SIX

A Devilish Passage in Paganini

Three days later, Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard strode into our flat on his weekly visit. Because of his grandfather’s famous association with Sherlock Holmes many years ago, Lestrade had been assigned to keep tabs on Holmes’s progress and to help him adapt to the twenty-first century. He shook Holmes by the hand, patted his arm. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

‘Quite excellent.’

Lestrade was a lean man about our age, not tall, with a thin face and a pleasant but reserved manner. ‘You look good, very good indeed. Dr Coleman’s grand gamble appears to have been successful.’

‘Evidently,’ said Holmes.

‘Any problems?’

‘Occasionally something happens and I seem to be in a past time.’

‘Have you told Dr Coleman?’

‘I will. But first I want to do some experiments.’

‘Experiments?’ Lestrade looked at him doubtfully, seemed about to speak, then veered into another track. ‘Well, I am particularly thankful this morning for Coleman’s efforts, for I have a little problem, Holmes. I am hoping you might be willing to help me with it.’

‘Of course!’ Holmes rubbed his hands together, in anticipation.

‘Perhaps you can give me a fresh point of view on the matter. But before I forget . . .’ Lestrade opened his case and pulled out a bound manuscript. ‘I hope this is the one you wanted.’

‘Excellent!’ cried Holmes, taking it. His face shone like a child’s who is getting a birthday gift.

‘As you said, it was in the storage box of material Dr Watson rescued from your Sussex cottage.’

Holmes gazed at the bound manuscript. ‘Last time I saw this was 1910. How perfectly amazing to see it here.’

I looked over his shoulder and read the title of the typescript: THE PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE AND THE BACON DELUSION. By S. Holmes.

‘By the by,’ said Lestrade, ‘when will Dr Coleman’s account of your resuscitation appear in The Lancet?’

‘I’m hoping never.’

‘Hope what you will, Holmes; but be realistic. You must know his article will appear. Do face up to that fact. It will make headlines around the world; you will become famous once more. And you will become infamous amongst the crowd who believe that if men were meant to fly they would have wings, that life should not be tampered with, and that the dead should stay dead. When Coleman’s article appears I am afraid you will simply have to face the music – and look as cheerful as you can.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Holmes.

‘I am sure you will. Oh, by the way, I found this in the storage box under the manuscript – thought you might like to have it.’ He handed Holmes a large black fountain pen.

Holmes gazed at it, a faint smile on his lips. ‘I’d forgotten about this. I wonder if it still works.’

‘Why not?’ said Lestrade. ‘Dried ink can usually be loosened with a solvent.’

Holmes began twisting the small top end that, in most fountain pens of that type, lowers and raises the piston to suck ink from a bottle. He kept twisting and twisting.

‘Here, now!’ said Lestrade. ‘You’ll break it if you keep twisting.’

‘Not at all,’ said Holmes. ‘This is a Krueger pen.’

‘Never heard of it,’ said Lestrade.

‘Let us see, gentlemen, how well-made the Krueger pen is, and how it has survived its long sleep.’ Holmes unscrewed the cap. ‘If you will move to the side just a little bit, Wilson . . . thank you.’

Holmes gripped the fat pen firmly, pointed it towards the wall, pressed the top . . . and his hand jerked.

A silvery dart thudded into the woodwork eight feet away.

‘My god,’ said Lestrade, walking towards the tiny metal dart.

‘Don’t touch it!’ cried Holmes.

Lestrade backed away.

Holmes sprang to his feet. ‘My brother dipped the point in curare. I have no idea whether the poison is still potent.’ Holmes with difficulty removed the steel dart from the wall. I could see it was razor sharp. He carefully placed it back in the pen casing.

‘That would go through a man’s neck,’ I said.

Holmes closed the pen and slipped it into his shirt pocket. ‘A Krueger pen can be deadly at close range, even without the poison. Now, my dear Lestrade, you mentioned a problem?’

Lestrade sat down very lightly on a chair, crossed his leg on his knee. His mouth smiled pleasantly, but there was worry about his eyes. ‘Last evening I had a terribly frightened man in my office, Holmes. I listened to his story, decided that his fears were groundless, reassured him, and sent him home. But after he had gone away I began to have doubts. I scarcely slept last night, worrying about the matter.’

‘Pray, give me the details,’ said Holmes, leaning forward with an intent expression on his face.

‘I suppose you are aware of what happened four nights ago at the Capinelli violin concert?’

‘I know only what the newspapers printed,’ said Holmes. ‘A loud popping sound, or bang, was heard, and two audience members were carried from the hall by medics.’

‘Yes, and they were both music critics,’ said Lestrade.

‘That is very suggestive,’ said Holmes.

‘The worried man in my office yesterday was Maurice Pilkington, music critic for the Guardian. He was scheduled to cover the Capinelli concert but at the last moment he was unable to attend. He fears that someone intends to do him serious injury, just as was done to his colleagues. I assured him he had nothing to worry about. But last night I lay awake an hour thinking about the matter, and I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. This morning it occurred to me that since my grandfather occasionally sought your assistance, I should not be too proud to do so also.’

‘I am only too glad to be of assistance,’ said Holmes.

‘Frankly, one of your intuitive leaps of logic might give me a new perspective on the situation, and set my mind at ease.’

Holmes leant backwards in his chair, took a deep breath. ‘What further facts can you furnish me?’

‘Only a few. Our investigation reveals that the victims were injured not by a pellet gun, as we had originally thought, but by miniature bombs that somehow had been placed on their bodies. We believe that tiny bombs were placed in their pens, and this theory is borne out by the nature of the wounds. Mr Wilkins had his pen in his shirt pocket, and he suffered injuries to the chest and stomach. Mr Bledsoe had his pen tucked behind his ear, and he suffered head injuries. We may learn more about the nature of these bombs after our laboratory has finished examining the evidence.’

Holmes laid his index finger across his thin lips, and he stared vacantly for a few seconds. ‘Has it occurred to you, my dear Lestrade, that this incident might be connected with several other disturbances that occurred recently in London – specifically, the exploding lute during the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the exploding electric guitar in the Green Park pedestrian subway?’

Lestrade shook his head. ‘I cannot discern any connection between those incidents and this one, Holmes – beyond the superficial one that all three cases involved musical performances.’

‘And explosions,’ said Holmes.

‘I blush to say that we really don’t know that all three incidents involved explosive devices. Between ourselves, the Green Park pedestrian subway incident was not properly investigated. It was a busker in a subway, and, well . . . it was an easy one to let slip through the cracks. Naturally, we have investigated the incident at the play, but so far we have been unable to determine what damaged the lute, or what caused the actor to fall. Was it a small explosion from a planted device that damaged the lute? Or did Titania’s fairy inadvertently fire his popgun just as the scenery collapsed from some other cause, and crush the lute by falling on it? Both seem possibilities. One would suppose the cause should be obvious, but so far it isn’t. Our lab has the remains of the lute and is working on it. I can tell you this, it was a very small explosion, if explosion it was at all.’

‘That is the most curious feature of all these events,’ said Holmes.

‘What is?’

‘The smallness of the explosions.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Several months ago,’ said Holmes, ‘I came across a paper by a military analyst who argued that the greatest terrorist threat to mankind is not nuclear bombs that can blow up cities, but minibombs and microbombs that can damage individuals. He argued that microbombs, if spread widely throughout the population, would cause enormous psychological terror. They would affect individuals directly, in their own homes. No one would feel safe.’

Lestrade shrugged. ‘The idea that terrorists would be able to spread microbombs throughout a population is fantastical. I can’t really imagine it.’

‘Most people can’t imagine it,’ mused Holmes. ‘And therein lies the danger . . . tell me, Lestrade, did any music critic other than Wilkins and Bledsoe attend the concert?’

‘No.’

Holmes tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling a long while. Motionless. Then he began to shake his head, very faintly. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. ‘I fear your Mr Pilkington may be in serious danger.’

Lestrade stood up. ‘Really?’

‘I fear the worst, Lestrade. You must contact Pilkington immediately. Warn him not to listen to any music.’

‘What!’ said Lestrade.

‘It is absolutely crucial that he not listen to any music whatever,’ said Holmes. ‘He must stay away from radios, concert halls, CD players. Tell him not to even whistle.’

Lestrade looked bewildered. ‘If you say so, Holmes . . . but what—’

‘Then you must bring him here. He must wear exactly the same clothes he was planning to wear the night of the concert. Also, he must have on his person all the items he would have taken to the concert – glasses, watch, pen, breath mints, pad of paper, and so on.’

‘I have a busy day, Holmes . . . but if you think it important . . .’

‘Crucial. Would two o’clock suit you?’

Lestrade nodded. ‘I will be here at two o’clock with Maurice Pilkington.’ He grabbed his case.

When he had gone, Holmes looked exceedingly cheerful. ‘I’m off to perambulate in the park and ponder the curious case of the missing Shakespeare letter,’ said he. ‘Then I must return and practise my violin for several hours. I hope you won’t mind, Wilson.’

‘Fiddle to your heart’s content,’ I replied. ‘I have a luncheon appointment.’

It was a little after eleven in the morning when I stepped into a little wine bar off Fleet Street to meet Freddy Dunne. He sat at our usual corner table. He was one of my old newspaper colleagues, originally from Chicago. I had been thinking about my visit to Widcombe Manor, and I asked Freddy if he knew anything about a writer called Alexis Gray.

‘I know that he writes the “Delphi Diary” column in Arts Weekly, under the pseudonym Bif Carcanson,’ said Freddy. ‘His column is often provocative, sometimes wicked, occasionally wise. I understand he has a new book coming out. I can’t recall what it is about . . . some sort of literary history, I think. I’ve never met the chap.’

After lunch I headed back to the flat. As I navigated through London towards Baker Street, yesterday’s strange experiences at Widcombe Manor were much on my mind. I wondered if Holmes had gleaned any promising clues during our visit. I certainly had not. I had seen nothing that suggested anyone at Widcombe Manor had either the temperament or style to steal so much as a book of matches. What a strange group they were! There was Alexis holding forth grandly as if he were on stage, Grandpa Gray blowing off shots from an elephant gun or talking nonsense about India, Sir Hugh puffing on his pipe until it was shot out of his mouth, and Bart, the young mad scientist of the family, obsessed with tiny creatures and miniature cameras. Not to mention, of course, Lotte Linger floating like an ageing angel above the whole surreal scene. Only the lovely young Marianne Hideaway had seemed to me a normal person, a part of the real world. Amidst the quirks and turmoil she was a breath of sanity and sweetness.

I arrived back at the flat and had just taken my coat off when Lestrade arrived. With him was Maurice Pilkington, a portly, balding, slightly self-important, genial soul of fifty or so, with a rounded nose, merry eyes, jouncing jowls. He wore a pinstriped blue suit, vest, white shirt, pink tie, shiny black patent leather shoes. We four took seats by the window overlooking the green square.

‘Your instincts are impeccable, Mr Pilkington,’ said Holmes. ‘You suspected you may be in serious danger, and you are – even at this moment.’

Pilkington heaved his big body forward on his chair. He pulled a large white handkerchief from his hip pocket. He mopped his shining brow, then fell heavily back against the chair as if he’d just been struck. ‘You unsettle me, Mr Holmes.’

‘I have learnt,’ said Holmes, ‘that you and your two injured colleagues reviewed Mr Capinelli’s London concert last year, in March of 2008.’

‘True,’ said Pilkington.

‘All three reviews struck me as quite negative when I read them on the Web.’

‘Fair to say,’ said Pilkington. ‘They were negative, mostly.’

‘All three took particular exception to the way Capinelli played Paganini’s caprice number thirteen in B-flat minor.’

‘Very true,’ said Pilkington, nodding assent as he peered over the handkerchief drooping from his pudgy hand.

Holmes drew a folded paper from his inner jacket pocket. ‘Here are a few lines from your review: Few violinists could play this caprice so quickly as Mr Capinelli played it, and even fewer would care to. His blistering tempo transformed the music into a nearly unrecognizable blur. The prime virtue of this excessive speed was that the audience had to suffer only briefly.’

Pilkington laughed good-naturedly, then admonished Holmes with a half-raised finger. ‘A critic must be kind when he can, sir, but honest always. I feel obliged to warn the public about fiddlers who debase music for cheap effects that bring down the house.’

‘Of course,’ said Holmes.

‘Surely, Holmes,’ said Lestrade, ‘you are not suggesting that Capinelli was so outraged that he tried to kill his critics with minibombs?’

‘That doesn’t seem likely. But let us pursue this matter a little further.’ Holmes sprang to his feet and disappeared into his bedroom. A moment later he reappeared and walked towards us holding his violin.

Pilkington’s face registered shock and dismay, and he swept his chubby hand through the air – the one that held the handkerchief – as if to wave Holmes away. ‘Oh, please, Mr Holmes, spare us, spare us. I never critique an amateur.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ said Holmes.

‘I’m very glad of that, because . . . my heavens!’ Pilkington’s eyes bulged. ‘Is that a Stradivarius?’

‘Quick eyes you have, Mr Pilkington. I bought this violin in a shop in Tottenham Court Road for fifty-five shillings. I considered it a bargain.’

‘You jest!’

‘Not at all. Of course, that was some years ago. Now, if you don’t mind, I shall play it for you.’

Pilkington shrugged, held up his hands. ‘Carry on. What will you play?’

‘But first, you must take off all your clothes.’

Pilkington touched his right ear, tilting his head slightly. ‘My heavens! I have seldom had such a thrilling offer.’ He shuddered.

Chief Inspector Lestrade’s imperturbable calm was shattered. A strange light crept into his dark eyes. ‘What in God’s name are you saying, Holmes! Are you feeling well?’

‘Quite well,’ said Holmes. ‘You will pardon me if I get straight to the point, which is this: I believe Mr Pilkington is in deadly danger. A little experiment will prove whether I am right. If I am mistaken, I will offer my apologies. Stand up, sir, and disrobe! Wilson, would you be good enough to lend Mr Pilkington your dressing gown?’

Holmes’s manner was so severe, so self-assured, and so unbending that we all simply did as he told us to do. Pilkington removed his jacket, tie, shirt, trousers, and laid them on a chair. He removed everything but his undershorts and stockings. Holmes bid me to take his clothing, plus his brief case, wristwatch and glasses, and to pile it all on the hardwood floor in the middle of the dining area. Pilkington wrapped my dressing gown around him. It did not quite meet in the front, but it served to restore a little of his dignity. He sat uncomfortably on a wooden chair with his hands on his knees.

‘The hearing aide,’ said Holmes. ‘You must remove it, please.’

Pilkington removed it. ‘Be very careful with that,’ he said. ‘It is expensive.’

I put the hearing aide in his suit coat pocket, in the heap of clothing. Then Holmes put the violin to his chin and, with something of the air of a showman, he proclaimed, ‘Gentleman, I shall now attempt Paganini’s caprice in A minor, opus one, number twenty-four – the identical piece that Antoine Capinelli was playing two days ago when his performance was so shockingly interrupted by groans that startled the audience.’

‘You haven’t played a note and already you have startled us, Holmes,’ said Lestrade.

‘Yes,’ nodded Pilkington, his jowls jiggling. ‘Consider us very definitely startled, Mr Holmes. I feel as if I am acting in a comic opera – the madhouse scene, presumably.’

Holmes ignored this nervous commentary. He lifted the violin to his left shoulder, raised his chin, positioned his horsehair wand . . . and attacked the caprice. Notes leapt in wild profusion from his violin, batted this way and that by his darting bow. I had not imagined he could play so well. The Paganini caprices are devilishly difficult.

He had not proceeded very far, however, when a loud BANG made us all lurch in our chairs. The heap of clothes and personal effects in the middle of the dining room floor had given a little heave upward.

‘My God!’ cried Pilkington.

The clothes began to smoulder.

Lestrade darted into the dining room and grabbed a pitcher of water from the table, and he doused Pilkington’s smouldering belongings.

Holmes calmly laid his Strad on the mantle, then knelt by the heap of clothes and began to sort through them in gingerly fashion. At last he held up a piece of melted plastic. ‘Had you gone to the concert two nights ago, Mr Pilkington, you might now have been deaf – or worse. The microbomb appears to have been planted in your hearing aide.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Pilkington, leaning toward him.

Holmes repeated his statement.

‘How is that possible!’ gasped Pilkington.

‘A very good question,’ said Holmes.

‘I will interview Mr Antoine Capinelli immediately,’ said Lestrade.

‘I cannot believe you will learn anything from him,’ said Holmes. ‘No artist has sufficient energy, time or resources to bomb his critics in such a manner, even if he had sufficient anger.’ Holmes stalked across the room and flung himself into a chair, then threw back his head and closed his eyes. ‘Today we have learnt that someone is creating tiny explosive devices that are triggered by an audio signature. The targets so far have been a street busker, an actor, and three critics at a violin concert. Some very devious plot is afoot, Lestrade!’

‘I do not follow you,’ said Lestrade. He shook his head wearily. ‘I am not convinced. I do not see the connection between those three incidents.’

‘Music,’ said Holmes.

‘What!’ Lestrade raised an eyebrow. ‘We are looking for a man who doesn’t like music? That would narrow the field considerably.’

‘That would eliminate the field completely,’ said Pilkington, as he buttoned his damp shirt. ‘Have you ever met a person who doesn’t like music?’

‘Beware,’ said Holmes, ‘the man that hath not music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils!’

‘You surprise me again, Holmes,’ murmured Lestrade. ‘You produce the music of Paganini and the music of Shakespeare with equal ease.’

‘I have a reasonable good ear in music,’ said Holmes. ‘Let’s have the tongs and the bones.’

Pilkington laughed. ‘Let us have, rather, the A minor caprice on the Stradivarius. Would you be good enough to humour me, my dear Mr Holmes? You played the first bars so exquisitely that I crave the rest.’