appearing on her withered cheeks.
‘No, she ’ad not!’ she retorted angrily. ‘And anyone as says she ’ad is lyin’.’ Scrambling down from the chair on to her tiny legs, Miss Budd scuttled away across the room, adding over her shoulder, ‘I’m off! I’m not stayin’ ’ere to listen to tittle-tattle.’
‘Please be good enough to send Badger to me,’ Holmes called after her.
Her only reply was the bang of the door as she slammed it shut behind her.
Holmes leaned back in his chair with a chuckle.
‘Quite an indomitable character and obviously fiercely loyal to her mistress. Well, if Miss Budd is not prepared to gossip, perhaps Badger will oblige us. You followed the logic behind my questions, Watson?’
‘Yes, I think so, Holmes. The murderer must have entered the dressing-room and concealed himself behind the screen while Miss Budd was absent, waiting to escort Mademoiselle Rossignol from the stage. As it was part of a regular routine, this surely implies that, whoever he was, he must have known of the habit and therefore is not someone from outside but is more likely to be found either among the performers or the theatre staff?’
‘Well reasoned, my dear fellow! You are becoming so familiar with my deductive methods that I can see I shall have to look to my laurels. We may further deduce that, when Miss Budd left the dressing-room on the second occasion to fetch the half-pint of porter, the murderer emerged from his place of concealment and proceeded to strangle Mademoiselle Rossignol with one of her own stockings. Do make a note of that fact, by the way. It is quite crucial to the investigation. There remains one vital question to which I hope Badger will supply the answer. At what point did the murderer leave the dressing-room? Ah, I think that may be him now!’ Holmes broke off to exclaim as there came a knock on the door. ‘Come!’
At this invitation, a lugubrious man in a cap and muffler entered, the same individual whom I had seen a little earlier looking out from the booth beside the stage-door. Although his hair was grey, his walrus moustache was dyed a rich mahogany shade from a liberal consumption of cheap shag tobacco and, I suspected from the odour permeating the air about him, of strong ale as well.
Badger had plenty to say on the subject of Mademoiselle Rossignol’s movements in answer to Holmes’ first question.
‘Yes, I saw ’er come off stage, sir, with ’er dresser,’ he said, after giving a few preliminary wheezes like an old harmonium which is reluctant to produce its first note. ‘I can see every thin’ what goes on from that cubby-’ole of mine. Saw ’er go into ’er dressing-room; saw Aggie Budd come out again a few minutes later to go off for her ’er ladyship’s ’alf pint of porter and I saw ’er come back, too.’
‘One moment, pray,’ Holmes said, holding up a hand to stem Badger’s flow. ‘Let us go back to a point a little earlier. Did you see anyone enter the dressing-room between the time Miss Budd left it to wait for her mistress and their return?’
Badger blew out his moustache as he considered this question.
‘Can’t say I did, sir. But I wasn’t watchin’ all that carefully at that particular time. There was too many of ’em comin’ and goin’. Them seals, for one. I ’ates performin’ h’animals!’ Badger exclaimed suddenly in an unexpected outburst of rage. ‘Leavin’ their callin’-cards everywhere for others to clean up after ’em and needin’ fish and raw meat at h’ungodly hours! It h’aint Christian! Give me h’acrobats any day!’
‘Yes, quite!’ Holmes murmured. ‘But pray let us return to the subject, Badger. What happened after Miss Budd came back from the Crown public house?’
‘Well, the next thing I knew, she’d let out this scream – blood-curdlin’, it was, sir – and when I went to h’investigate, there was Mam’zelle lyin’ stretched out across the dressin’-table as dead as a
‘No, she ’ad not!’ she retorted angrily. ‘And anyone as says she ’ad is lyin’.’ Scrambling down from the chair on to her tiny legs, Miss Budd scuttled away across the room, adding over her shoulder, ‘I’m off! I’m not stayin’ ’ere to listen to tittle-tattle.’
‘Please be good enough to send Badger to me,’ Holmes called after her.
Her only reply was the bang of the door as she slammed it shut behind her.
Holmes leaned back in his chair with a chuckle.
‘Quite an indomitable character and obviously fiercely loyal to her mistress. Well, if Miss Budd is not prepared to gossip, perhaps Badger will oblige us. You followed the logic behind my questions, Watson?’
‘Yes, I think so, Holmes. The murderer must have entered the dressing-room and concealed himself behind the screen while Miss Budd was absent, waiting to escort Mademoiselle Rossignol from the stage. As it was part of a regular routine, this surely implies that, whoever he was, he must have known of the habit and therefore is not someone from outside but is more likely to be found either among the performers or the theatre staff?’
‘Well reasoned, my dear fellow! You are becoming so familiar with my deductive methods that I can see I shall have to look to my laurels. We may further deduce that, when Miss Budd left the dressing-room on the second occasion to fetch the half-pint of porter, the murderer emerged from his place of concealment and proceeded to strangle Mademoiselle Rossignol with one of her own stockings. Do make a note of that fact, by the way. It is quite crucial to the investigation. There remains one vital question to which I hope Badger will supply the answer. At what point did the murderer leave the dressing-room? Ah, I think that may be him now!’ Holmes broke off to exclaim as there came a knock on the door. ‘Come!’
At this invitation, a lugubrious man in a cap and muffler entered, the same individual whom I had seen a little earlier looking out from the booth beside the stage-door. Although his hair was grey, his walrus moustache was dyed a rich mahogany shade from a liberal consumption of cheap shag tobacco and, I suspected from the odour permeating the air about him, of strong ale as well.
Badger had plenty to say on the subject of Mademoiselle Rossignol’s movements in answer to Holmes’ first question.
‘Yes, I saw ’er come off stage, sir, with ’er dresser,’ he said, after giving a few preliminary wheezes like an old harmonium which is reluctant to produce its first note. ‘I can see every thin’ what goes on from that cubby-’ole of mine. Saw ’er go into ’er dressing-room; saw Aggie Budd come out again a few minutes later to go off for her ’er ladyship’s ’alf pint of porter and I saw ’er come back, too.’
‘One moment, pray,’ Holmes said, holding up a hand to stem Badger’s flow. ‘Let us go back to a point a little earlier. Did you see anyone enter the dressing-room between the time Miss Budd left it to wait for her mistress and their return?’
Badger blew out his moustache as he considered this question.
‘Can’t say I did, sir. But I wasn’t watchin’ all that carefully at that particular time. There was too many of ’em comin’ and goin’. Them seals, for one. I ’ates performin’ h’animals!’ Badger exclaimed suddenly in an unexpected outburst of rage. ‘Leavin’ their callin’-cards everywhere for others to clean up after ’em and needin’ fish and raw meat at h’ungodly hours! It h’aint Christian! Give me h’acrobats any day!’
‘Yes, quite!’ Holmes murmured. ‘But pray let us return to the subject, Badger. What happened after Miss Budd came back from the Crown public house?’
‘Well, the next thing I knew, she’d let out this scream – blood-curdlin’, it was, sir – and when I went to h’investigate, there was Mam’zelle lyin’ stretched out across the dressin’-table as dead as a
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