“I am afraid I know of no one by that name. Is he a member?”
“Evidently not. Sorry, my mistake. Come, Watson. We must get to the theatre before it opens for the evening. Hopefully, we will have time for a word with Miss Benson.”
“Mrs Benson, Mr Holmes,” the earl corrected. “Cecilia Benson is married, as well.”
A short time later, Holmes and I, after another silent cab ride, found ourselves in the Strand before the Burbage Theatre. According to the signs out front, Cecilia Benson was appearing as Volumnia in Coriolanus. We made our way through the large, richly carpeted lobby, the walls of which were lined with caryatids of gilded plaster, to the manager’s office. At our knock, a small, rather high-strung man emerged, and we introduced ourselves.
“It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes. To what do I owe the honour?”
“It is imperative that I speak to one of your actresses, a Mrs Cecilia Benson.”
“Indeed, I, too, would like to speak with her, for you see, she’s been missing for the last four days.”
“Holmes, that corresponds with the missing pages of the appointment book!” I said.
“You wouldn’t happen to know who saw her last?” queried Holmes.
“Well, sir, that would probably be me. On Tuesday afternoon, I was gazing out of my window at a strange carriage I had noticed which was parked in front of the theatre. Within moments of my turning to look outside, I saw Cecilia walking towards the carriage with a man. They climbed inside, and off they went. I’ve been making do with her understudy, ever since.”
“Could you describe the man who accompanied her?”
“I didn’t get a good look at his face, but he was quite tall and walked with a pronounced limp.”
“Was he wearing a broad-brimmed hat?”
“Why yes, Dr Watson. He was.”
“What was it about the carriage that struck you as odd?” Holmes resumed.
“It was the insignia upon the side—a cross, in front of which was something resembling a fluttering sheet of linen. Over this, were the initials ‘St V.’”
“Holmes, there was a man named St Vincent listed in the appointment book!”
“Thank you, Watson. Sir, would it be possible to see Mrs Benson’s dressing room? It might help me to find her whereabouts.”
“Certainly, Mr Holmes. Follow me.”
The dressing room was fairly small, its large dressing table taking up most of the space. Amongst the make-up and brushes littering this was a small notebook which Holmes immediately began to examine.
“Watson, there is a page missing.”
Holmes then produced a charcoal stick from his pocket and began lightly rubbing the right-hand page which would have lain beneath the missing one. In this way, he was able to reveal the following faint message:
“My Darling,
“I am to be admitted this afternoon. Please come.”
Holmes then searched the rest of the tiny room but revealed nothing further.
Finally, we took our leave, Holmes promising to contact the theatre manager if he found the missing actress. Before returning to Baker Street, Holmes dropped into a post office to send two more telegrams. In the cab, on our way home, I could remain patient no longer.
“Homes, what can it all mean?”
“Surely, Watson, a man of your background should have no problem finding our fugitive actress’s location.”
“All I can make of it is that she is to gain admittance somewhere with someone who might possibly be named St Vincent.”
“Come now, Watson. The note says nothing of ‘gaining admittance’ but of being ‘admitted’. Surely, that would suggest something to someone such as yourself.”
“Well, in my profession, one is usually ‘admitted’ to a hospital.”
“Precisely. Now, let’s assume that ‘St V’ does not stand for the name of an individual.”
“I’m sorry, Holmes, but I don’t follow.”
“The cross, the linen, ‘St V’—surely that would indicate St Veronica.”
“St Veronica’s Hospital for Women! Of course.”
“Yes, Watson. I have just sent a telegram to them, asking if Mrs Benson is a patient and if we can pay a visit tomorrow morning.”
“To whom did you send the second telegram?”
“To our good friend, Nicholson, apprising him of our progress.”
It was already dark when we arrived back in Baker Street, and I was relieved when Holmes decided to join me for dinner. That night, I fell asleep to the melancholy strains of Holmes’s violin and did not re-awake until some time after dawn. When I entered our sitting room, Mrs Hudson was already setting our breakfast upon the table, and Holmes was reading the paper.
“Good morning, Watson. Have a seat. There should be ample time for breakfast before we resume our investigation.”
“You certainly are in a good mood, Holmes.”
“I have just heard from a Dr Smythe at St Veronica’s. Mrs Benson is, indeed, a patient there, and we are free to visit her at any time after eleven o’clock. I expect this meeting will go a long way in establishing a motive for our case.”
“Does that mean you know who killed Lord Morris?”
“My dear Watson, I have known that since yesterday morning.”
“But who?”
“All in good time. I must satisfy myself upon a few more points, before I can be absolutely certain of events. Would you like to have a look at today’s paper? It contains an account of what we saw yesterday at Sherrinsthorpe.”
After breakfast, we departed for the East End. It was there, in the City, that we found the rather ugly pile of a structure known as St Veronica’s Hospital for Women. It was, in reality, more of a mental asylum than a traditional hospital, and its sterile, white, arched corridors reverberated with the screams and moans of its imprisoned Bedlamites. Dr Smythe, a rather shabby looking bald man with a flaming orange beard, was leading us through a throng of black and white uniformed nurses to the room of Cecilia Benson.
“Here we are, gentlemen, but I must warn you that my patient may not be of much help to you,” he said as he swung open the room’s heavy door.
Even with no make-up and dressed in a shabby white hospital gown, Cecilia Benson was a stunningly beautiful woman. Her flawless, milk-white skin was emphasized by her long, black hair, and her movements were still incredibly graceful, reflecting her several
