Art in the Blood

‘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.