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And so it was that, several hours later, I found myself in the front row of the Circle of the Prince’s Theatre. Tragically, I was not wearing my finest evening dress – the one that has been known to make grown men weep with the extravagance of its material and the skill and daring of its cut. Neither was I wearing the deep violet cummerbund and bowtie that set it off so beautifully. Sadly, neither of those items were baggy enough to cover up the undergarment of varnished leather and multiple layers of silk that I was wearing underneath, which is why I was wearing a cheap ensemble of the kind that I would normally not have been seen dead in – an unfortunate phrase, I know, but it seems apposite. Following my intervention, Holmes had thrown himself wholeheartedly into a plan to catch the killer in the act without risking the life of a member of the public. With the baffled collaboration of the Right Honourable Gentleman in question, several of his party, including his stately wife and almost equally stately daughter, were dropped from the trip to the theatre, leaving several empty seats, while the occupied seats around him were filled with other agents and associates of Holmes wearing protection that would apparently be proof against bullets of the calibre used. I, sadly, was one of those associates, which meant I was sitting there sweating and looking almost as large as the Right Honourable Gentleman’s wife would have done.

“My research indicates that the marksman invariably shoots someone within six feet of his blackmail target,” Holmes assured me, “and one who is not related or known to the target. All of the seats within that range are occupied by my people. There is no risk to anyone else in the theatre.”

“If you are right,” I pointed out.

He looked at me as if he did not understand my words. “Of course I am right,” he said.

“I cannot help noticing that the protection is confined to my torso, leaving my head and limbs exposed.”

“The marksman has, to date, always shot the body rather than the head. The body is a larger target, of course, but there may also be an intention to make it less obvious that something has happened. With a bullet to the body, the victim slumps or falls, and that might be blamed on all manner of things. With a shot to the head the effects are… let us say… considerably less ambiguous.”

The performance was a collation of short scenes from Shakespeare, Marlowe and Johnson, interspersed with sonnets set to music by various well-known composers. It was not really my cup of tea. I spent much of the first half surreptitiously gazing around the theatre looking for the marksman, knowing that Holmes would be restlessly exploring the front and rear of house.

And all the time I was anticipating the impact of a bullet to my chest or, worse, to my head. I was sure I could trust Holmes’s deductive powers, but it was not him the killer was aiming at.

Two seats to my right, Quentin Furnell was looking distinctly sick. He kept sipping from a hip flask; I thought I could smell brandy. I noted that down for future use.

It was during a dramatic interpretation of the storm scene from King Lear that I noticed something amiss. To each side of the stage and further back, above the second box on either side, incandescent electrical spotlights were being controlled by men in hanging chairs. They were dressed entirely in black, so as not to distract the audience from events occurring on stage, but that process seemed to be breaking down on my right, where one of the spotlight operators was engaging in a tussle with a man who had apparently climbed down from the upper circle and clambered across to the spotlight. The tussle was causing the light to swing wildly around. I realised two things simultaneously: the man who had clambered down from the Upper Circle and instigated the fight was Holmes; and the man he was fighting with was clutching what appeared to be a rifle.

The audience had noticed something amiss by now. Some were leaving their seats, but others were craning their necks to get a better view. On stage poor Lear and his Fool were stuttering to a halt.

I saw Holmes swing his fist. The black-clad murderer and blackmailer ducked and twisted, trying to send Holmes falling to his death. The wildly swinging spotlight suddenly played across my face, blinding me momentarily. I heard several shots – the struggle between the two men had probably caused the marksman’s finger to inadvertently tighten on the trigger. I presumed that his plan had been to use the sound of the theatrical thunder to cover the noise of his shot. By the time my vision cleared the audience was panicking, and the marksman had Holmes’s throat in one hand while his other hand was still clutching the rifle. Quentin Furnell had sprung from his seat and was struggling along the row away from me and towards the nearest aisle.

The marksman swung the rifle and caught Holmes in the face. As Holmes automatically raised his free hand to protect himself the marksman swung the weapon around, aiming straight at Furnell’s chest.

“Down!” I screamed at Furnell, abandoning, for the sake of brevity, “Mr Furnell”, which is the Debrett’s approved form of address for a Privy Councillor. I dived towards him and pushed him in the middle of his Right Honourable back. He sprawled forwards, pitching into the velvet seats. I looked back up at the suspended fight, just in time to see a flash of light. Something struck me in the centre of my chest, pushing me back. I fell. My chest felt as if a horse had kicked it. I could hardly take a breath, the pain was so intense.

By the time I could pull myself to an upright position, most of the audience had left and the suspended spotlight and seat arrangement was empty. I clutched at my chest, and found a large hole in my starched shirt, a great deal of shredded leather and silk, and a still-hot bullet, but no blood.

I looked around, and found Holmes sitting a few rows behind me.

“I take it that everything has concluded satisfactorily?” I asked.

“The blackmailer is in custody,” he said, “and, thanks to your actions, the Right Honourable Quentin Furnell is alive and well.” He stared at me, and there was a curious expression on his face. “I sometimes need reminding,” he said, “that events do not always follow their predicted course. Random incidents, such as the inopportune and unintended tightening of a finger upon a trigger, can sometimes lead to unanticipated but tragic outcomes that logic can neither foresee nor prevent. I have learned something today, and for that – and your invaluable help – I thank you.”

I thought about some of the things I had seen as I had looked around the audience earlier – several well-known people together in boxes who should not have been seen together at all, and people with their wives or husbands beside them who had nevertheless been casting loving glances at others nearby. I had made copious notes – mentally, of course – and I could already anticipate a series of columns appearing in the newspapers in the near future.

“Glad to help, Mr Holmes,” I said. “Glad to help.”

THE PRESBURY PAPERS

Jonathan Barnes

I’ve always been fascinated by Professor Presbury – that murky figure at the heart of Doyle’s late addition to the canon, “The Adventure of the Creeping Man” (1923). It’s an often-overlooked case for Sherlock Holmes, as notable as much for what is not stated as for that which is set out plainly by the author. Writing in The Times Literary Supplement in 2010, I suggested that the piece is “a sour parable about the endurance of lust” and that, upon finishing the tale, “the feeling persists that there is something in the narrative – hidden, submerged – which the reader is not permitted to comprehend but which forms the source of its power”.

What a terrific opportunity it was, when I was asked last year to contribute a story to the current volume, to go back into that adventure and to tease out some of its subtext, to dive down towards that which is submerged and bring it up into the light. I’ve often wondered what became of the Professor and have speculated as to where his dark desires might have led him. Holmes, after all, once said of his opponent that, “when one tries to rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it”. I couldn’t help but ask if, having experienced animal passion, the old man could really have walked away from it. Any time spent in seclusion and disgrace, I reasoned, would surely be only temporary. My story imagines the end of such an exile – as well as its final, tragic consequences.