for her performance.
Merriwick, I assumed, had made a mistake.
It was only when I saw, propped up beside her on the dressing-table, the corn-coloured hair, still adorned with its aigrette plume and looking disturbingly like a severed head, that I realized the mistake was entirely mine.
Holmes, who had strode purposefully into the room, was bending down to examine the body.
‘She has not been dead long,’ he announced. ‘She is still warm.’
He broke off with an exclamation of disgust to wipe the tips of his fingers upon his pocket handkerchief.
Coming forward, I saw that the pure white marble of the shoulders was smudged where Holmes’ hand had brushed against the skin and that it was nothing more than a thick layer of white powder and grease-paint.
‘And strangled, too, with one of her own stockings,’ Holmes continued, pointing to the wisp of lavender-coloured silk which had been drawn tight about the throat. ‘She is still wearing the other.’
Had he not drawn my attention to this fact, I might not have noticed, in my dazed condition, the feet which protruded from below the hem of the gown, one clad, the other bare.
‘Well, well!’ Holmes remarked. ‘This is all distinctly relevant.’
But he did not say to what and immediately sauntered off, first twitching aside some curtains to reveal a heavily barred window before peering behind the screen, a brief examination which seemed to satisfy him for he said, ‘I have seen enough, Watson. It is time we spoke to any potential witnesses to this tragedy. Let us find Merriwick.’
Merriwick needed no seeking out. He was waiting for us outside in the passage, anxious to inform us that the theatre was now empty, the audience having been dismissed on his instructions with some specious excuse, and that he was entirely at our disposal. On Holmes’ inquiry if we could question whoever had found the body, Merriwick conducted us to his office, a comfortably appointed room, and then departed to fetch Mademoiselle Rossignol’s dresser, Miss Aggie Budd, who had made the fatal discovery.
Shortly afterwards, Miss Budd entered the room. She was a sharp-eyed, elderly Cockney woman, dressed in shabby black and so diminutive of stature that when, on Holmes’ invitation she sat down on the straight-backed chair he indicated, her feet barely touched the floor.
‘I suppose,’ said she, not at all intimidated and regarding us with a pair of little, round, black eyes, as bright as boot buttons,‘that you’ll want to know about ’ow I came back to the dressin’-room and found Mademoiselle dead?’
‘Later,’ Holmes told her. ‘For the moment, I am more concerned with what happened before that, when Mademoiselle Rossignol was still on stage. You were in her dressing-room, I assume, waiting for her to finish her performance? At what point did you leave the room and for how long were you gone?’
The query was as much of a surprise to me as to Miss Budd who countered it with a question of her own which I, too, was anxious to ask although I would not have framed it in quite the same manner.
‘’Ere!’ she cried, her shrivelled features lively with suspicion. ‘’Ow did you know that?’
Holmes must have seen my expression of astonishment as well as hers for when he replied, he addressed us both.
‘Oh, it was simply a matter of deduction,’ said he, with a shrug. ‘The carpet behind the screen is liberally sprinkled with white dust where no doubt Mademoiselle Rossignol’s shoulders were powdered before she put on her gown. Three sets of footprints were discernible in the dust, all of them fresh. Two were small and belonged to women; yours, Miss Budd, I believe, and Mademoiselle Rossignol’s. The other set of marks were much larger and were indisputably those of a man. Unfortunately, they are too blurred to offer any distinguishing features as to exact size or to any patterning on the soles. However, the inference is obvious. A man, presumably the murderer,
Merriwick, I assumed, had made a mistake.
It was only when I saw, propped up beside her on the dressing-table, the corn-coloured hair, still adorned with its aigrette plume and looking disturbingly like a severed head, that I realized the mistake was entirely mine.
Holmes, who had strode purposefully into the room, was bending down to examine the body.
‘She has not been dead long,’ he announced. ‘She is still warm.’
He broke off with an exclamation of disgust to wipe the tips of his fingers upon his pocket handkerchief.
Coming forward, I saw that the pure white marble of the shoulders was smudged where Holmes’ hand had brushed against the skin and that it was nothing more than a thick layer of white powder and grease-paint.
‘And strangled, too, with one of her own stockings,’ Holmes continued, pointing to the wisp of lavender-coloured silk which had been drawn tight about the throat. ‘She is still wearing the other.’
Had he not drawn my attention to this fact, I might not have noticed, in my dazed condition, the feet which protruded from below the hem of the gown, one clad, the other bare.
‘Well, well!’ Holmes remarked. ‘This is all distinctly relevant.’
But he did not say to what and immediately sauntered off, first twitching aside some curtains to reveal a heavily barred window before peering behind the screen, a brief examination which seemed to satisfy him for he said, ‘I have seen enough, Watson. It is time we spoke to any potential witnesses to this tragedy. Let us find Merriwick.’
Merriwick needed no seeking out. He was waiting for us outside in the passage, anxious to inform us that the theatre was now empty, the audience having been dismissed on his instructions with some specious excuse, and that he was entirely at our disposal. On Holmes’ inquiry if we could question whoever had found the body, Merriwick conducted us to his office, a comfortably appointed room, and then departed to fetch Mademoiselle Rossignol’s dresser, Miss Aggie Budd, who had made the fatal discovery.
Shortly afterwards, Miss Budd entered the room. She was a sharp-eyed, elderly Cockney woman, dressed in shabby black and so diminutive of stature that when, on Holmes’ invitation she sat down on the straight-backed chair he indicated, her feet barely touched the floor.
‘I suppose,’ said she, not at all intimidated and regarding us with a pair of little, round, black eyes, as bright as boot buttons,‘that you’ll want to know about ’ow I came back to the dressin’-room and found Mademoiselle dead?’
‘Later,’ Holmes told her. ‘For the moment, I am more concerned with what happened before that, when Mademoiselle Rossignol was still on stage. You were in her dressing-room, I assume, waiting for her to finish her performance? At what point did you leave the room and for how long were you gone?’
The query was as much of a surprise to me as to Miss Budd who countered it with a question of her own which I, too, was anxious to ask although I would not have framed it in quite the same manner.
‘’Ere!’ she cried, her shrivelled features lively with suspicion. ‘’Ow did you know that?’
Holmes must have seen my expression of astonishment as well as hers for when he replied, he addressed us both.
‘Oh, it was simply a matter of deduction,’ said he, with a shrug. ‘The carpet behind the screen is liberally sprinkled with white dust where no doubt Mademoiselle Rossignol’s shoulders were powdered before she put on her gown. Three sets of footprints were discernible in the dust, all of them fresh. Two were small and belonged to women; yours, Miss Budd, I believe, and Mademoiselle Rossignol’s. The other set of marks were much larger and were indisputably those of a man. Unfortunately, they are too blurred to offer any distinguishing features as to exact size or to any patterning on the soles. However, the inference is obvious. A man, presumably the murderer,
Similar Books
