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

by Sam Siciliano

  “Well, you could certainly have no better model. All the same…”

  “What is it?”

  I took a quick sip of tea, then shrugged my shoulders. “Detective work can be a dark and messy business. And dangerous.”

  “That might be a description of life in general: a dark, messy, dangerous business.”

  “Oh, Violet, you haven’t exactly changed, I see.”

  She looked almost hurt. “But I have—my energies are directed toward good now, not evil.”

  I reached over to grip her hand. “Yes. That is a great difference. And you are right, as a woman doctor, I should understand. Women in distress would be much more comfortable turning to a woman for help than a man.”

  Her smile was radiant. “Exactly.”

  “And so you are trying to help this Mrs. Hardy?”

  “I am.” She sipped her tea, her dark brown eyes fixed on me. “Might you be willing to go see her, Michelle? She has declined so, even since I met her. I would like to be sure she is not physically ill. She is a haunted woman.”

  “Henry told me about the note. If one is superstitious… little wonder she is afraid.”

  “It is not just that. She… I know a sense of guilt when I see it, Michelle. And I know how it can eat at one.”

  “Perhaps you should be more careful about which cases you accept.”

  “I am careful.” She paused for an instant. “I never accept cases where the husband is violent or abusive. But this is different—she needs my help. She has no one to turn to.”

  “What about her husband? Henry thinks he loves her and would forgive her almost anything.”

  “She does love him.” She was frowning fiercely.

  “Well, I can certainly have a look at her.”

  “Ah, I knew you would.”

  “Henry told me about this peculiar priest who came to see her— has he not been a comfort?”

  “Not at all. He is… I have not met him, but I do not trust him.”

  “Perhaps… because you are not Roman Catholic…”

  “Ah, but I am, Michelle.”

  “What? I thought you were Church of England.”

  “So I was raised, and I went every Sunday for many years, although I was never much of a believer.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “My faith, precarious though it may be, is perhaps the best thing to come from my dark times, Michelle. It has also been almost two years. When I came to Paris, I felt drawn to the old churches and great cathedrals. I liked to sit quietly in their vast shadowy interiors. Somehow they seemed to calm my soul and ease all that agitated, useless churning inside my head. I met an old French sister at Notre Dame. She became my confidant and my spiritual guide. I formally joined the church last Easter.”

  I shook my head. “I cannot believe it.”

  Her old familiar mocking smile, one strangely akin to Sherlock’s, appeared. “For such a reprobate?”

  “No, of course not. You surprise me.”

  Her eyes suddenly went opaque, turned inward. “I… when I pray, sometimes I ask Donald for his forgiveness. We were like two savage animals sharing a cage. He was trapped, too, trapped by his father, bound by convention and duty, but ultimately I was not. I knew there was a way out. I could have simply opened the door and walked away. I could have left and started a new life far from London. Instead I stayed and tormented him.” Her eyes came into focus again, as she eased out her breath. “My religion helps me live with myself, a difficult endeavor at best—that, and helping others caught in their own traps.”

  I stared thoughtfully at her.

  “What is it? There must not be secrets between us this time.”

  I was thinking about what she had told Sherlock at that last meeting in the Alps, that she could not think of love until she had atoned for her crimes. “And have you redeemed yourself?”

  Her smile softened. “I am still working on it.”

  * * *

  The cork came loose with a resounding pop, and the waiter rushed to pour the foaming white liquid into Holmes’s glass. Sherlock took the glass between his long fingers and thumb, raised it so the candlelight set the yellow liquid aglow. Tiny bubbles rose up toward the still-fizzing white surface. He took a sip, and then his dark brows came together over that beak of a nose as he pondered in judgment. At last he nodded. “Excellent.”

  The waiter topped his glass, then went round the table filling first my glass, then Michelle’s and finally Henry’s. Holmes raised his glass, revealing an inch of white folded cuff above the black wool of his sleeve. He and Henry still wore their somber black frock coats, but I had put on an electric-blue evening dress which left my shoulders and sternum bare, a provocative garment which ensured that Henry would quickly begin kissing my neck and chest the moment we returned to our room. Violet still had on her simple purple dress.

  “I had considered a toast to crime,” Holmes said, “since that is what has again brought us together, but it does not seem exactly propitious. Let us drink instead to friendship, both old and new. Henry may be my relation by blood, but he is also an old and true friend. Through him, I have been gifted in turn with two friends of the female sex, first Michelle, and then…” He hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “…Violet Grace.” His gray eyes were fixed on her. “I do hope you consider me a friend.”

  She smiled. “Of course I do.”

  “Your health, then.” He clinked her glass, and then we all took turns doing the same.

  The champagne was cold and wonderful, and it made me realize I had not had champagne in a very long time. “This is simply delightful,” I said.

  Henry gave my hand a squeeze. “I know your weaknesses. I’ll have to watch out for you. I don’t want to have to carry you up to our room, especially as we are up two flights.”

  Holmes smiled. “I hate to think what that might do to your back, Henry. Truly, rather than physician heal thyself, physician spare thyself!”

  Violet was smiling, but she appeared pensive. “Propitious or not, it is true, you know: it does seem to be crime that always brings us together.”

  “Oh, Violet!” I exclaimed.

  She was staring at Holmes. “But perhaps we can move beyond that. Eventually.”

  Holmes’s mouth twitched into a brief lunatic sort of smile. “I should hope so. Our every meeting should not require a fresh corpse.” Henry laughed sharply, but I shook my head with a half-serious, half-comic groan.

  “Yes, we must move beyond crime to more elevated topics— music, the arts, the state of England and France, but first…” She was still smiling, but her dark eyes were serious. “Business before pleasure—there are a few details I want to go over.” She turned to me. “No more than five minutes, Michelle, I swear it!”

  I shrugged. Henry also looked wary.

  “You told me about the painting, Mr. Holmes, and about the murder of the Count de Laval and the trial of Simone Dujardin. Clearly our ‘four’ were behind the crimes.”

  “Who are the four?” I asked. I looked at Holmes, but he gestured with his hand palm up toward Violet.

  “They are Marguerite Hardy, Gaston Lupin, Anne-Marie, our Angèle, and Simone Dujardin,” she said.

  Henry shook his head. “Mrs. Hardy seems such a serious, decent woman. It is hard to believe.”

  Violet was staring at Holmes. “You said Lupin was an excellent copyist. He must have painted duplicates of La Madonna della Mela and sold them for a fortune. Across the continent there are those criminal dealers who specialize in selling stolen artwork. Italy would provide a ready market for a native son like Botticelli, and American millionaires might also be interested. The theft would have allowed each of the dupes to believe themselves the proud owner of a genuine masterpiece.”

  Holmes smiled. “Very good, madam. You do indeed have a calling in your new profession.”

  “That is a great compliment coming from you, Mr. Holmes. However, a central question remains. Which of the four actually kille
d the Count de Laval?”

  My stomach seemed to twist, and I took a big swallow of champagne. “Could a woman possibly stab an unarmed, naked, completely vulnerable man?”

  “Surely it must have been Lupin,” Henry said. “One of the women must have let him in the house while the other two distracted the count.”

  Violet’s smile was suddenly mirthless. She and Holmes stared at one another. He spoke at last. “There is little profit in speculating at this point. We must have more facts. And there are still two persons left who can answer that question should they choose to do so.”

  Henry put down his glass and folded his arms. “Then shouldn’t we also have an open mind about Lupin? We don’t know for certain that he had the stolen painting or that he even knew Mrs. Hardy. You said he had an incredible eye and memory. Perhaps he merely saw the original and painted a copy. Possibly even with the count’s blessing.”

  Holmes stared at Henry, his eyes narrowing. “Lupin and Mrs. Hardy were intimately acquainted.”

  “How do you know that?” Henry asked.

  “I shall tell you another time when the ladies are not present. For now, take it on faith. Besides, we must not use up more than the allotted five minutes.”

  I swallowed more champagne. “And have those five minutes passed?”

  Violet glanced at me, then reached over and gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze. “Yes, it is close enough. Let us move on. Although…” Her eyes shifted again to Holmes. “I haven’t told Marguerite yet about Anne-Marie’s death. What should I do?”

  “Tell her the truth. At this point, trying to hide things is not in her best interests.”

  “I suppose not. Oh, one last thing—Michelle has told me she will come with me tomorrow and have a look at Marguerite. She is distraught and looks unwell. I would like to make sure that she is not physically ill.”

  Holmes made almost a bow. “That seems very sensible indeed. There is the added benefit that Michelle is an excellent judge of character.”

  Henry’s cheeks had begun to redden. “I can’t say I much care for it. Must Michelle be dragged into this wretched business? She came to Paris to get away from work and toil, not to exchange one form of drudgery for another!”

  Now it was my turn to squeeze Henry’s wrist. “I do not mind, and if the poor woman is ill or suffering, I may be able to help her. That is my duty as a doctor.”

  Henry’s mouth stiffened, opened partway, then closed briefly. “Well, I don’t have to like it.”

  Holmes’s eyes were serious, seeming to contradict the playful curve of his lips. “I understand your concern, Henry, but you must know by now the futility of trying to prohibit Michelle from anything. She always insists on rushing toward the front line of battle.” This remark made Henry glower all the more.

  “But as Madame Grace has remarked, the five minutes are up, and crime must be forgotten. We must give all our attention to the gastronomic and gustatory splendors which await us.” He raised his glass again. “To la France and la belle cuisine!”

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday morning Violet and I went to an early Mass together at Notre Dame, then took a carriage to the Hardys’ townhouse near the Champs-Élysées. Its magnificent door swung inward, revealing a short older man in a dark suit. He smiled at Violet. “Ah, Madame Grace, bonjour. Entrez, entrez.”

  We followed him to the large well-furnished sitting room where a dark-haired woman in a beautifully cut purple silk dress sat upon the sofa. She rose. Marguerite Hardy’s hair and eyes were that dark brown, not quite black, so typical of French women, but she was very pale, her mouth grim. Just over her forehead was a striking blaze of white hair. I saw the ripple along her throat as she swallowed. A rather tiny blond woman, obviously a maid, had also risen from her chair.

  Violet had pulled off her gloves, and she raised one hand toward me. “Madame Hardy, this is an old and dear friend from England, Michelle Doudet Vernier. She also happens to be a medical doctor.”

  A sort of forced, stiff smile pulled at Marguerite’s lips, but her eyes were puzzled. “Truly? I have never known a woman doctor.” She nodded politely. “A pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” I said.

  Marguerite’s dark eyes shifted again to Violet. She was a big boned, broad-shouldered woman built something like myself, but she appeared thin, her face almost gaunt with shadowy half-circles under her eyes. “You found Anne-Marie.”

  “Yes,” Violet said. “But…”

  “She is dead.”

  Violet drew in her breath slowly. “Yes, she is.”

  Marguerite closed her eyes, her mouth twisting to the side, then opened them. “I knew it. How?”

  “Does it really matter?” Violet asked softly.

  “Tell me. I must know.”

  “She… she was hanging from a bracket on the wall.”

  Marguerite would not have noticed the oddly passive construction—not the simple “she hanged herself”—but I did. Marguerite went paler still. One hand went awkwardly to her forehead perhaps to brush away her hair, but it was trembling so badly she quickly lowered it. Her jaw was thrust forward, her teeth clenched, and both hands and arms were quivering now. I stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t be afraid,” I said. She stared at me, but could not seem to speak.

  I turned to the maid who was quite alarmed. “Get me some brandy,” I said, and she obeyed at once. “Sit down, Madame Hardy—please sit down.” Her eyes were all swollen black pupils and she hardly seemed to register my words. I nudged her back toward the sofa, gently helped her down. Her hands and arms were still shaking. The maid had a glass of brandy, but I knew Marguerite would never be able to hold it.

  “Listen to me, madame—look at me—no, no, look at me. Yes, that’s right.” Her eyes focused at last on my face. “You have had a shock, but it will be all right. I want you to take a sip of brandy.” I put the glass before her lips. “Take a sip, please. Yes, that’s very good.” The liquid made her shoulders quiver. “Now another. And another. Take a long slow breath. Very good—now let it out—slowly, though. Yes, now again. And another sip of brandy.”

  Gradually her breathing grew calmer, although it was very deliberate. Her big eyes were still fixed on mine. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  I smiled sadly. “You are quite welcome.”

  I glanced up at Violet. Her hands were clenched into fists, but as she drew in her breath, they relaxed and opened up. The small muscles about her mouth were taut, her expression stern.

  Marguerite’s eyes shifted often into the distance, even as her face gradually relaxed. “She was my friend such a long long time ago,” she said. “We were girls together. We were so young. We were going to be friends forever. But it did not work out that way. It was my fault, all my fault.”

  “If it was long ago…” I began. “The past is done. If you were gone from her life, you cannot blame yourself for what happened to her. She led her own life apart from you.”

  Her eyes met mine, even as her lips rose into a brief bitter smile. “You do not know me, Doctor.”

  I put my hand over hers. She had finally stopped shaking. I held out the brandy glass. “Finish it. It will do you good.” She took the glass, and I drew in my breath and sank back into the sofa next to her.

  Marguerite sipped the brandy, then glanced at Violet. “I am better now, Madame Grace. Sit down, please.”

  Violet sat in a chair, and there was a brief silence. The maid was still standing and hovered nearby. “I think I could use a brandy myself,” I said.

  The maid bowed. “I shall just fetch you one, madame la docteur.” She poured some from the carafe and brought it to me.

  I took a quick sip, then touched my lips together and touched them with my tongue. “This is quite remarkable, hardly a medicinal concoction. What is it?”

  “It is one of my husband’s Armagnacs.” She glanced at the maid. “You may leave us, Jeanne.”

  “Are you certain, madame?”

 
“Yes.”

  The maid curtsied and left. Marguerite was staring down at her hands, as if willing them not to misbehave again. Violet was watching her. “I brought the doctor because I wanted her to examine you.”

  Marguerite briefly raised her head. “There is nothing wrong with me.” Violet laughed softly.

  “I shall be the judge of that,” I said. I took another sip of the Armagnac. I had never tasted anything like it before. “It won’t take long.”

  Marguerite drew in her breath and eased it out slowly. “As you wish, then.”

  “Let’s catch our breath first.”

  Violet was still staring at her. “One death out of four might be a coincidence, two in a row is definitely not. You wanted me to find Anne-Marie and warn her. I found her, but too late. You said Simone Dujardin might wish both ill. It’s time you told me all you know about this woman.”

  “Not now. Later. Please.”

  I stared at Violet and gave a quick shake of my head.

  “She might take money,” Marguerite murmured. “I would pay her whatever she wants, but it is probably too late for that.”

  Violet shook her head. “Once you start with a blackmailer, it never ends.”

  “Finish your brandy,” I said, “and then I can do my examination.”

  I swallowed the last of my own, then took her glass and set them both on the sideboard. She started to rise, and I quickly returned to her side. She blinked a couple of times, and my hand seized her arm. I was an inch or two taller than her, but despite being rather thin, she felt quite solid, unlike Violet who was slightly built and rather delicate.

  I picked up my black medical bag which I had left near the end of the sofa. “We shan’t be long.” Violet nodded, then turned to some magazines on a nearby table.

  Marguerite led me to a stairway. “My bedroom is upstairs, but it is so cold. I suppose I must take my clothes off.”

  “You needn’t take them all off, but is there a warm room, one with a door we could shut?”