He gave an emphatic nod. “No question there, no question at all. Brandy was born in Gascony in the eleventh-century. Their distillation process is superior, and they never cut the product with water. Cognac has the name and nowadays industrial production, but I could give you a dozen more reasons why… But I mustn’t start down that path, or I shall never stop! Brandies and clarets are my specialty, you know.” The butler hovered before us with a tray holding three snifters. “Help yourself, gentlemen.” After Holmes and I had our glasses, Hardy took the last one and raised it. “To your very good health!”
We raised our glasses as well, then I passed the rim under my nose. The amber liquid was marvelously fragrant. I took a slow sip. It was absolutely smooth-tasting and flavorful, far better than the brandy Michelle and I normally drank.
Holmes shook his head. “Remarkable, sir. My brother Mycroft is also a connoisseur of brandies, but I have never tasted anything to equal this.”
“A connoisseur, is he! We must have a contest sometime. He can bring two or three of his best, and I shall do the same.” Hardy took a big swallow, then gave a contented sigh. He gestured toward the fire. “You must be cold. The fire also takes off the edge.”
Holmes and I stepped nearer the fireplace. Hardy raised his glass, tilted it slightly, letting the red-orange firelight set the brown-gold Armagnac alight. “Nothing prettier than a good brandy, except perhaps a good red wine. One is the parent, the other its offspring. Spirits is an apt name for them: nothing better to lift human spirits.” He took a sip.
I had another swallow. What was true for Holmes was true for me: I had never tasted anything better. It did set my insides all aglow, and accompanied by the warmth of the fire, I felt truly content. We shared a companionable silence for a few minutes, which Holmes finally broke.
“This is indeed the ambrosial nectar of the gods, but I fear I must return us to earth. You asked me here on a matter of business, Mr. Hardy. Something of urgence, your note said.”
Hardy’s amiable countenance shifted, uneasiness clearly visible in his eyes. “So I did. So I did.” He sighed. “Why don’t we sit down? He took one end of the black leather sofa, Holmes the other, while I sat in a matching chair. It was very comfortable. The sitting room had a sparse masculine air, with no doilies, knickknacks or china figurines. Hardy sipped the brandy, put the glass on a tile coaster, then leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. He drew in his breath, as if readying himself to launch, then began.
“It concerns my wife, sir. I have the good fortune to have been married for thirteen years. I was forty when I married, a resigned bachelor of somewhat fixed and stodgy ways, but I have never had any regrets. To the contrary, I have been most happy. I wish I could say the same for my wife.” He drew in his breath. “So much of it comes down to temperament, in the end. I think that must be it. Some are simply born more high-strung, more finely tuned, than others. Nothing much troubles me. Oh, I can become impatient or irritated, but a certain sense of life’s basic absurdity soon makes me smile at circumstances. It does little good to fret and fume. That only makes matters worse.
“Marguerite, on the other hand—that is my wife’s name, Marguerite, and as you might suppose, she is French—she has never, I fear, been truly happy. I have tried my best. I have always treated her kindly, given her anything she might desire, but I sometimes think nothing has truly made a difference. Can someone be born sad, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes only shrugged, but I said, “I think not.”
“You might feel differently if you knew Marguerite, Dr. Vernier. There is perhaps an explanation, a partial one, anyway. She always wanted a child, and there was… hope on two occasions, but it was not meant to be.”
My brow furrowed. “Miscarriages?”
Hardy almost winced. “Exactly. She was in her thirties when we married. Yes, if we had a child, things might be different. Perhaps.”
Holmes stared closely at him. “But perhaps not?”
“As I said, it seems to me some people are born sad. That, and…” He hesitated. “It seems odd to me, odd that she should somehow conceive of it as a punishment.”
“A punishment?” I said.
“Yes. She is Roman Catholic, and she does have that Catholic sense of sin.”
“And you are not Catholic?” Holmes asked.
“No. Plain old Church of England, although we were married in the Catholic church. I had to take some instructions and promise to raise any children as Catholic. I was willing enough to do it, willing to do almost anything as a matter of fact.”
Holmes had begun to tap lightly at his knee with the outstretched fingers of his right hand. “If I could make sadness go away, Mr. Hardy, I could become a very rich man. It would also be far more rewarding than my current profession. You have still not said why you sent for me.”
Hardy leaned forward, staring at him intently. “Her sadness is a fact of life we had both become accustomed to, but fear is another matter entirely. She is frightened, Mr. Holmes, badly frightened. That is why I need your assistance.”
“Do you know what has frightened her?”
“Yes. I know what, but not why.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“I shall do better than that: I shall show you.” He leaned back in the sofa and took two papers from the end table, one a sheet of fine notepaper, the other a tan rectangle of newsprint. “Before I give you these, I should perhaps explain that they are not the originals. Those I managed to briefly see, but soon after, Marguerite cast them into the fire. They had come together in the afternoon post. The letter was striking and simple. My French is somewhat limited, but I comprehended the words and wrote them down soon after. I also managed to find a copy of the newspaper article later on. I have a friend who subscribes to Le Petit Parisien. He remembered reading the notice and helped me find it. Perhaps you should begin with the brief article. I could attempt to translate if…?”
Holmes gave his head a brusque shake. “That will not be necessary. I have spent some time in France and am fluent in the language. Henry was raised near Paris and speaks French like a native.” He leaned forward to take the clipping, stared at it for a couple minutes, then passed it to me.
A brief entry under “Paris” was circled in pencil. The well-known artist Gaston Lupin had died of heart failure. A lady friend had left him alive and in good spirits the night before, and his valet had found him dead the following morning. He left behind a collection of artworks worth a considerable fortune.
“Was the original also circled?”
“Yes. The clipping came with this letter. Let me read it aloud. Perhaps that might somehow help make sense of it.” He paused, raising and tipping his head slightly to see better. “Quatre pour le Diable.”
My breath came out in a confused laugh. He had a strong accent, but the words were clear enough. “Did you say ‘quatre pour le Diable’?”
“Yes.”
“‘Four for the Devil,’” Holmes murmured.
“Exactly. Then there are—and it should come as no surprise—four lines. ‘Le premier est Gaston. Le deuxième sera Angèle. Le troisième sera toi. Le quatrième sera moi.’”
Holmes’s forehead had creased. “‘The first is Gaston.’ Clear enough what that might suggest. ‘The second will be Angèle. The third will be you.’ The implied threat is obvious. ‘The fourth will be me.’ That is odd. Little wonder your wife is frightened. May I see the letter? Thank you. I assume it was written exactly like this, a line for each, five lines in all. And no signature?”
“None at all.”
“And the envelope? Did it have a return address?”
“Marguerite burned it before I could have a look, but I did recognize the stamp. It was a French one, as you might expect for a letter written in French.”
Holmes ran his fingertips along his right jawline, his eyes troubled. “‘Four for the Devil.’ You said your wife was Catholic? I suppose she must believe in the Devil.”
“Very much so, Mr. Holmes.”
“You mentioned that she has that Catholic sense of sin. Combine that with a belief in the Devil, and you have the makings of a considerable misery. Is she at home now? I must, of course, speak with her.”
Hardy shook his head quickly. “No, no—she is abroad, that is. In Paris.”
“When will she be back? There must be some connection between her and this murdered artist.”
Hardy’s cheeks rose slowly in a pained expression. “There is a problem, Mr. Holmes. It would be best, for now, if you could pursue the case on your own. Marguerite is… that is to say, when I told her I wanted to employ your services, she absolutely forbade it. This is a private matter, she said, not to be poked at by detectives. Besides, she could never discuss it with a man. But she knew of a woman, a woman who had acquired something of a reputation as an amateur detective, a woman who had helped one of her friends. She would go to Paris to meet this woman and see if she, too, might be helped.”
Holmes sighed softly. “So you are acting against her wishes?”
“I certainly am—can you blame me?”
I shook my head. “I cannot.”
Holmes rose to his feet, swung his left arm round back and clasped his wrist with his right hand, then took two steps toward the fireplace. He turned back toward Hardy and me. “Nor can I exactly blame you, but on the other hand, I fear I cannot take the case without her cooperation. Let this remarkable woman in Paris serve as her Sherlock Holmes.” His voice was ironical.
“Please, Mr. Holmes, I beg of you—you must help her. I shall pay whatever sum you demand. I know she is being unreasonable, but she is afraid and…”
Holmes stared closely at him. “And…?”
“She has never revealed much about her past. In fact before we were married, she told me she had not always led a virtuous life. She was ashamed of what she had done. But what was done was done, she said, and she had found consolation in her faith, as well as a sense of forgiveness. All the same, I promised never to question her about her earlier years. She wanted to forget them, to put them firmly behind her. I asked her if she could promise to be true to me and live up to the vows of matrimony, and she told me she could. ‘With all my heart,’ she said.” Hardy’s voice shook slightly. “That was all that mattered to me, and we have been happy together—I swear we have. But now…” He raised the letter in his big hand. “This is something from her past come back to haunt her, written by some person who bears her ill will.”
Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully, then his eyes shifted to the sideboard. “Would you mind if I had more of your excellent Armagnac?”
Hardy rose to his feet from the depths of the sofa, which appeared something of an effort for so large a man. “Not at all! I could use another spot myself. And you, Dr. Vernier?”
“Please.”
He poured some for Holmes, then came toward me with the ornate rounded bottle and added to my glass. After taking some for himself, he returned to the sofa. Holmes had already sat down and was staring thoughtfully at the brandy. The easy convivial air between us three was gone. We drank in silence. Hardy’s eyes were fixed on Holmes. At last he spoke.
“If I take this case, my path must eventually cross hers. You do not expect me to try to hide the fact I am working for you?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, I do not.” A mirthless smile pulled at his mouth. “I am not trying to swear you to secrecy, not at all. Eventually, too, I think she may see reason. There will come a time for a meeting. All I ask is that you delay it as long as possible. Perhaps, too, I may lay the groundwork for such a meeting. Besides, won’t it take some time to investigate this Gaston’s sudden death? That seems the logical starting point, or am I mistaken?”
Holmes shook his head. “No. That is where I must begin.”
“And you said you speak fluent French—that is excellent! I shall be happy to pay for one of the best hotels in Paris, and of course, I shall cover all your expenses.”
Holmes smiled briefly at me. “We have not been in Paris together, Henry, for a long while, not since that business of the Palais Garnier and its opera ghost.”
Hardy turned to me. “I shall gladly pay for your expenses as well, Dr. Vernier.”
“That is very generous of you.”
“Please, Mr. Holmes—let us take things a step at a time. Go to Paris, try to find out about this artist. See if you can discover any past link with Marguerite. Given your reputation, you must have contacts in the Paris police?” Holmes nodded. “Perfect! Please, I…”
Holmes raised his hand, his thin fingers outstretched. “Very well, Mr. Hardy—you win. We shall take it a step at a time. I shall go to Paris and see what I can discover. But you must at least answer a few questions. You said your wife is French. Did you meet her here in England or in France?”
“I met her in London thirteen years ago on a fine spring day upon Westminster Bridge. It was late Sunday morning, and I had begun a long stroll. I was halfway across the bridge when I saw her. I must confess that although I was a confirmed bachelor, I always had an eye for the ladies. She certainly stood out from the ordinary London women. I knew her nationality at once. She has the dark brown hair and eyes, almost black, so typical of French women. She is quite tall, and her bearing and elegant dress marked her as a lady. She was wearing a spectacular black and burgundy silk with a matching hat. Alongside her dark hair, her face was very pale, and her hands in their gloves gripped fiercely at the railing. She was staring out at the Thames, her eyes very far away, lost. I stopped, then went to the railing myself, and looked down at the gray-blue waters. I glanced at her twice, but she did not even see me. Her face, her hands, seemed frozen.
“At last I asked her if she was well. ‘What?’ she asked, and that single word revealed that I had been right. I asked her the same question in French. She seemed relieved to hear her native tongue. She told me she was feeling… un peu épuisée.” He gave us a questioning look.
“Worn out,” I said.
“Even so, or weary. I said that it must be difficult making her way in such a huge city when the language was new to her. She smiled at me, and that, gentlemen, was when I knew I was lost. She told me that was indeed the case. I suggested that perhaps she might wish to sit for a while and have a biscuit and coffee, something to revive her. We sat and chatted. She had been in London some two weeks and was completely overwhelmed by it all. She asked if she might practice her English with me. People had been brusque and unhelpful with her. I was happy to oblige. We spent the afternoon together, and I showed her some of the not quite so common sights. I suggested dinner, and then, well, you can gather where it went.”
Holmes had been regarding him closely. “Did she say why she was in London?”
“One of the first things I asked her was how long she planned to be here. ‘Indefinitely,’ she told me. She was weary of Paris and France. She wanted to begin a new life in London. By the end of that first day, I too thought about beginning a new life. We discovered a shared passion for music and the arts. We went to a performance of Gounod’s Faust at Covent Garden two weeks after we first met. It’s our favorite. We have seen every production of the opera done at Covent Garden or the Palais Garnier in the last dozen years.”
“You said she seemed sad,” Holmes said. “Was it always that way, even from the beginning?”
“Well, she certainly seemed… preoccupied. She would be happy and laughing, but then she would stare off into space and her eyes would go blank. There was less of that, however, as time went on, and more signs of happiness.” He smiled gently, then finished his brandy. “I had never believed in love at first sight, but she made a convert of me.”
“And did she ever speak of her life in France?”
“She told me she had lived in Paris, but little else. Her reticence became rather noticeable. I would ask her questions, and she would answer, but she never volunteered any information. It was also soon obvious that she was a wealthy woman. I could not ask
specific questions—that just isn’t done, after all—but I would make vague inquiries, which received vague answers. After I had finally proposed to her and she had accepted, I…”
Holmes raised his hand. “Did she accept at once?”
“No. She told me she would have to think about it. I kept reminding her, but it was only after six months that she finally agreed, with some reluctance. I was—well, I was rather put out, or rather, my feelings were hurt. She realized that, and she touched my cheek and told me I was not to blame, that I was a generous and noble man, and that I mustn’t doubt myself. That was when she told me she wanted to forget her past, that I must not ask her about her earlier life.”
Holmes nodded. “And did you then discover the exact amount of her wealth?”
Hardy laughed once, then again. “I did indeed! I have done very well in my trade, Mr. Holmes. Even a dozen years ago, I could have lived in Grosvenor Square had I wished, although the peers and highbrows would still be unwilling to associate with a lowly chap like myself who dirties his hands in business. But Marguerite had ten times as much money as I did! She willingly gave it all over to me to invest, and I daresay I have doubled it within ten years.”
“Did she say where this fortune came from?”
“She did tell me that much. It was an inheritance. She had a wealthy uncle who died without children, and he left it to her.”
“And her mother, her parents, did she ever speak of them?”
Hardy’s forehead creased. “She never knew her father. Her mother… They are estranged. That was clear.”
“Was her mother a lady?”
“She was only a dressmaker, but she has her own shop in Paris now.”
“But despite her humble origins, your wife was clearly a lady?”
“Given Marguerite’s manners and elegance, there was never any doubt.”
Holmes stared at him. “No?”
Hardy stared back. “Mr. Holmes, you must understand, whatever her past, Marguerite has been a good wife to me. She has made me very happy. Our life together has been a good one.”
Holmes’s mouth remained tightly closed, but he eased his breath out through his nostrils. “So I see. And this letter—how long ago did she receive it?”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 2
