Read Online Disquiet at Albany by N. M. Scott - Free Book Online

girls dressed in grass skirts.
    By the last act, however, the musical had gloriously improved and even though the giant rats appeared in the finale, the final, uplifting duet where young Archie, now a naval lieutenant, returns to Sumatra and rescues Bella from the cooking pot, was superb. He sang poignantly the words: ‘
Sumatra, Sumatra, I met the love of my life here, I have eyes only for you dearest dear, dearest Bella, my Bella, my sweetest Bella dear
.’
    This brought the house down. We all stood up and applauded till our hands hurt. Everyone in the theatre was on their feet for a last rousing, foot-stomping rendition of the catchy overture.
    After the last bow, the applause gently dying away while the house gas jets came up, we made our way downstairs to congratulate the composer Christopher Chymes and lyricist Philip Troy and break a bottle of champagne with the impresario of the Wimborne, Langton Lovell and his business partner Charles Lemon, who had played the old missionary, Davies, with such zeal and flair. Unfortunately, a terrible tragedy then occurred, which marred proceedings somewhat.
    I recall as if yesterday, Holmes and myself, arm in arm, some way behind Alfred Russell Wallace and his family being led along a backstage corridor full of props and actors congratulating one another, when from a room at the end a very shocked and pale looking Christopher Chymes emerged, being supported by Langton Lovell.
    ‘Philip is dead,’ the composer gasped, clutching at his friend’s sleeve, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. ‘Poor Troy’s dead.’
    ‘A heart failure,’ said I, rushing forward. ‘Christopher, I am a doctor, we may be able to yet resuscitate him. Lead the way old man.’
    ‘No point. He’s been murdered,’ he cried. ‘Oh dear God, his throat’s clawed through, there’s so much blood, up the walls, the lino. The room’s been ransacked!’
    ‘Steady Christopher,’ said Langton, leading Chymes over to a props trunk, insisting he should sit down and gather composure. ‘Brandy, someone – a dashed large measure. Hurry!’
    While Wallace and his family were ushered away I was annoyed when a tall Chinaman in flowing silk robes and wearing a pill-box hat barged right past us without a by-your-leave, dashing into the recently vacated murder room.
    ‘Where is he? Where is my patient?’ he said, more to himself than us, his noble Oriental features clouding over into a protracted scowl. His thin, cruel mouth pursed slightly. He shook his head and was about to depart through the crowd of horrified onlookers gathering in the corridor when, brandishing his sword stick, Holmes promptly blocked his path.
    ‘Doctor Wu Xing, I presume?’ said my companion, peering into the Chinaman’s face intently. ‘You will do me the honour of accompanying myself and Doctor Watson back to Baker Street. We have much to discuss. If you want to avoid the police and remain at liberty in the foreseeable future I strongly advise you to comply. A four-wheeler shall convey us swiftly to Marylebone. Theatre land must, for now alas, be forsaken, perhaps prudent, for the Wimborne shall soon become awash with the denizens of Fleet Street after a story, and Scotland Yard to examine the murder scene. Do I make myself plain?’
    ‘Undoubtedly. Come gentlemen, I am no Malay or Chinese coolie from East India Docks, neither do I frequent the opium dens of Limehouse. We are civilised human beings. Lead the way, Mr Sherlock Holmes. I have long been acquainted with your redoubtable reputation as the capital’s greatest and only serving consulting detective. Doctor Watson, I feel privileged to meet you, albeit in questionable circumstances.’
    ‘Compliments and flattery aside, you are in very deep, Doctor Wu. Your patient is I believe reliably responsible for two brutal murders in Norfolk and now this debacle, this bloodbath backstage at the Wimborne.’
    We flagged down a cab outside the theatre. There was mayhem, crowds