On the Threshold of the Chamber of Horrors
On the Threshold of the Chamber of Horrors is a Sherlock Holmes pastiche written by Montgomery Carmichael published in The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News on 27 october 1894.
On the Threshold of the Chamber of Horrors
It was five weeks or more now that Edward Clay had been "wanted" for the revolting and mysterious murder at Manchester, known as the London-road murder. The police, said the Press, were "very reticent" on the subject, and for a good reason; they possessed not the faintest clue to Clay's whereabouts.
Meanwhile he was living peaceably at a dingy little Temperance Hotel bin Bloomsbury, taking his walks abroad by daylight in his ordinary apparel, and quietly enjoying the proceeds of an embezzlement of £1,000.
It was thanks, perhaps to his very ordinary appearance, that Clay had hitherto escaped police vigilance. Any man more like the general impression of man it would be difficult to imagine. He was a fourth-rate trainer by profession, but there was nothing at all horsey in his appearance. Then he was neither tall nor short, stout nor thin, fair nor dark, nor was there the faintest irregularity or peculiarity in his features. He wore a blue melton overcoat with velvet collar, a brown billycock, a white piqué tie with imitation pearl pin, and he usually carried the commonplace hazel stick that every other man in London carries. In short, his whole appearance was neutral and inconspicuous, and as he strolled down Baker-street, no human being on the pavement looked less like a notorious murderer than Edward Clay.
But as he strolled down Baker-street, his eyes happened to wander up to a window. Two men were looking down into the street, one cadaverous, cleanshaven, his keen face full of power and intelligence, the other heavy, commonplace, good-natured, with a thick moustache hiding his indolent mouth. Clay recognised in the former a celebrated detective, and started slightly. Perhaps the start betrayed him. Both men suddenly disappeared from the window. Clay quickened his pace. After walking a hundred yards, he turned and saw both the men on the doorstep. They began to follow him briskly.
Clay turned down the Marylebone road, and being no longer under observation ran hastily over to the St. John's Wood Station of the underground railway. He looked up at the clock — one minute to two; he had just time to catch the train. He took a ticket to Willesden, his intention being when there to walk over to the great junction, and get a North London train back to Broad-street. But would not the detective have time to be upon him before the train started? He looked cautiously out of the station entrance, and it was well for his safety that he did. The detective had divined his plan, and was just disappearing into the northern entrance of the "Circle" station, no doubt with the intention of finding his way to the St. John's Wood platform by a circuitous route and unexpectedly pouncing on his prey. The detective's friend was coming along the Marylebone-road towards the St. John's Wood Station. In thirty seconds more Clay's retreat would be completely cut off. If he went into the station, there he would find the detectives; if he waited where he was the detective's friend would soon be up with him. He turned, into the street, and began to walk briskly towards Portland-road.
Arrived opposite the entrance to Madame Tussaud’s, Clay looked back. The detective's friend was following; his eyes were cast down; he was trying to look unconscious, and was really looking supremely self-conscious all the while.
A "New-road" bus was passing. Clay deliberated as to jumping on to it, but pursuit would have been easy. At that instant the detective emerged from the St. John's Wood Station. Clay was seized with momentary panic and did a seemingly foolish thing; he darted into Madame Tussaud's. As he was paying his shilling, he realised that he had walked into a trap. In some confused way he still hoped to dodge behind the figures and escape. He walked quickly upstairs, and proceeded to the end room.
Presently a smothered exclamation escaped him. There, very near the entrance to the Chamber of Horrors, was his own effigy in wax! There he stood, in blue melton overcoat and brown billycock and white pique tie, resting on his commonplace hazel. It was a wonderful piece of work. Clay had enjoyed reading its praises in the papers, but he was not prepared for so perfect a counterfeit presentment.
And now a genuine inspiration occurred to him. He lifted the wax figure, carried it across the room, and hid it behind the effigy of a British peer in his flowing robes. It was only two in the afternoon; not a single visitor was in the place; a sleepy attendant was dozing at the other end of the room. He had been unobserved. Then he went back and put himself in the place of his own effigy, and gazed fixedly into space.
He had not long to wait for his pursuers. The two men were soon standing in front of him.
"Here's his effigy, at all events," observed the great detective. "It's the best bit of wax-work I've ever seen. I saw it last week, and that's how I recognised the man today; but, upon my word, it's even more lifelike than I thought."
"Yes," replied the friend, "it's really wonderful. It's positively alive. The skin isn’t hard and shiny like wax. It really has that half-grimy look that the best of men get after running about Manchester for a day."
"I congratulate the establishment," said the detective. "But we mustn't allow the original to escape us while we are admiring the model. I expect, though, we shall find him where his model will soon follow — in the Chamber of Horrors."
"St!" cried the other, suddenly, a look of pride and triumph illuminating his good-natured features, "there he is — don't you see — skulking behind that portentous-looking noble lord on the other side of the room. I shouldn't have seen him if the fool had taken his hat off. Shall I go round the other way so as to cut off his retreat?"
The detective considered the situation with a rapid glance. "No need for that," he said; "he can't escape us now. I think we may as well add a little refined torture to my gentleman's agony. He richly deserves it."
The two men went across and sat down opposite the effigy of the majestic peer, the detective in full enjoyment of the idea of starving out his victim. "Now then, my friend," he said aloud, "when you're tired of skulking you can come out. I'm in no hurry."
The Edward Clay of flesh and blood could now relax his features, and they softened into a smile of contempt and triumph. He bent down low, and crouching down, stole noiselessly from the room. Then, erect and leisurely, he strolled down the stairs, walked out into the street, and then back to the St. John's Wood Station. There was no hurry; he realised that the detective, with his design of refined torture, was making him a present of an abundance of precious time. No watch had been set for him, for his adversary preferred reserving to himself the whole glory of his triumphs. In five minutes more Clay was whirling away in a train of the St. John's Wood line.
The two men continued to sit in silence for a quarter of an hour or more.
"He keeps wonderfully still, doesn't he?" observed the friend.
"Yes," replied the detective, "but I don't envy him his sensations. Perhaps, however, the poor devil's had enough of the rack now." He rose from his seat, reached over the hereditary legislator, and with his cane rapped the shoulder of the wax image of Edward Clay. "Come along, my friend,” he observed facetiously, “come out of that. I don’t wish to be too hard upon you."
"Hi!" shouted an excited voice behind them. "Hi! Wot are yon doin' to them figgers? I seed ye! I'll 'aye ye run in as sure as my name's——" An attendant gesticulating furiously came up to them.
"St! you fool!" replied the detective angrily; "don't you see there's a man hiding behind that figure? It's Edward Clay, the Manchester murderer."
"Edward Clay! Hi! policeman, policeman! Hi! 'urry up!" shouted the attendant, wild with excitement. A policeman emerged with much deliberation from the next room; nothing would induce him to "'urry up."
"Confound the fellow!" muttered the detective, "he's spoiled my plans, but at all events the bird's safe. Look here, policeman," he continued, turning to the phlegmatic minister of the law, "you know me, I dare say?"
The policeman scrutinised him closely, "Yessir," he replied deferentially.
"Well, that fellow skulking behind there is Edward Clay, the London-road murderer. You know the Treasury yesterday decided to offer £200 for his capture. I make you a free gift of him."
The policeman's eyes gleamed; he lost no time in getting behind the noble lord, and, two seconds later, he was holding aloft, in stupor and amazement, the rigid waxen effigy of the notorious Edward Clay.
"Death and damnation!" shouted the great detective, quoting Shakespeare. He gave a glance at the vacant spot on the opposite side of the room, and ground his teeth in fury.
"Come along!" he said sharply to his friend, "there's not a moment to lose."
"'Ere, stop a bit!" cried the excited attendant, who hadn't taken in the situation. "I want to know 'oo's bin a-movin' them figgers, that's wot I want to know. Oh, no, ye don't!" he continued, as the detective and his friend began to move off. "'Ere, awficer, run 'em in, I say!"
"It's all right," observed the policeman imperturbably; "that's Mr. ———, the great detective, but 'e's met his match this time."
Clay had judged it better to get out at Marlborough-road Station. So far the detective traced him, but there he lost every vestige of him. Clay's commonplace appearance was his great safeguard. He made a long leisurely detour by Grovend-road and Lisson-grove, and quietly regained his Temperance Hotel in time for seven o'clock dinner.
It was not till two years after this that the police succeeded in tracking him and running him down. And then his wonderful waxen model was moved with due solemnity to its proper place, across the threshold of the Chamber of Horror.
