am Sherlock Holmes, an independent consulting detective, and this is Doctor John Watson, who attended Cecil Windham in the final moments of his life.”
“Well? What do you want with me?”
“How long did you know Sun Ching Foo?”
“Since the start of the summer,” she said. “When he first began performing his show, he found me working in a laundry and invited me to see a matinee for free. When I went, I didn’t know he was Sun Ching Foo. But calling on me afterward, he told me—and amused me with his sleight-of-hand.”
“Think carefully now, miss. Did he promise you anything?” His stare grew intense.
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “All men promise, Mister Holmes. Cecil was no different.”
“But what did he promise you?”
“That he loved me, that we could be together. He wanted to set up a touring company and travel with me. First, to Scotland, and then to the Continent or to South America. He promised that we could be happy together.”
“And what about his wife?”
She looked away. “I knew he was married, but he never mentioned her. And I never asked. I said that all men promise, but I don’t think that they keep their promises.”
“Did you know that his wife lived with him, here in London?”
She shrugged noncommittally.
“A Chinese woman who could not speak the language, who knew nothing of our land or culture?”
She grimaced and her gaze fell. “Please stop, you make me ill. I am ashamed.”
He muttered quietly, “The poor woman has no family here nor a penny in her own name. She will most likely die in the gutter. She is a prisoner without walls.” Then Holmes’s voice grew hard as steel. “Your womanly scheme killed her husband, the one man she trusted with her wretched life!”
A whimpering cry erupted from the woman’s lips. “No, Mister Holmes! I will confess all of my sins to you, but I didn’t hold plans against Cecil! I had nothing to do with it! I beg you to believe me!” She threw her hands over her face and cried.
Holmes looked at Lanners. “Take her away. She is of no use to us.”
As he escorted her out of the office, I remarked, “Holmes, you are a cold-blooded liar.”
“Nevertheless, I produced the truth in her. We should re-examine the gun next.”
Lanners returned and led us back to the jezail. Holmes held it up and inspected it, turning it around in his hands.
“These screws seem strangely placed,” he said. He reached into his satchel for tools, then slowly removed the screws. Without them, the barrel and ramrod tube fell away from the breech.
He picked up a screw and carefully eyed the threads, then he focused his magnifying glass upon the holes in the pieces of rifle.
“Eureka, gentlemen!” Holmes chuckled and reassembled the jezail.
A mixture of puzzlement and relief washed over Lanners’s face. “What is it Holmes?”
“The soldier, Alastair Dayton, loaded gunpowder and the bullet,” Holmes said, sliding a finger from the hole down the length of the barrel.
“Yes, go on,” Lanners said.
“The rifle’s firing mechanism, however, is blocked off from the barrel. Instead, it looks connected to this tube which, as I remarked yesterday, is bigger than a ramrod holder.” He touched the extra compartment.
I nodded. “And Lai Way – Thomasina – took the ramrod back. The soldier didn’t rest it there after the bullet was loaded. The gun itself was part of the trick?”
“Right. This was an extra firing chamber. There must have been gunpowder inserted here by Sun Ching Foo before the show. When the trick works correctly, a soldier pulls the trigger and the powder in this chamber ignites. But the powder in the barrel remains untouched.”
“So what happened in this case?” Lanners asked.
“It starts with the use of an old gun. The false chamber and real barrel must have been assembled years ago. To hold them together against the breech of the stock, holes were drilled in. The screws go from the stock, through the extra chamber, and into the barrel. Slowly, rust accumulated between the screw and the holes holding the pieces together.”
Lanners’s gaze became unfocused. “All very interesting, Holmes but—”
“Patience, inspector! As I was saying, when that connection deteriorated, a slight opening formed. Gunpowder from the barrel leaked into the hole where the screws fastened the gun together. Sun Ching Foo never cleaned it properly, but he just shook out the powder. Over time with successive performances, excess particles accumulated to form a charge through the hole. So now, when the flash from the percussion cap travelled down to the secret chamber, it also went up into the barrel. Thus, the whole gun shot off and the bullet was fired.”
To prove his point, Holmes took a pitcher of water off the desk and slowly poured water down the barrel. After a moment, drops dripped from the attached tube. “Poor Cecil Windham had no idea what happened when he died.”
By day’s end, Lanners released Alastair Dayton. Cecil Windham’s body returned to the United States with his widow later that month.
By the next morning, newspapers barely mentioned Sun Ching Foo. There was no mention of his wife, nor any mention of Holmes, either.
He laughed. “An error I’m sure you will correct!” Closing his eyes with a smile, he said, “I’ve helped countless people, Watson, but I don’t expect to be remembered. No, the only memories made on Baker Street will be from Madame Tussaud’s waxen people or in a childhood visit to the zoo in Regent’s Park.”
I chuckled with him, promising to myself to write this adventure some day to ensure the memory of Sherlock Holmes as well as the tragic death of the man London knew as Sun Ching Foo.
* * * *
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