The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson Read Free Book Online Page A

is a particular favourite of yours, is she not?’
    ‘She has a very fine voice,’ I replied, a little stiffly.
    ‘And a quite superb ankle. Well, what do you say, my dear fellow? Shall we brave the rain and go to see her?’
    ‘If you wish. It is entirely your decision.’
    Holmes was still chuckling with amusement when, a little later and well muffled up against the weather, we hailed a cab in Baker Street and set off for the Cambridge, supping first at Marcini’s ‡ on the way.
    Because of the rain, we had no difficulty in obtaining seats in the third row of the stalls, from which vantage point we had an excellent view of the stage and the chairman who introduced the acts.
    I cannot say that the earlier part of the programme particularlyengaged my interest. There was an indifferent low comedian, a group of slightly above-average high-wire performers, a contortionist in a leopard-skin leotard who contrived to twist his limbs into quite extraordinary positions, and a pair of performing seals which Holmes, for reasons best known to himself, applauded enthusiastically.
    For my part, I reserved my admiration for Marguerite Rossignol who appeared at the end of the first half of the bill.
    Those who have never seen the French Nightingale perform have missed one of the greatest artistes ever to grace a music-hall stage.
    She possessed not only a beautiful soprano voice, angelic in its effortless ability to reach a pure, high C, but also a full and yet graceful figure.
    That night, as I recall, she was wearing a gown of lavender-coloured silk, a shade which showed off to the best advantage her abundant corn-coloured hair, elegantly adorned with a single aigrette plume, and a pair of shoulders which appeared to have been carved from white alabaster.
    The setting also served to enhance her charms. She stood under an arched bower, covered with pink roses, and against a back-drop depicting a garden, full of flowers and blossoming trees.
    I can picture her even now, that lovely throat extended as, after singing several ballads, she ended her performance with a thrilling rendition of Godard’s ‘Berceuse’, * before the red velvet curtains closed before her to tumultuous applause.
    My palms were still warm with clapping, when Holmes tugged at my sleeve with the prosaic suggestion that we made our way to the bar.
    ‘A whisky and soda, Watson? If we hurry, we shall be among the first to engage the barmaid’s attention.’
    It was Holmes who bought the refreshments, carrying the glasses over to a padded bench in a corner among the potted palms where I was sitting, my mind still captivated by the enchantment of the French Nightingale’s performance.
    ‘Well,’ said he, regarding me with a smile, ‘are you not grateful, my dear fellow, that I managed to persuade you away from the fire?’
    Before I had time to reply, a commotion drew our attention to the far side of the room. A plump, pale man in evening clothes and, by his expression, in a state of considerable agitation, was trying to push his way through the crowd which now filled the bar.
    Above the noise of laughter and conversation, I could hear his voice calling out in great urgency, ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention! Is there a doctor in the house?’
    It was such an unexpected request that at first I failed to respond and it was Holmes who pulled me to my feet, at the same time signalling with his arm.
    ‘My friend, Dr Watson, is a medical practitioner,’ he announced as the man approached us. ‘Pray what is the matter?’
    ‘I should prefer not to discuss it here,’ the stranger replied, glancing uneasily about him at the curious faces which pressed in on us at all sides.
    Once we had accompanied him outside to the privacy of a corner in the foyer, he continued, mopping his moist face with a large white handkerchief, ‘My name is Merriwick and I am the manager. A most appalling tragedy has occurred, Dr Watson. One of our artistes has