Art in the Blood
A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADVENTURE
BONNIE MACBIRD

Copyright

This book is a new and original work of fiction featuring Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, and other fictional characters that were first introduced to the world in 1887 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, all of which are now in the public domain. The characters are used by the author solely for the purpose of story-telling and not as trademarks. This book is independently authored and published, and is not sponsored or endorsed by, or associated in any way with, Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd. or any other party claiming trademark rights in any of the characters in the Sherlock Holmes canon.

COLLINS CRIME CLUB

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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Bonnie MacBird 2015

All rights reserved

Drop Cap design © Colbalt C Creative 2015

Bonnie MacBird asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008129668

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008154486

Version: 2016-03-24

Praise for Art in the Blood

‘MacBird has captured the tone and style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s immortal sleuth perfectly.’

The Huffington Post

‘A thoroughly entertaining Sherlock Holmes adventure worthy of Doyle himself … vivid period detail, a superb, labyrinthine plot, snappy pacing and, most importantly, a deep respect for the classic characters.’

Bryan Cogman, co-producer and writer of HBO’s Game of Thrones

‘Bonnie MacBird’s Art in the Blood has the three key ingredients for a delicious pastiche: meticulous research, plausibility and grand fun!’

Leslie S. Klinger, editor of The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes

‘A solid debut from an author I hope to read more of.’

The Baker Street Babes

‘A riveting journey … from the bohemian art studios of Paris and the familiar streets of London to the darker side of the Industrial Revolution, all carefully researched and excellently evoked.’

Catherine Cooke, curator of the Sherlock Holmes Collection, London

‘MacBird skilfully interweaves fact with fiction while remaining faithful to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s original imagining of Sherlock Holmes … A worthy addition to the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.’

Kirkus Reviews

‘Stylish, exciting, amusing and enthralling … the best I’ve read outside of Conan Doyle himself!’

Paul Annett, director of ITV’s Sherlock Holmes series starring Jeremy Brett

‘A pitch-perfect Holmes and Watson, Art in the Blood bristles with the intelligence and wit we love in the original adventures. Dark, funny and surprising to the end.’

Peter Samuelson, film producer of Wilde, Tom & Viv, Revenge of the Nerds and many more

‘The best pastiche since The Seven-Per-Cent Solution bar none.’ Doyleockian

‘MacBird has given us back the Sherlock Holmes of old. One whose flaws are a constant battle and yet maintains a sense of panache that creates trust in those who rely on him.’

Leslie Wright, Blogcritics

‘In a world with more than its share of Sherlock Holmes pastiches, it is rare for one to soar above the rest, but Bonnie MacBird’s Art in the Blood achieves this singular feat and deserves a tip of the deerstalker.’

Otto Penzler, The Mysterious Bookshop, The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

‘A page turner … MacBird has done her homework.’

Forbes

‘A stylish leap … plunges with brio in 19th-century Europe.’

Independent

For interested readers, illustrated

annotations to Art in the Blood

can be found on

www.macbird.com/aitb/notes

Dedication

For Alan

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Art in the Blood

Dedication

Preface

Part One: Out of the Darkness

Chapter 1: Ignition

Chapter 2: En Route

Part Two: The City of Light

Chapter 3: We Meet Our Client

Chapter 4: Le Louvre

Chapter 5: Les Oeufs

Chapter 6: Le Chat Noir

Part Three: The Lines Are Drawn

Chapter 7: Attack!

Chapter 8: A Slippery Slope

Chapter 9: L’Artiste en Danger

Chapter 10: Mlle la Victoire’s Story

Part Four: Behind the Scenes

Chapter 11: Baker Street Irregularities

Chapter 12: Suspension Bridge

Chapter 13: Mycroft

Chapter 14: Armed With Lies

Part Five: Belly of the Whale

Chapter 15: Arrival

Chapter 16: Repairs Needed

Chapter 17: In the Bosom of the Family

Chapter 18: First Look

Part Six: Darkness Descends

Chapter 19: Murder!

Chapter 20: The Chambermaid

Chapter 21: On the Ledge

Chapter 22: A Terrible Mistake

Part Seven: Tangled Threads

Chapter 23: Terror Looms

Chapter 24: Watson Investigates

Chapter 25: Vidocq’s Story

Part Eight: The Wash of Black

Chapter 26: Man Down

Chapter 27: Blood Brothers

Chapter 28: The Winged Victory

Part Nine: 221b

Chapter 29: London Bound

Chapter 30: Renewal

Acknowledgements

Unquiet Spirits Preview

Chapter 1: Stillness

About the Author

About the Publisher

Preface

During the Olympic summer of 2012, while researching some Victorian medical information at the Wellcome Library, I chanced upon a discovery so astounding that it completely altered my course. After requesting several old volumes, I was brought a small, dusty selection, some so fragile that they were held together by delicate linen ribbons.

Untying the largest, a treatise on the usage of cocaine, I discovered a thick sheaf of folded and yellowed papers had been tied to the back.

I opened the pages carefully and spread them before me. The handwriting was strangely familiar. Was I seeing clearly? I turned back the cover of the book; on the title page, in faded ink, was inscribed the original owner’s name: Dr John H. Watson.

And there, on these crumbling sheets of paper, was an unpublished, full-length adventure written by this same Dr Watson – featuring his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

But why had this case not been published with the others so long ago? I can only surmise that it is because the story, longer and perhaps more detailed than most, reveals a certain vulnerability in his friend’s character which might have endangered Holmes by its publication during their active years. Or perhaps Holmes, upon reading it, simply forbade its publication.

A third possibility, of course, is that Dr Watson absent-mindedly folded up his manuscript and, for unknown reasons, tied it to the back of this book. He then either lost or forgot about it. And so I share this tale with you, but with the following caveat.

Over time, perhaps from moisture and fading, a number of passages have become unreadable, and I have endeavoured to reconstruct what seemed to be missing from them. If there are any mistakes of style or historical inaccuracies, please ascribe these to my inability to fill in places where the writing had become indecipherable.

I hope you share my enthusiasm. As Nicholas Meyer, discoverer of The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, The West End Horror, and The Canary Trainer said recently for himself, and all fellow lovers of Conan Doyle – ‘We can never get enough!’

Perhaps there are more stories yet to be found. Let’s keep looking. Meanwhile, sit down by the fire now, and draw near for just one more.

PART ONE
OUT OF THE DARKNESS

‘I’ve got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.’

Thomas Carlyle

CHAPTER 1
Ignition

y dear friend Sherlock Holmes once said, ‘Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.’ And so it was for him. In my numerous accounts of the adventures we shared, I have mentioned his violin playing, his acting – but his artistry went much deeper than that. I believe it was at the very root of his remarkable success as the world’s first consulting detective.

I have been loath to write in detail about Holmes’s artistic nature, lest it reveal a vulnerability in him that could place him in danger. It is well known that in exchange for visionary powers, artists often suffer with extreme sensitivity and violent changeability of temperament. A philosophical crisis, or simply the boredom of inactivity, could send Holmes spinning into a paralysed gloom from which I could not retrieve him.

It was in such a state that I discovered my friend in late November of 1888.

London was blanketed with snow, the city still reeling from the extended horror of the Ripper murders. But at that moment, violent crime was not my concern. Married earlier that year to Mary Morstan, I was ensconced in a nest of comfortable domesticity, living at some distance from the rooms I had formerly shared with Holmes in Baker Street.

One late afternoon found me reading contentedly by the fire when a note arrived by breathless messenger. Opening it, I read: ‘Dr Watson – he has set 221B on fire! Come at once! – Mrs Hudson.’

In seconds I was hurtling through the streets in a cab towards Baker Street. As we tore around a corner, I could feel the wheels slipping in the mounding snow, and the cab lurched dangerously. I rapped on the roof. ‘Faster, man!’ I shouted.

We skidded into Baker Street and I saw the fire wagon and several men leaving our building. I leaped from the cab and ran to the door. ‘The fire,’ I cried. ‘Is everyone all right?’

A young fireman stared up at me, eyes shining from a smoke-blackened face.

‘It’s put out. The landlady is fine. The gentleman, I ain’t so sure.’

The fire captain pushed him aside and took his place. ‘Do you know the man who lives here?’ he asked.

‘Yes, quite well. I am his friend.’ The captain eyed me curiously. ‘And his doctor.’

‘Then get in there and see to the fellow. Something is not right. But t’weren’t the fire.’

Thank God Holmes was at least alive. I pushed past them and into the hall. Mrs Hudson was there, wringing her hands. I have never seen the dear woman in such a state. ‘Doctor! Oh, Doctor!’ she cried. ‘Thank heavens you’ve come. It’s been terrible these last days, and now this!’ Her bright blue eyes brimmed with tears.

‘Is he all right?’

‘From the fire, yes. But something, something awful … ever since he was in gaol! He has bruises. He won’t talk, he won’t eat.’

‘Gaol! How is it that—? No, tell me later.’

I raced up the seventeen steps to our door and paused. I rapped loudly. There was no reply.

‘Go on in!’ called Mrs Hudson. ‘Go!’

I flung open the door.

A blast of cold, smoky air assailed me. Inside the familiar room the sounds of carriages and footsteps were muffled to near silence by the new snow. In one corner, a wastepaper basket lay upended, blackened and wet, with charred paper nearby on the floor and a small area of drapery burnt away, now sodden.

And then I saw him.

His hair awry, his face ashen with lack of sleep and sustenance, he looked, quite frankly, at death’s door. He lay shivering on the couch, clothed in a shabby purple dressing gown. An old red blanket tangled around his feet and with a quick movement he yanked it up to cover his face.

The fire, along with stale tobacco smoke, had filled the study with a sharp acrid odour. A blast of freezing air blew in from an opened window.

I crossed to it and shut it, at once coughing at the foetid air. Holmes had not moved.

I knew immediately from his posture and ragged breath that he had taken something, some intoxicant or stimulant. A wave of anger swept over me, followed by guilt. In my newly wedded bliss, it had been weeks since I had seen or spoken to my friend. Holmes had, in fact, suggested we attend a concert together not long ago, but along with married social life, I had been busy with a critically ill patient and had forgotten to reply.

‘So, Holmes,’ I began. ‘This fire. Tell me about this.’

No response.

‘I understand that you were imprisoned briefly. What for? Why did you not send word?’

Nothing.

‘Holmes, I insist you tell me what is going on! Even though I am married now, you know that you can call on me when something like … when … if you …’ My voice trailed off. Silence. A sick feeling crept over me.

I removed my greatcoat and hung it in the old familiar place, next to his. I returned to stand next to him. ‘I need to understand about this fire,’ I said quietly.

A thin arm emerged from the ragged blanket and waved vaguely. ‘Accident.’

In a flash, I grabbed his arm and yanked it into the light. It was, as Mrs Hudson said, covered with bruises and one substantial cut. On the transverse side was something more alarming: the clear evidence of needle marks. Cocaine.

‘Damn it, Holmes. Let me examine you. What the devil happened in gaol? And why were you there?’

With surprising strength he wrenched his arm away and curled into the blanket. Silence. Then finally, ‘Please, Watson. I am fine. Go away.’

I paused. This went far beyond the occasional dark mood I’d witnessed in the past. He had me worried.

Sitting down in the armchair facing the couch, I vowed to wait this out. As the mantelpiece clock ticked and the minutes turned into an hour, my concern deepened.

Some time later Mrs Hudson entered with sandwiches, which he refused to acknowledge. As she puttered around mopping up the water left by the firemen he shouted at her to leave.

I stepped with her on to the landing and closed the door behind us. ‘Why was he in gaol?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know, Doctor,’ said she. ‘Something to do with the Ripper case. He was accused of tampering with the evidence.’

‘Why did you not call upon me? Or upon his brother?’ I asked. At that time, I knew little of the considerable influence in government affairs that Holmes’s older brother Mycroft commanded, and yet my sense was that some help might have been offered.

‘Mr Holmes told no one, he simply vanished! I am not sure that his brother knew for a week. Of course he was released right after, but the damage was done.’

I learned much later the details of this horrific case and the ill-directed trials it put my friend through. However, I have been sworn to secrecy on this account, and it must remain a matter for the history books. Suffice it to say that my friend threw considerable light on the case, something that proved most unwelcome among certain individuals at the highest levels of government.

But that is another tale entirely. I returned to my vigil. Hours passed, and I could neither rouse him, engage him in conversation, nor get him to eat. He remained unmoving and in what I knew to be a dangerous depression.

The morning drew into afternoon. While placing a cup of tea near him, I happened to notice what appeared to be a crumpled personal letter lying on the side table. Unfolding the bottom half silently, I read the signature: ‘Mycroft Holmes’.

I opened it and read. ‘Come at once,’ it said, ‘the affair of E/P requires your immediate attention.’ I folded the note and put it into my pocket.

‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘I took the liberty of—’

‘Burn that note,’ came a shrill voice from beneath his cover.

‘Too wet in here,’ I said. ‘Who is this “E slash P”? Your brother writes—’

‘Burn it, I say!’

He would say nothing further but remained buried and unmoving. As the evening wore on, I decided to wait him out and remain there through the night. He would eat – or collapse – and I would be there, as his friend and his doctor, to pick up the pieces. Valiant thoughts indeed, but shortly after, I fell asleep.

Early the next morning, I awoke to find myself covered with that same red blanket I now recognized from my old rooms. Mrs Hudson stood over me with a tea tray and a new letter – oblong and rose-tinted – resting on the edge of the tray.

‘From Paris, Mr Holmes!’ said she, waving the letter at him. No response.

Glancing at Holmes, and the unfinished food from yesterday, she shook her head and threw me a worried look. ‘Four days now, Doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Do something!’ She placed the tray next to me.

From the rumpled figure on the couch the thin arm waved her away. ‘Leave us, Mrs Hudson!’ he cried. ‘Give me the letter, Watson.’

Mrs Hudson departed, throwing me an encouraging look.

I snatched the letter from the tray and held it away. ‘Eat first,’ I demanded.

With a murderous look, he emerged from his cocoon and slammed a biscuit into his mouth, glaring at me like an angry child.

I held the letter away and sniffed it. I was rewarded by an unusual and delicious perfume, vanilla, perhaps, and something else. ‘Ahh,’ I said in pleasure, but Holmes succeeded in snatching the letter from my hand, immediately spitting out the biscuit. He examined the envelope thoroughly, and then tore it open, extracting the letter and scanning it quickly.

‘Ha! What do you make of it, Watson?’ His keen grey eyes were shaded by exhaustion, but lit by curiosity. A good sign.

I took it from him. As I unfolded the letter I noticed that he was eyeing the teapot uncertainly. I poured him a cup, added a splash of brandy and handed it to him. ‘Drink,’ said I.

The letter bore a Paris postmark with yesterday’s date. It was written in bright pink ink and on fine stationery. I glanced at the delicate handwriting.

‘It’s in French,’ I stated, handing it back. ‘And hard to read even if not. Here.’

Impatient, he snatched the letter and announced, ‘Writing – most definitely female. Scent, ahh … floral, amber, a touch of vanilla. I believe this is a new scent of Guerlain, “Jicky”, in development but not yet released. The singer – for this is how she describes herself – must be successful or at least very much admired to have obtained a bottle in advance.’

Holmes moved to better light near the fire and began to read with the theatricality I have come to enjoy at times, and tolerate at others. His fluent French made translation simple for him.

‘“My dear Mr Holmes,” she says, “your reputation and recent recognition by my government has led me to make this unusual request. I seek your help in a highly personal matter. Although I am a concert singer in Paris, and as such may perhaps be considered by you to be of lower “caste” – caste, an odd choice of word for a chanteuse – “I beg you to consider helping me.” Ah, I cannot read this; the ink is so pale!’

Holmes held the letter to the gaslight over our fireplace. I noticed that his hand was shaking and he looked unsteady. I moved behind him to read over his shoulder.

‘She continues, “I write on a matter of the greatest urgency concerning an important man of your country, and the father of my son—” here the lady has crossed out the name – but I perceive it is— What the devil?’

Holding the letter up closer to the light, he frowned in puzzlement. As he did so, a curious thing began to happen. The ink on the letter began to fade so quickly that even I noticed it standing behind him.

Holmes cried out and immediately pushed the letter under the cushion on the couch. We waited a few seconds, then pulled it out to look at it again. It was completely blank.

‘Ah!’ said he.

‘It’s some kind of disappearing ink!’ I cried, silenced immediately by Holmes’s sidelong glance. ‘The father of her son?’ I asked. ‘Did you catch the name of this important personage?’

‘I did,’ said Holmes, standing quite still. ‘The Earl of Pellingham.’

I returned to the couch wondering. Pellingham was one of the wealthiest peers in all of England, a man whose generosity and immense power in the House of Lords – not to mention his virtuous reputation as a humanitarian and collector of fine art – made him nearly a household name.

And yet here was a French cabaret singer claiming ties to this well-known figure.

‘What are the chances, Holmes, of this lady’s claim being valid?’

‘It seems preposterous. But perhaps …’ He moved to a cluttered table and spread the letter out, under a bright light.

‘But why the disappearing ink?’

‘She did not want a letter with the gentleman’s name to fall into the wrong hands. The Earl is said to have a long reach. And yet she has not told us all, I think—’

He now aimed his magnifying glass at the letter. ‘How curious, these scratches!’ He sniffed the page. ‘This blasted perfume! Yet I detect the slightest odour of— wait!’ He began rummaging through a collection of glass bottles. With small dabs, he applied droplets to the page, muttering as he did so. ‘There must be more.’

I knew better than to disturb him at such work and turned back to the newspaper I was reading. Not long after, I was startled from my dozing reverie by a cry of triumph.

‘Ha! Just as I thought, Watson. The letter that disappeared was not the entire message. I have revealed a second letter underneath, in invisible ink. Clever indeed—a double use of steganography!’

‘But how—?’

‘There were small scratches on the page that did not match the writing we saw. And the faintest odour of potato. The lady has employed a second ink that only appears upon the application of a reagent, in this case iodine.’

‘Holmes, you amaze me. What does it say?’

‘It reads: “My dear Mr Holmes, it is with the utmost panic and terror that I write this to you. I did not wish a letter naming the boy’s father to remain extant; hence my precaution. If you are as astute as reputed, you will discover this second note. Then I will know you are the man to help me.

‘“I write to you because my young son, Emil, aged ten, has disappeared from the unnamed’s estate, and I fear he has been kidnapped or worse. Emil has until recently lived with this man and his wife under complicated conditions which I would like to make known to you in person.

‘“I am allowed to see him only once a year at Christmas time, when I travel to London and must follow explicit instructions for a most secretive assignation.

‘“A week ago, I received a letter telling me that our meeting, to have taken place three weeks hence, is now cancelled and I will not see my boy this Christmas, nor ever again. I was enjoined to accept this on pain of death. I cabled at once, and a day later I was accosted in the street by a vicious ruffian, knocked to the ground and warned to stay away.

‘“There is more, Mr Holmes, but I fear a strange net is closing in on me. May I call on you in London next week? I implore you in the name of humanity and justice to take my case. Please cable your reply to me signed as Mr Hugh Barrington, London Variety Producer. Very sincerely yours, Emmeline ‘Cherie’ La Victoire.”’

Holmes paused, thinking. He picked up a cold pipe, grasping it with his teeth. His tired features took on a hint of animation. ‘What do you make of this “strange net,” Watson?’

‘I have no idea. She is an artist. Perhaps a touch of the dramatic?’ I said.

‘I think not. This letter displays intelligence and careful planning.’

He tapped his cold pipe on the page in a sudden decisive gesture, glanced at the clock and stood, his eyes afire. ‘Ah, there is just time to make the last ferry from Dover. Pack your bags, Watson; we leave for the Continent in less than ninety minutes.’ He moved to the door, shouting downstairs, ‘Mrs Hudson!’

‘But the lady is coming here next week, she said.’

‘Next week she could be dead. Concerned as she is, this young woman may not fully appreciate the danger she faces. I will explain all en route.’

And with that he was at the front door, again shouting into the hallway, ‘Mrs Hudson! Our bags!’

‘Holmes,’ I cried. ‘You are forgetting! My bags are elsewhere. In my own home!’

But he had left the room and entered his bedchamber. I wondered if his brain was even functioning to forget such a thing. Was he healthy enough to—?

I leaped from my chair and tore back the cover from the couch. There, tucked under one of the cushions, lay Holmes’s cocaine and hypodermic. My heart sank.

Holmes appeared in the doorway. ‘Please convey my apologies to Mrs Watson and collect your things at …’ Here he paused, seeing the bottle and syringe in my hand.

‘Holmes! You told me this was finished.’

A flicker of shame crossed his proud countenance. ‘I’m … I’m afraid I need you, Watson.’ There was a slight pause. ‘On this trip, that is. If perhaps you would be free?’

The words hung in the air. His thin frame stood silhouetted in the door, poised, nearly quivering with excitement, or perhaps the drug. I looked down at the needle in my hands. I could not let him go alone in this state.

‘You must promise me, Holmes—’

‘No more cocaine.’

‘No, I mean it this time. I cannot help you if you will not help yourself.’

He nodded, once.

I replaced the syringe in its case and pocketed it and the cocaine. ‘You are in luck, then. Mary leaves for the country tomorrow to visit her mother.’

Holmes clapped his hands together like a child. ‘Very good, Watson!’ he cried. ‘The Chatham departs for Dover from Victoria Station in three-quarters of an hour. Bring your revolver!’ With that he vanished up the stairs. I paused.

‘And the sandwiches,’ he shouted down from above. I smiled. Holmes was back. And so, for better or worse, was I.

CHAPTER 2
En Route

returned home for my things and managed to make it to Victoria Station barely in time to leap aboard the train to Dover.

The man facing me across our private compartment was no longer the man who had been languishing at 221B only hours before. Clean-shaven and even elegant in his travelling costume of black and grey, Holmes was every inch the imposing figure he could be when so inspired.

Certain that his rapid transformation was due entirely to the stimulation of this new case, and nothing to do with my ministrations, I admit to feeling a bit resentful. Nevertheless, I put these thoughts from my mind and decided to be satisfied that my friend was once again returning to himself, whatever the cause.

He began an unusually voluble explanation of our situation, his eyes burning with an excitement I hoped would not turn manic.

‘The double encoding of the letter was not without interest, don’t you think Watson? She evidently needed to mention the real name of the gentleman, yet to take that kind of precaution must mean she fears him as well. But it is the secondary message which intrigues.’

‘Yes. How did she know that you would find it?’

‘My reputation of course.’

‘And so my recounting of A Study in Scarlet has done you some good, then, Holmes?’

‘You forget I am known in France. Given her interest in chemistry, I would consider her choice to hide the second message a kind of litmus test.’

I sat back in puzzlement while peeling an orange with a small knife. ‘I’ll admit the double-ink trick is a clever touch. But what about the case itself? The lady wishes to travel to you. Why, then, this haste and our trip to Paris?’

Holmes smiled mischievously. ‘Don’t you fancy a trip to Paris, Watson? Leave the gloom of London for the City of Lights? Surely you cannot object to a brief holiday. You have not yet seen the curious ongoing construction of a rather grandiose edifice called La Tour Eiffel.’

‘I have heard it is an abomination. And you do not travel for recreation, Holmes. Why do you think the danger to the lady is imminent?’

‘I believe the attack in the street, Watson, is only the tip of the iceberg. I am concerned by her connection to the Earl. My brother believes there is a well-hidden but dark cloud of violence surrounding this man.’

I felt a sudden dawning. ‘Ah, the “E/P” of Mycroft’s note to you! But I have always heard that Pellingham is a respected philanthropist, and a paragon of noblesse oblige, is he not?’

‘So goes the story. You have heard of his art collection?’

‘Yes, started by his father, as I recall.’

‘It is legendary, but currently kept private. Are you aware that no one has seen it in years?’

‘I’m afraid I do not follow these matters, Holmes.’

‘Mycroft suspects the Earl of a less than scrupulous method of obtaining his treasures. There is a recent case in particular.’

‘Why would a man of his standing risk being branded a thief over some stolen paintings?’

‘The Earl is in a position difficult to imagine. His connections render him almost untouchable. He sheds suspicion like water off a well vulcanized mackintosh, Watson; surely you know that. And the artwork in question is a sculpture, not a painting. Not merely any sculpture, but the Marseilles Nike. You have heard of it?’

‘Ah … that Greek statue discovered earlier this year! I believe there was a murder connected to—’

‘Four murders, to be exact. The Nike is considered the grandest find since the Elgin Marbles, and she is said to surpass the Winged Victory in beauty. An enormous work in excellent condition. Priceless.’

I offered Holmes a section of orange; he waved it away, continuing with enthusiasm: ‘No less than three foreign powers lay claim to her discovery and possession. She was being transferred somewhat controversially to the Louvre when she disappeared in Marseilles some months ago. Four men were killed during the theft in a particularly brutal manner. The Greek, French and British governments have been exhausting resources to trace her and solve the murders, to no avail.’

‘All three countries? Why would so many lay claim to this Nike?’

‘The discoverer – one of the four murdered men – was a titled Englishman, working on a French-funded dig in Greece.’

‘Ah, I see. And so you were asked—’

‘Mycroft did request that I look into it, and the French government as well, but I have hitherto declined.’

‘Why?’

Holmes sighed. ‘An acquisitive nobleman and a bungled art theft are not of sufficient interest to me, until the moment I received Mlle La Victoire’s note. It seems that Pellingham may have wider interests. Mycroft has been investigating rumours of business and personal transgressions in and around his estate that bear a closer look. And while Mycroft has been keeping an eye on the Earl, even he must tread carefully because of Pellingham’s immense power. He needs more data to go on.’

‘More?’

‘The mackintosh, Watson, the mackintosh. Mycroft needs to justify an investigation, and Mademoiselle Emmeline La Victoire may very well provide us with an entrée into the Earl’s world.’

We paused briefly and I stared out the window at the passing countryside growing dim in the fading light. Above were darkening, clouded skies. In the distance, lightning flashed. It did not bode well for our crossing. I turned back to Holmes.

‘And there is the matter of the child. And the attack upon the lady herself.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Well, she is certainly frightened, judging from her letter.’

‘Indeed. Her request to disguise my response indicates she is being watched. It is my opinion that we cannot reach her too quickly.’

‘But exactly who is this Emmeline La Victoire?’

‘You have not heard of the singer “Cherie Cerise”, Watson?’

‘I confess that I have not. My taste for recreation runs to bridge, and a quiet book by the fire, as you well know, Holmes.’

‘Ha! A polite fiction! You are a crack shot, with a gambling habit, a passion for the yellow-backed novel, and a penchant—’

‘Holmes!’

But my friend knew me only too well. ‘Cherie Cerise is currently the toast of Paris. She is a chanteuse extraordinaire, if one is to believe her publicity, and alternates between the Chat Noir and the Moulin de la Galette, packing that large establishment to near riot every evening she appears.’

‘The Chat Noir? The Black Chair?’

‘Cat, Watson, the Black Cat, an intimate venue of great cachet. I visited it twice last year during my work for the French. It is remarkable for the music, the clientele, and even the artwork which adorns the walls.’

‘But I still do not understand the connection.’

‘Peace, my good doctor, all will be made clear. And now rest, for there is work ahead of us. We will be hearing the lady sing, possibly this very night.’

I sighed. ‘Is she at least beautiful?’ I wondered.

Holmes smiled. ‘Ah, and this from a married man! You are not likely to be disappointed, Watson. When a Frenchwoman is not a beauty, she is yet a work of art. And when she is beautiful, there are none of her sex to surpass her.’ With that he pulled his hat low over his eyes, leaned back and was promptly asleep.

PART TWO
THE CITY OF LIGHT

‘Art is born of the observation and investigation of nature.’

Cicero

CHAPTER 3
We Meet Our Client

s it turned out, we were forced to spend the night in Dover, sharing a cramped room in a hotel crammed with stranded travellers, all delayed by the rising storms. Holmes had briefly slipped out into the sleet and had sent several telegrams, including one to Mlle La Victoire. Our client was now expecting us at eleven that morning at her apartment.

Leaving the Gare du Nord, we made our way through snow-fogged streets, past rows of trees garlanded with crystal icicles, gradually moving towards the hills of Montmartre. There Holmes had a favourite bistro, the Franc Buveur, where we could pass the hour before we were to meet our client. It was still early, and I longed for a coffee and perhaps a roll, but Holmes ordered us both a bouillabaisse provençal. This proved to be a hearty and flavourful fish stew from Marseilles, apparently available all hours at this establishment. It was perhaps somewhat extreme for my taste, but I was relieved to note he consumed his with gusto.

I made a mental note to return with my friend to Paris any time I noticed his thin frame becoming dangerously gaunt. I have never been plagued with this problem, but at thirty-five I knew that, for myself, precautions in the other direction might be wise.

We made our way through curving, tree-lined streets to Mlle La Victoire’s address. This part of Montmartre had an almost rural tranquillity that belied its proximity to the area’s renowned nightlife. The occasional empty plot and cottage garden, now blanketed by snow, stood tucked in between the old houses. Windmills poked through from behind, just beyond the nearby streets.

Approaching an elegant three-storey building with delicate grillwork at the windows, we rang and were shortly standing on the third floor, facing a door painted an unusual shade of dark green. An ornate brass knocker invited use. We knocked.

The door was opened by one of the most beautiful women I have seen. Cherie Cerise, née Emmeline La Victoire, stood before us in a velvet dressing gown of the same deep green, perfectly accentuating her startling green eyes and auburn hair. It was not merely her physical beauty that struck me, but a rare quality which emanated from the lady – a sparkle of intelligence coupled with a womanly allure that nearly took my breath away.

However, deep shadows under her bright eyes and a distinct pallor spoke of grief and worry. Her glance swept us both, taking in every detail in an instant.

‘Ah, Monsieur Holmes,’ she said with a smile to my companion. ‘I am so relieved.’ She turned to face me with radiant warmth. I flushed for no reason at all. ‘And you must be Mr Holmes’s most wonderful of friends, Dr Watson, I believe?’ I held out my hand to shake hers, but instead she leaned in to kiss me, and then Holmes, on both cheeks in the French manner.

She smelled of the same delicious scent as her letter – Jicky perfume, Holmes had called it – and it took considerable self-control not to grin from ear to ear. But we were there on serious business. ‘Mademoiselle, we are at your service,’ I offered.

‘Madame,’ she corrected. ‘Merci. Thank you for coming, and so quickly.’ Her charming French accent only added to her allure.

Soon we were seated in front of a small, cheery fireplace in the salon of her sumptuous apartment, decorated in the French style in shades of tan and cream, with high ceilings, a light-coloured oriental carpet and silk-upholstered furniture in subtle stripes. Bright against this neutral background were several bouquets of fresh flowers, expensive at this time of year, and a rainbow array of silk scarves strewn about. Our client was a woman of sophisticated tastes.

With apologies for the absence of servants, the lady herself brought us hot cups of coffee.

‘My husband will return soon,’ she said. ‘And the maid, with groceries.’

Holmes sighed.

Mademoiselle La Victoire studied him. ‘It is true; I did not mention a husband.’

‘You are not married,’ stated Holmes.

‘Ah, but I am,’ began the lady.

Holmes grunted and stood up abruptly. ‘Watson, come. I fear our journey has been a waste of time.’

The lady leaped to her feet. ‘Monsieur Holmes, non! I beg of you!’

‘Mademoiselle, you are not married. If you desire my assistance, I require nothing less than complete frankness. Do not waste my time.’

She paused, considering. I reluctantly rose to my feet. Holmes reached for his hat.

‘Sit, please,’ she said finally, doing so herself. ‘I will agree. The matter is urgent. But how did you know?’

I sat, but Holmes remained standing.

‘You have claimed to have a husband and his name is mentioned in several articles about you. And yet he is never seen, nor described. My inquiries have revealed no one has seen him. And now, in your apartment, I note many female, but no male, touches; your scarves left over the back of the one easy chair which would be his if he existed, the choice of books on your mantelpiece, the lack of smoking paraphernalia except for your own cigarette case here.’ He indicated a small delicately worked silver case on a side table.

‘Yes, it is mine. Would you care to smoke, Mr Holmes? It will not bother me.’

‘Ha! No, thank you. The details I mention are small indications, but the proof is the ring on your left hand. False, I perceive, and not only of poor design, but slightly too large for you. Given the careful attention to the colour and fit of your attire, and the decoration of this room, this oversight indicates that your marriage is a fiction which I must assume is to keep male admirers off balance as you require. It is helpful that you seem quite out of bounds.’

It all seemed so obvious, and yet I had noticed none of these facts.

Mlle La Victoire remained silent, but a slight smile played upon her face. ‘Well, all that is clear enough,’ she said. ‘But it merely shows you to be more observant than most.’

Holmes snorted. ‘I am not finished …’

‘Holmes—’ I warned.

‘My theory, and this is unproven, but I judge it likely from my first impressions upon meeting you, is that you trust no man.’

‘I am merely assessing your capabilities,’ said she.

‘No. You have already done so. The letter.’

‘Then how do you arrive at this intimate pronouncement, from five minutes of contact and a view of my salon?’

‘Holmes,’ I entreated again. We were headed into dangerous territory.

He ignored me, leaning forward, his grey eyes boring into hers. ‘You are an artist, a great one from your reputation, and therefore are tempestuous, changeable … and vulnerable to flights of fancy as well as fits of despair. Your talent in music, when added to the exquisite sense of colour and refined taste, shown both in your décor here and your personal attire, attest to the acutely sensitive nature of the fully developed artist. You mask your strongly emotional nature with a crisp and intelligent manner. But it is not simply a mask; your critical thinking has enabled you to create a successful career on your own, in spite of these personal weaknesses. Nonetheless, you deceive yourself; you are at heart and quite essentially – a creature driven by emotion.’

‘I am an artist; we are emotional. There is nothing new here,’ she said sharply.

‘Ah, but I have not got to my point,’ said Holmes.

I placed my cup back into its saucer with a clatter. ‘Coffee. This is quite delicious. Would it be possible to have another cup?’ I asked.

They both ignored me.

‘And what is your point?’ asked the lady.

‘You have an illegitimate son by the Earl. While I do not yet know the particulars, you must have been quite young. Most probably this was your first love. You were how old?’

Mlle La Victoire sat very still. I could not read her, but the temperature had dropped in the room. ‘Eighteen.’

‘Ah, I see that I am right.’

‘Peut-être. Go on.’

‘His betrayal, obvious as you are not married to the Earl, must have wounded a young person of your sensitivity quite deeply. It is my belief that since this time you have trusted no man and yet you long to with every part of your romantic soul.’

A small gasp came from our client.

Holmes’s words hung in the room like tiny icicles. He was occasionally unaware of how they might wound. However, Mlle La Victoire recovered immediately.

‘Bravo, Mr Holmes,’ she said with a smile. ‘It is as though you have personal knowledge of the subject.’

‘I had no prior information—’

‘Ah, non! I perceive that you speak from personal experience.’

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. ‘Hardly. But now, let us turn to the matter at hand and examine the facts of your case.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the lady.

Both of them sat back, composing themselves and taking in the other with something akin to the guarded admiration of champion boxers before a match. I became aware that I was sitting nervously on the very edge of my chair. I cleared my throat and shifted, attempting to relax.

‘Cigarette, anyone?’ I ventured.

‘No,’ they said simultaneously.

Holmes began. ‘Your son. What, nine? Ten?

‘Ten.’

‘How did you discover he was missing? En français … plus facile pour vous?’ said Holmes, adopting a more gentle tone.

‘Ah, non. I prefer in English.’

‘As you wish.’

Mlle La Victoire drew a deep breath and pulled her green dressing gown around her. ‘It is every Christmas that I see mon petit Emil in London, at Brown’s Hotel. There is a man who brings him to meet me, a “go-between”. We have a luncheon together in their beautiful tea room, Emil and I, and I give him gifts. I ask him about his year, and try to know him. It is precious, but too little. This year, the meeting was cancelled. I wrote, and sent a telegram. No reply. Finally I heard from this go-between that Emil is with his uncle at the seaside and would not be available for some time.’

‘But you doubt this story.’

‘He does not have an uncle.’

‘These yearly visits, have they been every year since his birth?

‘Yes. It is the arrangement I have made with his father, the Earl.’

‘That would be Harold Beauchamp-Kay, the present Earl of Pellingham?’ asked Holmes.

‘Yes.’

‘Begin at the beginning, please. Describe the boy.’

‘Emil is ten. Small for his age. Slender.’

‘How small?’

‘About this tall,’ Mlle La Victoire held her hand some four feet from the ground. ‘Blond hair like his father, with my green eyes. A sweet-faced child, quiet. He enjoys music and reading.’

‘And who does the boy think you are?’

‘He believes me a friend of the family, no relation.’

‘Does the Earl accompany the boy to London?’

‘Emil,’ I prompted. ‘His name is Emil.’

‘Non! I have not seen Harold – er – the Earl since …’ Here her voice faltered. She looked stricken. I felt Holmes suppress a sigh of impatience.

‘Then who brings Emil to Brown’s?’

‘The Earl’s valet, Pomeroy. He is of French descent, and very kind. He understands a mother’s love.’ Abruptly her façade cracked and she gasped to cover a sob. I offered my handkerchief. She took it graciously and touched it to her eyes. Holmes remained unmoved. But her feelings were genuine, of that I was sure. She struggled to compose herself.

‘I must explain. Ten years ago I was a poor singer here, in Paris. It was three days of love; we spoke of marriage. I did not know he was an Earl or that he was already married. But then—’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Moving forward in time. So, this valet Pomeroy is complicit? What happened this year?’ he barked.

‘Holmes!’ I admonished, once again. The lady was evidently in a state of great agitation.

‘Pray continue,’ he pressed on, only slightly altering his tone. ‘What did you do upon hearing your Christmas visit was cancelled?’

‘I wrote, demanding an explanation.’

Holmes waved his hands in impatience, ‘And …?’

‘A reply warned me to cease contact, or I would never see Emil again.’

‘A letter from the Earl?’

‘Non. I have had no contact with the Earl – either in person or by letter – once our agreement had been made. The letter was from his man, Pomeroy.’

‘No further explanation or contact?’

‘I wrote and sent a third telegram but with no response.’

‘What kept you from travelling to the Earl’s estate to investigate?’ asked Holmes abruptly. ‘I will take that cigarette now.’

The lady offered him one from her case. He patted his pockets for matches. I retrieved one and lit it for him.

‘This is all very recent, Monsieur Holmes,’ she replied. ‘The original arrangement was that I make no other attempt to reach Emil except the Christmas visits. Those were the terms.’

‘And yet this arrangement has been breached by the other party,’ snapped Holmes. ‘Have you entertained the notion that your son may be dead?’

‘He is not dead!’ Mlle La Victoire stood up, eyes blazing. ‘I do not know how I know this, Monsieur Holmes, and you may analyse or sneer if you wish. But somehow, as a mother, I know that my son is alive. You must help me! I need you to act.’

‘Mademoiselle! We are not finished.’

‘Holmes,’ I said gently, ‘you are distressing this lady with your harsh questions. It seems we do not yet know the half of this story.’

‘Which is precisely the point. I cannot assist you, unless I know not only the half but the whole of it,’ said Holmes. ‘Sit down please, and let us continue.’

She sat, composing herself.

‘Who else at the Earl’s estate knows that Emil is your son?’

‘Lady Pellingham knows.’

Holmes leaned back, surprised. ‘The Earl’s wife, the American heiress! Does she know the full story? That the child is the Earl’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she has accepted her husband’s illegitimate offspring in her home?’

‘More than that. She is a mother to Emil. She loves him dearly and he returns the feelings. In fact, Emil thinks that she is his mother!’ Here she broke off, her voice catching in a sob.

‘That must be very difficult for you,’ I said.

‘Go on,’ said Holmes.

‘At first it did pain me,’ she admitted to me. ‘Greatly. But later I realized it is for the best. Lady Pellingham is a kind woman and lost a child at birth, close to the time Emil was born. My little Emil was substituted in secret for their dead child, and the rest of the world believes him to be theirs. Emil will inherit the estate and will be the next Earl of Pellingham. And so you see—’

‘I see,’ said Holmes, once again abrupt. ‘It is a fortunate arrangement in many ways.’

The lady stiffened. ‘You think me mercenary,’ she said.

‘No, no, he does not.’ I jumped in, but Holmes overrode me.

‘I think you practical.’

‘Practical, yes. At the time of the adoption I was but a poor artist, with no way to offer Emil an education or any advantages. And life with a performing artist would place a small child into a world full of dangers, bad influences. Imagine a baby backstage—’

‘Yes, yes of course. You wrote that you were attacked, Mademoiselle La Victoire,’ said Holmes, ‘which is the reason we are here. Elaborate, please.’

‘It was exactly one day after my last telegram to the Earl. A ruffian approached me in the street. He pushed me rudely and brandished a weapon, a strange kind of knife.’

‘Describe this knife.’

‘It was very odd. It resembled a ladle, but the end was very sharp, a kind of blade,’ said our client. ‘I pulled away and slipped in the ice, falling to the ground.’

‘Were you hurt?’

‘I was more frightened than hurt. I received only a small bruise from the fall. But there was something else—’

‘What? Be precise.’

‘After I fell, the man helped me up.’

Holmes’s leaned forward in excitement. ‘Ah! Did he speak to you? His exact words?’

‘After helping me up, he held this strange blade to my throat and said I had better watch out.’

‘His exact words? No mention of the Earl?’

‘No, nothing specific. He said, “Leave it alone. Or someone might die.”’

‘His accent. English? American? Greek?’

‘French,’ she said. ‘But hard to understand. A low voice.’

‘Did anything about this man, his clothing, his voice, the knife, seem familiar to you?’

‘Not at all. The man’s face was in shadow from a large hat. It was dusk and snowing heavily. I could not see him clearly.’

‘Do you know anyone who works as a tanner?’

‘A tanner? You mean he prepares leather? Er … non. No one. Why?’

‘The knife,’ said Holmes. ‘You described a tanner’s dry scraper. A tool particular to that trade.’

‘In any case, I do not take kindly to threats, Mr Holmes.’

‘No, you would not. However I believe this was not a threat, but a friendly warning.’

‘Non!’ she exclaimed.

‘Attendez. I do believe there is danger. The danger may be to your son, rather than to yourself. However, it is possible that your very efforts to find him could put you both in peril.’

Mlle La Victoire sat frozen, listening.

‘In the interests of safety, I ask that you not venture out alone. Do nothing, but allow Dr Watson and myself to search for your son unimpeded. Now, one more question. Did you sense anything wrong before this? In previous visits to your son perhaps?’

‘You must understand me, Monsieur Holmes,’ said the singer. ‘I love my boy. I have observed over the years a healthy and happy child, well adjusted and thriving. I would never have let things proceed if not. It is my feeling that he has been treated kindly and generously by the Earl and his wife.’

Holmes remained impassive. From the doorway leading into the rest of the apartment came the sharp sound of a chair scraping. Holmes stood, immediately on the alert. I joined him.

‘Who is in the apartment with us?’ said he.

Mlle La Victoire rose. ‘No one. It is the maid with the groceries. Now if you will excuse me, please.’

‘Her name?’

‘Bernice. Why?’ But Holmes did not reply. Mlle La Victoire moved to the door, which she opened in a clear gesture of dismissal. ‘Now, gentlemen, I must rest and prepare for my performance tonight. Please join me at Le Chat Noir. I sing at eleven. We can meet afterwards and continue this interview.’

‘We will be happy to be there,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the coffee, and your kind hospitality.’ I approached and kissed her hand. Turning, I saw my companion already had his overcoat on and was reaching for his scarf.

Moments later we found ourselves in the street. It had begun to snow. ‘Come Watson. What do you make of our client?’

‘She is exceedingly beautiful.’

‘Guarded.’

‘Charming!’

‘Complex. Masking something.’

‘I was glad to hear the boy was treated well at the Earl’s.’ I said. ‘Don’t you trust her on that account?’

Holmes snorted and walked faster. ‘We cannot yet be sure of Emil’s treatment at home. Children often learn stoicism early.’

‘But surely Mademoiselle La Victoire would have noticed,’ I said.

‘Not necessarily. Even a mother can miss the signs.’

I was taken aback by this comment. As I had often in the past, I wondered again briefly about Holmes’s own story. Of his childhood, I knew nothing. Had his own mother missed signs? And of what?

A sturdy woman approached carrying an armful of groceries. Holmes called out to her in a cheery voice and perfect accent, ‘Bonsoir, Bernice!’

‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ she sang back, and then, seeing we were strangers, hurried on.

Holmes looked at me. Who had been in the apartment with us?

CHAPTER 4
Le Louvre

he sleet had turned into a light snow during our visit to Mlle La Victoire. We had several hours to pass before the evening’s performance and, hailing a cab, we proceeded to a small hotel near the Madeleine. To my surprise, Holmes next suggested a visit to the Louvre. I entreated him to rest, but his nervous energy had returned, and he pointed out to me that a short and leisurely perusal of some of the world’s great art treasures would be more restorative than a nap. It seemed a reasonable idea at the time.

I should have known that he had a second, unspoken reason; it was a hallmark of my travels with Holmes. We stowed our luggage, and hailed another cab.

Holmes directed the driver slightly out of our way, taking a scenic route through Paris, heading first east to the Place de l’Étoile. Circling the magnificent Arc de Triomphe, we proceeded next to the Champs Élysées, moving past the impressive Palais de L’Industrie. Arriving at the Place de la Concorde, Holmes pointed out the Luxor obelisk, before directing our driver south to the river. From there the unfinished apparition of La Tour Eiffel loomed vaporously off to our right through the snowy air. It looked ridiculously like something Jules Verne might construct as a ladder to the moon.

‘A monstrosity!’ I commented. Holmes smiled. I wondered how long Parisians would put up with the blasted thing.

Upon entering the Louvre, we began with a tour of the galleries in the southern wing. There Holmes surprised me with his vast knowledge of the collection, and the pleasure he took in introducing me to its finer points. I was happy to see him refresh both mind and spirit, as there were few things other than work and his violin which could relieve his churning, restless mind.

Perhaps I had been wrong, and this trip to Paris would be the exactly the tonic he needed for his recovery.

Moving quickly through several great halls, we came to rest in front of an unusual portrait. The subject was a somewhat eccentric-looking gentleman, dressed in a Bohemian style of eighty years or so ago, with a broad fur collar, a bright red scarf, his white hair in disarray, and a look of devilish, amused intensity on his vivid features. Holmes paused in front of this portrait, apparently taken by it.

I wondered aloud, ‘Who is this strange-looking fellow, Holmes, a friend of yours?’

‘Hardly, the man is long gone. But this painting is a recent acquisition and I have read of it. The subject is the painter Isabey, renowned for his miniatures.’

The slightly odd expression and clothing of the gentleman in the painting struck me. ‘He looks a bit mad!’ I remarked. ‘Or perhaps ready to embark on some shady diversion.’

Holmes turned to me in amusement. ‘Possibly. One never knows with an artist.’

I read the name below the portrait. It had been painted by Horace Vernet – the brother of Holmes’s grandmother! While he spoke little of his upbringing, he had once mentioned this.

‘Ah, your great-uncle is the artist!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is unusual for him, is it not? Wasn’t he more known for historical, and later military and oriental subjects?’ I wondered aloud, proud to demonstrate knowledge in at least one very small corner of the visual arts.

Holmes looked at me in some surprise, and then smiled, returning to his study of the painting.

I had made it a point to familiarize myself with the Vernet family in an effort to understand my friend. Horace Vernet was an odd chap, born in the Louvre itself in June of 1789, while his artist father (Holmes’s great-grandfather), Carle Vernet, hid out there during the violence of the French Revolution.

Carle’s sister, arrested for associating with the nobility, had been dragged screaming to the guillotine. Carle never painted again, but his son Horace went on to become a renowned artist, discarding the trappings of classicism and forging his own path as a renegade painter of a much more natural style whose topics were chiefly soldiers and orientalism.

While the other side of Holmes’s family were English country squires, and therefore probably more conventional (though I could not be sure), I have always felt, after learning of Holmes’s French ancestry, that it explained something of his ‘art in the blood’ theory.

Holmes, the cold reasoning machine, did have a deeply emotional side to him. And some of the leaps of thought which came to him – after amassing the facts, of course – displayed an imagination that could only be termed artistic.

As we strolled out of this gallery and into the next, Holmes leaned in close and whispered, ‘Have you noticed the man who is following us?’

I started and began to turn.

‘Don’t give it away! Continue to walk.’

‘Oh, give me more credit than that, Holmes!’

We drew presently into a room containing some drawings of Ingres. These pen-and-ink studies of women and children might have been pleasing but I could not focus. I glanced behind me. Was there someone who withdrew immediately behind the door to the next gallery? Or was Holmes, in his precarious state, imagining things?

Who would know we were there, or have the slightest reason to follow us? It must be merely another tourist. What was I thinking?

‘The gentleman with the large umbrella is quite skilled at concealment.’ Holmes nodded discreetly in the direction of the gallery from which we had just come.

‘I see nothing, Holmes,’ said I. ‘Most people leave their umbrellas in the cloakroom.’

‘Precisely.’

I glanced around again. I saw no man with an umbrella. A small trickle of worry began to take hold of me, coupled with impatience. ‘May I suggest a coffee?’

‘Follow me, Watson,’ he said, ‘and we shall lose the fellow.’ He took off at a brisk walk.

‘Ridiculous,’ I muttered, hurrying to follow. What could be the point of this mysterious game?

Ten minutes later, and after a breathless trot through a maze of galleries and rooms large and small on a route which seemed to be well known to my companion, Holmes decided we had succeeded in losing our shadow.

‘Good,’ I remarked. ‘Perhaps our follower has joined one of the tour groups of American ladies and will find himself a suitable wife, enabling him to give up a life of crime.’

Holmes ignored me and presently we came to a large, public staircase in front of a remarkable statue. It was the headless form of a woman, striding intemperately forth, wings spread behind her.

‘Behold the Winged Victory of Samothrace, or Nike,’ Holmes announced. ‘One of the finest examples of Hellenistic art in the world, if not the finest.’

But our fictional follower had grabbed hold of my imagination. ‘They are probably charming him now with their astute comments on the art,’ I said. ‘One of them will capture his fancy. Together, they will move to Philadelphia, opening a small umbrella shop where—’

‘I told you, we’ve lost him,’ snapped my companion.

‘He was never there, Holmes!’ I said, exasperated. But he ignored me, lost in contemplation of the statue.

‘Just look, Watson. Isn’t she magnificent? Notice the vivid stance, the spiral structure, the rendering of wet cloth – perhaps as if at the bow of a ship. The style is from the island of Rhodes, and the sculpture probably commemorates an ancient victory at sea. It is said that the Marseilles Nike I mentioned to you in the train bears a resemblance to her – which would make that statue most coveted indeed!’

He stared at it, rapt, entranced by which feature or idea, I could not say. It was lovely, I suppose. It was certainly dramatic, bordering on the histrionic. She was missing her head. Where was the head? I sighed, suddenly tired.

Holmes shot me a withering glance.

‘Is the tea room nearby? Perhaps a French pastry would revive me,’ I said.

‘Watson, don’t be such a Philistine. You are in the presence of one of the finest pieces of art in the Western pantheon—’ He stopped in mid-sentence and pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Ah, it is time! I have an appointment with the Curator of Sculpture to discuss the stolen Nike statue. It appears that a rare photograph is in their possession. Come, we must not be late.’

‘What? I thought you were not interested in this stolen statue.’

‘A favour to my brother; nothing more. And simple curiosity.’

I doubted this. Holmes was purposeful at all times. I tried to control my annoyance. ‘But when did you have time to make this appointment?’

‘I telegraphed from Dover,’ he snapped. ‘Obviously.’

It was typical of Holmes to disguise his agenda, even from me.

‘Holmes, there is only so much art I can imbibe at a time,’ I said, somewhat testily. ‘I am going for a cup of tea. Now.’

Thus I found myself alone in the galleries, scheduled to meet up with Holmes at the Rue de Rivoli entrance in three-quarters of an hour. He admonished me to take care and remain in sight of others.

I thought the warning pointless. No one could be following us in the Louvre. Who would know we were there, other than the art expert he was now seeing? I wondered if the residual effect of the cocaine, aggravated by too much artistic stimulation, had my friend’s imagination working overtime.

I attempted to find my way to the tea room but became lost and wandered for a good fifteen minutes, growing ever more fatigued and annoyed. Finally a sympathetic guard pointed out a short cut to the restaurant through a doorway and down some stairs normally reserved for employees of the museum.

I entered the dark spiral stairwell and began my descent. In retrospect, it was a foolhardy move. But I was yet to understand the extreme danger of our investigation.

As I passed the next landing, the door on the floor above opened behind me with a soft click. Having discounted our mysterious pursuer’s existence, I ignored this for perhaps a second or two. I became aware of the lack of footsteps behind me.

Had someone entered the stairwell and remained standing, in the doorway above? Strange, I thought, and was turning to look when I was struck a sudden hard blow to the legs by a large figure shrouded in grey and wearing a low hat – and wielding an umbrella! I tumbled down the marble staircase like a child’s toy thrown in a fit of pique.

With a thud I slammed into the rails at the next landing, and lay there, my breath knocked out of me. A sharp pain in the ribs stabbed into my consciousness and I groaned. I heard the door on the landing above click shut. And then I blacked out.

When I regained consciousness I was lying on some sort of couch. The face of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, floated hazily above mine with an expression of fearful concern.

‘Watson! Watson!’ he entreated. His hand patted mine, as he tried to rouse me.

My eyes focused and I took in the scene. Behind Holmes were two security guards. We were in someone’s office. I blinked a few times.

‘I am fine, Holmes,’ I managed to say. ‘It was a small tumble.’

‘You were pushed down a steep flight of stairs,’ he said.

‘Well, yes.’

‘But you did not see your attacker?’

‘It happened too quickly,’ I replied, attempting to sit up. ‘I only glimpsed a hat. And an umbrella.’

Holmes snorted.

‘I suppose I did not believe you,’ I admitted sheepishly.

Holmes brusquely dropped my hand and whirled on the guards.

‘I shall ask you again! Who entered the stairwell?’ demanded Holmes of one of them, whom I now recognized as the guard who had shown me the stairwell.

‘Not a person,’ said the guard, in a defensive whine. ‘I go. I see nothing.’

‘No one?’ Holmes stared at him. ‘Idiot!’ he muttered under his breath, and then turned back to me. ‘Are you well enough to walk, Watson? We must get you to the hotel, and perhaps to a doctor.’

I sat up with a lurch, feeling a wave of nausea and some sharp pains in my legs, rib, and the back of my head. But taking stock, I realized that nothing was broken, and that I was probably no more than badly bruised.

‘I won’t need a doctor,’ I said, ‘but I could use that cup of tea. And perhaps a bit of rest before tonight.’

Holmes smiled with relief. ‘Good man, Watson,’ he said.

CHAPTER 5
Les Oeufs

fter a brief rest at our hotel, my headache abated and I was left with nothing more than sore ribs. We changed into our evening clothes, stopped briefly for something called oeufs mayonnaise and proceeded in a cab towards Montmartre. A light dusting of new snow lit by golden gaslights gave Paris a sparkling mystique.

‘You begin to realize, of course, that this case is more complex than it initially appeared.’

I could read from my friend’s expression that this did not altogether displease him.

‘Who do you suppose pushed me down the stairs?’

‘Ha! Our “imaginary” follower no doubt,’ he said with a smile.

‘Yes, but other than our client, and this expert at the Louvre, who knew we would be in Paris?’

‘From those two, and Mycroft additionally, stretch many possibilities,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But most probably it was the person at Mlle La Victoire’s apartment who was “not Bernice”.’

‘Do you have any theories?’

‘Four. No, five. But I believe my primary suspect will reveal himself tonight.’

I was not unaware of the keen pleasure my companion took in the increased danger of our situation. His eyes burned with the excitement of the chase.

I fingered the revolver, cold and reassuring, in my pocket. Against my better instincts, I found the thrill of adventure rising inside in me like an unwanted fever.

CHAPTER 6
Le Chat Noir

ur cab gradually left the Grands Boulevards as we made our way once again through the increasingly narrow and hilly streets towards Montmartre, home of colourful Bohemians and the centre of the art world in Paris. The ramshackle houses, crowded with trees and vines, gave the area an air of a country village gone mad.

Until relatively recently, this area had been on the very outskirts of Paris. I wondered if the windmills were still in the service of grinding grain.

One surely was not. Le Moulin de la Galette was now a beacon for one of the most famous nightclubs in the world, a scene of wild evenings – where Parisians and visitors from many lands gathered to hear beautiful women in arresting attire sing of love, despair and, through thinly veiled references, more intimate matters.

There, too, strange clowns cavorted in wild acts calculated to disarm and shock, and rows of shapely dancers performed the famous cancan, revealing glimpses of more than propriety would bear. Not that I had ever seen such things.

But I held out hope.

We passed the Moulin de la Galette and I was drawn to the colourful posters, glistening in the cold evening light, harbingers of this rich entertainment. They depicted swirling skirts, bright colours, strings of electric lights.

We were certainly far from London in every respect. I smiled at the thought of Mary at home and what she might think of this colourful locale. It would fall into her ‘I will just enjoy the postcard’ category.

Our cab pulled up outside 68 Boulevard de Clichy. A bold sign announced that we had reached our destination. The building itself looked like a country home, crowded in between two larger buildings, which leaned in like overly solicitous relatives. It was the famous cabaret Le Chat Noir, or ‘the Black Cat’.

I took a deep breath and willed myself to be on the alert. As we stepped down from our cab, I glanced up and down the street, but no one stood out in the milling masses.

Inside, after depositing our capes, hats and sticks with a blonde coquette who flashed me a wink and a smile, I reluctantly felt myself swept forward by the arriving crowd down a narrow hallway and up a steep stairway lined with French political cartoons. While the French sense of humour, I’ll admit, is not my own, I was struck by the bitter undertones, the funereal slant of the subject matter, the scorn and the anger beneath the humorous caricatures.

The contrast between the hostess’s inviting smile and the sarcastic political commentary was as unsettling as the tendency of the remarkably varied crowds to, well, push.

And then I got a glimpse of the main room.

My first impression was of utter chaos – the noise, the smoke, a hodgepodge crowd of Parisians of all classes, jammed in like sardines; the walls covered with paintings, posters, ornate cornices, lanterns, bizarre sculptures. An enormous stuffed aquatic creature hung from the ceiling. A porpoise? A giant catfish? I could not be sure.

The crowd was a milling, laughing mass. The noise was oppressive. In one corner were several Swiss Guards. I later learned Le Chat Noir was a social mecca for these odd mercenaries in their startling blue-and-yellow striped Renaissance clothing and white ruffs. A rowdy burst of laughter came from a cluster of them at a far table.

I’d heard of Le Chat Noir of course, but never imagined it would be a place that I would visit. It seemed a madhouse.

Holmes and I pushed our way through the dense crowd towards a couple of empty seats. A bearded ruffian in corduroy abruptly rammed into me, splashing his glass of wine on my waistcoat.

‘I beg your pardon!’ I said. The man stopped in his tracks and turned penetrating dark eyes to my face.

‘Anglais!’ he literally spat, the viscous wad narrowly missing my polished boots. ‘Va te faire foutre, espèce de salaud! On ne veut pas de toi ici!’ He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I shot Holmes a questioning look, and he took my arm, guiding me to our seats. I blotted at the wine with my handkerchief, feeling my face turning red from the insult.

‘Sit,’ said Holmes, as we squeezed into two empty seats at the end of a long banquette against a back wall. ‘I see this is your first encounter with the virulent form of anti-English sentiment which has grown over the past years here.’

‘Still angry over Agincourt, I suppose,’ I replied, my dignity ruffled.

‘You do not understand the French,’ he said.

‘No one understands the French!’ I replied. Holmes grinned.

But it was true that there was a flavour to the crowd and the place itself that was impenetrable to my sensibilities. Looking around me, I sensed we were at the epicentre of some cultural movement, but I could not grasp its significance … or its meaning. I felt a bit like the stuffed creature hanging above us – an observer – separate, and quite out of place.

My attention was next drawn to a decorative circular frame enclosing a large translucent screen of some sort on the wall behind the stage. Noticing my puzzlement, Holmes explained. ‘That is the screen of the famous Théâtre d’Ombres, the Shadow Theatre,’ he said. ‘Shadow puppets, figures cut out of zinc, are projected there nightly. The writing is quite amusing. Very popular now.’

‘You’ve seen it, then?’ I wondered.

‘Several times. But, aha! There is the man of the hour.’ He indicated with a nod a tall, handsome fellow in a well-cut suit of European style, sporting a jaunty moustache and gliding effortlessly through the crowd. He was French, from his elegant dress and dark good looks. ‘Exactly whom I expected,’ said Holmes.

The gentleman looked our way, and Holmes nodded in greeting. I thought I detected a flash of annoyance from the man but his face then broke into a charming smile. He bowed mockingly in our direction before taking his seat.

‘Old friend?’ I asked.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Holmes. ‘Is he familiar to you, by chance?’

I studied the man, recognizing nothing. ‘Who is he?’

Before Holmes could answer, a server placed before us two carafes of water, and two curved glasses with a strange green liquid nestled in the lower part of each. A perforated kind of knife balanced across each, with a lump of sugar on top. Holmes paid her and turned to me with a smile, indicating I should pour the water over the sugar. ‘We’ll discuss it later. Now, do give this a taste; it is quite unique. But no more than a single sip, Watson; I need you sharp tonight.’

Absinthe! Was he mad? I watched Holmes add water, and with a stir, the liquid took on an eerie glow. It looked like something one might imagine oozing from under the sea in a Jules Verne novel. Of course I had read of the stuff. The famed concoction was an extreme depressant renowned for its hallucinogenic effects.

‘No thank you, Holmes.’ I pushed my glass away.

He took one sip and did the same. ‘Wise choice,’ he said. ‘I once spent an afternoon at a nearby establishment, working off an absinthe-induced reverie.’ He shrugged. ‘It is worth trying once – in the name of science, of course.’

My attention returned to Holmes’s ‘old friend’. He was seated near the door, engrossed in conversation with a young couple, the girl staring at him in frank admiration. I could see from his gestures and her enraptured expression that he possessed that very particular Gallic charm which was easy to spot and impossible to emulate. What was Holmes’s interest in this man?

I noticed another small group, off to the side, also regarding the Frenchman. There were four men, three very tall and muscular, and a smaller, almost delicate man. There was something quite odd about them. In addition to being clad entirely in black, almost like a group of clerics, they somehow conveyed an air of menace. While the crowds around them laughed and gestured, they remained preternaturally still, their drinks untouched. The smallest man, whose manner subtly commanded the others, made me think of a cat, coiled and waiting at a mouse hole.

I started to point them out to Holmes, but he’d risen and, taking our drinks, crossed the room towards the bar. I observed that the Frenchman kept a careful eye on Holmes while remaining in conversation. His regard caused the group of four to follow his gaze to Holmes. I did not like the look that passed over the small man’s face. It seemed to be recognition, and something more. A chill came over me in the crowded, warm room.

Holmes returned with a carafe of red wine and two fresh glasses.

‘Holmes,’ I began. ‘There are four men over there who seemed very interested to find you here.’

‘The Americans. Yes, I noticed.’

This should not have startled me, but it did.

‘You are referring to the oddly dressed gentlemen in black?’ he smiled. ‘Not exactly your Grand Tour types. They are more interested in our French friend, not me.’

‘And yet they seemed to recognize you,’ I pointed out. ‘Or the small one did.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ said Holmes. ‘It may change our plans slightly.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If there is any trouble, or if I so signal you, escort our client safely away from here and to some place other than her home. Do you understand me?’

‘Of course I understand you,’ I replied peevishly. ‘What is it that you expect to happen?’

But before he could answer, we were drowned out by a loud musical flourish from the small band.

There was an audible murmur of anticipation as our client took the stage.

PART THREE
THE LINES ARE DRAWN

‘Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere.’

G. K. Chesterton

CHAPTER 7
Attack!

f she was beautiful this afternoon, she was now transformed into a goddess! Dressed entirely in red, Mademoiselle La Victoire as Cherie Cerise positively glowed, her tumbling curls of flaming red hair tied up loosely in the topknot so stylish here, her exquisite pale bosom promising a passionate heart just below. She moved across the stage as if floating on air, her mischievous smile tempting the imagination. All traces of her dire situation were concealed by the consummate performer that she was.

‘You are gaping, Watson,’ Holmes whispered. Perhaps I was. But save for Holmes, so was everyone else.

A unanimous shout, ‘Cherie!’ rose up from the room. Our client, Mlle Emmeline La Victoire, was unquestionably a star.

In retrospect, I realized that what I had anticipated was a bawdy, music-hall-style performance with half-shouted melody and swishing skirts. But as the music started up and she began to sing, what came from the lovely creature was the voice of an angel, soaring and clear. She conveyed a sweet melancholy that ripped at one’s heart.

For nearly an hour I sat transported.

As she finished a song about a rare tropical bird which flew many leagues to be with its lover (or perhaps it was a dog, I cannot be sure), I turned to my friend – only to discover that the space where Holmes had been sitting a moment ago was now filled by a rude-looking peasant, red nose aglow with drink.

Where the devil had he gone? Scanning the room, I observed that the Frenchman he had pointed out earlier was missing and the black-clad men as well. I grew uneasy and stood up. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Damn his secrecy!

Just then, a series of shouts burst from backstage, followed by a loud crash. Our client froze, and the music ground to a halt. What happened next was so fast I can barely recount it.

There, against the backlit, glowing screen of the Théâtre d’Ombres, the small puppets were overshadowed by the distorted silhouettes of two men locked in mortal combat. The struggling figures bashed against the oiled canvas.

A spray of some dark liquid spattered in a wide arc across it. The crowd gasped.

A rending tear sounded as a knife split the fabric. The torn screen peeled forward revealing the splatter as bright red blood!

I was up and pushing through the crowd towards Mlle La Victoire when a man hurtled through the tear, landing on the stage at her feet. An arterial wound in his chest shot a fountain of crimson several feet into the air. Mademoiselle screamed.

The crowd leapt as one and clambered to get away from the stage. I lost sight of our client through the churning mass of bodies. Using every ounce of strength, I shoved my way towards the stage against the tide of the mob.

I reached the stagehand on the floor and saw instantly that the wound was fatal. I looked up and Mlle La Victoire was gone. Leaving the dying man in the arms of a colleague, I ran backstage.

Chaos! In a dark room lit by a piercing ray of white light aimed at the back of the screen, struggling figures bashed into large wooden frames on wheels.

The spotlight was blinding. I tried to shield my eyes. ‘Mademoiselle!’ I cried.

I heard nothing but the shouts of men. I dodged as the highly flammable light crashed to the floor next to me. There was a small explosion. The room went black and flame erupted near my feet. There was more shouting as several stagehands rushed towards it to put it out.

Mlle La Victoire’s voice rang out. ‘Jean!’

Two large stage doors swung open to a nearby courtyard dimly lit by a single street lamp. The fight spilled into it. The cobblestones gleamed with black ice and the struggling men slid and tumbled on its slick surface, falling with sharp cries of pain.

I recognized the mysterious Frenchman of Holmes’s acquaintance, and two of the black-clad men I’d observed earlier. I drew my revolver and followed.

Mlle La Victoire dashed out from backstage into a circle of light. Brandishing a large vase, she brought it down on one of the black-clad men. The vase glanced off his shoulder. He grunted, whirling to grab her wrist. She screamed.

The thug, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight, pointed a knife under her ribs and backed her towards the wall of the adjacent building, as the tall Frenchman continued to battle one of the others.

‘Bitch!’ snarled the bald villain, raising the knife to her face. ‘I’ll cut you good for that.’

American? I aimed but had no clear shot. Pocketing my gun, I dashed forward at the exact moment the Frenchman downed his red-haired attacker and did the same. Both of us leapt towards the man with the knife, and as if we were choreographed, the Frenchman knocked the weapon from the man’s hand, as I threw a punch straight at the kidneys. The bald man in black dropped to the ground, his knife flying into the darkness.

Two were down. But there had been four at the table.

‘Jean!’ cried Mlle La Victoire, flinging herself into the Frenchman’s arms.

‘Allez-y!’ he said, pushing her away. Run!

She hesitated. In that instant, her bald assailant rose from the ground like Lazarus, and in a flash knocked me into the wall. We struggled as the second attacked the Frenchman with renewed vigour.

The four of us slid and tumbled on the ice like drunks. My revolver fell from my pocket. It skittered away into the darkness.

As I struggled with my attacker, a third man grabbed Mlle La Victoire and slapped her, hard.

Furious, I tried to wrench free, but at my momentary distraction, my attacker took his chance. I felt myself choked from behind, and gasping for air.

It was then that the fourth man in black, the small man whom I had spotted as the leader, moved into the light. The odds had worsened. He ran towards me, butting me hard in the stomach. My knees buckled.

He pulled out a long stiletto which glittered like a deadly icicle in the pale light. The man choking me altered his grip and grabbed me by the hair, forcing my head back. The small man now slowly raised the stiletto to my throat, and began caressing it with the flat of the knife.

It was a strange gesture, like a surgeon cleansing the skin with carbolic before his incision. Time slowed.

His pale face and beady eyes were strangely rat-like. ‘The dangerous one dies first,’ he said. The sharp side of the blade pricked my skin. I felt a warm trickle of blood down my neck and it seemed the end. I closed my eyes.

But the Frenchman had prevailed and suddenly the Rat was knocked aside!

Seizing the moment, I yanked the man who was choking me off balance. Dimly I was aware of the Frenchman struggling in the corner of my vision but I could not dislodge my assailant and his chokehold tightened. I dropped to my knees, growing faint.

We were outmatched.

The Rat regained his footing, and charged. But a sharp crack of something hard on bone caused the small man to tumble before me with a high-pitched cry of rage. Somersaulting skilfully out of his fall like a circus acrobat, he leaped to his feet and turned to face a new attacker.

Backlit by the streetlamp was a tall, cloaked figure brandishing a stick. It was Sherlock Holmes!

The odds were looking up.

I slammed an elbow into the gut of my assailant. He loosened his grip and staggered back. I turned and we grappled, slipping in the ice and landing on the ground.

Holmes’s voice pierced through the sounds of the mêlée. ‘Your pistol, Watson!’

‘Gone!’ I cried. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

In a single glimpse I saw the Rat now facing the Frenchman, as two others advanced on Mlle La Victoire.

‘Busy!’ shouted Holmes, as he ran to her aid.

Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed him battling two assailants, walking stick held out before him in both hands, like the trained singlestick fighter he was. He whirled it above his head and then rained it down in a series of quick blows on the men facing him.

My own assailant leaped on top of me, and as we struggled, I heard Holmes’s stick connect and the cries of his attackers.

I landed a sharp uppercut to the thug charging me and he fell. I turned to see if Holmes needed help. But he had one man down, and as Mlle La Victoire cowered behind him he neatly felled the second of her attackers with a blow to the legs.

Then he took the lady’s hand, and pulled her away from the light and off into the darkness.

Where? I wondered.

The Rat, across the small courtyard and advancing on the Frenchman, saw it, too. But he did not follow. Instead, he uttered a curse, and turned, slashing at my tall ally. The Frenchman fell with a cry and the Rat leaped on him.

Without thinking, I plunged towards the two and for a moment the Frenchman, the Rat and I rolled like marbles on the icy cobblestones. I managed to land a sharp blow on the Rat’s collarbone and he screamed but rolled free and up on to his feet.

The Frenchman lay unmoving. I was on my own!

The Rat gave a quick glance to my mysterious ally. Dead? He barked a short command and his three cohorts – two downed by Holmes and the third trying to help them up – froze and looked up. Then all four vanished into the darkness.

I paused, waiting for a further attack. Silence.

From the ground came a sigh. ‘Ah,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Enfin, c’est fini!’ He stood up with barely a wince, brushing off his elegant suit.

I was panting, exhausted. What in the hell had just happened?

I felt my neck; it was still bleeding. I took out my handkerchief and pressed it to the cut. I looked over at the Frenchman. His face was now a mask of pain, and he had a hand to one shoulder.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘I am a doctor.’

He flashed me a look I did not understand. Guilt? Embarrassment? Then it was immediately replaced by an impudent grin.

‘I have never been better,’ he said, straightening up and shaking off his pain like a man would fling a bead of sweat on a summer’s day. For the first time I noticed his size. He had at least two inches and fifty pounds on Holmes, hardly typical for a Frenchman. Could he really be French? He glanced around and casually retrieved his top hat, lost in the struggle, replacing it at a jaunty angle.

My doubts were at rest; he was most definitely French.

‘Jean Vidocq,’ he said. ‘And you must be Dr Watson.’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘You fought well, Doctor,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Not injured too badly?’ While his words were friendly, there was an undercurrent of mockery.

‘No,’ I replied stiffly. ‘Thank you.’

I looked about me. Mlle La Victoire and Holmes were nowhere to be seen.

The Frenchman noticed this as well. ‘Merde!’ he said. ‘Where did Holmes take her?’

‘How do you know us?’

At that moment, Holmes strode into the light, alone, and carrying my cape and hat. ‘Good work, Watson,’ he said, handing me my things. Then – ‘Watson, your neck!’

‘I’m fine.’ I removed the handkerchief. The wound still bled but only a little. I pressed harder on it.

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