Art in the Blood
A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADVENTURE
BONNIE MACBIRD

Copyright

COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

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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.

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.

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: 9780008129682

Version: 2021-04-09

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

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

Keep Reading …

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

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