sat straighter in his chair, re-fastening his collar with nervous little fingers.
“Do you not find the fact that both murders occurred within the space of twenty-four hours a telling coincidence?”
“Inspector Lestrade didn’t appear to find it so. He didn’t even mention the McCarthy affair when we talked this morning.
“The police have their own ways of functioning,” Holmes stated tactfully. “And I have mine. I may tell you flatly that the deaths are related.”
“How so?”
“They were achieved by the same hand.”
Sullivan smiled faintly. “I have read Dr. Watson’s accounts of your cases with the liveliest interest,” he confessed, “and have always found them agreeably stimulating. Nevertheless, you will forgive me if, in this instance, I do not deem your word sufficient proof.”
Holmes sighed, realising that Sullivan was no fool. He would have to play more of the cards in his hand.
“Were you aware, Sir Arthur, that Jessie Rutland was Jonathan McCarthy’s mistress?” The composer blanched as though his fatal ailment had flared up again.
“That’s impossible!” he retorted with heat. “She was no such thing.”
“I assure you that she was.” Holmes leaned forward earnestly, his eyes bright. “Our informant, whom I am not yet at liberty to disclose, assures me that she was. His accuracy in several other small matters forces me to trust him in this, the more so as it provides an otherwise missing link between these two crimes.”
‘What small matters?”
“For one thing, he states flatly that a leading member of the Savoy company uses drugs because Mr. Gilbert makes him so nervous.”
“That is a damned lie.” But he spoke without conviction and subsided into thoughtful silence. Holmes surveyed him coolly for a few moments, then leaned forward again.
“A moment ago you violently resisted the idea of Jonathan McCarthy as Jessie Rutland’s lover. It wasn’t merely because you despised the man. You knew better, didn’t you?”
“It seems pointless now.”
The grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes grew brighter than ever; they burned like twin beacons.
“I give you my word it is of the utmost moment. Jessie Rutland is dead; we cannot restore her to life or confer upon her any advantages, save, possibly, a decent funeral. But there thing we can do, and that is to bring her murderer to book.”
It was now Sullivan’s turn to study Holmes, and this he did for what seemed like a solid minute, glaring at him through his pince-nez, without moving, his hand pressed to his side. “Very well. What do you want to know?”
The detective breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. “Tell us about Jack Point.”
“Who?”
“Forgive me, that is the name by which McCarthy referred to him in his engagement calendar. He appears to have made a practise of substituting characters from your operas for the real names of people. The appointment in his diary for the night of his death was with Jack Point. Point is the hapless jester who loses his love in Yeomen of the Guard, is he not?”
“He is! He is!” Sullivan was impressed by the detective’s familiarity with his work. “So you think Jessie had a second lover?”
“You’ve as good as told me she had, Sir Arthur.”
Sullivan frowned, reached into his breast pocket, and withdrew a cigarette case. He extracted a cigarette, tapped it several times in a nervous tattoo against the box, then allowed Holmes to light it for him, throwing his head back gratefully as he blew out a cloud of smoke.
“You must understand first that Gilbert runs the Savoy,” he began. “He runs it like a military outpost, with the strictest discipline, on stage and off. You may have observed that the men’s and women’s dressing rooms are on opposite sides of the stage. Congregation betwixt them is strictly forbidden. Conduct of the company while in the theatre–and to a very great degree outside of it–must satisfy Gilbert’s mania for propriety.
“If
“Do you not find the fact that both murders occurred within the space of twenty-four hours a telling coincidence?”
“Inspector Lestrade didn’t appear to find it so. He didn’t even mention the McCarthy affair when we talked this morning.
“The police have their own ways of functioning,” Holmes stated tactfully. “And I have mine. I may tell you flatly that the deaths are related.”
“How so?”
“They were achieved by the same hand.”
Sullivan smiled faintly. “I have read Dr. Watson’s accounts of your cases with the liveliest interest,” he confessed, “and have always found them agreeably stimulating. Nevertheless, you will forgive me if, in this instance, I do not deem your word sufficient proof.”
Holmes sighed, realising that Sullivan was no fool. He would have to play more of the cards in his hand.
“Were you aware, Sir Arthur, that Jessie Rutland was Jonathan McCarthy’s mistress?” The composer blanched as though his fatal ailment had flared up again.
“That’s impossible!” he retorted with heat. “She was no such thing.”
“I assure you that she was.” Holmes leaned forward earnestly, his eyes bright. “Our informant, whom I am not yet at liberty to disclose, assures me that she was. His accuracy in several other small matters forces me to trust him in this, the more so as it provides an otherwise missing link between these two crimes.”
‘What small matters?”
“For one thing, he states flatly that a leading member of the Savoy company uses drugs because Mr. Gilbert makes him so nervous.”
“That is a damned lie.” But he spoke without conviction and subsided into thoughtful silence. Holmes surveyed him coolly for a few moments, then leaned forward again.
“A moment ago you violently resisted the idea of Jonathan McCarthy as Jessie Rutland’s lover. It wasn’t merely because you despised the man. You knew better, didn’t you?”
“It seems pointless now.”
The grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes grew brighter than ever; they burned like twin beacons.
“I give you my word it is of the utmost moment. Jessie Rutland is dead; we cannot restore her to life or confer upon her any advantages, save, possibly, a decent funeral. But there thing we can do, and that is to bring her murderer to book.”
It was now Sullivan’s turn to study Holmes, and this he did for what seemed like a solid minute, glaring at him through his pince-nez, without moving, his hand pressed to his side. “Very well. What do you want to know?”
The detective breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. “Tell us about Jack Point.”
“Who?”
“Forgive me, that is the name by which McCarthy referred to him in his engagement calendar. He appears to have made a practise of substituting characters from your operas for the real names of people. The appointment in his diary for the night of his death was with Jack Point. Point is the hapless jester who loses his love in Yeomen of the Guard, is he not?”
“He is! He is!” Sullivan was impressed by the detective’s familiarity with his work. “So you think Jessie had a second lover?”
“You’ve as good as told me she had, Sir Arthur.”
Sullivan frowned, reached into his breast pocket, and withdrew a cigarette case. He extracted a cigarette, tapped it several times in a nervous tattoo against the box, then allowed Holmes to light it for him, throwing his head back gratefully as he blew out a cloud of smoke.
“You must understand first that Gilbert runs the Savoy,” he began. “He runs it like a military outpost, with the strictest discipline, on stage and off. You may have observed that the men’s and women’s dressing rooms are on opposite sides of the stage. Congregation betwixt them is strictly forbidden. Conduct of the company while in the theatre–and to a very great degree outside of it–must satisfy Gilbert’s mania for propriety.
“If
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