small crowd of police clustered onstage next to a large, strange copper vessel suspended by a thick chain and floating three feet above the raised floor of the stage. The thing, perhaps five feet in diameter, looked oddly like an ornate bathysphere, ready to transport an intrepid traveller to the dark ocean depths. It was only missing a porthole. A decorative stage sign prophetically named it ‘The Cauldron of Death’.
As we approached, I became aware of the terrible odour of burned flesh. There was another smell mixed along with it, some kind of chemical.
We mounted five steps to the stage and approached the vessel. It was decoratively covered in rivets and piping, with the occasional large crystal, making it look for all the world like a fanciful creation of Jules Verne. A three-foot square hatch opened to the front and was ajar, but only a crack. Another smaller hatch on top was wide open.
Dangling from both of these openings were a variety of ornate padlocks, all hanging open. A grate underneath the cauldron revealed still smouldering coals in a pit below the stage. A ladder with a platform on top stood next to the thing.
And next to this ladder was the first horror of the evening.
Lying on the stage was the body of a slender woman in a sparkling red dress. A cloth had been laid over her face and upper torso. I gasped.
I started towards the body, but a young policeman put a hand on my shoulder. He shook his head sadly. ‘Dead,’ he said.
If Madame Borelli was a suspect on the run, who was in her costume? ‘Who is it?’ I asked.
‘Name’s Annie Durgen. A girl they just hired today.’
‘Watson, examine the girl’s body, please,’ said Holmes, approaching the front hatch of the giant cauldron. He peeked inside and grimaced. I noticed his extreme reaction and he waved a finger at me, coughing at the fumes.
Without preamble, he launched into an inspection of the outside of the cauldron by running his hand over its surface. His face was grim, but I sensed the humming excitement beneath. Near to him stood the stolid figure of Falco Fricano, Borelli’s brother-in-law.
I turned my attention to the corpse, and a stagehand quickly informed me of the means of death. The poor young woman had been up on the ladder and leaning over the cauldron, conversing through the top opening with Borelli, supposedly trapped inside – all part of the planned act.
But an unexpected explosion blew up in her face, and she fell backwards off the ladder to the stage below. My examination confirmed third-degree burns on her face and hands. However, the broken neck from her fall was the apparent cause of death.
I looked up to see Holmes in conversation with Falco Fricano just a few feet away. The muscular Italian stood woodenly, his face pinched in what might be grief, a reaction to the gruesome events. His fists were clenched, and he leaned strangely backwards on his heels, which rather than making him look frightened gave the impression that he was gathering himself to launch at Holmes or to flee. He struck me as someone holding himself back at great cost.
‘Mr Fricano, you hired Miss Durgen just today to go on in place of Madame Borelli?’ asked Holmes.
‘Yes.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Madame refused to perform.’
‘Did she give her reason?’
‘The Great Borelli and she had a big argument, I do not know about what. The hotel said there was much shouting.’
‘Where is Madame now?’ asked Holmes, looking about the stage.
‘No one knows. Mr Borelli told me they were finished.’
‘Mr Lestrade is at their hotel room now,’ said Hamilton as I approached.
I glanced over at the front hatch of the cauldron. I knew I should lean in and take a look, but I hesitated. In due time, I would. I joined Holmes and Hamilton.
‘I see,’ continued Holmes. ‘Describe this act in detail. I need to know precisely what happened. Tell me exactly what the audience saw, and how it works.’
Fricano cleared his throat. He began with great effort. ‘First, the Great Borelli, he comes onstage.’
‘In a wheelchair tonight, I presume. Watson set his broken ankle recently.’
‘No. With a walking stick only. The Great Borelli, he is very strong. He removes the cape. Then the young lady, she spins cauldron to show no door in back.’
‘Like this?’ asked Holmes. He placed one hand on the cauldron and gave it a shove. The thing was set to rotate on the chain hanging from the rafters above the stage, twirling easily so that now the back faced us. Holmes stopped its movement with a hand. ‘Except for this well-disguised hatch, here?’
‘Yes.’
Initially I saw nothing, but I leaned in closer … and could just perceive the outline of another large hatch on the opposite side of the sphere from the front opening. It was well-hidden among the rivets and piping.
‘Go on,’ said Holmes.
‘Then Dario, he gets in from the front and the girl locks it very good, many locks in front here.’ Fricano spun the cauldron, so the front now faced us again. That opening remained ajar and I got another strong whiff of that awful smell. I sneezed. Fricano closed the front hatch.
‘Hmm,’ said Holmes. ‘I suppose Borelli normally slips out the back hatch and makes his exit through the split in the curtain behind this contraption?’ Holmes spun the sphere again, so the back faced him. He opened the secret hatch an inch or so, then closed it. He ran his hand along the edges.
‘Yes. Normally he is out in five seconds through the back.’
Fricano attempted to spin the thing again facing front, but Holmes stopped it from moving.
‘But not this time?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Why did he not come out?’ asked Holmes.
‘I do not know. Maybe he fainted.’
‘There are fumes, Holmes,’ I offered. ‘Shall I take a closer look now?’
‘It’s bad, doctor,’ said Hamilton, who had shadowed me and now stood behind Fricano.
‘In a moment, Watson. Stay with me. Mr Fricano, do continue. Were you not waiting to help him out?’
‘No, at this part, I am under the stage, tending to the fire. Another man, Paolo, is in back. The girl pretends to light the fire onstage, which I help from below. When Borelli did not come out, Paolo ran to get me.’
‘What then?’
‘Paolo yells at me that Dario is still inside the cauldron. Since I cannot stop the fire, I ran up from backstage and put my hands though the curtain, trying to open. But the hatch will not open.’
Holmes unlatched the secret back hatch easily, opened it and closed it again.
‘Hmm. It seems to work fine now. Ah, but what is this small bolt?’
‘What bolt?’ Fricano’s eyes widened.
Holmes leaned in, pulled out his magnifying glass and said, ‘This bolt here that – yes, if I slide it like so – would secure the hatch shut. Seems to have been attached recently. Look, the soldering or brazing is pewter-coloured. The rest here is brass or copper.’ Holmes handed me his glass. ‘With this shut, the person inside could not open this door.’
‘Oh God, we tried to pull it open but did not see.’ said Fricano.
With magnification, the bolt indeed looked different from the nearby pipes and ornamentation. I would never have noticed, either. It was a subtle piece of work. I handed the glass back, nodding.
‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘Nicely hidden. What happened next? In the act, that is. The audience sees Borelli get inside. The front hatch is apparently secured. What does the girl do?’
Fricano took a deep breath. ‘The girl lights fire under the cauldron. Then she climbs up this ladder and stands up high next to top of the cauldron. She touches the surface and pretends it is very hot. Ssss! Of course, it is too soon and not really hot yet. It makes drama. The whole act designed to make big drama.’
‘You have succeeded, I would say.’ Holmes’s humour could suffer in the timing, I noted.
‘Then the girl opens the top latch and calls down to Borelli, pretending to hear his answer. She smiles at the audience, then picks up the bottle of whisky.’
‘Whisky? That bottle over there? All part of the act?’ Holmes pointed to a bottle lying on the stage near the girl’s body.
‘Yes, and she pours it down in on him. That gets a big laugh from the audience.’
‘Big laugh. Right. Meanwhile you are still trying to open the back?’
‘Yes!’
I pictured the frantic efforts. I glanced again at the newly added back latch, which was nearly impossible to see. But of course, Holmes had the eyes of a bird of prey.
‘Go on.’
‘Then the girl leans down on top and looks in, but she pretends she cannot see.’
‘Still part of the act?’
‘Yes.’
Holmes glanced over at me. ‘Watson, could you retrieve that bottle and smell it, please?’
I complied. Given the overwhelming odour of burnt flesh in the room itself, smelling anything else would be difficult, but I inhaled deeply. ‘Nothing,’ I reported.
‘What was in that bottle, Mr Fricano?’ asked Holmes.
‘Just coloured water. Is all a trick.’
Holmes hesitated, and I could tell he had some doubts. ‘Yes, go on,’ he said.
‘After she pours it in, she calls down but gets no answer.’
‘Part of the act as well?’
‘Yes, yes! Normally no one is inside by this time. So then she lights a match and holds it at entrance as if to look, and then pretends to drop match in by accident. Audience cry “Oh no!” because they think it will ignite the alcohol. Big excitement.’
‘Again. Still part of the act?’ prompted Holmes.
‘Yes.’
‘But this time …?’
‘This time … oh …’ Fricano put a hand to cover his face a moment, then recovering, he continued, ‘She drops the match in, and a big flame comes out top. And there is a big sound. Like … FOOOF! We hear screaming from inside cauldron. And the girl … her face … oh, horrible! She is burned! She falls back off the ladder. The audience screaming … it was terrible.’
‘What did you do then, Mr Fricano?’
‘I am on stage, trying to help the girl. But it is too late, she is dead. Then I unlock the cauldron’s front hatch. I burn my hand, you see!’ He held up his hands.
Holmes took them in his two hands, and jerking Fricano forward examined them closely. The man winced in pain. ‘Ah! Yes, burns!’ said Holmes. He dropped Fricano’s hands. The man backed away, affronted.
‘And then?’ Holmes prompted.
‘I find … I find … Oh, God,’ moaned Fricano. He covered his face with his injured hands. ‘I find Dario.’
‘Doctor? The body, now, inside the cauldron, if you please? Take a very close look.’
I moved a few feet around the sphere and spun it so that the front opening faced me and was well lit from one of the stage lights. Hamilton appeared behind me, a pocket lantern in his hand to help illuminate the interior.
While my wartime experiences had somewhat inured me to the sight of grievous injury and death, what I encountered here sickened even me. I opened the front hatch and the stench of burned flesh gagged me, but there was another smell as well, a metallic odour – not exactly paraffin, not exactly petroleum, but similar. I quickly placed my handkerchief over my nose and mouth.
Inside was an image that will forever be seared into my mind.
It was the figure of a large man, contorted into a kind of foetal position, arms raised in what is known by coroners as the pugilistic pose. The clothes, the shoes and most of his skin was burned away, leaving a shiny black coating overall. The face was unrecognizable.
I was filled with revulsion, but I had a job to do.
Gingerly, I leaned in through the opening and touched the corpse’s shoulder. A large flake of cinder fell off, leaving what looked like raw meat below. I have seen many a gruesome death, but this was a horror. I backed out to catch my breath.
‘Dear God, Holmes. The man was incinerated under some extreme and sudden heat. All the clothes and skin are gone,’ I said. I leaned and in continued my examination.
After few terrible minutes, my investigation was done. I stood next to Holmes, wiping my hands as best I could on my handkerchief. Hamilton, much affected by the sight, had followed and stood behind me.
‘An accelerant, then, Watson?’ said Holmes.
‘Definitely,’ I replied. ‘It was a kind of flash burn. Uniformly across the entire body. No one’s skin and clothes would ignite in such a way without some kind of chemical present.’
‘A petrochemical from the smell, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t recognize the odour.’
‘Could it have been poured in from that bottle by the young lady?’
‘I would say not.’
‘Why?’
‘To get this result, you would need much, much more. And uniformly covering the body. Perhaps in some kind of gel or powder.’
‘The entire body?’ asked Holmes. ‘Prepared, then?’
‘It would appear so. That body was … soaked with it. Or painted.’
‘Death would have been instantaneous, then,’ remarked the detective.
‘We heard screams,’ said Fricano.
‘Well, very quickly then,’ said Holmes.
I shuddered. ‘Yes.’
Fricano looked aghast at the thought. It seemed the man might pass out. I felt in my pocket for my smelling salts.
‘Excuse me, sir. I must sit down a moment,’ murmured Fricano, seemingly overcome with the emotion of the events. He moved away, offstage.
Holmes turned to the young policeman. ‘Hamilton, stay with Mr Fricano, would you?’ Hamilton, relieved to have something to do, nodded.
At precisely this moment, Lestrade entered at the other end of the hall with two of his men.
‘Lestrade!’ cried Holmes. ‘Have you found Madame?’
Lestrade approached, coughing at the terrible odour. ‘Madame Borelli has fled! Flown the coop. All her things – her clothes, her personal items – packed up and gone.’ He waved a slip of paper in triumph. ‘I found this receipt for a train to Palermo. The Borellis had a huge row earlier today.’
He arrived on the stage to stand near us and gestured towards the cauldron. ‘It is clear that the lady engineered this terrible thing. I’m sure you concur!’
‘Madame is now en route to Italy, then?’ asked Holmes.
‘Ha! I have men on their way to the station and have cabled ahead,’ Lestrade crowed. ‘We will catch this murderous witch!’
‘What of Mr Borelli’s things? Are they still in the hotel room?’
‘Well, they were all still there, of course.’
‘Everything?’
‘So far as we could tell. He expected to return, but obviously she killed him here and escaped.’
‘So it appears,’ murmured Holmes. ‘Were his things of an elegant or expensive nature? A silver hairbrush, jewelled cufflinks, a silver-tipped walking stick – anything like that?’
‘Mr Borelli’s? Why?’
‘Please, just answer the question.’
Lestrade bristled. ‘I can’t say they were. Just … regular, rather ordinary ones.’
‘New or used?’
What was Holmes on about, I wondered.
‘I did not notice,’ the inspector snapped. ‘Well, newish, perhaps. But everything was still there. I don’t think he was a wealthy man.’
‘Perhaps. But Mr Borelli had a taste for fine things,’ remarked Holmes.
‘You digress, Mr Holmes, at a terrible moment!’
I will admit that thought was mine as well. Just then a cry was heard from behind a makeshift wing at stage left. I dashed towards the sound and found Fricano crouched over the floor, looking behind a stack of bulky, fake boulders. Hamilton stood next to him.
Fricano arose with a shout! ‘Come quick! Come quick! It is Madame Borelli!’
And then I recognized the lady’s red scarf. It snaked out across the floor, seeming to ooze from behind the boulders like a bloodstain.