Sherlock Holmes & the Singular Affair by M. K. Wiseman

Author:M. K. Wiseman [Wiseman, M. K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: M. K. Wiseman, author

* * *

Mr. Tobias-Henry Price did not seem the worse for wear when we met on Monday for an early lunch at a nice little restaurant not far from the Crystal Palace. He, in fact, seemed inclined to laugh away the incident following our night out, hastily turning to other talk, namely that of the performance we were about to enjoy.

“I’ve gone twice before. The choral pieces are simply stunning in such a place as that,” he said. “Draws amazing crowds. Costa is superb at controlling the great mass of performers and vocalists. And the drums! Wait until you see the drums, Secker.”

“It happens every third year, as I understand.”

“And not to be missed.” He frowned, adding, “Luckily with the grand sound they make, I haven’t a need for my glasses. Would you know it, Secker, that villain the other night made off with both my opera glasses and watch?”

“Oh, how irksome,” I sympathized. “Thankfully we saved the aluminium crutch.”

“Yes,” he laughed. “And I have managed not to be tardy in the intervening day. I’ll have to defer to you so that we aren’t amongst the boorish latecomers this afternoon.”

We finished our meal and made our way to the park and, from there, to our seats within the Crystal Palace itself. A crowd some 21,000 strong settled into hushed silence as, at the stroke of two o’clock, the performance commenced.

George Frideric Handel’s Messiah. Fifty-three movements in three parts. Price was rapt at my side, and the sheer scale of the thing rendered the audience silent. Brilliant sunshine through the translucent building elevated the event from grand to sublime. Ten minutes in, with the raising of three thousand voices in song, the true power of the undertaking was unleashed. The massive chorus and orchestra, hemmed in by large dividers and thus amplified in their acoustical power, stirred the hearts of every person present. It was but a taste of things to come.

At the conclusion of the first part, I had decided that, yes, I would follow Price’s edict and return in three years’ time. The choir was, of course, the heart of the performance. The instrumentalists—tasked with the dual difficulties of playing in such a space and with such a sizeable group—could not help but have inconsistencies of tempo and crispness. But the feeling of it was in there and made the whole of it work.

But while many present had a tear called to the corner of their eye or found themselves choked with feeling, Price’s transformation was to grow dark and troubled.

“I could do that,” he whispered. “Play, I mean.”

Glancing sideways at him, I made no verbal response.

“Come on. Third part always bores me to tears.” He moved to rise.

Sighing, I followed.

“Stifling in there, was it not, Secker?” Exiting into the gardens, Price gave an exaggerated stretch and shielded his eyes to the bright sunlight. I could still hear the muted notes of the performance as we turned northward onto one of the many paths cutting through the gardens. The tension in Price’s frame was growing, some vibrating vexation of spirit.

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