Part 3 A Circus in Piccadilly by M.M.Wake
‘Sit down’, Doyle commanded firmly as he walked slowly towards me.
I held the coat tightly, looking squarely at him.
‘Sit down’, Doyle stated again, this time almost an order.
Quite dazed, yet still clutching the coat, I did as was bid me and sat in the chair. Doyle strode up to my side and plucked the coat from my grasp.
‘I see you have been putting two and two together my friend, well, what do they add up to’?
I looked at Doyle with my mouth open, I did not know what to say, or even knew what I was really thinking. ‘Blood on a coat’, a ‘murder’, ‘mystery walks at midnight’?
I was still half asleep, my head in a fog of brandy from the previous evening.
Doyle continued to stare at me steadily, those brooding eyes steely and unblinkered, the handsome face directly in front of mine.
‘I, I, don’t know....’ I stumbled over the clumsy words, feeling myself redden under his steady gaze.
Doyle glared down at me, his hand reaching out and landing firmly on my shoulder.
‘My good lord man, lighten up a little’, and with that Doyle started laughing the most hearty of laughs, his eyes twinkling with merriment.
‘My dear Samuel, I must apologise, my little joke, but your face, holding my blood stained coat’, and with that he broke off again into a throaty guffaw.
I sat upright, trying to compose myself and regain some of the dignity I felt I had lost, though how, I wasn’t certain.
‘I heard you come in last night,...after midnight’, I managed to speak the words, my voice gravelly under the strain.
Doyle smiled down at me in sympathy.
‘I know my dear fellow, I noticed you feigning sleep last night, though why the devil you did, I’m not certain’?
‘How did you know I wasn’t asleep?’I felt embarrassed having been found out.
Doyle laughed again. ’My dear Samuel, your body was as rigid as a board, your breathing controlled and your eyes twitching, not the signs of a sleeper’.
Ruffled by the revelation I felt the need to assert myself. ‘Well, what about the coat, the blood’?
Doyle raised his eyebrows.
‘I mean, you were out last night, and the murder, I mean....’? I tailed off, not knowing where my conversation was leading.
‘I see’, pondered Doyle. ‘You think me a murderer’?
‘Of course not, I, well, I mean..........’, truth be told, I did not know what I meant.
Doyle smiled. ‘I’m sorry Thompson; I do owe you an explanation. I have been teasing with you, please forgive me’. With that, Doyle sat in the chair opposite and began his tale;
‘I am in the habit of taking a late night stroll over the Heath, it helps clear my head. I enjoy the concealing nature of the darkness, making shadows of everything. I can think in the dark without the distractions of light. Last night I took my usual stroll and was standing watching the stars over Parliament Hill when I heard a scuffling behind me in the trees. It would have been past midnight at that point. Approaching the copse I could make out the form of a man staggering back along the track. I presumed him drunk at the time and probably up to no good, but more intrigued than concerned I stepped into the wood. I could hardly see, the moon well hidden by the branches and it took a while before my eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
The flash of something pale amongst the dark caught my eye. It was the dress of the unfortunate Fany Flowers. Her poor, mutilated body lay before me, her pretty head contorted and twisted to one side, the eyes wide in fear , even in death. There had obviously been a struggle at the scene. If only my walk had taken me in that direction half an hour earlier. Looking down over the young, lifeless woman, the hacked limbs, I noticed one of the small delicate hands clenched tightly. I reached across the body, and that my dear man is how I became to be in the possession of a blood stained coat’.
Doyle paused. I looked at him in wonderment, hardly believing my ears.
‘Why didn’t you notify the police’? I enquired with a whisper to suit the mood.
‘Out at midnight on the Heath, with a body and a blood stained coat, I think not Samuel’.
‘Well,’ I stammered.
‘Well’. Doyle threw the word back at me.
‘I mean, what happened next, what happens next’?
Rising, Doyle walked to his desk, picked something up, and returned to his seat, concealing something within his left hand.
This time I raised by eyebrows in question.
‘Here’, Doyle leaned over and tapping my arm, dropped the content of his hand into mine.
I held the coat tightly, looking squarely at him.
‘Sit down’, Doyle stated again, this time almost an order.
Quite dazed, yet still clutching the coat, I did as was bid me and sat in the chair. Doyle strode up to my side and plucked the coat from my grasp.
‘I see you have been putting two and two together my friend, well, what do they add up to’?
I looked at Doyle with my mouth open, I did not know what to say, or even knew what I was really thinking. ‘Blood on a coat’, a ‘murder’, ‘mystery walks at midnight’?
I was still half asleep, my head in a fog of brandy from the previous evening.
Doyle continued to stare at me steadily, those brooding eyes steely and unblinkered, the handsome face directly in front of mine.
‘I, I, don’t know....’ I stumbled over the clumsy words, feeling myself redden under his steady gaze.
Doyle glared down at me, his hand reaching out and landing firmly on my shoulder.
‘My good lord man, lighten up a little’, and with that Doyle started laughing the most hearty of laughs, his eyes twinkling with merriment.
‘My dear Samuel, I must apologise, my little joke, but your face, holding my blood stained coat’, and with that he broke off again into a throaty guffaw.
I sat upright, trying to compose myself and regain some of the dignity I felt I had lost, though how, I wasn’t certain.
‘I heard you come in last night,...after midnight’, I managed to speak the words, my voice gravelly under the strain.
Doyle smiled down at me in sympathy.
‘I know my dear fellow, I noticed you feigning sleep last night, though why the devil you did, I’m not certain’?
‘How did you know I wasn’t asleep?’I felt embarrassed having been found out.
Doyle laughed again. ’My dear Samuel, your body was as rigid as a board, your breathing controlled and your eyes twitching, not the signs of a sleeper’.
Ruffled by the revelation I felt the need to assert myself. ‘Well, what about the coat, the blood’?
Doyle raised his eyebrows.
‘I mean, you were out last night, and the murder, I mean....’? I tailed off, not knowing where my conversation was leading.
‘I see’, pondered Doyle. ‘You think me a murderer’?
‘Of course not, I, well, I mean..........’, truth be told, I did not know what I meant.
Doyle smiled. ‘I’m sorry Thompson; I do owe you an explanation. I have been teasing with you, please forgive me’. With that, Doyle sat in the chair opposite and began his tale;
‘I am in the habit of taking a late night stroll over the Heath, it helps clear my head. I enjoy the concealing nature of the darkness, making shadows of everything. I can think in the dark without the distractions of light. Last night I took my usual stroll and was standing watching the stars over Parliament Hill when I heard a scuffling behind me in the trees. It would have been past midnight at that point. Approaching the copse I could make out the form of a man staggering back along the track. I presumed him drunk at the time and probably up to no good, but more intrigued than concerned I stepped into the wood. I could hardly see, the moon well hidden by the branches and it took a while before my eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
The flash of something pale amongst the dark caught my eye. It was the dress of the unfortunate Fany Flowers. Her poor, mutilated body lay before me, her pretty head contorted and twisted to one side, the eyes wide in fear , even in death. There had obviously been a struggle at the scene. If only my walk had taken me in that direction half an hour earlier. Looking down over the young, lifeless woman, the hacked limbs, I noticed one of the small delicate hands clenched tightly. I reached across the body, and that my dear man is how I became to be in the possession of a blood stained coat’.
Doyle paused. I looked at him in wonderment, hardly believing my ears.
‘Why didn’t you notify the police’? I enquired with a whisper to suit the mood.
‘Out at midnight on the Heath, with a body and a blood stained coat, I think not Samuel’.
‘Well,’ I stammered.
‘Well’. Doyle threw the word back at me.
‘I mean, what happened next, what happens next’?
Rising, Doyle walked to his desk, picked something up, and returned to his seat, concealing something within his left hand.
This time I raised by eyebrows in question.
‘Here’, Doyle leaned over and tapping my arm, dropped the content of his hand into mine.
I looked down into my palm. There lay a small brass button, adorned with the image of a lion
in the centre of a cross, 4 star like shapes with writing around the edge. I glanced back at
Doyle quizzically.
‘Australian’, he said matter-of-factly.
I looked at the button again and then back to Doyle.
Doyle sighed, ‘New South Wales Military Forces’.
Again I looked back.
‘This button belongs to the coat of a man serving in the New South Wales Military Forces’.
I sat upright and gazed at the small round button in my hand,’ how can you tell’? I asked.
'Just using straight forward logic my dear friend, anyway this lettering around the edges ‘NSW Military Forces gives it away, don’t you think’?
I looked back at the button.
‘And if you turn the button over it actually has the button manufacturer, ‘Price and Co-Sydney, you don’t really need to be a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ to work these things out my good man, just use your eyes a bit more’.
‘So this was ripped off a coat by the victim, the coat of the murderer, the coat of the ‘Midnight Terror’? , my hand trembled under the weight of the awful conclusion.
‘Perhaps’, stated Doyle cooly, ‘perhaps’.
With that Doyle seemed to fall into a state of reverie, his hand raised to his chin as if pondering some vital information.
I sat and waited, unable to move, lest I disturb the man , his brow now creased as if some dark thoughts, long swept away had started to re-surface.
I realised I was gazing directly at him, admiring that noble face and perhaps undertaking some dreaming of my own, when Doyle’s gaze altered course and his unblinkering steady stare once again met mine.
I looked away quickly, embarrassed for a moment, feeling myself blush yet again. Surely Doyle noticed this? My heart began to thump.
‘We must go to the theatre tonight, you and I’, Doyles voice burst into my head.
I looked up at him, was this a proposition? Had he understood?
‘There’s something I have not told you’, Doyle continued.
I could barely look at Doyle, wondering what would come next.
‘Last night, when I found the body, there was something else. The woman had a small cloth bag with her, I went through it and found a ticket for the London Pavilion- for last evenings performance- we must go there tonight’.
My heart sank a little, we were back to the murders.
‘I will meet you outside the theatre tonight at seven thirty-don’t be late. Now, I expect you will be wanting to go home after such an interesting morning, I’ll call you a cab’, and with a smile, and before I could protest, Doyle swept out of the room and ventured outside to look for a handsome.
I was back at the lodgings in no time at all. I was met by the formidable Mrs Jenkins on the stairs who smiled and winked as she bade a hearty good morning. She was no doubt surmising that since I was returning after noon in last evenings clothing, I must have had a good time.
Little could she guess the real events of the past 12 hours, indeed even I was having trouble believing them real and not part of some strange dream.
Exhausted I immediately fell onto my bed and promptly fell asleep.
I awoke about 4 hours later, my head a little easier; the headache had given way to a feeling of slight dizziness. It was nearly 5, the day had almost gone. It was then I remembered the theatre appointment and my heart gladdened. The theatre with Charles Doyle sat beside me, not quite what I anticipated in my dreams, but never the less, I was looking forward to it.
I decided to ask Mrs Jenkins if I could take a small early tea, a sandwich and a pot of her strong brew would do nicely before I changed for the theatre.
A knock at the door soon heralded her with the tea things and I hastened from my shaving to open the door. She stepped inside with the tray and set it on the table by the window.
‘Here you are Sir, oh, you’re getting ready to go out again tonight I see’.
‘Yes’, I replied, I’m going to the theatre’.
Her eyes lit up and then narrowed. ‘Who’s the lucky young lady then, remember, no female visitors after 9 pm’, with that she winked and gave a rather mischievous and knowing laugh.
‘Actually I am attending the theatre with Major Charles Doyle’, I stated, affecting a superior tone as I returned to my shaving.
Mrs Jenkins face dropped like a stone, almost as if I had announced that someone had died.
‘Never mind luv’, she managed to smile again, ‘you have a lovely time anyway’, and with no obvious tittle tattle left to tell, she left the room, rather disappointed in me.
I set off just after 6:30 for the half hour walk or so to Piccadilly. Dressed in by best evening suit, I thought I looked quite the thing, and the night although cold was bright, and the streets quite busy and I was soon outside the theatre, waiting for Doyle.
By twenty past 7 Doyle still had not arrived, the crowds had gathered and the last remaining theatre goers were entering the building. By this time by hands and feet were freezing and I decided I would enter the theatre and wait for Doyle inside.
‘The performance will be starting soon sir, you better be buying your ticket’, the doorman crossed to where I was waiting and led me to the ticket box.
‘Stalls and circle 3 shillin’,second circle 2 shillin’ and pit 1 shillin’, the brunette behind the desk lsmiled and ooked at me expectantly.
I hadn’t thought about paying, I had assumed that Doyle..., anyway I thrust my hand in my pocket and brought out a few coins.
‘Ermm, second circle please’, and handed over the 2 shillings in exchange for one ticket and a programme, cursing Doyle under my breath for his tardy arrival.
in the centre of a cross, 4 star like shapes with writing around the edge. I glanced back at
Doyle quizzically.
‘Australian’, he said matter-of-factly.
I looked at the button again and then back to Doyle.
Doyle sighed, ‘New South Wales Military Forces’.
Again I looked back.
‘This button belongs to the coat of a man serving in the New South Wales Military Forces’.
I sat upright and gazed at the small round button in my hand,’ how can you tell’? I asked.
'Just using straight forward logic my dear friend, anyway this lettering around the edges ‘NSW Military Forces gives it away, don’t you think’?
I looked back at the button.
‘And if you turn the button over it actually has the button manufacturer, ‘Price and Co-Sydney, you don’t really need to be a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ to work these things out my good man, just use your eyes a bit more’.
‘So this was ripped off a coat by the victim, the coat of the murderer, the coat of the ‘Midnight Terror’? , my hand trembled under the weight of the awful conclusion.
‘Perhaps’, stated Doyle cooly, ‘perhaps’.
With that Doyle seemed to fall into a state of reverie, his hand raised to his chin as if pondering some vital information.
I sat and waited, unable to move, lest I disturb the man , his brow now creased as if some dark thoughts, long swept away had started to re-surface.
I realised I was gazing directly at him, admiring that noble face and perhaps undertaking some dreaming of my own, when Doyle’s gaze altered course and his unblinkering steady stare once again met mine.
I looked away quickly, embarrassed for a moment, feeling myself blush yet again. Surely Doyle noticed this? My heart began to thump.
‘We must go to the theatre tonight, you and I’, Doyles voice burst into my head.
I looked up at him, was this a proposition? Had he understood?
‘There’s something I have not told you’, Doyle continued.
I could barely look at Doyle, wondering what would come next.
‘Last night, when I found the body, there was something else. The woman had a small cloth bag with her, I went through it and found a ticket for the London Pavilion- for last evenings performance- we must go there tonight’.
My heart sank a little, we were back to the murders.
‘I will meet you outside the theatre tonight at seven thirty-don’t be late. Now, I expect you will be wanting to go home after such an interesting morning, I’ll call you a cab’, and with a smile, and before I could protest, Doyle swept out of the room and ventured outside to look for a handsome.
I was back at the lodgings in no time at all. I was met by the formidable Mrs Jenkins on the stairs who smiled and winked as she bade a hearty good morning. She was no doubt surmising that since I was returning after noon in last evenings clothing, I must have had a good time.
Little could she guess the real events of the past 12 hours, indeed even I was having trouble believing them real and not part of some strange dream.
Exhausted I immediately fell onto my bed and promptly fell asleep.
I awoke about 4 hours later, my head a little easier; the headache had given way to a feeling of slight dizziness. It was nearly 5, the day had almost gone. It was then I remembered the theatre appointment and my heart gladdened. The theatre with Charles Doyle sat beside me, not quite what I anticipated in my dreams, but never the less, I was looking forward to it.
I decided to ask Mrs Jenkins if I could take a small early tea, a sandwich and a pot of her strong brew would do nicely before I changed for the theatre.
A knock at the door soon heralded her with the tea things and I hastened from my shaving to open the door. She stepped inside with the tray and set it on the table by the window.
‘Here you are Sir, oh, you’re getting ready to go out again tonight I see’.
‘Yes’, I replied, I’m going to the theatre’.
Her eyes lit up and then narrowed. ‘Who’s the lucky young lady then, remember, no female visitors after 9 pm’, with that she winked and gave a rather mischievous and knowing laugh.
‘Actually I am attending the theatre with Major Charles Doyle’, I stated, affecting a superior tone as I returned to my shaving.
Mrs Jenkins face dropped like a stone, almost as if I had announced that someone had died.
‘Never mind luv’, she managed to smile again, ‘you have a lovely time anyway’, and with no obvious tittle tattle left to tell, she left the room, rather disappointed in me.
I set off just after 6:30 for the half hour walk or so to Piccadilly. Dressed in by best evening suit, I thought I looked quite the thing, and the night although cold was bright, and the streets quite busy and I was soon outside the theatre, waiting for Doyle.
By twenty past 7 Doyle still had not arrived, the crowds had gathered and the last remaining theatre goers were entering the building. By this time by hands and feet were freezing and I decided I would enter the theatre and wait for Doyle inside.
‘The performance will be starting soon sir, you better be buying your ticket’, the doorman crossed to where I was waiting and led me to the ticket box.
‘Stalls and circle 3 shillin’,second circle 2 shillin’ and pit 1 shillin’, the brunette behind the desk lsmiled and ooked at me expectantly.
I hadn’t thought about paying, I had assumed that Doyle..., anyway I thrust my hand in my pocket and brought out a few coins.
‘Ermm, second circle please’, and handed over the 2 shillings in exchange for one ticket and a programme, cursing Doyle under my breath for his tardy arrival.
I took my place just in time, glancing at the programme, for the Overture to be followed by a ‘Miss Lottie Walton –Serio and Dancer’
Between acts I looked over the audience in a hope of seeing Doyle-where was he? This was not turning out to be the evening I expected!
Two and a half hours later I rose from my seat, dazzled and cheered by the best of London’s entertainment. I had almost forgotten the real reason for being there, indeed Doyle had not confided his intentions of what attending the theatre would achieve. Walking down the stairway in the crush to the leave the building I noticed a familiar head in front of me. Surely that was Doyle? The way the hair curled, the angle of the head? Yes, it was definitely Doyle.
I tried to push my way through the crowd, keeping one eye on Doyle. He appeared to be turning his head and talking to a woman at his side, a small, neat looking thing wearing a purple hat. As she turned to raise her head to look up to him I noticed her face, quite an ordinary looking woman, quite plain I would say with dark frizzy hair pushed under her hat. Her eyes seemed to be quite large, almost bulbous. She was young, I give her that, but her dress appeared to be one of the more common types, of the working classes. Surely not a love interest for Doyle? My heart began to beat and I somehow felt betrayed. Doyle had asked me to meet him here, and there he was, dallying with a young woman when he should have been with me.
I followed the two outside. The young woman now had her arm carefully linked into Doyles. I wanted to rush up to the pair and demand an explanation. I was furious with Doyle, but mainly jealous. I couldn’t let him see my emotions and so I tailed back and watched the couple walk down through the lights of Piccadilly until they were out of sight.
I returned home, slowly walking through the emptying streets, the cold, bright night no longer beautiful.
Letting myself into the front door on Chancery Lane, Mrs Jenkins appeared from her room. She opened her mouth to speak, but on seeing my forlorn countenance, wrinkled her brow and wished me a sound ‘good night’.
I fell onto my bed without undressing, feeling quite numb. Reaching onto my bedside table I pulled out a slim volume of poetry by the late Oscar Wilde. Turning to a well thumbed page, I read:
Between acts I looked over the audience in a hope of seeing Doyle-where was he? This was not turning out to be the evening I expected!
Two and a half hours later I rose from my seat, dazzled and cheered by the best of London’s entertainment. I had almost forgotten the real reason for being there, indeed Doyle had not confided his intentions of what attending the theatre would achieve. Walking down the stairway in the crush to the leave the building I noticed a familiar head in front of me. Surely that was Doyle? The way the hair curled, the angle of the head? Yes, it was definitely Doyle.
I tried to push my way through the crowd, keeping one eye on Doyle. He appeared to be turning his head and talking to a woman at his side, a small, neat looking thing wearing a purple hat. As she turned to raise her head to look up to him I noticed her face, quite an ordinary looking woman, quite plain I would say with dark frizzy hair pushed under her hat. Her eyes seemed to be quite large, almost bulbous. She was young, I give her that, but her dress appeared to be one of the more common types, of the working classes. Surely not a love interest for Doyle? My heart began to beat and I somehow felt betrayed. Doyle had asked me to meet him here, and there he was, dallying with a young woman when he should have been with me.
I followed the two outside. The young woman now had her arm carefully linked into Doyles. I wanted to rush up to the pair and demand an explanation. I was furious with Doyle, but mainly jealous. I couldn’t let him see my emotions and so I tailed back and watched the couple walk down through the lights of Piccadilly until they were out of sight.
I returned home, slowly walking through the emptying streets, the cold, bright night no longer beautiful.
Letting myself into the front door on Chancery Lane, Mrs Jenkins appeared from her room. She opened her mouth to speak, but on seeing my forlorn countenance, wrinkled her brow and wished me a sound ‘good night’.
I fell onto my bed without undressing, feeling quite numb. Reaching onto my bedside table I pulled out a slim volume of poetry by the late Oscar Wilde. Turning to a well thumbed page, I read:
And with that, I turned out the light and watched the shadows play across my room until dawn.
I must have slept eventually as the knocking on my door accompanied by Mrs Jenkins bringing in my breakfast woke me from my dreamless drowse. I pretended to be asleep and after hovering for a few moments she sighed and placing the small breakfast on my table left me to it, closing the door softly behind her.
I fished for my pocket watch in the evening jacket I was still wearing. It was past noon.
I rose slowly, trying not to think of anything. I automatically poured tea from the brown pot into the rose patterned cup, bringing it to my lips without a thought.
The efficient Mrs Jenkins had brought the late morning paper, turning to the headline I almost choked on my tea.
I must have slept eventually as the knocking on my door accompanied by Mrs Jenkins bringing in my breakfast woke me from my dreamless drowse. I pretended to be asleep and after hovering for a few moments she sighed and placing the small breakfast on my table left me to it, closing the door softly behind her.
I fished for my pocket watch in the evening jacket I was still wearing. It was past noon.
I rose slowly, trying not to think of anything. I automatically poured tea from the brown pot into the rose patterned cup, bringing it to my lips without a thought.
The efficient Mrs Jenkins had brought the late morning paper, turning to the headline I almost choked on my tea.
I had last seen Miss Kathleen Stroud on the arm of Major Charles Doyle.
To be continued ....
Copyright M.M.Wake 2012
To be continued ....
Copyright M.M.Wake 2012
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