‘Dario, please,’ said Madame Borelli. ‘I believe he can help to prove that you did not tamper with Santo’s guillotine trick. We must clear this up, Dario, or who knows what Santo may do?’

Holmes set down the contraption with the ankle cuffs and wiped his hands with a nearby towel. ‘The lock appears untouched. The wood around it is not scratched. If the one lock that malfunctioned was indeed tampered with and not merely broken, then the culprit is an expert.’

‘Colangelo did this,’ snarled the magician. Then, to me, ‘Ach! Easy there, you!’

‘How and when did he allegedly do this? Surely you check your equipment?’ asked Holmes.

‘Always. I examined it at six p.m. tonight.’

‘But the show commenced at seven-thirty. Did you not look again, just before going on? Such a mistake can be fatal,’ remarked the detective.

Borelli waved a hand. He was not yet ready to let Holmes in on the case. ‘But it was not fatal. I escaped! You are so smart, tell me how I do this!’

‘Impressively! You twisted your ankle at an extreme angle until you could slip free by force – abrading the skin there and breaking your ankle in the process. Few could manage this.’

I looked up at the man. ‘You broke your own ankle? On purpose?’

‘Better than drowning, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Or perhaps worse, failing the trick.’

Madame Borelli smiled at this. The magician did not.

‘Why should I trust you?’ he said. His eyes swept over Holmes, taking in everything from my friend’s sleek hair and closely fitted frock coat to his polished boots. ‘You say admirer. But … you are dressed like magician.’

Holmes laughed.

‘Like a gentleman, Dario,’ corrected Madame Borelli. ‘It is the fine English tailoring of Mr Holmes.’ The lady gave her husband a stern look. ‘You need to listen, caro mio.’

The man raised his eyebrows. ‘Speak, woman.’

‘We must discover not just Santo Colangelo’s guillotine mystery, but also who tampered with your equipment tonight, Dario,’ continued his wife. ‘Possibly it was the same man.’

‘Or woman,’ I said.

‘Many are jealous of my illusions, my fame,’ said Borelli.

‘Oh, to be sure,’ I said. This man’s conceit knew no bounds.

‘Who guards your stage properties when you are away?’ asked Holmes.

Madame Borelli gave a low growl. ‘Falco Fricano. He was married to Dario’s sister, before her death. He watches over things, or says he does.’

‘He is a good man,’ said Borelli. ‘Falco!’ he shouted.

‘He is the wrong man for this job,’ said Madame.

Borelli grunted. ‘What do you know, woman?’

His dismissive manner raised my ire.