The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four

by Sam Siciliano

  “And I you.” He kissed my knuckles again, and I sagged back into the carriage. “You must certainly be tired.”

  “It was a long day, but I am here now. And I am marshaling my energies.”

  “Very good.”

  I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a yawn. “Now what is this mysterious news of yours?”

  The corners of his mouth rose up under his mustache. “Guess who has appeared?”

  “I have no idea. I’m too tired for guessing games. Just tell me.”

  “Violet.”

  I sat up abruptly. “Violet? Here in Paris? You would not joke about such a thing. How on earth did you find her?”

  “She found us. I’m afraid it has to do with the body we discovered. Violet arrived shortly after we did at the flat. She was also looking for the woman to warn her she was in danger.”

  “Good heavens, this is all too much. And Violet, why ever would she be looking for her in the first place?”

  “She has become an informal consulting detective, a sort of female Sherlock Holmes.”

  An odd laugh slipped from my lips. “Oh now you must be joking!”

  “Not at all.”

  “How is she?—is she well?”

  “She seems in good health. She looks better than the last time we saw her, although she is still somewhat on the scrawny side. I prefer women with more curves. All the same, she is not so thin as before.”

  “And did she say why she has not written?”

  “She said… she said she thought it was for the best.”

  “The best. What is that supposed to mean?” I felt both pain and anger.

  Henry patted my leg gently. “You will have to ask her that. She wants to see you alone tomorrow. She suggested tea at about four, and then we shall all have dinner together in the evening.”

  “Tea? In France?”

  “There is a nearby café which caters to the English and serves high tea in the afternoon.”

  “And she and Sherlock—how did they treat one another? Was there any acknowledgment that they might still care for one another?”

  “No, not after their initial surprise at seeing each other. He was Mr. Holmes, and she was Mrs. Grace.”

  “Mrs. Grace? Why Mrs. Grace?”

  “She is known in Paris as Mrs. Rose Grace, a widow. She told us the name Wheelwright was too painful for her, which I can certainly understand.”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Obviously, too, she wants to keep her past a secret. She wants to put it behind her.”

  “But that needn’t involve dismissing her old friends, I hope.”

  “She would be a fool indeed to dismiss a friend like you.”

  * * *

  I came through a doorway and looked about the spacious lobby of the Meurice. Gaudy couches and chairs in the elaborate Second Empire style were scattered about, along with ferns and other plants in huge oriental pots, some small bronze statues, and a few dimly lit lamps. Overhead hung a large crystal and gold chandelier.

  Violet sat at one end of a walnut and dark green velvet sofa decorated with small stars and two large patterned lyres, a third hidden by her figure. She was staring into the distance, obviously lost in her thoughts. I was relieved that her face was not so thin or pale, nor her dark eyes haunted with frightful energy, as in those dark times of the past. She looked much the same, but somehow her beauty was more mature, not so youthful as I remembered. Her nose was aquiline, the line of her jaw clear and distinct, her hair absolutely black, her skin pale, and her neck was still the longest and thinnest of any woman of my acquaintance. The simple, almost austere dress of dark purple silk emphasized her slenderness; it had no ribbons, lace, frills, flounces, elaborate patterns or contrasting colors.

  I started forward. “Violet.” My voice was soft but carried in the mostly empty room.

  She started slightly, saw me, and her face lit up. She stood. My eyes seemed to tear up all on their own, and I smiled. “Oh my dear, I am so glad to see you!” I took her slender hand between my two large ones and gripped it tightly.

  “Michelle.” She hesitated. “Perhaps à la française? Les bisous, n’est-ce pas?” We kissed one cheek, then the other, as French friends do, but then I could not restrain myself and hugged her tightly.

  She laughed. “Strong as ever, I see! And still flourishing. You look well, Michelle, and about the same as ever.”

  “You look well, too.” Still smiling, she gave my hand a quick squeeze, then leaned over to pick up her hat and umbrella. “Shall we have our tea? It’s not far, ten minutes at most.” She put on her hat, and we strode toward the doors. An attendant in a rather silly uniform complete with epaulets nodded and opened the door for us. Violet tucked her hair up under the hat, a sort of crimson derby with feathers on one side, then pulled on her gloves. The late afternoon carriage traffic on the Rue de Rivoli was brisk, and many people were out walking. We joined the throng.

  Violet looked over at me and smiled again. “I too am glad to see you,” she said. “It has been a long time.” Her glance was faintly wary.

  “Yes, it has.” I strove to keep my voice neutral. I did not want to ruin our reunion with reproaches.

  A weary smile pulled at her lips. “Of course, I have no one to blame for that but myself.”

  “Oh, Violet, you must not start by blaming yourself or apologizing!—not this time.” My voice had a faint quaver.

  “Oh, Michelle, can you…?” She broke off with a laugh. “Oh heavens, I was about to apologize! Forgive me. Old habits die hard. Yes, you’re right. Let’s not begin that way. You have a certain air of prosperity about you, you and Henry both. Your practice must be flourishing. You must have more patients than you know what to do with.”

  I laughed. “That is certainly the case! As much as possible, I try to direct them to Henry.”

  “Ah, so he shares in your success. And I am sure he charms them.”

  “So he does, especially the elderly ones.”

  We turned right onto a narrow side street, Rue Rouget de Lisle. “The restaurant just across the street there, Pierre’s, serves afternoon tea between four and six. It is all very British, although the cucumber sandwiches are served on sliced baguettes.”

  I laughed. “To my way of thinking, that would be an improvement.”

  “They also have tiny foie-gras sandwiches.”

  “The best of both worlds.”

  We had crossed the street, and Violet pulled open the door for me. A tall pale man in a black suit, his dark hair thinning on top, nodded at us. “Bonjour, Madame Grace.”

  “Bonjour, Pierre.”

  “Du thé, comme d’habitude?”

  “Exactement.”

  He led us to a large room in back with several round tables covered with brilliant white tablecloths and furnished with sparkling silverware. The clientele was obviously English. Two portly middle-aged gentlemen in tweeds with flushed rosy cheeks, blue eyes, brown hair and bushy mustaches and their dour plump wives in plain silks could never be mistaken for French. Pierre pulled out a chair for Violet, then for me. His chin bobbed in a gracious nod, and then he swept away. Violet removed her hat and pulled off her gloves. She had such slender, graceful hands and long fingers. I remember how well she played the violin, the amazing dexterity of the fingers of her left hand as they danced along the strings.

  She smiled at me, but again her brown eyes showed a faint uneasiness. “I know you don’t want to hear it,” a brief smiled flickered over her lips, “but I really must make one brief, heartfelt apology, and then we can go forward. I do not wish to begin with idle chitchat—not with you.” She picked up the linen napkin next to her plate, unfolded it, then set it back down. Her eyes were fixed upon me. “I am sorry, Michelle. I did not mean to cause you pain. I should have written you. Lord knows, I meant to. I started several letters, but always in the back of my mind I felt, somehow, that I had troubled you enough.”

  “We are friends, Violet. Helping a friend is a troubl
e one embraces.”

  “All the same, I felt—I still feel—that bad luck follows me about and that you—and Mr. Holmes as well—might be better off without me intruding in your lives.”

  “Why not let us be the judge of that? Even if what you say were true, I would be willing to put up with a little bad luck because you are my friend. And Sherlock…” I hesitated for a second or two. “Have you forgotten that time in the Alps when you each admitted that you cared for one another?”

  Her mouth rose up on one side, even as a rosy flush appeared on her cheeks. “No, I could not forget that. But if I did care for him, I would want what is best for him, and I do not think that includes me.”

  I shook my head. “Again, let him be the judge of that.”

  “He is a great force for good in the world, Michelle. I don’t want to sully his reputation. You hid the newspapers well from me when I was recovering from my long illness, but I saw some of them afterwards. ‘Famed detective smitten,’ one said.” Her face grew stern. “Another called me a ‘murderess.’”

  “That is nonsense—sheer nonsense. It was self-defense. Donald had struck you several times, and he was choking Sherlock to death. He had slapped me and knocked Henry out. If you hadn’t hit Donald with the poker, he would have killed Sherlock and possibly you as well.”

  She drew in her breath slowly. “Yes, but I hit him with the poker twice. It always comes back to that.”

  “You wanted to be sure, and little wonder, given all that violence and pandemonium—remember, I was there. I saw everything, and I most definitely did not see a murderess.” I realized my voice had risen. The eyes of one of the English gentlemen in tweeds had grown wide, and the large freckled hand holding a fork was suspended in midair.

  “Sherlock Holmes deserves someone better than me, someone far better.”

  “That is just nonsense!” My voice was a fierce whisper.

  She leaned over and set her smaller hand over mine and gave it a squeeze. “We must agree to disagree, and now that I have made my apology, we can proceed to the trivialities. I promise you that in the future I shall write you a note at least every six months. For better or worse, we are friends, and—”

  “For better.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I think so, too, and I understand now that I owe you that much at the very least. You saved my life, Michelle, and I shan’t forget that again. You took the revolver away from me when I was ready to blow my brains out, and for that, I am forever in your debt.” I opened my mouth, but she raised her hand, fingers outspread. “Enough reminiscing! Enough pontificating! On to the present and trivialities! We must bring each other up to date.”

  Two waiters in black approached us, one bearing a tray with a tea service, the other a tiered stand with various tea snacks. Both men set their offerings before us. The older waiter with a Van Dyke beard and mustache said, “Ah, bonjour, Madame Grace.” He placed a tea cup and saucer with a pattern of pink roses before each of us, then poured from the matching teapot. The brown liquid gave off a fragrant steam.

  “Bonjour, Jean.” Violet gestured at the stand with its stacks of various pastries and small sandwiches. “C’est formidable.” She saw him pouring tea for me. “Jean, c’est une vieille amie, Madame Michelle Vernier.”

  He glanced at me. “Ah, vous êtes française, madame?”

  “Je suis une créature de deux pays, demi-française, demi-anglaise. Ma mère était anglaise, et mon père était français.”

  “Ah, mais vous parlez français parfaitement!” He gestured at the food. “Mangez bien.”

  Violet began to fill her plate. “You are indeed ‘a creature of two countries, half English and half French.’ Well said. Be sure to try the baba au rhum. They are extraordinary.”

  I smiled. “I’ve never had baba au rhum with afternoon tea.”

  “Well, once you do, you will understand that it should be a requisite part of the usual cast of characters.”

  “Ah, and an apricot tart. That is also not customary, but they are my particular favorite. And here are the cucumbers on the thin slices of baguette, and this must be…”

  “Yes, pâté de foie gras! What could be more English than that? I had not exactly remarked it before, but that stand there with its tea offerings is also a creature of two countries, half English and half French. Try a crumpet. They are not half bad for France.”

  I started with a bite of the rum-soaked baba. I also took some of its cream and the cherry on top. “Oh, this is very good. It is a French concoction after all, and no one does it better than they do.”

  Violet also took a bite of the baba. “Shall we get on with it?— bringing each other up to date, that is.”

  “Well, it won’t take long for me, because little has happened. My life is still much as it was when you last saw me. For you, on the other hand, much seems to have changed. Do you live alone or…?”

  “No. Do you remember my maid Gertrude and the footman Collins? They came with me to France. There is a new development: they have become man and wife.”

  “Really? But he is so tall, and she is so small.”

  Violet smiled slyly. “Somehow they manage. I am renting a house in the suburbs, in Auteuil, about half an hour by carriage. A French couple also lives with us, and they are the complete opposite of Gertrude and Collins. My friend Berthe is the largest woman I have ever known, a good six feet tall with brawny arms and shoulders. She makes you seem petite, Michelle.”

  I laughed. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “You will see what I mean when you meet her. Her husband of some six months, Alphonse, is an inch or two over five feet and quite slender. His grand mustache is the biggest part about him. He looks almost emaciated, but he is wiry and strong.”

  I was alternating between the apricot tart and the baba; the baba was first to go. “They are servants, I take it?”

  “No, no. Not at all.”

  “Then why are they living with you?”

  “They help me with my work.”

  “What work? Oh, of course—your detecting, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. Both of them know French and all the various patois far better than I ever will, and they are also familiar with the dark underbelly of Paris. With them I can go places where I would never dare venture alone. Theirs is a checkered past, to put it mildly. I met Berthe during my first case. She obviously knew who had stolen the jewelry. I gave her the choice of telling me the truth or letting the police ask the questions. Strange as it may seem, in seeking out the actual thieves, we became friends. When it was over, I asked her if she wished to leave her service and come to work for me. She accepted eagerly. Alphonse came along during another case.

  “Both Berthe and Alphonse are conundrums, their appearance completely misleading. Because of her size, her strength and a certain quiet shyness, people have always assumed something must be wrong with her. They think she is slow or stupid. I was guilty of that at first, but I soon discerned that she had brains. Alphonse understood that immediately. As for him, his diminutive stature is also misleading. He has the heart of a lion, and the confidence and feistiness of a giant. I have seen him take on men six inches taller and take them down. He is loyal and true, but woe to you if you antagonize him!”

  “So you have your own little household in the country. A cook, too, I suppose?”

  “Yes, a very good one. She also manages our poultry.” A certain hesitance must have shown in my face. “What is it, Michelle? Say it.”

  “You must not lack for money. Donald must have left you… enough.”

  She sighed. “That is a long story, but I do not lack for anything. Donald was on a monthly allowance from his father, but he was given no huge sums. All the same, we were never extravagant, and I was in charge of investing the excess. I have a certain talent for finance.” Again, a flicker of a smile. “As you may recall. That elaborate fraud involving the fake oil wells in England was my creation. Anyway, I did very well. As I told Donald…” A pained look ca
me and went. “I made him a rich man. After his death, father Wheelwright, as you might expect, did not want to pass on anything meant for his son. I could certainly understand that. It felt wrong to me too.”

  I stared at her, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. How could anyone expect the old man to give money to…” Now her smile was grim. “We won’t say the M-word again.”

  I sighed. “But you have enough?”

  “More than enough. I cannot keep a horse and carriage, or buy the latest fashions, but I do not miss either. If you don’t give a fig about la mode, it takes a long time to actually wear out a silk dress. Besides, if I wanted to, I think I might make myself rich in my new occupation.”

  “Occupation?—being a consulting detective?”

  She laughed. “As a woman doctor, you should certainly understand! Women feel more comfortable confiding their difficulties to one of their own sex. As I say, I could be rich, and when I assist those with great wealth, I do take their money. I think I can generally find a better use for it than they can. I give much of it to various charities. However, for those without the means to pay, I do not charge for my assistance.”

  “When did you take up this unusual trade of yours?”

  “It has been almost two years. I stumbled into it when a French friend had her jewelry stolen. Do you remember the so-called ‘Angels of the Lord,’ that group of women, servants who stole from their masters and prostitutes who blackmailed their high-class customers? Because of my ties with them, I had far more experience and knowledge than any woman of my class. I knew at once that the theft must have been an inside job. Berthe was not exactly a participant but…”

  “Not exactly?”

  She smiled. “Suffice to say she knew more than she should. After it was all over, I realized I had found an outlet for my intelligence and my energy, as well as a way of atoning for my former crimes. I would help those women who were victims of various crimes.”

  “Only women?”

  “For the most part, yes. And of course, the exemplar for my efforts was Sherlock Holmes. I have sought out and read his monographs such as the ones on the shape of ears and on tobacco ash. His writings have been very helpful.”