Читать книгу The Devil’s Due - Bonnie Macbird - Страница 15

Leaving St James’s, Holmes directed our cab slightly out of the way to an address in Fitzrovia on Charlotte Street. ‘And where are we going?’ I asked, as our cab wove through the drizzle past rain-soaked pedestrians. He had uncharacteristically hailed a four-wheeler – slower and more expensive than our usual hansom, but I was soon to see why.

‘I am in need of some cornichons and a bit of news.’ At my puzzled look, he added, ‘A French grocery,’ and began one of the transformations which I so admired. He donned a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, tousled his normally neat hair into a messy fringe, inserted a set of teeth which gave him an overbite, and altered his expression so that he looked both younger and rather feckless. My friend’s theatrical skills never failed to impress me.

‘And you are appearing as …?’

‘Stephen Hollister. A writer. Stephen does not speak French, and neither do you. At peril of your life.’

‘Well, there is nothing to worry about there. I have only schoolboy French.’ We rolled on. ‘Perhaps a bit more information, Holmes?’

But we were already pulling up to our destination. ‘Later, Watson,’ said he. We descended and approached a three-storey building with a small shop on the bottom floor. ‘Le Bel Épicier’ was elegantly inscribed above the door, and the window was filled with gourmet delicacies from France – mustards, jams, wine and baskets of French bread. There were also demitasse sets, and some strangely constructed coffee grinders – all loops and gears over small metal boxes. Holmes vacillated between ignoring food completely to demonstrating a quite refined taste. The tins of French pâté looked quite promising.

Inside, Le Bel Épicier was saturated with the strong and wonderful aroma of coffee. Holmes introduced me to the proprietor, a man he had mentioned at the Diogenes. Victor Richard was a jolly and rotund Frenchman, and he welcomed us heartily, pressing a cup of the hot, steaming black liquid into our hands. It was truly the best coffee I have ever tasted, dark and rich, almost like chocolate.

He and Holmes proceeded to chat amiably in English about French lavender honey, wines, and then coffee. From behind the counter, Victor Richard pulled out one of the unusual French coffee grinders I’d spotted in the window. Holmes explained this was a new and better way to grind the beans for our favourite morning beverage.

Although I knew him to be fluent, Holmes in character as Stephen Hollister spoke no French. In an adjacent room behind the cash register, I could hear voices, and the door to this chamber opened frequently as people passed in and out. When it was open, their voices were quite clear. Several male and one female voice spoke in rapid French, using, I presumed, slang, for I could catch nothing of what they said.

At one point a handsome, intense woman of around sixty, in dark clothing and with a determined air, emerged from the room and walked through the shop.

‘À bientôt, Louise,’ called Richard.

She raised a hand and gave a faint smile.

‘Some of that goose pâté if you would, and some of those olives,’ said Holmes, and then considered the new coffee grinder, which I noted had the word ‘Peugeot’ inscribed on it. ‘Interesting contraption! If we can only get our landlady to accommodate it. I shall buy one and see.’

I knew full well that Mrs Hudson, who kindly furnished us with food, was a woman very used to routine and would not touch it.

‘Let us convince her with a gift of these,’ said Holmes with a smile, pointing to a triumvirate of small jars he had selected from the shelves – mustard, honey, and small pickles. ‘Oh, and – a baggetty, sill vooz plate,’ he said, purposely mangling the words. He pointed to a basket of the long, crusty loaves of French bread near the cash register.

‘Ah, non, non,’ the grocer replied. ‘For you, one of my best!’ He went behind the counter and selected another baguette, this one golden and crusty. ‘Still warm from the oven!’

Thus, laden with our treasures, we stood in the street, attempting to hail another cab. The heavy drizzle had turned once again to rain, and Holmes protected the baguette with a carefully angled umbrella.

‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘where to next – more errands?’ He glanced at me, reading my puzzlement, and laughed. Once again he flagged a four-wheeler and we climbed aboard. He began to restore his normal appearance as we proceeded north on Charlotte Street towards Euston Road.

‘That was obviously not about the food, Watson, although I’ll admit it is an added bonus. That little unassuming grocery store is the nexus for the French anarchist activity in London. That, and the Autonomie Club. I have slowly been gaining Richard’s confidence. You know my methods. The lady who passed through was none other than Louise Michel.’

‘Who?’

‘A famous French anarchist, Watson. She is said to have been one of the organizing powers behind the uprising in Paris in ’71.’

‘What is she doing here?’ I exclaimed, suddenly imagining barricades of furniture and bonfires in Trafalgar Square.

‘We have welcomed foreigners of all stripes and political persuasions, Watson. It is part and parcel of being a democracy.’

Our hansom turned left onto Euston which became Marylebone Road. The rain had paused, but dark clouds scudded across the sky and a chill wind blew about us. More stormy weather was on the way.

‘I do not understand why we should welcome violent extremists,’ I remarked.

‘I tracked her briefly earlier this year. Louise Michel is writing articles and giving speeches, Watson. There is no law against that.’

‘But someone in that crowd has graduated to explosives. Can that not be laid at her door?’

‘It is not that simple, I am afraid. We must uphold the freedoms on which our country is based, Watson. A democracy always faces the challenge of discerning what is free speech and what is sedition, what is ardent dissent and what is incitement to criminal acts.’

‘But still—’

‘Watson, you remarked earlier on the prejudice you heard from Billings. I’m afraid that attitude is growing due to the anarchists, a tiny but very notable minority among the many Italian and French who have come to this country peacably. Most of these immigrants have nothing to do with politics or crime. They are skilled artisans, chefs, woodworkers, and professional people. But along with these come many poor, unskilled labourers, desperate to start anew. For a small subset of these, their poverty and misery make them ripe for conversion to violence.’

‘It is a sad situation. Something must be done, Holmes.’

‘Yes, but to help them, do you not think? The anarchists are a small, renegade part of a larger movement who believe strongly in schools for the poor, did you know that? They want to provide a means for the impoverished to raise themselves. Louise Michel has founded such a school.’

‘All well and good, but bombs!’ I objected.

‘They feel their voices are not heard. It is a dilemma, Watson, but I agree there is no excuse for bombing. I shall combat terrorism in any form.’

‘There is a lot in the press about the immigrant problem, Holmes.’

‘Sadly yes, there is a growing movement – the “restrictionists”. They want limitations on immigration, tougher police, all based on fears of economic and racial decline. Titus Billings and his secret benefactor are clearly in the vanguard.’

I looked about me on Marylebone Road. We were passing the elegant Park Crescent dwellings, but even in this refined and lovely part of London there were vagrant individuals begging on the streets.

‘Titus Billings thinks the way out of our problems is by militarizing the police. By providing them with ever more brutal crowd control equipment. More deadly batons, handcuffs which break wrists, even guns. Turning them into soldiers, essentially, as if the streets were at war. How do you feel about that, Watson?’

‘Well, I … it is hard to say. Sounds a poor solution. But … bombers are criminals.’

‘Yes, they are, Watson. But should we allow fear to turn our country into a kind of police state? It is a delicate balance.’

‘This is beyond my ken, Holmes.’

Holmes regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Frankly, Watson, it is beyond my own as well. It is more in my brother’s realm. But I will help where I can. As result of this stop at Le Bel Épicier, I know the exact location of a bombing they are planning two days hence.’

‘How?’

‘The men in the back-room.’

‘You overhead them? How could they be so careless?’

‘They were speaking in code, with a great use of argot – French slang, Watson. They assume no Englishmen speak their language to such a degree. However, I do. As Mycroft noted, they are amateurs. But still dangerous.’

My friend was wise to ignore his brother’s admonition. This new information could well save lives.

He sighed. ‘What I do not know is when this bomb is to detonate.’

Our carriage turned south towards Baker Street and we just managed to make it inside as the drizzle turned into a downpour. Holmes scribbled two telegrams regarding the bombings and sent Billy off to the post office with them. As I hung up my wet things and noted the cheerful fire and tea things laid out, I felt a moment of thankfulness that I was not one of the homeless unfortunates huddling under an awning on Charlotte Street, or Tottenham Court Road, or even in the mews near to this very building. Instead I was comfortable and warm, and quite safe.

Of course, that would not remain the case for long.