Chapter 11 #3
‘This wasn’t part of the show last year,’ Beth whispered. ‘Lord, I hope she don’t drown.’
Harry frowned as she watched. The famous escapologist, Harry Houdini, had performed similar incredible feats throughout his remarkable career and she had no doubt Angelique would have a skeleton key secreted somewhere on her person that would fit all of the locks she was now burdened with.
The skill must be in how long she could hold her breath.
Even so, Harry felt her pulse quickening as Angelique made ponderous work of climbing the set of stairs beside the tank.
She posed for a moment at the top, as though struck by sudden doubt.
The ringmaster slammed his cane into the ground, causing several members of the audience to jump.
With a tiny, seemingly regretful shake of her head, Angelique recovered her poise and stepped into the tank.
The chains sent her plummeting to the bottom.
Immediately, she began to writhe. A black curtain was raised, hiding the tank from view, although the very top could be seen – presumably to reassure the audience that no one else had entered it to help.
Water sloshed over the top, puffing small clouds of sawdust into the air where it landed.
The band continued to play as the ringmaster produced a pocket watch from his waistcoat and made a great show of checking it.
‘Three minutes, ladies and gentlemen, and not a second more!’
As exhibitions went, there was not much to see and yet the spectators were on the edge of their seats.
As the minutes ticked by, the ringmaster grew visibly agitated, exchanging concerned looks with the men in brown coats and even going so far as to gesture wildly at them to enter the tank.
Finally, he threw his arms up in an extravagant sweep.
The band reached a crescendo and stopped.
At the exact same time, the black curtain cascaded to the floor.
As one, every member of the audience sat forward.
Angelique floated motionless in the water, her scarlet hair fanned around her head like a terrible, blood-red halo.
The chains that had bound her lay discarded beneath at the base of the tank.
Seconds passed. She did not move. The woman beside Harry squeaked and covered her face.
And then, with a powerful kick that sent more water spilling over the glass sides, Angelique shot towards the surface.
Her hands broke free of the water. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as she hauled herself out, standing at the top of the stairs and dripping, an exultant look on her face as she raised her slender arms aloft.
‘The astonishing Angelique!’ the ringmaster bellowed, as the diminutive young woman descended the steps to join him in the ring. ‘There is not a lock in the world she cannot break!’
Harry watched Angelique bow to each side of the ring, then skip lightly after the tank as it was wheeled from sight, seemingly none the worse for her brush with death.
She leaned towards Beth. ‘She certainly made short work of those padlocks. I wonder if she’d be equally accomplished with the lock on a safe. ’
Beth’s eyes narrowed. ‘He did say there wasn’t a lock she couldn’t break. And I reckon she’s smaller than my youngest sister. She’d have no trouble with a narrow tunnel.’
It was exactly the thought in Harry’s mind too but there was no time to explore it further – the ringmaster was demanding their attention once more. ‘And now, prepare to witness the impossible. I present to you the strongest man on earth – Hercules Jones!’
The giant who strode into the ring now wore a deep red leotard bisected by a wide belt, sturdy leather boots and very little else.
But Harry barely noticed his costume, nor the heavy weights and dumbbells being placed around him.
Her gaze was fixed upon the tattoos that covered his forearms, marking him out as the bruiser she and Beth had met at the pawnbroker’s shop.
She knew without asking that Beth had observed them too.
The ringmaster continued to extol the virtues of his strongman – insisting he could lift weights that would dumbfound them.
And Hercules certainly appeared to live up to his mythical namesake, straining muscle and sinew to lift ever-increasing burdens, much to the appreciation of the audience.
At last, the ringmaster raised his cane for silence.
‘And now for the final feat. Who among our esteemed onlookers would like to claim that Hercules Jones lifted you?’
Tumultuous chatter broke out and several hands shot into the air.
Hercules Jones prowled around the edge of the ring, his piggy eyes assessing the volunteers with cold calculation; Harry dipped her head to stare at her neatly folded hands, and she saw the brim of Beth’s hat tilt downwards, but it seemed to her that his pace slowed as he reached the bench where they sat.
The woman on their right jiggled, clearly desperate to be chosen. Harry did not move.
‘Pick me!’ her neighbour shrieked. ‘Oh, Hercules, pick me!’
Darting the briefest of glances from beneath her hat, Harry felt her heart stutter.
The strongman was staring at her, his dense brows knotted together.
Instantly, she dropped her gaze once more, scarcely daring to breathe.
It was perfectly possible he had spotted her among the sea of faces, had seen past the new hat and coat to recognise her as Miss Peterman, which made her wonder what his next move would be.
Would he pluck her from the crowd on the pretext of using her in his act?
How should she respond if he did? But a swell in noise and agitation from those seated nearby, and a huff of disappointment from her neighbour, suggested Hercules had moved on.
Harry risked another peek and saw, with much relief, that she was correct.
After a moment or two more, the strongman made his choice – a middle-aged man with the heavy jowls and protruding stomach of a man who enjoyed his food – and instructed him to sit on a chair in the centre of the ring.
‘What is your name, sir?’ the ringmaster demanded.
‘Albert Dearly,’ he replied.
The ringmaster nodded. ‘Are you in good health, Mr Dearly? You are not afflicted by maladies of the heart, I trust?’
Albert Dearly looked mildly affronted. ‘Not at all.’
‘And how much do you weigh, sir?’
At this, Mr Dearly looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know that I—’
The ringmaster threw up his hands. ‘How are we to marvel at the brilliance of Hercules if we don’t know how much weight he lifts? Come now, you may whisper it to me if you prefer.’
Mr Dearly did so. ‘Sixteen stones and three pounds!’ the ringmaster roared, turning back to the crowd. ‘But that is nothing to Hercules. Watch as he balances this sizeable gentleman – chair and all – upon his head!’
Harry’s thudding heart began to settle as four brown-coated circus hands came forward and strapped Albert Dearly to the chair with leather belts across his chest and legs. ‘For your own safety, sir!’ the ringmaster cried, when the volunteer looked as though he might protest.
Once he was secured, the men each gripped a corner of the chair.
Squatting so low he almost brushed the ground, Hercules waited as they heaved the chair upwards.
Mr Dearly let out an undignified squawk and grabbed the seat.
Another assistant placed a plush satin cushion on the top of the strongman’s head, then the chair was lowered into position.
Muscles bulged as Hercules gripped the legs of the chair.
His face reddened. With a grunt of effort that became a full-throated roar, he pushed upwards on legs that suddenly resembled the trunks of mighty oaks.
The chair lurched. Mr Dearly covered his eyes.
But he did not fall. Steadily, Hercules rose, and the chair moved above him, until at last he stood upright.
His face was almost purple, his eyes the size of hard-boiled eggs.
Thickened veins protruded from his neck and chest. He let go of the chair legs, allowed a huffing Mr Dearly to balance there for several long seconds, then let out another roar and thrust the man and his chair into the air, straightening his arms so that the burden hovered over his head.
Clearly overcome, Mr Dearly screamed. Applause exploded from the crowd, and several people leapt to their feet to cheer, but Harry barely heard.
She was no longer in the circus tent. Instead, she found herself transported back to the secret room of 50 Berkeley Square, where the body of Polly Spender had been secured to the chair in much the same way as Albert Dearly.
Her gaze travelled upwards to the ceiling, smooth and white but lacking in the brilliant freshness of the recently applied plaster that graced the room next door, and she knew in a flash that she had disregarded one of Sherlock Holmes’ most frequently repeated maxims – that once the impossible had been eliminated, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth.
And yet she doubted even Holmes could have guessed how the thieves came and went from the hidden room without understanding their connection to the circus.
She ran a shaky hand across her face and the sawdust ring swam back into view, with Hercules Jones at its centre, taking in the applause.
Harry sat perfectly still, her brain whirring as she considered the implications of all she had seen.
Could it be that she had just found the final piece in the puzzle of the locked room?