I sipped the liquid, felt it warm my throat as it slipped down. “Lord, what a day. This brandy is truly remarkable.”
Violet sat beside me and raised the glass to her lips. In profile, I could see the slight curve of her nose and the length of her slender neck. She licked her lips, then shifted her eyes toward me, then away again. “I suspect you must have seen Mr. Holmes.”
I felt my brow furrow. “I don’t particularly wish to talk about it.”
“Ah.” The word merged with her sigh. She took another sip of brandy. “It was that dreadful?”
Somehow my mouth felt stiff, anger starting to manifest itself there. “He said… ‘the play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’”
“Oh yes,” she murmured. “More Shakespeare—Hamlet. Rather apt.”
I was still frowning. “Did you know what he was up to?”
She turned, and her brown eyes regarded me, her black brows coming together, a slight crease showing between them. “You did not?”
“No, I did not.” I let my head fall back, then slowly turned it first left, then right. “I must be stupid—Henry and I must both be stupid. I could not conceive of such a thing.” I could not keep my distress from my voice.
Violet put her hand over mine and squeezed gently. “You are not at all stupid. You simply are not… devious.” Her smile was bitter. “You do not have the twisted mentality of Mr. Holmes and me.”
“It is twisted. She so deserved a night of respite from all her cares. Did we have to put her through this?”
She was still staring at me. “I don’t know, Michelle. I don’t know. What is done, is done.”
“Sherlock believes she did it—that she stabbed the count.”
“Does he now? He actually said that?”
“Yes, words to that effect.”
Her dark eyes were still fixed on me. In the dim room they were all great swollen black pupils, and her lips were pressed tightly together. She turned away and took a sip of brandy, let it linger in her mouth, savoring the taste. She was silent for a while, and I had not heart to make idle conversation. “He is wrong, you know. I was watching her, too.”
Again I frowned. “Is he?”
“One can never be sure, not until someone actually speaks the truth. But yes, I think he is wrong. Above all else, he is a gentleman. Once upon a time, he… he did not want to think the worst of me, so now he is… overcompensating in the other direction.”
“Oh, this is all giving me a headache—so it was Lupin, after all?”
She laughed softly. “Oh, Michelle.” Again she sipped her brandy. “I am certain that one way or another, we shall soon know what happened. Do not fret about it now. Let us drink our brandy and relish it along with a quiet moment.”
After that we did not speak again. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly. When we were finished, we sat with our glasses held between our hands on our laps. I was tired and discouraged, but somehow I was still happy to be with Violet, to have found someone again who I had thought might be lost to me forever.
At last she stirred. “I must be going.”
“Oh, I told Henry that I must see him and Sherlock tomorrow at noon—and you as well. Can you be at the Meurice at that time?”
“Certainly. What is it about?”
I ran my hand slowly back through my hair. It felt tight and tangled at the back; it would be good to let it all down. “Monsieur l’Abbé Docre has invited me for confession and a tour of the secret parts of Saint-Sulpice tomorrow at four.”
Violet frowned in earnest this time. “Are you joking?”
“Would I joke about such a thing?”
“You must not go alone,” she said sternly. Her mouth twitched into a smile on one side. “I shall accompany you.”
I stared back at her. “That would be something of a relief. He looked at me in such an odd way.”
“I know you will not acknowledge it, but you tend to have that effect on men.”
“Not so much as you.”
She smiled in earnest. “We shall not argue the point.” She gave my hand another squeeze, then took my glass. “I shall see you tomorrow.” She rose and set both empty glasses on the sideboard near the decanter of Armagnac.
I drew in my breath. “And I must see to Mrs. Hardy.” I rose resolutely from the comfortable sofa. “Until tomorrow, then.”
I went to my room, found my bag and prepared a sleeping draft for Marguerite. Her room was next to mine. She was sitting on the bed in her nightclothes, a long lacy white gown and a matching robe. Her long dark hair hung about her face, spilling onto her breasts which were evident under the thin fabric. One lock was white. I had not seen her before with her hair down; it made her appear more vulnerable. She no longer looked so frightened, but only very weary.
“You may leave us,” she said to Jeanne.
The maid curtsied, smiled at me, then left the room. I held out the glass. “Drink this. It will help you sleep.”
Her forehead creased. “What is it?”
“A few drops of chloral hydrate and laudanum. It will help you sleep through the night.”
“I took laudanum once. I took it for many months. It was difficult to stop, but I finally managed it. I do not wish to begin again.”
“One night will not make an addict of you. Drink it down.”
She sighed, then took the glass and swallowed it all at once. She returned the glass, and I set it on a nightstand.
“Go ahead and get under the covers.”
She stood, raised the quilt and blankets, then swung her feet around. They were large and shapely like her hands, but not so big as mine. I tucked the covers round her. She stared up at me, a sort of dull aching misery showing in her eyes. Her arms rested on the quilt, and I gave her hand a squeeze. “You will feel better in the morning.” She stared intently at me. “What is it?”
“I… I do not want to be alone.”
I stared at her, then at last I walked round the bed. It was a wide one, made for two, with two sets of pillows. “I shall stay with you for a while. Do you mind if I lie down, too? I am tired. I have my shoes off, so I shall not soil the covers.”
“Do not worry about that.”
I hesitated for a moment. The room was cold. I pulled aside the covers, then lay down beside her, still in my evening gown. I had, however, already wrapped a shawl about my shoulders and arms to keep them warm. I pulled up the covers. “This is quite cozy.”
“Merçi,” she murmured, “merçi infiniment.”
“Pas de tout. Dormez bien.”
I closed my eyes. Merçi infiniment was a phrase with no real English equivalent. Thank you infinitely was the closest translation. The Italians said mille grazie, thanks a thousand times, which was a much smaller number than infinity. I reflected that Henry and Sherlock were probably still at the opera, which must just be finishing up. I thought again of the trick Holmes had played, and I stirred slightly, drawing in my breath. I was too tired to be angry. He was rarely wrong, and if he thought Marguerite had… But Violet said he was mistaken. Oh, I didn’t want to think about it anymore.
I remembered the opera, Macbeth and Banquo in what the French must consider Scottish dress—those plaid cloaks, draped over their armor, with some furs thrown in. They had not worn helmets, probably so you could see those red-hair wigs. And Lady Macbeth had a wig of such abundant red tresses. Where had I recently seen a red-headed woman? I stirred slightly, then the vision of a naked woman with red hair came to me. The painting— at Lupin’s. A much younger, untroubled Marguerite, with her hair dyed, probably henna.
Macbeth was supposed to be bad luck, wasn’t it? The Scottish play. People must have their superstitions. Obviously in a play with so much swordplay, accidents could happen. But this was Verdi, not Shakespeare. Would the curse still hold for a musical rendition in Italian? I was being silly. The music had been beautiful. It had a dark melancholy tone. Perfect for Marguerite.
I could hear Marguerite
beside me breathing deeply, almost snoring. My own breathing had also slowed. I thought of getting up and going to my own bed, but I was far too comfortable. I thought of the painting again, and the image of the naked woman with the red hair was even more vivid. She turned toward me, and I could see that the dark eyes were truly Marguerite’s. Odd that she had taken off her nightclothes.
She sighed wearily, almost a heartsick moan. Yet who would have thought the fat count to have had so much blood in him? No, no, I thought—it is supposed to be, Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
She was still staring at me. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake thy gory locks at me.
That is wrong. It was Macbeth who said that to Banquo, not Lady Macbeth.
My mother stared at me. Everyone said I looked like her. She also had fair skin, freckled now in the summer, and blue eyes, a wide, rather sensuous mouth which formed the same playful smile. It is rather horrible, but somehow beautiful too. Shakespeare loved metaphors. You remember what a metaphor is? We talked about them. Here is a good example, and it is beautiful but awful at the same time: “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.”
We were sitting before the Mediterranean, and the vast blue-green sweep beneath the clear blue sky abruptly turned a sort of dirty gray, then began to pinken. I don’t like this—you don’t need to show me. The red waves lapped at the shore, making me shudder. No, no, that is impossible!
It’s only a metaphor, Mother said, only a metaphor.
The naked red-headed woman clutched at her right wrist. Her long beautiful fingers were stained red. The red had also splattered her face and even her bare breasts, the color striking against her pale skin. She was mouthing something over and over again. I could only distinguish the word out.
Oh, I don’t like this, I cried. Let’s read something else. My mother looked faintly worried. It’s only a play, after all.
Marguerite put her hands behind her back, slightly thrusting forward her bare bloody breasts. Guess what I have? I shook my head. You won’t guess? I suppose I must show you. She brought her hands round, and in the right one was a knife. She held up the blade, making a drop of blood shimmy down the long silver blade.
My eyes opened wide, and I was aware of my breath coming and going. A candle still burned on a nearby table. Marguerite was fast asleep. The chloral hydrate would have worked quickly. Only a dream, I thought, only a dream. Henry would probably be back at the hotel by now. How I wished he were in the bed with me! When I had nightmares, I usually just felt for his body, his arm or his flank, and that calmed me. I still had on my evening gown; the dress was constricting me. I could not sleep in such a thing—and I did not belong here.
I threw the covers aside, swung my legs round and stood up. I stared down at Marguerite, frowning. She should be all right. The laudanum should keep her asleep through the night, especially since she was unaccustomed to it. I wondered if perhaps I should stay with her. I could put on my nightclothes, then come back. All the same… It was ridiculous to think—mere superstition—but somehow I did not want to be in the same bed with her—not now, not tonight.
I went to my own room, undressed, put on a simple nightshirt, then slipped between the icy sheets. I fell asleep almost at once, and my dreams, while not exactly peaceful, were free of Macbeth and bloody deeds.
* * *
Knowing what was to come, I had set my hand over Henry’s. His lips beneath the neatly trimmed brown mustache were compressed and were turning white. His blue eyes had a frigid glare. The quiet before the storm, I reflected.
“Have you taken utter leave of your senses? I… I forbid it! You are not going to see that priest. It is absolutely out of the question.”
Holmes ran the fingertips of his right hand slowly along the left side of his jaw. “It could prove useful.”
“Useful,” Henry hissed in a hoarse whisper. He gave his head a fierce shake.
“She will not go alone,” Violet said. “I shall accompany her.” The suggestion made Holmes frown. He was seated in a big overstuffed armchair, while Violet, Henry and I were on a sofa. The corner of the Meurice lobby where we sat was deserted save for us four.
“Oh wonderful,” Henry snarled, “that’s just wonderful.”
“If there was trouble, I think I could best him in a fair fight.” I smiled wryly. “I’m bigger than Monsieur l’Abbé, after all.”
Violet also smiled. “It would be two against one.”
Henry shook his head. “And if he should have… have a knife or some other weapon, what then? He seemed unbalanced, and lunatics often have preternatural strength.”
Holmes also looked uneasy. “Let us do this. The ladies shall meet the abbé at the designated time, but Henry and I shall also go to the church. We two shall sit in the pews. Should there be the least sign of trouble, you must leave at once. We will be waiting for you.”
“No, no,” Henry moaned.
“We shall take one further precaution,” Holmes said. “Michelle, as I recall, you are proficient with a revolver.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I brought one with me from London. You shall take it with you in your handbag.” He gave a resolute sigh. “That should provide adequate protection for any contingency.”
Henry was still red in the face, and I felt his hand twitch under mine. “So help me, if I had any sense, I would pack up and leave at once—just go back to London and forget this whole ghastly business.” His eyes shifted to me. “And I would drag you along with me, since you are completely incapable of behaving sensibly and looking after yourself.”
“You needn’t speak to me that way.” My face felt warm.
Holmes leaned forward in his chair. “Do you think I would allow it if I thought they would truly be in danger?”
Violet’s smile was bittersweet. “Michelle and I are not fragile damsels prone to the vapors and faints at the first sign of danger. We can take care of ourselves. The risk is low, and it is a calculated risk. Madame Hardy is in peril, and we must help her any way we can. It is as simple as that. Monsieur l’Abbé is a mystery. This meeting should help us determine whether he is a saint or a scoundrel. I’m inclined toward the latter, but I’ll wager by dinnertime we shall have a definite answer.” Her forehead creased in thought, and she raised her fingers to touch her chin, even as she smiled. “I wonder. I could wear my sister’s habit again. That might be an interesting experiment.”
Henry stared at her. “Why on earth were you dressed as a nun that night we saw you in front of Notre Dame?”
“Ah, I explained that to Mr. Holmes. Madame Hardy had told me of Docre’s visit, and I asked my friend Sister Ann about the priest. She told me he was giving an inspirational talk to her order in a chapel at Notre Dame. I went with her that evening, and we knew I would blend in best if I came as a nun. Sister Ann knew a fellow sister about my size, and I decided to pay her for a spare habit. You never know when such a disguise may prove useful!
“Ann helped me get everything on. It is a more complicated wardrobe than you might imagine, especially all those wrappings round the head. I suppose, strictly speaking, it is sacrilegious to disguise oneself as a nun, but Ann thought of it as a grand sort of joke. She said a practice session would help me determine if I had any real aptitude for the religious life.”
“I think you may go as an English lady this afternoon,” Holmes said. “We need not put your soul at risk a second time.”
“What did you think of Docre’s talk?” I asked.
She frowned. “He is a compelling speaker with a piercing tenor voice, very dramatic, but his presentation was not clearly organized. It jumped about a great deal, and in the end, was often trite. It had to do with temptation and the struggle of the soul to choose between light and darkness, between good and evil. He also discussed the nature of angels and demons in a rather literal-mind
ed way.”
Holmes’s gray eyes stared off into the distance. “I wonder who he really believes is stronger, God or the Devil.” His gaze shifted to Violet. “Perhaps you will have the opportunity to find out.”
* * *
Violet and I trudged round and round, ever upward, toward the summit of the bell tower of Saint-Sulpice. I held a candle on its holder which cast a feeble light. We paused occasionally to catch our breath. The great bronze bells were like some enormous creatures, perhaps whales, lurking in a shadowy sea, and we could hear the soft moan of the breeze coming through the sounding shutters.
“I cannot believe Henry made it up here,” I said, “not with his vertigo. It must be improving, or perhaps it was simply too dark to see much.”
“I wonder how many steps there actually are. Onward and upward, as they say.” Violet resolutely drew in her breath and resumed the climb.
We came at last to a sort of circular rotunda up top, and I grasped a rusty iron rail. It moved some six inches. Startled, I let go even as I edged back against the wall.
“Careful,” Violet murmured. “He must be on the roof.”
We went through a trap door in the ceiling and stepped outside. Docre was leaning against the wall staring out to the west. The clouds had parted, leaving a swath of sky where the setting sun glowed red-yellow, casting a fiery light over us. We stepped closer into the strong wind, unblocked by any obstructions up this high. The sounds of the city formed a muted roar.
“Monsieur l’Abbé?” He didn’t seem to hear. To the west in the distance we could see the brilliant golden dome of Les Invalides and the black skeleton of the Eiffel Tower.
I reached out my arm to touch his shoulder, hesitated, then let it drop. “Monsieur l’Abbé!” It was almost a shout.
He turned; a smile began at the sight of me, vanished as his eyes took in Violet behind me. His black eyebrows formed part of an inquisitive frown. “Madame la docteur. But who is this?”
“She is my friend,” I said loudly, “an English woman. Madame Violet Bennet. She also was interested in Saint-Sulpice. And in spiritual advice.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 19
