On either side, the buildings formed a solid wall of worn beige stone, five stories high, with tall narrow windows on the first, second and third floors. On the second floor, stone balconies jutted out, supported by elaborate cornices, with a protective railing of floridly designed, curving black wrought-iron. There were no streetlights, and only a few lamps next to massive wooden doors were lit. It was much quieter, the street almost deserted, and the busy Champs-Élysées seemed far away indeed.
Holmes pulled out his watch, then squinted to try to make out the face. “Nearly four thirty. Their house is number nine.” He raised his umbrella to point across the street. “Just there.”
Two women came round the far corner across the street from us. One of them was tall and wore a purple coat with fur cuffs and collar along with a wide-brimmed plumed hat of the same color. She was obviously the mistress, while the smaller woman at her side in a plain hat and coat was the servant.
“I wonder…” Holmes murmured.
Some shadowy form swept past me, leaving a chill wind in its wake—an animal, a big black dog, that loped across the street. It halted before the two women, hunching slightly. We could hear a low growl, then loud fierce barks.
“Good Lord.” I started forward, but Holmes seized my arm.
“Remember to stay in character, Vicar.” He strode past me, traversing the street at a diagonal, even as he raised his umbrella. “I say—I say!” I followed him.
The two women cowered against the stone wall of the building. The mistress had dropped her handbag, and her arm was raised in a protective gesture. Her face was dead-white, her eyes and mouth opened wide. The smaller woman looked disturbed, but not so frightened. We went past the dog, who turned to snap at me. I turned round, holding my umbrella before me for protection, and Holmes stood next to me, also brandishing his umbrella.
The dog was all black except for a white smear above its eyes so he tended to blend into the shadow. His yellow-white teeth with the two sharp canines were bared, his pink tongue lolling slightly to the side. His barks were short and savage. He paused briefly to lunge for the umbrella tip, then resumed barking. Amber rings glowed round the black pupils of his fierce eyes. I had never seen an animal so angry. Given his size and black color, I could not help wonder if he were part wolf. Certainly he was wild enough. Our umbrellas seemed a feeble defense.
I glanced at Holmes. “If we can make it inside perhaps…”
The dog suddenly reared upright, raising his paws. His large pointed black ears were erect. His head turned to the side as if listening, then to us again. He bared his teeth, growled once, then with a final turn, he bounded away. I heaved a sigh of relief.
“Madame, are you all right?” Holmes asked.
The tall woman staggered a step forward, then slumped against the wall. “Mon Dieu,” she murmured, “Mon Dieu.” She might have slipped downward, but Holmes grasped her arm.
“He is gone, madame—departed.” He was using the Sumners voice.
“There ought to be a law against such hellish beasts,” the shorter woman said in French.
“Might this possibly be Mrs. Hardy,” Holmes asked, “Mrs. Marguerite Hardy?”
“Yes, sir,” said the smaller woman.
“I was just coming to call upon her. It was opportune that we arrived somewhat early. I am Dr. James Sumners, and this is my friend, the Vicar Robert Grantly.” Mrs. Hardy didn’t seem to hear. She was still dreadfully pale.
“How do you do, sir. I am Jeanne, Mrs. Hardy’s maid.” She spoke English with a very heavy accent.
“We must get her…” I started in my normal voice, but Holmes struck my ribs with his elbow. I raised the pitch of the last word.
“…inside.”
“Robert, if you will assist me, we shall escort you indoors, madame. A frightful carnivore that. A swallow of brandy—perhaps some of your husband’s ambrosial Armagnac—and you will be good as new.”
A feeble, reflexive smile flickered over her lips, but she still hardly seemed to hear him. Knocked against the wall, the purple hat had slipped back and sideways, and her forehead suddenly creased, even as her eyes focused on us at last. “You saw—you saw that creature? I did not imagine…?” Her English was only slightly accented. Her dark eyes lost their focus, turned inward. “No, no, of course you did.” I took her left arm and helped Holmes lead her the few steps to the doorway. She was almost as tall as Michelle and big-boned. I doubted that Holmes and I would be able to keep her on her feet if she actually fainted.
Jeanne had picked up her mistress’s handbag and found the key. She used it to unlock the dark oaken door, then pulled it open for us. We guided Mrs. Hardy through the doorway. “J’ai peur,” she murmured to no one in particular: I’m afraid. A single lamp of green and blue glass illuminated the vestibule.
Jeanne used a match to light a candle, then grasped the handle of its brass holder. “This way.”
We followed her down the dim hallway to a sitting room, then led Mrs. Hardy to a voluminous sofa of striped velvet. She collapsed into it, thought for a second or two, then removed her big hat and set it beside her. Her hair was dark, almost black, save for a white streak above her forehead, and it was bound up in a chignon with a silver brooch holding it in place. She still appeared ghastly.
“You look like you have seen a ghost,” I said.
“Do you think…?” she began anxiously.
“That was a creature of flesh and blood,” Holmes said. “Ghost dogs do not leave tooth marks in the ferrules of umbrellas.” He turned to Jeanne. “Is there some brandy at hand?”
“Oh yes, sir.” Holding the candle before her, Jeanne walked to a nearby side table. Holmes followed, then poured some brandy from a crystalline decanter into a glass. He returned to the sofa. “Drink this, madame.” Mrs. Hardy took the glass, stared down at it dully. “Do drink. It will make you feel better.” She hesitated, took a quick swallow, then grimaced slightly.
Jeanne had set down the candle, and she was lighting a nearby lamp. “I’ve never seen such a thing, such a monstre of a dog before. I can tell you it gave me quite a fright.”
Holmes glanced at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You were quite courageous, mademoiselle, much more so than your mistress.”
“Perhaps it is because I know dogs. I growed up with them.”
She lit a second lamp, and more color came into the sitting room. It was well furnished with furniture of dark wood and purple and burgundy velvets. Several ornate vases were placed round the room, and framed paintings hung on the walls. High overhead was a chandelier with dangling crystals of glass.
Holmes had removed his hat. “Would you like to take off your coat, madame?” She was still wearing the purple coat with the dark sable cuffs and collar.
She shook her head. “No. I’m cold.” I saw that she was trembling.
“The brandy,” Holmes said. “Do finish it.”
She raised the glass and swallowed it all. Her shoulders rose in a reflexive shudder.
“I could do with some myself.” Holmes walked back to the side table and poured another glass of brandy. “Would you care for a spot, Robert?” I nodded, and he poured a second glass, then walked back to me.
I took a big swallow. It was obviously one of Hardy’s wares, far superior to anything I usually drank. “It is very good.” I was careful to pitch my voice unusually high. I gave a sigh. I felt disturbed myself. As a physician, I had treated people who had been badly mauled by dogs. That savage black animal had been the stuff of nightmares.
Holmes had taken a swallow. “Wonderful, truly wonderful. Would you care for a touch more, madame?”
She licked her lips, then shook her head. “No thank you.” She stared up at us, her eyes great black circles, the swollen pupils leaving only thin rings of dark brown. For the first time she tried to smile. “Thank you, sir. If you had not been there…” A shiver also contorted her face.
“If you feel ill, perhaps we might come back another time.”
“No.” She raised her right hand, fingers outspread, and the glass fell from her other hand, landed on the brightly colored carpet and rolled a few inches. “I mean to say… please stay. I… I don’t want to be alone—not just now.”
“Gladly.” Holmes bent over to pick up the glass.
Mrs. Hardy looked at the maid. “You may leave us, Jeanne.”
“Very good, madame, but first, may I take your coats and hats, reverend gentlemen?” She folded the coats over one arm, held the two hats in the other, then departed.
“Do sit down, Mister… or, it was Doctor, was it not? I have forgotten your names.”
“I am Dr. James Sumners, and this is my very good friend, the Vicar Robert Grantly.”
“Please sit down, Dr. Sumners, Vicar. Oh, and help yourself to more of the Armagnac if you wish.” She had absentmindedly pulled off one glove, and now she removed the other. She had large elegant hands with long fingers. She touched the streak of white hair over her forehead lightly.
“So I shall.” Holmes poured himself more, then sat at the other end of the sofa, while I took a nearby armchair. “Are you sure you are up to some company, Mrs. Hardy?”
“Yes, quite sure.” She smiled again, but she looked worried, tiny creases showing at the corners of her eyes, the hollows beneath them shadowy. As the fear wore off, she appeared simply exhausted. From what we had heard, I suspected she had not been sleeping well for some time.
“I spoke to your husband recently—he is an old friend—and he mentioned that something had upset you. He was obviously worried about you. He told me about an odd note you had received in the mail. It is presumptuous, I know, but I thought perhaps I might offer some spiritual assistance in your time of need.”
She eased out her breath in a sound which was a weary sort of laugh. “You have already assisted me. If you had not come when you had…” The fear showed again in her dark eyes.
“I am glad we could help.” My high-pitched voice sounded ridiculous to me, but she did not seem to find it unusual.
“You are, I believe, Roman Catholic, while we are of the Anglican faith, so I can hardly serve as your confessor. All the same, I can offer you my sympathy and perhaps discuss that which troubles you.”
Her forehead had creased again, even as a smile came and went. “How odd.”
Holmes stared at her politely for a few seconds, then said, “Odd in what way?”
“That you should come to see me. You are the second person of the cloth to come calling, although the abbé did not know my husband.”
Holmes sipped his brandy, watching her closely. “A priest came to call on you?”
“Yes. Just last week.”
“And what was this priest’s name?”
“Monsieur l’Abbé Jules Docre. He is one of the priests at Saint-Sulpice.”
“And why exactly did he call on you?”
Her mouth slumped downward at the sides. “He too thought I might be in spiritual distress. He said… sometimes God seems to take possession of him, to guide him, and he wanders the streets of Paris until he arrives before a certain door, and he knows that someone within needs him.”
“And he thought you were such a person?”
“Yes.”
“Did he elaborate?”
“He said… he said he could sense my suffering, and also that…” Again she licked her lips, then clamped her mouth shut. “Must I go on?”
“Please,” Holmes said. “I assure you, we are your friends.”
“He sensed something evil hovering nearby, an evil presence. He suspected someone had called upon the Devil to…” She could not finish.
“Someone has cursed you, put a spell upon you?”
“Yes—how could you know that?”
“From that wicked note your husband told me about. Four for the Devil.” At his words, she shrank back into the corner of the sofa. “And do you believe the priest?”
“I don’t know what to believe!” Her voice was anguished.
“My friend the vicar and I are not so inclined to credit the active involvement of the Devil in daily affairs, as was the case with our fellow clergymen in the past. Before presuming the infernal, one must absolutely rule out human maleficence. Do you have any enemies? Is there anyone in particular who might wish you ill?”
Some of her color had come back when she drank the brandy, but now she grew paler again. Holmes did not rush her, but merely stared. At last she lowered her gaze. “Yes.”
“And would this person stoop to sending so hateful a note?”
Again she was a long time in answering. “She might.” The words were almost a whisper.
“‘She.’ A woman, then.” She nodded but did not speak. “Curious. One does not normally think of the gentler sex as being capable of such cruelty and vengefulness, but if it is possible… Did you discuss this with Monsieur l’Abbé Docre?” Again she nodded. “And the good father actually thought this woman might have trafficked with the Devil to revenge herself upon you?”
Mrs. Hardy compressed her lips tightly together. “Might I have a little more of the Armagnac.”
“Certainly.” Holmes bounded to his feet and went to the side table. I smiled at Mrs. Hardy, but she would not meet my gaze. Holmes returned with a clean glass since she had dropped the first one. He sat again opposite her on the sofa. “Would you care to tell me about this woman, who she is and what she has against you?”
Mrs. Hardy slowly shook her head. “I cannot.” She took a big swallow of brandy.
“No?”
“Everyone must have their secrets, Dr. Sumners. Everyone.”
“Could you tell your husband about it?”
“Absolutely not! Never.”
“Ah.” Holmes nodded. “I see.” He stared closely at her. “It is something shameful, then?” She would not meet his gaze, but her dark eyes started to shine, to go liquid. “My dear lady, I am sorry—I do not wish to upset you. You must forgive me. I did not mean to pry. I shall say one last thing, which may or may not be of consolation. If you do have an enemy who harbors a grudge, that may suffice to explain matters without the involvement of diabolical forces—despite what the good father thinks. I will not criticize your faith. In the end, we Anglicans share much in common with the Roman Church, but we are more reluctant, in this day and age, to find a devil, so to speak, lurking behind every bush.
“But enough of this unpleasant topic! Your husband said you had gone to Paris to seek out the help of a woman, a sort of Sherlock Holmes of the ladies.” Holmes chuckled, a sound I had never heard him make before. “Have you found her, and has she been helpful?”
Mrs. Hardy squared her shoulders and sipped the brandy before speaking. “I have found her, and yes, she has been helpful.”
“Excellent! I am not one to disparage the female sex. I think it is possible for a woman to have powers of intelligence and detection. Not the same, perhaps, as those of Sherlock Holmes, but adequate enough to aid you. Moreover, a woman would naturally have far greater compassion and sympathy for your distress than a man.”
Mrs. Hardy smiled wearily. “Yes.”
“Might I ask her name? Although I would understand if you wished to keep it secret.”
Her forehead scrunched up again. She took a sip of brandy, then let her free hand and her forearm slump on the sofa arm. “I don’t see why not. She did not ask me to keep it secret, and she is well known among ladies of a certain society in Paris. She has helped others. Her name is Rose Grace. She is a widow.”
“She is English?”
“Oh yes.”
“And what age is this remarkable lady?”
“A little past thirty, I believe.” She covered her mouth with her long fingers, suppressing a yawn.
“How did you hear about her?”
“From a friend. She told me all about her. Madame Grace helped Madame Lacroix find a stolen necklace, and she also helped restore a kidnaped girl to her parents.”
“My goodne
ss!” Holmes exclaimed. “Formidable indeed. Perhaps she can assist you.”
Mrs. Hardy’s brief smile was grim. “I am not so sure. I… I don’t know if I need the services of a detective—or of a priest.” She sighed, then yawned.
“I see you are tired, Mrs. Hardy. We have kept you long enough, I think.”
She raised her hand. “No, no—stay a little longer, please. Are you perhaps hungry? I know it is only a little past tea time in London. If you would care for tea or anything…”
“No, no, Mrs. Hardy. We have been in Paris for a week and are quite à la française by now. This marvelous Armagnac is the finest thing you could have offered us. No need to spoil its delicately lingering taste with tea and biscuits!” She managed a smile. “And now we must discuss more pleasant matters. We have not yet visited Mr. Hardy’s wine and spirits store. I believe it is not far from here, is it?”
We talked with her for a while about the store and its various goods. The Armagnac seemed to have had its effect on her. She was also relieved that we had dropped the earlier topic. Still, her attention came and went: you could see it in her dark eyes, which would lose focus and stare past us. She struggled not to yawn. Clearly she was exhausted. At last we rose to leave. She pulled the cord to summon Jeanne and have her fetch our coats. She thanked us again profusely for rescuing her from the dog. We could see her grow frightened as she spoke.
Holmes grasped her wrist tightly, which was unusual for him, wary as he generally was of women. “My dear lady, it was nothing. I am only glad we were there to help you. Surely Providence was at work.” He hesitated only an instant. “By the way, there was one other question I meant to ask you, vis-à-vis that unpleasant note. Have you ever actually known anyone by the name of Angèle?”
She lowered her eyes briefly, then stared resolutely at him. “I have never known anyone by the name of Angèle.”
“I see. Very good, then. Au revoir, madame—and I truly hope it is au revoir and not adieu.”
Holmes and I stepped outside. The street was dark now and deserted. Holmes took off like a shot in the direction of the Champs-Élysées, and I followed. “It is only five thirty,” he said. “There may still be time. We shall try, at any rate. We shall fetch a cab. He may still be available. The Parisians do not eat supper until eight or nine.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 6
