Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #8. Ron Goulart
for the original one.” Holmes pointed to a slender tube beneath the barrel, running from breech to muzzle.
Lanners opened the door and ushered in the conjurer’s assistant. She remained wearing a black cossack. Lai Way sat then she removed her wig. Her red-gold titus hair contrasted with the cascade of her brunette wig.
“You are not Chinese, either?” I said.
Lai Way agreed. “We have been Hindoos, Muhammedans, and Injuns. Sun Ching Foo was my husband. His real name is Cecil Windham.”
“You must be Thomasina, the name he called out,” Holmes said.
She nodded as she rubbed her face. The make-up that darkened her complexion and drew out her eyes smeared away.
“How did you meet him?” Holmes said.
“I was a showgirl in America and Cecil hired me as assistant. When he came to London, he became Sun Ching Foo.”
“How does the bullet-catching trick work?” Holmes asked.
“I don’t know. Cecil never explained the trick to me,” she said.
“What was supposed to happen?” he said.
“He was supposed to catch the bullet in his hand.”
“But you cannot catch a bullet in your hand!” Lanners exclaimed.
The assistant shrugged. “Cecil did.”
“Tell me about your part in the trick,” Holmes said.
“A man in the crowd marks the bullet. As I walk to the stage, I switch the bullet with a different one. The one that I replace it with has my own markings. Then, when the bullet is fired, Sun Ching Foo catches the bullet. He shows it to the soldier—and it’s the same one that I have marked.”
“Is this the bullet?” Holmes reached into his pocket and held out his fist. Unfurling his fingers, he revealed a minie ball.
Thomasina’s face went white. “How … how did you … ?”
“It was clutched in his hand while Watson attempted to save him. Clearly, the bullet was not meant to kill but instead, he was to hold up his bullet as if the shot traveled from the barrel and into his grasp.”
“Then where was the bullet from the gun supposed to go?” she asked.
“Perhaps the soldier was to fire away and not actually strike Sun Ching Foo?” Lanners asked.
“You mean, somehow the soldier’s aim would be off?” Holmes said.
Lanners mused. “Could Sun Ching Foo have created some kind of illusion, so the soldier would not be actually aiming properly?”
“That’s no better than saying ‘magic’,” Holmes said.
Thomasina agreed. “I have been part of every performance of the trick, but I noticed no changes to the stage.”
“Perhaps it was supposed to be arranged? Perhaps the soldier was a confederate?” I said.
“We already talked to the solider. I am convinced of his innocence.” Holmes said.
I added, “Perhaps there was a confederate in the audience. Someone who would have fired away from Sun Ching Foo. But rather, she picked someone else.”
“No, sir! This is not true,” Thomasina said.
“Perhaps someone uncovered his American identity?” I asked.
Holmes shook his head. “And this person knew the secret to the magic trick and, moreover, had enough access to bedevil it? I think it unlikely.” He continued speaking. “Did Windham have any enemies?”
She shook her head. “His only concern was other conjurers who had more business than he.”
“What about enemies within the show? You or his other assistants?”
“Not at all, Mister Holmes. I was a poor showgirl with nothing in America. When Cecil met me, he could barely afford to pay me and buy food for himself … but together, we made something special, didn’t we?” A tear caught the light sparkling in her eye.
Lanners spoke up. “Go home and rest, everyone. We’ll learn no more tonight. Come back tomorrow and we can continue with refreshed eyes.”
“A man was killed in front of us. Can I rest, Watson?” Holmes crushed his straw hat between two fists.
* * * *
We returned to Baker Street very late. I agreed to stay the night, just like old times. As soon as we finished breakfast the next morning, the pageboy presented Thomasina Windham. She removed her bonnet with trembling hands.
“Please Mister Holmes, you must help me. I am at your mercy,” she said.
Sherlock walked over from the fireplace and greeted her. “Calm your nerves and we can discuss the matter.”
Before taking a seat, Thomasina stepped over to the window, eyeing the back garden and the long shadows cast by the low morning sun.
We reclined into chairs while our guest’s nerves settled with a glass of brandy. She told Holmes, “I wish to hire your services.”
I took the brandy bottle off the mantel, re-filled her glass, then returned it to its position beside a bowl of lilies and a vase of peacock feathers.
Holmes said, “How can we help you, madam?”
“The police suspect me.”
“I do not think so.”
“But they will, Mister Holmes, they will! It’s on account that I wish to sell the Sun Ching Foo show to Miles Cavendish, a rival magician. For years, Mister Cavendish has tried to buy Cecil’s tricks or to pay for a stake. Now, I want to offer him everything—the props, the staff, the future bookings.”
“And they will see this as profiting from Cecil’s death? A profit that led you to kill him in the first place?” Holmes said. “How much money do you stand to make?”
Tears broke her face. As she wiped away face powder, I saw wrinkles worried into her face with age. Her lashes matted together in anguish. She wanted to speak, but her breath caught in short gasps.
“The show is worth nothing to me. Cecil was heavily indebted. Sale of everything will be enough to pay off his debts, but little more. The Sun Ching Foo act has been a success, but Cecil financially ruined us. He piled together bills and spent on credit in the company of women that I do not care to speak of. I am ruined! Just look at the newspapers!”
She slapped down The Morning Mirror. Its broadside read “CONJURER’S WIFE KILLS HIM DURING FINAL PERFORMANCE.”
“They’ll use someone else’s name tomorrow,” I assured her. “Better yet, this paper will forget the story and The Evening Mirror will accuse someone else.”
“Do you think he planned this? Did he take his own life?” Holmes asked.
“I wish I knew, although I don’t think so. He is not the kind of person to contemplate such a death. He does not give into bursts of emotion. Not even when angry or upset.”
“Perhaps he was the opposite, and was quiet or withdrawn as of late?”
“He is in fine spirits lately. He is as talkative and even-keeled as ever. Oh, Mary help me, I can’t bring myself to say ‘he was’ anything. ‘He is’ to me—he can’t be gone. I cannot allow it.” She began to cry again. “But we are in such debt! If I do not accept that he is gone, the collectors will take the last crumb from my pantry.”
Holmes sighed. “Send Miles Cavendish inside.”
Her crying sputtered to a stop. “How do you know?”
“You looked outside, I assume a man is waiting. If it isn’t Miles Cavendish, then surely you are followed.”