much I tried I was froze. I was trembling so much I couldn’t even hold the key straight. And downstairs on the landing Mr Wharton hysterical – sobbing like me now, clinging to ‘is assistant Frederick like ’is life depended on it. You’ve gotta come to Albany right away, Mr Holmes, there’s blood dripping from the ceiling in Mr Wharton’s bedroom.’
‘Who lives upstairs? Whose door can’t you bear to open, Shadwell? Who is it residing in the apartment directly above Gryce Wharton? Come on man, out with it.’
‘Mr Christopher Chymes, sir.’
22
Bloodbath
Holmes and myself have long been acquainted with pathology and human anatomy. After all, I am a trained doctor who saw service in Afghanistan, and he a consulting detective. Mr Shadwell, a decent, caring sort, was also in his profession used to dealing with crises. Even so the horror of the murder scene proved too much for the poor fellow to stomach and he quite properly left us to it, fully resigned that for the first time in its long and illustrious history, Albany should play host to a fully-fledged murder inquiry instigated by none other than Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I promised Holmes not to irritate readers by ‘sensationalising’ certain forensic details. The minutiae of examination of the scene by police officers can be found on file (incidentally, the case remains unsolved), but I shall instead relate that the composer appeared to have been caught unawares, asleep in the master bedroom, and that he was clawed to pieces and his body parts distributed around the flat.
‘So, Ethby Sands was definitely shamming, then,’ said I, as our cab trotted along Piccadilly, bell tinkling, carriage lamps dimly aglow. ‘The cyanide had little effect.’
‘By Jove, that appears to be the case, my dear Watson. I think, for diversion, despite this fog, we shall seek out St James’s Hall, for there is a first-rate recital of Mozart’s Overture to
The Magic Flute
starting in half an hour.’
23
Letter from New York
The Giant Rats of Sumatra
was enjoying its season on Broadway to great acclaim, the London production coming to the end of a highly successful run. It is certain the murders of its composer Christopher Chymes and lyricist Philip Troy, generated a huge wealth of interest amongst members of the public, but it would be on the whole wrong to judge the success of the light opera solely on the grounds of morbid publicity, for many of the tunes were first-rate and audiences both here and in America flocked in droves and applauded the stage presentation. The choreography, most importantly the show, appealed to all ages and a wide range of social classes. But, I digress.
Eighteen months had passed and I was married to the love of my life, Miss Mary Morstan. I had since established a modest practice in Paddington inherited from my predecessor, who had retired on the grounds of ill health.
One warm evening in July, it so happened that both of us were absent from home, walking out in Regent’s Park and attending a bandstand concert given by the Royal Grenadiers. Our maid answered a summons to the front door of our modest terrace and, as she later put it, ‘a tall chap, pale an’ thin as a beanstalk with a big beaky nose what made ’im look like a vulture asked me to give you this, sir.’
Here, then, was a manila envelope addressed to me and bearing my dear friend’s neat, copperplate writing.
Mary was for an early bed, so I hurried to the privacy of my surgery and tore open the envelope. Lighting my pipe, I settled down behind my desk and perused the contents – a couple of pages, the top missive a letter from Ethby Sands in New York, the other a short printed article cut out from the New York Times and gummed on a piece of paper with an accompanying note in the margin by Holmes:
My Dear Holmes,
I am in New York for the Broadway production of the light opera The Giant Rats of Sumatra, for which incidentally I do not receive a penny.
‘Who lives upstairs? Whose door can’t you bear to open, Shadwell? Who is it residing in the apartment directly above Gryce Wharton? Come on man, out with it.’
‘Mr Christopher Chymes, sir.’
22
Bloodbath
Holmes and myself have long been acquainted with pathology and human anatomy. After all, I am a trained doctor who saw service in Afghanistan, and he a consulting detective. Mr Shadwell, a decent, caring sort, was also in his profession used to dealing with crises. Even so the horror of the murder scene proved too much for the poor fellow to stomach and he quite properly left us to it, fully resigned that for the first time in its long and illustrious history, Albany should play host to a fully-fledged murder inquiry instigated by none other than Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I promised Holmes not to irritate readers by ‘sensationalising’ certain forensic details. The minutiae of examination of the scene by police officers can be found on file (incidentally, the case remains unsolved), but I shall instead relate that the composer appeared to have been caught unawares, asleep in the master bedroom, and that he was clawed to pieces and his body parts distributed around the flat.
‘So, Ethby Sands was definitely shamming, then,’ said I, as our cab trotted along Piccadilly, bell tinkling, carriage lamps dimly aglow. ‘The cyanide had little effect.’
‘By Jove, that appears to be the case, my dear Watson. I think, for diversion, despite this fog, we shall seek out St James’s Hall, for there is a first-rate recital of Mozart’s Overture to
The Magic Flute
starting in half an hour.’
23
Letter from New York
The Giant Rats of Sumatra
was enjoying its season on Broadway to great acclaim, the London production coming to the end of a highly successful run. It is certain the murders of its composer Christopher Chymes and lyricist Philip Troy, generated a huge wealth of interest amongst members of the public, but it would be on the whole wrong to judge the success of the light opera solely on the grounds of morbid publicity, for many of the tunes were first-rate and audiences both here and in America flocked in droves and applauded the stage presentation. The choreography, most importantly the show, appealed to all ages and a wide range of social classes. But, I digress.
Eighteen months had passed and I was married to the love of my life, Miss Mary Morstan. I had since established a modest practice in Paddington inherited from my predecessor, who had retired on the grounds of ill health.
One warm evening in July, it so happened that both of us were absent from home, walking out in Regent’s Park and attending a bandstand concert given by the Royal Grenadiers. Our maid answered a summons to the front door of our modest terrace and, as she later put it, ‘a tall chap, pale an’ thin as a beanstalk with a big beaky nose what made ’im look like a vulture asked me to give you this, sir.’
Here, then, was a manila envelope addressed to me and bearing my dear friend’s neat, copperplate writing.
Mary was for an early bed, so I hurried to the privacy of my surgery and tore open the envelope. Lighting my pipe, I settled down behind my desk and perused the contents – a couple of pages, the top missive a letter from Ethby Sands in New York, the other a short printed article cut out from the New York Times and gummed on a piece of paper with an accompanying note in the margin by Holmes:
My Dear Holmes,
I am in New York for the Broadway production of the light opera The Giant Rats of Sumatra, for which incidentally I do not receive a penny.
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