I had been raised a Catholic, but when I left home as a young man, I abandoned my religion. I had always, at heart, been an agnostic, unlike Michelle who was certain that a deity existed. All the same, I felt the power of the place, the aura of centuries of tradition and prayerful meditation. Then, too, it was a welcome refuge from the incessant clamor of the modern city. I wondered if I could still remember the words of the Hail Mary in French. “Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces,” I began, and that was enough to carry me through to the end.
I said another for my grandmother who had been a passionate devotee of the rosary. We had occasionally said it together, most often because she promised me some treat as a reward. Obviously she had hoped that eventually the prayers themselves would become their own recompense. That never happened. I remembered being terribly bored and how slowly the last decade or two of Hail Marys would go. Grandmother had died two years ago, and I still missed her greatly.
I sat for a long while, savoring the silence. I watched the tourists slowly walk down the aisle. The light at the tall windows continued to dim. You could no longer make out the colors of the stained glass. Finally I pulled out my watch. Someone had lighted the candles of a nearby chandelier, but I could barely make out the face. Time to look for Holmes at our appointed meeting spot, the nearby statue of Charlemagne.
I rose, walked down the aisle and then out through the central doorway. The sky over the distant buildings was blue-black, streaked with clouds, a star or two visible. It was almost five o’clock, and the rumble of the city was louder than ever, the square itself full of people, carriages all lined up along one side of the street. The gas street lamps were lit and burned yellow-white. I went to the statue of the mounted Charlemagne and his two companions on foot, its metal weathered to a gray-green color.
I turned to look back at the church. The two towers stood out against the fading red sky; theirs was a perfect symmetry that never existed in nature. Each had two tall windows up top, two smaller ones below. The three arches over the great doors were also symmetrical, as were the sculpted figures in relief, forming inner layers like those of some gigantic onion with a wedge cut out. The wood of the enormous doors appeared black.
A group of priests walked by, all wearing black soutanes with the ankle-length skirts and the broad-brimmed hats of country clerics. As might be expected, in the square before France’s greatest cathedral, many priests and sisters came and went. One pair of sisters had odd white headgear like a bent and folded piece of paper or some half-open white blossom, while another had the more conventional black veil with white bands over her throat and across her forehead. A heavy wooden rosary hung at her side. She passed me at an angle, and I realized I had been so intent upon her habit that I had hardly noticed her face, which was, of course, the whole point of a sister’s habit. She stumbled slightly, recovered, then walked very briskly.
My eyes wandered to the left, and I saw the unmistakable tall thin figure of Sherlock Holmes in his black top hat and overcoat. At first I thought he might have paused mid-stride, but he was not moving. He appeared somehow frozen, his stick raised in midair. I started toward him. The brim of his hat shadowed his eyes, but his lips, parted slightly, also appeared locked in place.
“Sherlock?” I was close enough he must have heard me, but he still had not moved. “Sherlock?” I had to say his name a third time before he responded: he drew in his breath sharply and the ferrule of his stick fell and struck the cobblestone. I drew closer, but he would not look at me. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Instead of answering, he snatched off one glove, then took off his hat and ran his bare fingers back through his black hair. His face was so pale it almost seemed to glow in the twilight. He clenched his teeth briefly, grimacing.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he whispered, his eyes focused in the distance. He turned abruptly. “That nun—did you see?—did you see…?”
“Which nun? There are so many.”
“The one… The one who… Dear God,” he whispered, then his hand shot out and gripped my arm so tightly I winced.
“What is wrong with you! Are you ill? Does anything hurt?” This last question triggered an explosive bark of a laugh. “Are you having pains in your chest?—in your head? Is it your heart?”
“My heart?” he murmured. He drew in his breath slowly, struggling for composure. At last he seemed to really see me. “Henry.”
“Yes—now tell me what is wrong. Are you ill?”
“Ill? No, not ill. It is only… I have had a shock.”
“What shock?”
Again his hand rose, and his fingers slipped back through his hair. “I feel almost… dizzy.”
“You had better sit down. That bench there, perhaps.”
“No, no—I want to walk, and I need… I need… a cognac—yes, a cognac.”
“Well, there is a café just across the street, but are you sure you do not want to sit for a while?”
“No, the air will do me good—and a drink.” He put on his hat, pulled on the black leather glove, then was off at a rapid pace.
I followed. I could not recall him ever acting quite so peculiarly. I still wondered if he might be sick, if it might have been some sort of fit. Inside the crowded café, Holmes went directly to the counter and removed his hat and gloves. “Un cognac, monsieur, s’il vous plaît.”
The bald stout older man wore a white shirt and black vest. His eyes were curious as he took the bottle and poured into a small glass. Holmes took the glass and tossed it down. He coughed sharply once. “Un autre, s’il vous plaît.” The bartender’s brow had furrowed. He poured into the glass again.
I grasped Holmes’s arm. “What are you doing?”
He slowly drew in his breath, paused, then eased it out through his nostrils. “I am all right now. It has cleared my head. Don’t worry: this one I shall sip.” He took a small swallow. “A very poor relation of Hardy’s magnificent Armagnac indeed.”
“I think it is time you explained yourself.”
“I told you. I had a shock.”
“What shock?”
“Something unexpected.”
“What, for God’s sake—what?”
He stared closely at me, his lips pressing tightly together. “I cannot say.”
“Will not say, you mean.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean.”
“Does it have to do with the case?—with Mrs. Hardy?”
“No—no. That doesn’t matter.”
“What then?”
He sighed softly, then took another sip of the cognac. The bartender was still staring at him. “Would you care for a cognac yourself, Henry, or perhaps un verre de vin?”
“I don’t want anything until you tell me what has happened to you.”
“Please drink something—to humor me. Please.”
“Oh, very well.” I glanced at the bartender. “Monsieur, je voudrais aussi un cognac, s’il vous plaît.”
Holmes took another small sip. His breathing seemed to be normal now. I took a big swallow of cognac. I felt slightly shaken myself. “Now will you explain?”
Holmes stared down at the counter top. “I cannot—not now. Perhaps another time.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Of course I trust you!” His voice was sharp. “It is not a matter of trust, but… some matters must remain private. Everyone must be allowed certain secrets. This is one of those.”
“And it has nothing to do with the case or with Satanism?”
“No, not in the least.” He took a long slow breath, then one side of his mouth rose. “Life will play its little tricks on us. Was it only fancy, I wonder? I wanted answers, but not that particular one.”
“Since you will tell me nothing, I cannot comment.”
“You were not meant to. I was only thinking aloud.” He sipped his cognac. “Yes, either a phantasmagorical construct of the mind, or the most ironical answer ever to a prayer.” H
e laughed again, and I shook my head. “Poor Henry! Forgive me. I did not mean to alarm you.” Some color had come back into his face. “Perhaps someday I can explain—but not today.” He sighed deeply. “It is too early for dinner, especially after our substantial lunch, but we might amuse ourselves after a day of travail. One can pick up a flat boat near the east end of the Île de la Cité. The night is clear and relatively warm. We shall forget the case and everything else, while we join the tourists and take in the lights of Paris from the Seine.”
I looked up at him. He was staring at himself in the big plate-glass mirror which hung behind the bar above a row of bottles. His gray eyes shifted in the mirror, his reflection staring back at me. He drank down the last of his cognac.
After an enjoyable boat ride, we took a cab back to our hotel and went to our rooms to freshen up, then down to the restaurant. Soon the waiter brought a small plate of escargot for Holmes and some charcuterie for me. He skillfully opened the bottle of Bordeaux and poured a half-inch of the deep red liquid into Holmes’s glass. Holmes swished the bowl, took a brief sniff, then sipped. “Excellente. One can always rely on Saint-Émilion.” The waiter poured him more, then gave me some. Holmes raised his glass. “Cheers.” We clinked glasses. Holmes had a swallow, then took up a small fork and pried a snail from the striped multicolored shell. He glanced up at me, then smiled. “I see that gastropods are still not to your taste.”
“No. Although almost anything would be edible when drowned in butter, garlic and parsley.”
“Exactly.”
“Did you find out much about Gaston Lupin this afternoon?”
“He is clearly a second-rate artist of little repute. None of his paintings are much in circulation. I did meet one dealer who had known him personally, and he was an admirer. He told me Lupin had extraordinary technical skill, an incredible eye, and amazing visual memory. He could walk through the Louvre, stare at a painting from any era for a few minutes, then return to his studio and produce an almost identical copy, down to the last detail of the brushwork. Originality, on the other hand, was in short supply. However, he did paint some nudes of merit which sold well.”
“Nudes?”
Holmes smiled. “Female nudes, of course. And like many an artist, he knew his models well, both visually and biblically. I also stopped briefly at Lupin’s home near the Champs-Élysées and spoke with the butler and valet. The butler was not very accommodating, but the valet turned out to have read all of Watson’s stories. When he saw the name Sherlock Holmes on my card, he was ready to obey my every command. It was late enough I could not stay to give Lupin’s room a thorough examination, but I told them I would be back tomorrow or the next day to have a look. I also sternly instructed them to disturb nothing, although, unfortunately, as might be expected, the room has been tidied up since Lupin’s death.”
“A shame that—and that the corpse, as well, was not left out for you, but then they did not know at the time that Sherlock Holmes was on the case.”
Holmes smiled. “Very good, Henry—quite witty.” He withdrew the last of the snails, regarded it balanced upon the end of his small fork, then put it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “They do have a taste, after all, a rather earthy one.”
I shook my head. “Like dirt, you mean.”
Holmes laughed, and I wondered briefly if I should ask him again about his odd behavior before the cathedral, but I did not want to remind him of something that had obviously shaken him, curious though I might be. His thin lips were pressed together in a rigid half-smile, but his gray eyes were suddenly lost in the distance. He seemed to stare past me, but I could tell his gaze was not fixed on anything in the dining room. Despite his good humor, he looked weary and faintly unsettled.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” I said. “Michelle may join us at the end of the week. She has not had a holiday for some time, and I pointed out that when I travel with you, events generally take a catastrophic turn and I have to beg for her to come. Perhaps if she arrives before I send for her, that will act as insurance to prevent the worst from occurring, as when you take an umbrella along to forestall rain.”
Holmes smiled. “A well-reasoned supposition.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. She has a way of making herself very useful, especially in cases which involve women. Besides, you can spend some time with her as a tourist instead of following me about in my tedious visits.”
“I did not find Madame Delvaux or Algernon Sumners tedious in the least.”
Holmes sipped his wine, his eyes thoughtful. “Tomorrow, though, I think we shall take the bull by the horns. I really cannot proceed with this case without calling upon the main character.”
I frowned. “Mrs. Hardy, you mean?”
“Exactly, Henry. In so nebulous a business as this, meeting her would doubtlessly be most illuminating.”
“But her husband told us your investigation must remain a secret from her!”
“So it shall, Henry. So it shall. Yes, perhaps in the afternoon, after I do some shopping in the morning.”
“Shopping? Whatever for? You buy all your clothing in London, your tailor is first-rate, and while Paris may reign supreme for the ladies, London is superior for men.”
“All the same, there are some garments I need, as well as a few little trifles and knickknacks.”
Chapter Three
True to his word, the next morning Holmes set out on some mysterious shopping expedition. He met me for lunch carrying two large paper bags, but he would not reveal the contents. After eating he retired to his room. I relaxed with a book in a chair next to the window which overlooked the Rue de Rivoli and the Tuileries. Later there came a knock at my door.
When I opened it, a tall thin man stared at me. His black soutane with its roman collar made his priestly vocation obvious. I frowned, staring at his striking countenance, which was somehow familiar in more ways than one. His gray hair was parted down the middle, a golden pince-nez perched on his lumpy nose, and his bushy goatee and mustache were salt-and-pepper colored.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Dr. Henry Vernier?” He had a high-pitched, rather nasal whiney voice.
“That is my name.”
“Mr. Holmes has sent me to ask if you will—”
I noticed he was holding a large paper bag. I suddenly smiled. “Ahh! For once—for once—you have not fooled me! I am not completely stupid after all.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“A very good disguise, Sherlock, very good indeed.”
He gave me a curious look. “I don’t understand you, sir. Explain yourself.”
I stared more closely. Could I possibly be mistaken? “Sherlock?”
At last his face relaxed into a smile. “Very good, Henry. Do you think it would deceive someone who was not so intimately acquainted with me as you are?”
“Yes, absolutely. That beard hides the shape of your jaw, and the mustache conceals your mouth. You have also done something to your nose. Putty, I suppose. And your voice… You were imitating Algernon Sumners, his pitch and enunciation—in fact, he was obviously the model for your facial appearance as well.”
“Yes, so he was. And I shall present myself to Madame Hardy as Dr. James Sumners, the brother of Algernon Sumners.”
I shook my head. “I wish I could be there to see it.”
“And so you shall, Henry, so you shall, if you are willing to let me work on you as well.”
“Gladly.”
Holmes had a much larger soutane in the bag, as well as a black wig and false beard. First he belted a pillow round my waist to make me appear fat, then had me put on the soutane. Next he pulled the wig over my brown hair. The fake beard was more of a project. He used spirit gum to hold the beard in place, then applied some black coloring to my mustache so it would match. When he was done, he gave a nod and led me to a mirror.
I shook my head in disbelief. “I’m not sure even Michelle would recogni
ze me.”
“The beard is not so convincing as mine, but then mine took over an hour to construct. Oh, I almost forgot—this will help, too.” He withdrew a pair of spectacles from the sack.
I put them on; the lenses were clear glass. “The perfect finishing touch.”
“Yes, I think so. By the way, can you speak in a falsetto voice?”
“Like this?” I spoke in a high pitch.
“Excellent. I shall do most of the talking, but if you do speak, use that voice. You shall be Mr. Robert Grantly, a vicar. We are, of course, Anglican, not Roman Catholic. Our cassocks should be double-breasted with the thirty-nine buttons, but these Catholic garments, as might be expected, were all that I could find in Paris. Mrs. Hardy will surely not know the difference. I telegraphed her this morning, stating that I was a friend of her husband who hoped I might be able to offer her some spiritual consolation. I said we would call upon her around four thirty this afternoon. Our makeup is well done, but it might not stand up to close scrutiny under bright light. However, by that time of day, the more subdued lamp lighting will help conceal our disguises. The townhouse is off the Champs-Élysées not far from Lupin’s. We have over an hour and a half at our disposal, and the rain has ceased, so we might stroll over there in a leisurely manner. Oh, and I have two plain black overcoats and two wide-brimmed priest’s hats in my room for us to wear.”
The rain had stopped, but we took our umbrellas with us. We cut through the Place de la Concorde to reach the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, then started through the park. Because of our sacerdotal attire, we often received respectful nods, especially from older ladies. The carriage traffic on the broad boulevard was brisk. Further on, many ladies and gentlemen in fine attire were gazing into the windows of the fancy shops. The sky was overcast, it was growing dark, and the gas lamps were already lit. We passed a haberdashery, a jeweler’s and a dress shop, before turning down a side street. Soon we turned another corner.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 5
