Читать книгу Art in the Blood - Bonnie Macbird - Страница 13

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?