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Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder
‘All is well, Watson,’ said he.
‘Thank God. Did you find anything?’ I asked.
He nodded as Janvier came up behind me. The Frenchman fanned the air and coughed. ‘Outside, gentlemen, please!’
We made our way out of the building, and across a courtyard I could see a crowd of people gathering and pointing. I heard whistles and shouts and the clanging bells of the French police growing nearer.
‘Tell me what you found, Mr Holmes?’ urged Janvier.
‘Whoever did this has made his escape,’ said the detective. ‘However the explosion is a large one at the back of that room near the sinks. Dynamite. A second stick had been lit but I found it and managed to stop it before it ignited.’ He held up the offending item, and then placed it in his pocket.
‘You are mad, Holmes,’ said I. ‘You could have been blown to pieces.’
He smiled and shrugged.
I looked back at the swirling dust. ‘We should check for injured people!’
‘I did. There was no one.’
Janvier placed a hand on my arm. ‘No one was there. As I said, our work was transferred yesterday to a larger building. And everyone is eating their lunch.’
‘But you are different, Dr Janvier. Do you not occasionally work during lunch?’ asked Holmes.
‘True. Perhaps it is the American influence.’
‘But to the point. The timing of this – might you have been the direct target?’ asked Holmes.
Janvier paused. He and Holmes stared at each other intently for a moment. I had the impression that both were sifting the information and perhaps coming to some kind of joint conclusion.
‘Not likely,’ said Janvier. ‘The mistaken laboratory. The timing of the detonation.’
‘I concur. A message. Not intended to kill,’ agreed Holmes. ‘But dangerous nonetheless.’ He withdrew the stick of dynamite from his pocket, using his handkerchief to do so. It was a few inches long, wrapped in brown paper with a label. The fuse was blackened. ‘Made by Nobel, in Scotland. The best for the task that can be found anywhere. You are very lucky, even so.’
It was exactly like the dynamite that Isla McLaren had so casually displayed at 221B.
‘Holmes! That is the same—’
‘I know,’ said Holmes. He turned to Janvier. ‘The letters threatened you to stop or your work would “go up in smoke”, I believe you said.’
The scientist looked down at the ground ‘But they will have to kill me first.’
‘Do not tempt fate, Docteur. I suggest you post a guard at all times.’
A police commissionaire rushed up to us, bristling with urgency. His blond hair was clipped short, and he was bronzed so deeply from the Mediterranean sun that he appeared almost metallic. Holmes and Janvier answered a few quick questions in French, and after a few minutes the man retreated and headed back to the site of the explosion. His accent was indecipherable and I had understood nothing.
‘Might you translate, for my colleague?’ said Holmes.
Janvier laughed, with a tinge of bitterness. ‘He attempted to apologize to me. When the letters first arrived, the director of the lab showed them to the police. They dismissed the threats as I did, but for a different reason. They thought I was simply trying to draw attention to myself!’
Holmes snorted. Janvier continued. ‘Idiots. But it alerted someone in the Chamber of Deputies, and their response was to send that horrible … et voici … here he is now. Excuse me for a moment.’ He moved quickly away to speak to two worried assistants.
A dark figure slowly approached us from the other side of the courtyard, emerging from behind the building which had suffered the blast. He was silhouetted against the bright sunlight and at first I could not make out who it was. The swagger, however, was striking.
‘Sherlock Holmes!’ exclaimed the familiar, French-accented voice. He passed out of the bright light, and into view. It was the disreputable Jean Vidocq himself.
In contrast to our dishevelled and whitened state, the tall, handsome Frenchman was the picture of elegance. He strode forward with a smile, impeccable as always in a well-tailored frock coat and jaunty cravat.
The man was a rakish charmer, to whom women seemed drawn as by a magnetic force. He was insufferable. In fact, I still felt the occasional pain in my back directly due to our contretemps at the Louvre last year. The man had knocked me down a flight of steps.
‘You!’ I said.
Vidocq responded with a cocky grin. But as he approached, Sherlock Holmes surprised me in the extreme. He rushed to embrace this rogue.
‘Jean Vidocq! Bienvenue! I am so happy to see you here!’ he gushed, clasping the Frenchman to his bosom, kissing him on both cheeks in the French manner of greeting.
Vidocq, equally surprised, recoiled and backed away in disgust, frantically brushing at the white plaster dust, which Holmes with his embrace had deposited on his pristine frock coat. Holmes hid a quick smile.
‘Mon Dieu! What the hell is the matter with you, Holmes? Is it the cocaine?’ exclaimed Vidocq.
‘Ah, non, non!’ said Holmes. ‘C’est trop de soleil!’
Too much sun? Holmes was inventive today. Janvier looked on in confusion.
‘Ah, so sorry,’ said Holmes, apparently recovering. ‘It is the shock also. Vidocq, my old friend!’
Turning from Holmes with a look of doubt, Vidocq focused on his fellow Frenchman. ‘Dr Janvier? Ça va?’ he asked. What followed was a rapid exchange in French, of which I only understood that he was ascertaining that the famous scientist was unharmed. Satisfied, he turned to us.
‘Well, Monsieur Holmes, what an interesting coincidence. And Doctor Wilson, I believe it is.’
‘You know my name, Monsieur Verdun!’ said I.
Vidocq was taken aback. ‘Ah, yes, Dr Watson, forgive me. It slipped my mind. How very strange to find you both here at this precise moment. Where were you exactly when the bomb went off?’
Holmes smiled. With a grand gesture he indicated our plaster-covered selves. In fact, we were so whitened by the dust as to look like madcap bakers in a comedy turn at the Gaieties.
Vidocq eyed us with derision. ‘A little close for comfort, n’est-ce pas? But again, why are you here, in the laboratoire? It is lunchtime.’
‘Indeed. One might ask the same of you, Vidocq,’ said Holmes brushing the white powder and bits of plaster from his own coat.
‘Police business.’
‘Excellent timing! Or are you simply prescient?’ asked Holmes.
‘Dr Janvier has received death threats. I have been sent by the government to investigate and protect. Your presence here is suspicious.’
Holmes laughed. ‘You will get nowhere with this line of thinking, Vidocq,’ said Holmes.
Dr Janvier now returned and Vidocq turned to the scientist with an expansive smile. ‘Ah, Dr Janvier. So very happy that you are unharmed!’ he gushed, grasping Janvier’s arm in what I thought was an overly familiar gesture. ‘It was thanks to God that—’
‘It was luck or miscalculation on the part of the bomber, M. Vidocq, nothing more. If you will excuse me,’ the scientist said, breaking free and turning pointedly to us. ‘Gentlemen, my staff return from lunch and I must reassure my colleagues. I believe you have learned all I can tell you now. I will see that you receive a copy of my paper on the phylloxera on your way out.’ He started to leave but turned back. ‘And I shall take your advice, Mr Holmes. We will take more care.’
He strode off, brushing at his clothes. We stood facing Vidocq.
The Frenchman’s pretence at charm dropped like a curtain. He advanced on us with a frown. ‘Holmes, I will not have you meddling in this affair. I am hired by the French government to protect this man. In fact, we have every reason to suspect British hands in these threats and … well, here you are. I should have you arrested.’
‘You are joking!’ I said.
Holmes shot me a warning look. ‘Vidocq, I do not know what your game is here, but assuredly it is financially driven. Your altruism is never what it seems.’
‘Speaking of finances, my dear friend, I understand you are currently lodging at the laughable Hôtel Du Beau Soleil. How difficult it must be to attempt to command the world stage from such undignified surroundings.’
Somehow he seemed to know of our hotel misadventures in Nice. My surprise at this must have shown on my face. Vidocq laughed.
‘Not only M. Holmes keep the track of his special friends, Doctor.’
‘Vidocq, I suggest that you stay out of our way on this and on all matters,’ said Holmes.
‘Or what?’ replied Vidocq with a sneer.
‘Or I shall make your latest indiscretion known.’
‘And what indiscretion is that?’
‘Ah, then you admit to more than one.’ Holmes smiled as he reached into his pocket and removed a train ticket which he held aloft. The Frenchman gasped and patted his waistcoat, discovering he had been neatly pick-pocketed. Furious, he snatched at it, but Holmes pulled the ticket away and waved it in the air. ‘Paris–Nice, only yesterday,’ said my companion.
I could not help but laugh. Holmes enjoyed my amusement and Vidocq’s discomfort perhaps more than was polite. ‘Ah, Paris, the city of light. And of love,’ said he. ‘You have no doubt enjoyed yourself there, Vidocq, in a particularly close encounter.’
‘Ce n’est rien!’ snarled the Frenchman. ‘I have been in Paris. The rest is wild conjecture, Holmes.’
Holmes paused. He sniffed the air pointedly.
A maelstrom of expressions crossed Vidocq’s face. And then he understood.
‘Ah, Mon Dieu. Remind me to keep my distance.’
I was still in the dark. Holmes turned to me. ‘Our friend’s frock coat collar is quite redolent of a certain perfume. Jicky, you remember, Watson?’
‘That proves nothing,’ said Vidocq. ‘That scent has taken Paris by storm. Many men and many women wear it.’
‘Really. And am I to conclude from your collar that you have been embracing many men and many women all over the City of Light? Random individuals, no doubt, and at considerable length?’
Vidocq shrugged.
‘No, the evidence, while circumstantial, I agree, is suggestive. We both know that Jicky is the signature scent of a certain Mademoiselle Emmeline La Victoire.’
Vidocq smirked. ‘In France this is hardly a scandal.’
‘Perhaps you do not know that the lady is engaged. Her fiancé is as well connected in France as he is in England. The gentleman is a schoolboy friend of M. Reynaud, who is, I believe, your current employer.’
Vidocq’s smile fell away and he stepped back in surprise.
‘A word to this fine man and your lucrative connections will vanish,’ said Holmes. ‘May I suggest you drop both your affair, and the dangerous game you are playing here, lest I find it necessary to intrude on your own personal liberties?’
Vidocq’s retort was interrupted by the bronzed French policeman, who cut through a gathering crowd to stand with us. He spoke sharply in French, but Vidocq held up a hand.
Holmes smiled and leaned forward. ‘Oh, and you are careless, Vidocq,’ he whispered. ‘Your coat pocket? The right one. Here, let me.’
His arm flashed forward and he pulled a stick of dynamite from Vidocq’s pocket. The policeman started, and turned to Vidocq, grasped him suddenly by the arm, and called out for reinforcements.
As several gendarmes ran forward to assist, Vidocq shook his head in annoyance.
Holmes smiled, turned on his heel, and despite his ludicrous white countenance managed a dignified exit. I paused only a moment longer to enjoy Vidocq’s discomfiture, gave him a small salute, and followed my friend.
The level of Holmes’s research never failed to surprise me. But then, it has always been a hallmark of his methods.
Our return train to Nice that afternoon was less than pleasant. Unable to fully remove the dust from our clothing, we were forced to travel in the baggage car, seated on boxes covered with sheets and warned severely not to get our dusty selves on anything else.
As the purser slammed the door shut behind us Holmes looked at me and burst out laughing. ‘Watson, you look like a man who has been frustrated by an encounter with the pastry dough.’
‘Holmes, this trip has been something of a disappointment. As despicable as Jean Vidocq is, I am appalled that you would stoop to planting evidence on him. It strikes me as beneath you.’
Holmes looked at me strangely. ‘How could you think so, Watson?’ He took his handkerchief, and reached into his pocket and withdrew the stick of dynamite. ‘Notice this was lit, and put out. That one had not been. Had we not been here, he would have set off a third. Really, Watson, you must sharpen your skills.’
‘But why would Vidocq himself set off the explosions?’
‘Many reasons. Primarily it ensures his job, and probably raises his fee.’
‘But might he not continue with this plan?’
‘He would not dare to do so right at present. We are not finished on this count, however.’
‘He exceeds even my low opinion of him. I apologize, Holmes.’ I eyed the stick of dynamite. ‘Is that safe?’
‘Reasonably so. It takes a detonator to set these off. That is Nobel’s contribution to the art of explosives. There is a binding agent with the nitroglycerin which—’
‘Really, I do not care to know. But why is it here? Why did you not hand it over to the police?’
‘I will test it myself for fingerprints. The bronzed fellow we met in Montpellier is in Vidocq’s pocket.’
‘I thought he was arresting Vidocq!’
‘They wished it to appear so. The fellow did not know I speak fluent French. Even their fast-paced argot.’
‘Argot?’
‘Slang.’
‘And if the fingerprints are Vidocq’s …’
‘I am certain they will prove to be so. This will show he is behind, or at least complicit with the threats to Docteur Janvier. Mycroft will have what he needs, and Monsieur Reynaud, through our old friend in Tours, will most certainly relieve Vidocq of his exalted position. The universe will align, Watson, providing science prevails. Those fingerprints will be key.’
‘Are they admissible in court?’
‘They will certainly be so in the future, but sadly not at present. The die will be cast, however, and Monsieur Reynaud will play his part, I am sure of it. Vidocq will get his just desserts.’
We were silent for a time as the train rumbled on. It was hot in the car, with no windows to relieve us. I wiped my sweating brow with my handkerchief, and it came away filthy.
‘There is something troubling me,’ said I. ‘Mycroft—’
Holmes sighed. ‘I intended to help the British government all along, Watson. Mycroft had been imploring me for some time. You saw that I had been studying the subject.’
‘But then why the little dance with your brother? Why refuse his advance?’
‘A useless gesture, Watson, I will admit. It is difficult to erase old patterns. You would not understand.’
‘Yes, well why let some ghost of your past—’
‘Watson! This from a man whose own ghosts wake him shouting in the night.’
‘Lingering effects from battle are well known, Holmes! You are squabbling with an older brother. Why? Did he steal your toast and marmalade as a child?’
I expected a sharp retort, but instead Holmes was silent for a moment. ‘You misjudge me, again,’ he said quietly. ‘Watson, there are those rare people who elicit behaviour from us that others may not. Let me suggest that you were one man on the battlefield, another with your patients, a third altogether with Mary and perhaps a fourth in my company, for example?’
‘No, Holmes. I am always myself. Well, perhaps I smoke less around Mary.’
He smiled at this.
‘But whatever the situation, I try always to be the best man I can be.’
He paused.
‘Of course you do, and how well you succeed. My apologies, Watson.’
As we spent an uncomfortable six hours on the train I ruminated that it would take effort to continue being the best man that I could. But I was determined to stay the course.
CHAPTER 8
Ahead of the Game
‘Whatever the task may be, Watson, we must stay on our guard. The McLarens are not yet entirely cleared of any connection to that bombing, and may in fact wish to draw us into their fold for their own reasons.’
‘Surely they can intend no violence at this dinner.’
‘Unlikely. But you have your Webley with you?’
I nodded.
The Grand Hôtel du Cap was a far cry from the Beau Soleil. Ensconced in a wooded hill overlooking a brilliant blue sea and a rocky beach, the building arose like a tiered pink bride’s cake from among the olive and cypress trees.
The lobby was gleaming marble, with velvet benches and liveried porters swarming around the richly attired guests. Everything and everyone conveyed a look of polished ease. The concierge waved a hand and a page ushered us down a long hallway past magnificent views of the ocean to gilded doors leading to a private dining room.
Seated there was our party, already assembled. There were five people: three gentlemen and two ladies, one with her back to the door. Expensive tailoring, tartan details in the waistcoats of the gentlemen, glittering gowns on the ladies, and an overall impression of immense wealth worn with casual ease made up my immediate impression.
At the head of the table, a large man in his fifties rose to greet us. ‘Welcome Mr Sherlock Holmes, and Dr John Watson,’ he boomed in a deep voice, with a strong Scots brogue. A mane of dark, greying curls surrounded a handsome face, now creased with a warm smile. ‘You are guests of the Clan McLaren, and I am Sir Robert McLaren, Laird of Braedern.’
Holmes nodded his head in acknowledgement.
‘Sir, we thank you,’ I said.
‘My sons, Charles and Alistair,’ said the laird, indicating the two younger men with a sweep of his hand.
The two arose and nodded a greeting. Both were tall and robust, wide-shouldered and dark-haired. The elder had bushy eyebrows which gave him an angry demeanour. The younger had a high forehead and a permanent look of arch incredulity.
‘My daughter-in-law, Catherine, wife of Charles.’ A blonde lady in a glittering pale blue gown looked up demurely at us over a glass of champagne. She nodded a wan greeting.
‘And my younger daughter-in-law—’
‘Mrs Isla McLaren,’ said Holmes in a flat voice. ‘Wife of Alistair.’
Something passed over the laird’s face but he recovered in an instant. ‘You have met, then?’
Before Holmes could answer, Isla McLaren interjected. ‘As I said, Father, I chanced upon Dr Watson in Nice, and recognized him from a newspaper photograph. I failed to mention that we spoke briefly. I am sure he told Mr Holmes about it. Did you not, Dr Watson?’
I nodded. I was not accustomed to prevarication on short notice. I could feel Holmes’s eyes upon me.
Isla McLaren smiled warmly at us both. She was radiant in a deep purple beaded evening dress, and even with her small gold spectacles, stood out from the group as an early blooming iris might in a spring green garden. She coughed softly, while very subtly putting a finger to her lips. She wished us to be silent about our previous meeting.
Holmes exhaled.
‘Do come and sit down, gentlemen,’ said the laird. ‘It is our winter holiday and we are celebrating, as we do every year, this time at the Grand Hôtel du Cap. Your reputation is known, Mr Holmes. It was Isla who prevailed upon me to invite you tonight.’
He winked at her and I suddenly guessed that this canny gentleman might very well be aware of his daughter-in-law’s previous visit to us in Baker Street.
‘In any case, she suggested we would enjoy meeting you,’ said the laird.
He then indicated two empty seats at the table, next to one another at the far end, facing him and the rest of the group. I moved to my chair, but Holmes remained just inside the door.
I could sense my friend evaluating this and weighing his choices. ‘Is this a social occasion then?’ he asked. ‘I understood there was something you wished to discuss.’
The laird smiled. ‘In time. The first order of business is to join us in this wonderful place for dinner. The cuisine here is worth its fine reputation.’ His tone changed. ‘Do be seated.’ It was almost a command.
I was surprised to see Holmes acquiesce. Thirty minutes later we were well into a vast dinner with multiple courses of unusual fish, chicken, and beef dishes, seasoned with the bright flavours of the South, solicitous French waiters hovering at our elbows. Holmes said little but I conversed slightly with each person in turn and as the meal progressed, I took to examining them furtively, wondering what Holmes would deduce from each.
To the laird’s left, his elder daughter-in-law, Catherine, was an elegant woman of erect posture and initially rigid bearing, blonde-haired and beautiful, if slightly vacant. She struck me as a person who was holding something back, and I noted that as the dinner progressed, she ate but little, yet consumed glass after glass of wine. Every so often a tiny grimace passed over her, as if she were in pain. As the evening wore on, she grew ever more limp and unfocused.
Between Catherine and myself sat the younger son, Alistair, husband of our would-be client. I would not have put this man as Isla McLaren’s husband. Alistair resembled his father and brother physically, tall and muscular, but his sharp features and sarcastic wit, tinged with a combative tone, made me uneasy. Holmes sat beside me, the two of us opposite the laird.
Next to Holmes sat the largest man in the room, elder son Charles, red of cheek and athletic but with beetle brows overhanging strangely watery eyes and a nervous habit of glancing furtively around the table when he felt no one was looking. He was immense, and I could picture him hurtling cabers at a Scottish festival. He and his brother Alistair never addressed nor looked at each other. Their mutual dislike was clear.
Between Charles and the laird sat the intriguing Isla McLaren. A serene presence, she was careful not to regard Holmes or myself with anything resembling familiarity. Intelligence radiated from her, not in words, which were few, but in her subtly amused reactions to the conversation around her, which ranged in topics from the Universal Exposition in Paris, which the family had visited earlier, to the opening of the Moulin Rouge, and Nelly Bly’s attempt to duplicate Jules Verne’s round the world trip in eighty days.
Just prior to dessert, more champagne was brought in and placed in iced silver urns at intervals around the table. The laird held his hand over his flute, however, as he evidently had a different idea and whispered something to the server. In a moment a cart was wheeled in containing several hand-labelled bottles. The laird had brought with him several choice examples of McLaren whisky, of varying vintages and finishes.
He passed small glasses around, leaving the expensive champagne untouched. With each sample he held forth on the warm smokiness of one, and the toffee and chocolate notes of another.
I tried each, and rolling the amber liquid around my tongue, was able to discern something of what he described. They were stronger than my usual Black and White, and yet delicious in an aggressive, though very seductive fashion. I felt warmed and strangely relaxed.
