‘I am so close to learning their plans. I know the time of their next bombing but not the location. But, hélas, they have discovered me!’
The dog barked again, and afterwards there was more pounding at the door.
‘What a reckless choice you have made, leading them here!’ cried Holmes.
More pounding below us.
‘Please. They might kill me. I must hide!’ said the Frenchman. Handsome, cocky, and the consummate ladies’ man, Vidocq was at this moment at his most vulnerable. For once he did not have a sarcastic word to fling at me.
‘All right,’ said Holmes. ‘You can go into—’
Just then the door opened below. We heard the strident French voices of several men, one apologizing to Mrs Hudson in heavily accented English and the others evidently encouraging each other to ‘Allez-y’ or ‘Go there!’
‘Quick, behind the sofa!’ whispered Holmes.
As more words floated up from below, Vidocq dived behind the settee.
Holmes rushed to the landing, and despite the cold he opened a window a crack. He then returned to the sitting-room, closing the door after him as Vidocq compressed his large form into the small space with difficulty.
Thunderous tramping of boots on the stairs followed, and despite my feeling of resentment for this intrusive Frenchman, I positioned myself next to the settee to block anyone from standing where they could see Vidocq. At the very least, his discovery could harm Holmes’s investigation.
What a precarious position this man had put us in!
Vidocq peered up at me, signalling ‘Merci’. I turned. Holmes had vanished into his bedroom, closing the door.
In a moment there came a pounding on the sitting-room door, and without waiting for a response, an intruder flung it open and rushed into the room. It was the rotund, apple-cheeked grocer whom I had met yesterday, although so much had happened that it seemed a lifetime ago. The anarchist and coffee expert Victor Richard was followed by three men brandishing baguettes like clubs.
I almost burst out laughing.
‘Ah, Mr Richard!’ said Holmes pleasantly, emerging from his room, transformed once again to the slightly awkward Stephen Hollister. He eyed the three ‘armed’ men. ‘To what do I owe this visit from the … er … Baggety Brigade?’
‘Mon Dieu, it is Monsieur Stephen Hollister! I did not know you lived here!’ Richard’s angry expression dissolved into smiles.
‘Really? I have been your customer for some time. Your coffee grinder, by the way, is as mervy-you as you say!’
‘Ah, bien sûr! I am glad,’ said Richard, his close-set brown eyes sweeping the room, looking for places one might hide. Noticing the bloodstained tusk, chemistry set and other odd items, he blinked, confused.
‘What is it that you do, Mr Hollister?’
‘I am a writer of adventure novels, sir. A work that requires a lot of coffee. What can I do for you, Mr Richard?’ asked Holmes pleasantly. ‘You seem distraught.’
Victor Richard noticed the settee and realized it was large enough to hide a man. He began to sidle off to his right to get a better angle. I moved slightly to block his view.
Suddenly our hairy visitor, forgotten for the moment, sprang to his feet and barked. Richard, noticing the animal for the first time, started as I had done and backed away.
‘Lie down, Hector,’ said Holmes. The dog glanced up at him, and then lay down.
Hector?
‘The dog will not hurt you, as long as you make no sudden movements,’ said Holmes.
Richard nodded and kept his distance. ‘We have followed someone here. I did not at the time know it was your house, Mr Hollister. I must apologize to your housekeeper—’
‘Mrs Hudson is our landlady, not our housekeeper, and I am certain that a jar of your wonderful Provence lavender honey will smooth things over.’
‘Mais, oui! But our business is pressing. We, er … there is a French thief, a man well known to us – who is responsible for, how you say, making a great deal of trouble for the shop.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘He has been stealing our trade secrets! We followed him here. He is tall, your height, but how you say? More big, with a small black moustache.’
‘Trade secrets?’ murmured Holmes with a smile. He gestured at the three men brandishing the long loaves of French bread. ‘And, er, this bread? Were you planning to beat him into submission?’
I looked again at the menacing three. The loaves did look, if somewhat ironically, like police truncheons. I put out a hand to touch one. ‘Stale,’ I said. ‘Quite hard, in fact!’
The grocer smiled. ‘Embarrass him enough and he will leave,’ said he, and seizing one from the man standing closest to him, he wielded it like a club, ever so reminiscent of a policeman dealing with a dangerous crowd. He took a mock swing at Holmes, who put up a hand.
From near the fireplace, I heard a low growl. Victor Richard had momentarily forgotten the dog, who now stared at him, teeth bared. He backed away, returning the baguette to his man.
Holmes laughed. ‘Well then, he should be very afraid.’ He looked closer at Richard and pulled the man’s lapel back, revealing a gun. This was no ordinary grocer. ‘Although I see you are, in fact, quite serious,’ he added.
Richard pulled away, covering up the gun and eyeing Holmes with sudden suspicion.
‘We adventure writers notice such things!’ said Holmes with a smile. ‘So you intend to really frighten him off?’
‘Only if he refuses to return to France,’ said the grocer.
The dog growled again, louder. ‘Hector!’ Holmes said to the dog. The dog sat but kept a wary eye on Richard.
‘Mr Richard, may I suggest you do not draw your gun? Hector is rather protective of me.’
It was true, Holmes had a remarkable rapport with animals. Horses and dogs alike seemed to take to my friend.
‘I do not like … big dogs,’ said Richard.
I took the next moment to glance down. From my vantage point I could see that Vidocq, tall and muscular as he was, and huddled behind the divan, was immensely uncomfortable. He looked up at me in genuine panic. I would be lying if I said I did not in some small way enjoy his discomfiture.
‘I would swear the man we are following came inside here,’ said Richard, backing away ever so slightly from Holmes and the dog. ‘Did you not see or hear anything?’
‘Well, yes! A bang on the door below, I heard steps and then I heard someone open the window on the landing here. I simply presumed it was Mrs Hudson wishing to air out the place. My friend’s coat smells strongly of woodsmoke and cheap shag, you see, from—’
Richard and his three men rushed out onto the landing and to the partly opened window. Holmes followed.
‘Ah, it is freezing outside!’ said the detective. He closed the windows. ‘You say someone came in here? How odd. Perhaps Mrs Hudson had the door open for some reason and he simply took the chance. He must have exited this way. I have taken that escape route myself a few times.’
At Richard’s look of puzzlement, Holmes added, ‘The ladies, you know?’ He winked. This was particularly humorous, given the awkward demeanour of his Stephen Hollister character, not to mention Holmes’s own famous avoidance of female admirers.
The Frenchman nodded sympathetically. ‘Where does this courtyard lead?’ he asked.
‘It connects to a mews back there, and eventually the next street.’
‘Allez-y!’ shouted Richard to his men. ‘I am sorry to trouble you, Monsieur Hollister. Expect some honey for your landlady, and coffee for you. Our very great thanks. You should keep your door locked.’
The French cadre took their leave. With much grunting and a great show of discomfort, Vidocq unfurled himself from where he had been hidden. He noticed with horror some dust on his fine jacket and brushed at it furiously. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with a tinge of resentment. ‘Have you a clothes brush?’
I handed him one from where it hung from the coat rack.
Holmes removed his glasses and teeth, then lit his pipe, pointedly ignoring Vidocq, who was indeed a sorry sight. The Frenchman appeared to be simultaneously embarrassed by the need for our help and disgruntled by the manner in which it had been given.
‘Well, Vidocq, I suppose this ends your work here for the French government, for now,’ said Holmes. ‘What is the time of the next bombing that you claim to have discovered?’
‘Ah, you have the location then,’ said Vidocq, instantly alert to my companion’s intent.
Holmes equally understood Vidocq. ‘And you have the time. No matter. You can be the one to report. The location will be at Borough Market, at the northern end where Church and York meet. But heed me, Vidocq. Report our combined intelligence and then say goodbye to my brother as you leave for Paris. He will make sure that you do.’
‘Mycroft Holmes! One day he is with me, the next against!’ exclaimed the Frenchman, brushing the dust off his left sleeve in a fury.
Holmes shrugged. I rather thought the same of Mycroft Holmes myself.
‘I have felt your intrusive presence in my work, Holmes. I would think your brother would have prevented you from interfering.’
Holmes laughed sharply. Hector gave a low woof at this. ‘My brother does not dictate my cases, Vidocq.’
‘Vraiment? That is not my impression. Ah, well, I am now, how you say, an old duck.’
‘Dead duck. If you don’t mind, Vidocq, I have pressing business.’
He left, and I discovered one of the stale baguettes had been dropped in the corner of the room. ‘Imagine Vidocq being frightened of a loaf of bread!’ I said, wielding it.
‘And a gun, Watson.’
Hector moved slowly to me and regarded me with sad eyes. I held out the baguette and the dog took it delicately into his mouth, then sat down with it in front of the fire and began gnawing on the thing like a bone. The whole event struck me as funny and I burst out laughing.
‘Watson, you laugh, but do not underestimate Richard and his men. Earlier, another French government agent was sent to infiltrate Richard’s group but was discovered. Shortly after, in a pub, this agent was surrounded by what seemed a drunken crowd of men, who sang him loudly all the way to the train station where he departed for France and never showed his face here again. The onlookers found it hilarious. The press made a meal of it.’
‘Well, it is amusing,’ said I.
Holmes stared at me pointedly. ‘He was lucky. The agent sent before that one was found floating in the Thames.’
Hector looked up from his treasure and woofed softly, and then came yet a third pounding at the door downstairs. It was not even ten in the morning! The dog dropped the baguette and leapt to his feet with a loud bark. Holmes silenced him with a point of his finger.
In bounded Inspector Lestrade.
‘Ah, another murder! Where? Who?’ said Holmes, with an eager smile.
‘Holmes!’ I remonstrated.
‘It is Claudio Enrietti!’ said Lestrade breathlessly. ‘The opera star! Found dead this morning in his dressing-room!’
I do not follow opera but the name struck a chord. From the foggy image of the list of Luminarians, a name suddenly emerged.
‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘Enrietti was on the list!’
‘E!’ shouted my friend, leaping to his feet. ‘Watson, we have our E!’
CHAPTER 14
Death at the Opera
Lestrade dashed out to hail a cab as we donned our coats and ran for the door. The dog, suddenly animated with excitement, barrelled past me on the stairs and emerged next to Holmes onto the landing outside our front door, as if he were Holmes’s newest partner. There was a sudden flash of light on the two of them – bright even in the glare of morning sunlight – followed by the sharp sound of sarcastic laughter.
I emerged to discover Gabriel Zanders, the feral-looking reporter with the tight suit and wispy moustache, whom I recognized from Speakers’ Corner. He had a photographer in tow, and a wide grin on his insolent face as he regarded Holmes and the dog.
‘I see you have a new friend on your investigations,’ Zander taunted. ‘Who’s this fellow? Oh, it’s Mephistopheles!’
What on earth was this man on about?
‘Ah, Mr Zanders. How serendipitous. So now I’m Faust visited by Mephistopheles!’ Holmes said, as if musing.
The reporter was grinning. ‘Preee-cisely, Mr Holmes. The Devil in the form of a big black dog. A fitting image.’
‘Hmm, it did not go so well for Faust,’ said Holmes.
‘By golly, you are a smart one! I can see the headline now. ‘Detective sells his soul to the Devil!’
‘Few of your Gazette readers will appreciate the allusion,’ said Holmes. ‘How many do you expect know the Faust legend?’
‘The Times’ readers are a more literate crowd.’
‘Ah, The Times has taken you back, then?’
‘They enjoy selling papers, Holmes.’
‘Kindly use the honorific when addressing me,’ said Holmes coldly.
The dog suddenly left his side and sat down next to Zanders. He looked up at the reporter, mouth open, tail wagging.
‘Ah, so he’s your dog, Mr Zanders. A plant,’ said Holmes. The dog leaned into Zanders’ leg, confirming this.
From half a block away, Lestrade called out, ‘Mr Holmes. Doctor! Cab! Down here!’
Holmes held up a hand. He turned back to the reporter. Zanders shrugged, patting the dog’s head.
Holmes smiled pleasantly. ‘If you applied this much effort to actual journalism, you could go far,’ said Holmes. ‘But, persist and I will see you brought up for slander. Good day.’
Moments later, our carriage thundered through the streets on the way to Covent Garden and the Royal Italian Opera.
‘That was certainly odd, Holmes!’ I ventured.
Holmes shook his head. ‘He doesn’t deserve his own dog.’
Heading towards the scene of the murder, our carriage careened recklessly from Baker Street south past the British Museum towards Covent Garden and a rather grimy section of town. Given the early hour, the streets were still littered with refuse from the nearby market. The light snowfall from the night before was already melting and tides of horse droppings and rotting produce eddied around the gutters. From this sordid base rose the imposing, columned edifice of the Opera House, home of the Royal Italian Opera. The building, though darkened by smoke and grime, greeted the thin morning sun with a certain grandeur.
I had accompanied Holmes here on several occasions but had never seen the place at this hour. Lestrade hoped to deliver us unobserved, and before Titus Billings might arrive. Holmes knew he would be barred from the scene if the acting head of the Metropolitan Police made it there first.
But, alas, we discovered the official police vehicle parked near the stage door entrance, the door propped open with an arrogant-looking young officer posted there whom Holmes did not recognize.
‘No use, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade. ‘That’s young Fleming. He’s thrown his hat in with Mr Billings. Quite a few of the young ones have.’
‘Follow me. I know another way!’ Holmes cried, and leapt from our still moving carriage. Lestrade and I followed him through a door, around the corner, where a friendly stagehand, who recognized my friend, led us on an alternate route to the dressing-rooms – via the stage and into the wings.
I had never been backstage at a theatre of this size and even as we rushed through, I was astonished at the enormity of the scenic pieces, the tangle of cords, electric lights, and a myriad of unidentified objects. A rack held swords, another brightly coloured dressing gowns and feather boas. A table displayed pistols, ropes, angels’ wings, a candelabrum and silver platters of food made of plaster.
We followed a set of darkened stairs leading down to a warren of corridors and the dressing-room area. Ahead of us was a door, and crowded at the entrance was a group of excited gawkers. These figures were silhouetted intermittently as the bright f
lashes of a photographer at work lit the room before them. More people rushed by us with whispers and squeals of horror. ‘Murder! Last night! Did you see?’
Holmes stopped us, and asked Lestrade, ‘Why have they not secured the murder site? It is a circus in here!’
‘Mr Billings does not follow protocol,’ the inspector whispered.
‘At least the photos may prove useful – if they have not disturbed the scene,’ said Holmes.
We pushed through the throng to Enrietti’s dressing-room. Nearly at the threshold, we heard the deep, strident baritone of Titus Billings’s voice cut through the clamour, coming from somewhere off to the side.
There, down an adjacent corridor and thirty yards away, with Billings presiding, several policemen surrounded a colourful individual wearing an expensive top hat and red cravat. This man – whom I took to be the theatre manager – stood his ground, unafraid of the bullying Chief Commissioner.
Billings thrust a beefy finger into the chest of this stalwart figure. ‘Theft! Crime! And now murder!’ rasped Billings. ‘Foreigners everywhere in your theatre. What do you expect?’
‘I expect to put on a show,’ replied his opponent. ‘With the greatest artists in the world! From France! From Italy! From … Timbuktu! I will hire whom I please!’
‘Quick, Watson, now is our chance,’ Holmes intoned. He and Lestrade pushed through the crowd at the dressing-room door and ducked inside, Lestrade blocking others from entering with one strong arm.
‘I’ll try to hold him off,’ he said, then turned to the gawkers. ‘Stand back! Police business.’
With difficulty, Holmes pushed the door closed on the curious onlookers. We turned, facing into the dressing-room. A photographer was bent over, blocking the corpse. Another man, small, with dark, curly hair and a green kerchief around his neck, sat sobbing at a dressing table.
The photographer rose. We got our first good look at Enrietti. The expression on the dead man’s face is one I shall never forget.
CHAPTER 15
A Voice Stilled
Claudio Enrietti’s mouth was wide open, as if he were delivering the climactic notes of his most famous opera. The eyes were wild, nearly popping from their sockets – brown marbles surrounded by the whites stained red with blood. It was the face of a nightmare. The world famous baritone and notorious ladies’ man now lay prostrate on the floor, clad in a velvet dressing gown which gaped open immodestly, revealing long woollen underwear.
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