LITMIR.BIZ

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directly under his lip and sprouted downward. His eyes were black and deep-set.

      “Ah, the Amazing Cavendish!” Holmes remarked. “With the signature ‘Vanishing Lady’ act. A fellow conjurer, perhaps it was you who killed Sun Ching Foo?”

      His face frowned. “I assure you, nothing can be further from the truth. Sun Ching Foo was no friend, but he was no enemy, either. Suggesting I killed Sun Ching Foo for his business is like me suggesting that you should kill Lestrade to snatch more cases to solve.”

      Holmes chuckled. “Very well, who do you think killed him?”

      “A spurned lover, angry creditors, or even himself? If he committed suicide, shouldn’t we search for a note?”

      “If he committed suicide, then what is the mechanism? Thomasina, you say you don’t know how the trick worked, but how did he set it up?” Holmes asked.

      She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. We all had tasks to do—I was preparing other things while he was working on the gun.”

      Holmes asked, “Did he do anything to the guns after a performance?”

      She nodded. “Why yes! See, the gun was not meant to fire. So every night, Cecil took apart the rifle to extract the bullet. He would shake the powder out and put that back in the container, too.”

      “Usually, the gun did not fire? If it wasn’t supposed to, then how did Cecil simulate the sound of shooting?”

      She shrugged. “It was all part of the magic of Sun Ching Foo.”

      “Where was he before the show? What was he doing?”

      Thomasina was quiet; instead, Cavendish spoke up. “Sun Ching Foo was in the company of a woman besides his wife.”

      “How is it that you know this?” Holmes asked.

      “His colourful social habits were known to all at the Bixby Club, of which we were both members.”

      “It is imperative that I question this woman, Mister Cavendish. Give her name to the Yard, and they will bring her in for questioning.”

      Holmes turned to Thomasina. “You ask for help, madam, and I shall offer it. But even without your plea, I would see this through to the end. A man has died in front of my eyes. The honor of my trade is at stake.”

      Jealousy, anger, vengeance – I saw none of that on the wife’s face. She showed only silent despair. “Thank you, Mister Holmes.”

      * * * *

      We returned to the Metropolitan Police. Parliament’s clock tower looked at us over St. Stephen’s House. Lanners explained to Holmes that the woman was found, and they discussed what questions had been posed already and her answers. Once Holmes had his fill of the information, Lanners walked us to the same room where Alastair Reynolds had been questioned.

      Inside the office, she waited. I will spare this woman her decency by concealing a name, but I shall describe her as a young Scotchwoman wearing a Norfolk jacket with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a skirt. Her hair curled loosely over greenish-blue eyes.

      “Questions from one constable were not enough, now he brings two more?” she muttered.

      “I 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,

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