Holmes and I knelt beside the prostrate form of Madame Borelli. I felt for a pulse. ‘Alive, Holmes!’ I said. He exhaled in relief.
One of her arms cradled an empty bottle of gin, the other was splayed out along the dusty floor. Her flamboyant clothes in her signature red and black were awry and spread out around her. She reeked of alcohol.
I patted her cheek gently and applied smelling salts. She snorted and opened her eyes.
‘Madame Borelli?’ I whispered, leaning in.
She belched and struggled to consciousness. I could smell cheap gin.
‘Where am I?’ she slurred. ‘And what is that smell?’
‘Your own breath,’ snapped Lestrade. ‘Get up.’
‘You are backstage at Wilton’s,’ I said.
She blinked and stared up at Sherlock Holmes.
‘What has happened? How did I get here?’ She sniffed the air. ‘What burned?’
She struggled to sit up, discovered the bottle of gin in her hands, looked at it in surprise, and pushed it away.
‘What is the last thing you remember, Madame Borelli?’ asked Holmes.
‘Let us not waste time, Holmes,’ barked Lestrade. ‘Madame Borelli, I am arresting—’
‘One moment, Lestrade, please!’ said Holmes. ‘Madame?’
‘Our room at the hotel. I entered and I … someone came from behind and—’ She paused, struggling for clarity.
‘… and did what? Were you drugged?’ asked my friend.
‘Stop this, Holmes. You give her ideas!’ cried Lestrade.
‘Someone hit me in the back of my head,’ murmured the lady. ‘Suddenly I was choking. A cloth … I don’t remember what …’ She blinked and shook her head. ‘And now I am here.’ The poor woman remained on the floor.
I felt her pulse. It was racing. ‘Gentlemen, where is your sympathy? Help me lift her to a chair,’ I said. Soon, Madame Borelli was seated, with all of us clustered around her.
‘Take slow, deep breaths, Madame,’ I said.
‘Where had you been,’ asked Holmes, ‘just before this happened?’
‘How is this our concern?’ cried Lestrade. ‘This is clearly a ruse!’ The policeman leaned past Holmes and placed his face inches from Madame Borelli’s. ‘I am not interested in your made-up stories, Madame! It is all too clear what happened here.’ He stood back and gestured for his second man to approach. ‘Madame Ilaria Borelli, I am arresting you on the charge of the wilful and sadistic murder of your husband, Dario Borelli. Boys, take her away.’
‘Murder? Dario?’ Her face went white. ‘Dario? Mi Dario is dead?’
Hamilton and a constable each took Madame under an arm and dragged her roughly to her feet. She moaned as they held her facing Lestrade.
‘Careful there!’ I said. ‘This lady is in shock.’
‘Your husband is dead, and you know it,’ said Lestrade. ‘He was burned to a crisp tonight in that infernal prop over there, which I understand you designed.’
Madame Borelli gagged. She wrenched one arm free and covered her mouth. ‘No!’ she sobbed.
Lestrade leaned in close to Madame, sniffing her breath, then with a pointed look at Holmes, picked up one of her hands and smelled it. He smiled proudly. ‘You have gin on your breath, some kind of chemical on your hands – and your husband was soaked in it. A receipt for a one-way ticket through to Palermo was found in your hotel room, and … here …’ Lestrade leaned into her and plucked out a small white token which protruded from the pocket of her skirt. ‘Aha! Yes, just as I thought! Here is a token for a locker at Victoria. Will we find your packed valise in there, Madame?’
She stared at him in apparent confusion.
‘I wager we will,’ said Lestrade. He turned to Holmes triumphantly. ‘Two can play at your game, Mr Holmes. Sometimes, you see, things are best left to the professionals.’
‘Bravo, Lestrade. A remarkable chain of inferences, all based on solid evidence,’ said Holmes quietly. Lestrade beamed and nodded to his two men.
‘Except that you are entirely wrong,’ added my friend.
The room went silent. I became aware of the soft sobbing of Annie Duggan’s friend near the entrance.
‘Do you think so, Holmes? Let us see you prove it,’ said Lestrade, folding his arms across his chest.
‘This lady is in distress. Allow her to sit,’ I demanded.
Lestrade waved at his to men to comply. Madame was returned to the chair. I moved to the lady’s side and patted her shoulder.
‘Try if you must,’ said Lestrade, ‘but you know you are beaten this time, Holmes.’
Holmes knelt down before the lady, taking both her hands in his. ‘Madame,’ he said gently, ‘what was your errand when you left the hotel?’
‘Dario sent me to pick up a velvet jacket he had had made on Jermyn Street.’
‘Expensive tastes, as I said, Lestrade. What then, Madame Borelli?’
‘I returned to our hotel room. I stepped inside and it looked like a tornado had passed through. Then from behind someone put a cloth on my face, pressing, pressing. I could not breathe … a terrible smell—’
‘You smelled the petrochemical and the gin, but missed the third odour which lingers under the gin, Lestrade. The lady was chloroformed. The gin was applied to her lips later.’ He gestured politely towards the woman’s face.
Lestrade hesitated, then leaned in for a sniff.
‘Ah, well, possibly. But to what purpose?’ sneered Lestrade.
‘Obvious. She is being framed for a murder,’ said Holmes.
‘By whom? Who would want Borelli dead and his wife in gaol?’
‘Well, that’s the other little problem with your theory.’
Holmes strode over to the cauldron and opened the front hatch wide, so we all had a clear view of the blackened remains inside.
‘This body is not Dario Borelli,’ said Holmes.
Even I was surprised at this revelation.
Oblivious to the lady’s extreme distress, the two detectives faced each other. But Madame Borelli was transfixed on the body. I stepped in front of her to block the grisly sight.
But Lestrade was not swayed. ‘Of course it is Borelli, Holmes,’ said he. ‘Smith, bring out what you found.’
A young policeman with thinning blond hair and drooping eyes came forward with something wrapped in a handkerchief. He drew back the covering to reveal a ring and two shiny buckles, married by ash.
‘Recognize these, Madame Borelli?’ asked Lestrade.
She turned away, repelled, and did not answer.
‘Of course you do. Your husband’s ring, and the buckles from your husband’s shoes. All part of his stage costume, confirmed by his crew. And removed from the corpse earlier by Smith here.’
I glanced at Hamilton, who shrugged.
‘You withheld evidence from me, Lestrade. Hardly sporting.’ Holmes smiled ruefully. ‘I will admit Borelli wore both the ring and buckles in the show I saw.’
‘Exactly! And there is more,’ crowed Lestrade. ‘Two hundred people witnessed Borelli climb into the cauldron. Normally, he would simply escape through the secret hatch in the back right away, according to Mr Fricano, the stage manager. But he did not come out … because he could not! Take a look, Mr Holmes.’
Lestrade shut the front hatch on the corpse and spun the cauldron on its chain to the back. He pointed to the tiny, hidden latch.
‘A new latch. Recently welded on, look at the solder here – pewter-coloured, when everything else is copper and brass,’ said the policeman.
‘Very observant, Lestrade. You improve.’
‘I found it because I was looking for it,’ announced Lestrade, ‘as you like to say. Trapped in his own trick. As he nearly was last week.’
‘Dario!’ wailed Madame. I patted her shoulder.
Holmes simply smiled at Lestrade. ‘There is a similar new one on the front, as well.’
Lestrade shrugged this off. ‘And so there was no escape! Few people in the world are familiar enough with this stage contraption to hide a little latch like this—’
‘Two latches.’
‘Fine. Madame was familiar with both,’ said Lestrade. ‘And she had motive. They had been heard arguing. Mr Fricano himself said he felt that the couple was on the verge of separating.’
‘Yes, where is Mr Fricano now?’ asked Holmes innocently. Next to me, Hamilton started, remembering that Holmes had asked him to keep an eye on the fellow. ‘He might be able to shed some light.’
‘He is a witness, to be sure,’ said Lestrade. ‘Hamilton, find the fellow, would you?’ Hamilton moved off, rounding up two more policemen.
‘Madame Borelli, is it true that you fought with your husband earlier today?’ asked Holmes.
‘Yes,’ said the lady, ‘but I welded no latch.’ She rose shakily to her feet. ‘I must see inside,’ she said, nodding towards the cauldron.
‘Madame, perhaps not,’ I suggested. ‘It is pitiable sight.’
But Lestrade nodded to his remaining man, who took the lady’s arm and conveyed her to the front of the cauldron.
Madame Borelli looked inside, went white and turned away. She steeled herself and looked again.
‘That is not Dario.’
‘As I said,’ remarked Holmes.
‘Of course it is,’ sneered Lestrade. ‘The man is burnt to a crisp.’
‘No,’ said she, wiping her tears.
‘Why do you think not, Madame?’ asked Holmes.
She shrugged. ‘Too fat maybe. But it is not him.’
Holmes stepped up and took one of her hands and led her back to the chair.
‘Madame, I believe you are correct. But if your husband went to such trouble to frame you, where would he be now?’
She hesitated and looked stricken. Tears coursed down her face. She said something in a voice so low I could not catch the words.
‘Speak up,’ said Lestrade.
‘He would be on a train.’
‘To where? asked Holmes.
‘To Berlin.’
No one said anything, but she was not forthcoming.
‘Madame?’ prompted Holmes.
The woman took a deep breath and sat very straight. ‘Gertrude Aufenbach,’ said she.
‘The German soprano?’ said Holmes, evidently surprised.
She nodded.
‘Ah, yes!’ Holmes enthused. ‘A beautiful woman. And that voice—’
‘Holmes loves the opera,’ I interjected, attempting to cover this insensitivity.
Catching himself, Holmes turned to the police detective. ‘But never mind. I suggest you send your men to the station after all, Lestrade.’
‘On the trail of a dead man! Now why should I do that? Borelli’s clothes are still in his hotel room.’
‘Expensive tastes, remember? Look for that velvet jacket. It will be gone, I wager. In his room you will only find cheap replacements bought for the illusion. And it is indeed an illusion, worthy of a conjuring star. I can prove the body in the cauldron is not Dario Borelli.’
Lestrade snorted. ‘“Data, data,” as you like to say. The buckles?’
‘Certainly. Borelli broke his ankle last week, Dr Watson here set it, and the man could not have been wearing two shoes when he entered the cauldron. He could not get a shoe on over that splint. Ask your audience that. Some will remember.’
Lestrade blinked. ‘No one could pull that off: get in, and then leap out and put another person in! His own stage manager said he did not emerge.’
‘Yes, have you found Falco Fricano yet?’
Hamilton appeared behind Lestrade. ‘No Fricano,’ he said.
‘I expect he was Borelli’s accomplice. There was much to arrange, and in a short time. Madame Borelli is no easy mark. Lestrade, I suggest you put more men on it. Fricano cannot have gone far.’
Lestrade paused, then to his credit, agreed. He turned to Hamilton and a young constable. ‘Find the stage manager! Now!’ Realizing this left the lady unguarded, he quickly handcuffed her to the chair.
‘Mr Lestrade!’ I exclaimed, finding this remarkably insensitive.
He stepped away, presumably to request reinforcements. Holmes flashed me a small smile.
Lestrade returned, and Holmes continued. ‘Consider these facts. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to disguise the identity of the body. That man was soaked, painted perhaps in some kind of highly flammable liquid or gel. All identifiers including clothes and facial features would be destroyed. Of course, they wanted everyone to think it was Borelli, and so they selected someone of a similar stature. Planted the buckles and the ring.’
‘But,’ said Lestrade, rubbing his chin, ‘how did they get this “other person” into the cauldron? And who is he?’
‘Borelli entered the cauldron and then immediately exited the back, as usual. Fricano, who was complicit, lied about that. I believe you will discover the corpse is that of a man named Santo Colangelo. Presumably he was drugged and covered in this chemical, then loaded in. The back hatch, which usually opened easily, was then secured with the newly added latch. The front as well.’
‘Then he was unconscious, or he would have struggled. But screams were heard.’
‘Colangelo must have come to at some point. Oh, and some kind of kindling substance, highly flammable, was added. That caused the “foof” described to us. And, sadly, the demise of the poor young lady.’ He squinted. ‘Powdered magnesium and potassium chlorate would be my guess.’
‘What is that?’
‘Quite a new thing. “Blitzlicht” it is called. It is used by photographers. You have been no doubt temporarily blinded when you were captured by a camera in service of the newspaper men?’
Madame Borelli moaned slightly at the thought.
Lestrade was still not convinced. ‘Who added the latch – er, the latches – then, if not this clever woman?’
‘Fricano, or Borelli himself. Both have the skills. And while Madame was on her errand earlier today, he worked very quickly to pack the bare minimum of his own things – his favourites, no doubt – and replace them with cheap substitutes to make you think he had never left. He and his accomplice, for it must have taken at least two to manage all of this, drugged the lady and set her here in the manner you found her.’
‘Yes, and I do not even drink the gin,’ offered Madame.
‘Applied to your lips, Madame Borelli,’ said Holmes.
‘Then what, Holmes?’ said Lestrade.
‘The act proceeded as normal, with the newly trained assistant, poor Miss Durgen, none the wiser. She lit the match and dropped it in, sealing both Colangelo’s fate and her own. Perhaps more flash powder than was needed had been introduced and that killed her. I doubt that she was an intended victim.’
Lestrade hesitated. No one likes to be topped, even by Sherlock Holmes. ‘Plausible, Mr Holmes, but I am not convinced the corpse is not Borelli’s,’ said he. ‘The body is the same size; it has been confirmed.’
‘Check his teeth. They will have survived. The man I mentioned, Santo Colangelo is a rival conjurer. He has a small diamond embedded in his left canine.’
Lestrade nodded at the young officer guarding the cauldron. ‘Look at his tooth.’
With a shudder, the fellow leaned into the deadly sphere. A retching noise echoed within it, and he backed out quickly. ‘Ugh. It’s there, sir.’
‘Dario Borelli is responsible for tonight’s drama. I suggest you wire Berlin,’ said Holmes.
Lestrade sighed. To his credit, he knew when he was beaten. ‘All right, Mr Holmes. But you must give me this. I do know when to call you in.’
Holmes smiled, a little too self-satisfied, I thought, in the face of all this tragedy.
‘Please unlock Madame Borelli. She has suffered enough today,’ I admonished. The poor woman was pale with emotion, her eyes closed. She opened them suddenly and handed Lestrade his handcuffs, having freed herself while we had been looking elsewhere.
‘What?’ exclaimed Lestrade.
Holmes shrugged and smiled insouciantly. ‘Child’s play, Mr Lestrade. I warrant your gaol could not have held her. Good evening.’
I turned to Madame. ‘Do you have somewhere to go, Madame, to take comfort?’
She waved me off. ‘I will be fine,’ said she. ‘I have friends here in London.’