The West End Horror by Nicholas Meyer

Author:Nicholas Meyer
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

NINE

SULLIVAN

‘Were you really sent ‘round by Bernard Shaw?” Sullivan began testily when the door was closed. “Why is he meddling in this? The man’s an infernal busybody, and aside from his knowledge of music, I find him utterly depraved.”

“He did not engage us specifically in the matter of Miss Rutland,” Holmes acknowledged, moving forward and pulling up one of the large chairs, “but rather in connection with the murder of Jonathan McCarthy.”

Wincing at another spasm, the composer screwed himself ‘round in his seat and faced the detective.

“That makes still less sense, if I may say so, since they detested each other.”

“A great many people appear to have disliked Jonathan McCarthy, that is certain.”

“Granted, granted. Shaw’s tongue may be wicked, but he always addresses himself to the issues. McCarthy was a parasite, preying on art and artists, which is not the same thing.” He started to rise, gave another gasp, and fell back in his chair, doubled over and clutching at his side as though he wished to remove it in one savage haul. His pince-nez slid from his nose and dangled wildly by its black ribbon, inches from the floor.

“You are seriously ill!” I cried, rushing forward. For several moments he was unable to answer but lay gasping in his chair, like a fish out of water. I opened his tie for him and removed his collar. I perceived the kitchen Ellen Terry had spoken of and hastened to it for some water, which I brought back to him. He swallowed it in awkward gulps.

“Thank you.”

“You are too ill to continue this interview,” I stated, drawing a black look across the table from Holmes.

Sir Arthur sat up siowly. Something that resembled a smile stretched itself taut across his face. “Ill? I am dying. These kidney stones are working their way with me and will shortly make an end.” He shrugged feebly and replaced his pincenez. “When the pain disappears, I go to Monte Carlo and relax; when it returns, I work to forget it. I am in London, working; ergo, it is back.” *[Sullivan succumbed to his ailment five years later]

“Can you continue talking?” Holmes enquired reluctantly.

“I can and I will, provided you establish the importance of your questions.” Sullivan rallied and sat straighter in his chair, re-fastening his collar with nervous little fingers.

“Do you not find the fact that both murders occurred within the space of twenty-four hours a telling coincidence?”

“Inspector Lestrade didn’t appear to find it so. He didn’t even mention the McCarthy affair when we talked this morning.

“The police have their own ways of functioning,” Holmes stated tactfully. “And I have mine. I may tell you flatly that the deaths are related.”

“How so?”

“They were achieved by the same hand.”

Sullivan smiled faintly. “I have read Dr. Watson’s accounts of your cases with the liveliest interest,” he confessed, “and have always found them agreeably stimulating. Nevertheless, you will forgive me if, in this instance, I do not deem your word sufficient proof.”

Holmes sighed, realising that Sullivan was no fool. He would have to play more of the cards in his hand.

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