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

by Sam Siciliano

  The chamber was quite a contrast with the other, lavishly furnished with a grand canopied bed, one with a sort of awning and a bedspread of the same heavy fabric, red with elaborate golden edging and fringe. He must have lit the silver candelabra which sat on a spectacular chest of drawers; both the dresser and the bed frame appeared to be from the time of Louis the Fourteenth. On the floor was a multi-colored Persian carpet of fantastical design straight from the Arabian Nights. On one side of the bed was a huge full-length mirror in a gold frame; on the other stood a grand-looking stove. Obviously it had not been started: the room was freezing.

  “A chamber fit for a queen, is it not?” he proclaimed proudly.

  “My, yes!” said Violet enthusiastically.

  “Oh yes.” Actually, to my taste, it seemed more like a chamber from an expensive brothel rather than that of a royal palace.

  “This room is for our most special guests, those of the highest nobility who wish to lodge in the church itself. The bed there has one of the finest mattresses made in Paris, the work of an antique enterprise which has furnished all the most exclusive homes.”

  Violet glanced at me. I didn’t quite know what to say, and my lips formed a sort of frozen, lunatic smile. She drew in her breath resolutely. “Charming—it is charming. If only we could stay and try it out briefly!—but alas, we have an early dinner appointment. There is no time.”

  I nodded eagerly. “No time at all.”

  Still smiling, Violet touched his arm gently. “We must return another day. Perhaps some evening. When we shall not be quite so rushed—when we can linger for a while.”

  He nodded. “I understand, madame. As you wish. Know that I shall be always at your disposal.” He gave a formal bow more fitting for a courtier than a priest. “Let me take you back to the landing, then.”

  “You are très galant, Monsieur l’Abbé,” Violet said.

  “Truly,” I murmured.

  As he led us back down the dark cavern with its thick beams all about us, I felt myself gradually calming. I smiled grimly. I would not have to shoot him after all! I did wish I could have slapped him just once. We came to the landing at last, and the movement of air in the tower made my candle flame flicker.

  “It is only one final flight of steps, and then you will be again in the church. I must, alas, leave you and return to my oratory for my evening prayers and meditation. It has been the greatest of pleasures! Rarely have I met two such fine ladies. You may be English, but you put our French women to shame! I only wish I knew your language so we might better understand one another. How you shame me! I understand not a word of your Shakespeare, but you know by heart the great Baudelaire! I shall doubtless see you soon at Madame Hardy’s home, madame la docteur, and you, Madame Bennet, I hope you will not make yourself a stranger to me!”

  “Oh no. I wish to continue our discussion. It was most enticing.”

  “Yes, was it not? Au revoir, mesdames, et encore, quel grand plaisir!”

  Still smiling, we turned and started down the stairs. I was first, the candle thrust before me, and I went very quickly. I stumbled once, and Violet caught my arm. “Careful now!”

  “Lord, I’m glad that is over with. I still cannot quite believe it. His intentions were clear enough, were they not?”

  “Quite clear. A pity we have a dinner appointment.”

  “Violet! Don’t joke about such things.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice grew serious. “It is my way of dealing with such utter… perversity. To say the least, his tastes are quite unusual for a priest. How odd that he seemed to know Baudelaire’s ‘Litanies of Satan’ by heart!”

  “I was surprised that you could quote it.”

  “After I decided to come with you, I spent some time reviewing the poem. I never dreamed it would receive such an enthusiastic response. Clearly he has a secret life. I suppose that he, at least, does not force himself on women. I’ll wager he finds many willing participants amidst French high society, women in search of mystical union under the bed sheets.”

  “It’s a good thing he did not try to force himself on me.”

  She laughed softly. “I am certain that what you said earlier was correct: you could best him in a fair fight.”

  Chapter Ten

  Violet and I went with Holmes and Henry to a nearby bar. Over wine, we described our “tour” with Monsieur l’Abbé. Holmes was not in the least surprised, while Henry was seething. Afterwards, the three went off together while I returned to Madame Hardy’s house for dinner. The sleeping draft had done its work, and she had slept well the night before for the first time in many days. However, as the evening wore on, I could tell that she was growing apprehensive. I was exhausted from the day’s activities and fell asleep lying on my bed while still dressed.

  My dreams were full of Saint-Sulpice: winding staircases, shadowy bells, vast dim interiors, flickering candles, a spartan oratory and an overdone bedroom. The reds and golds of the bed were vivid, then the blotchy pitted bronze surface of a great cracked bell lying on its side, the opening like some enormous mouth. Dimly I heard bells ringing from the tower, and four men struggled with the largest bell, working to stir its massive bulk.

  A red sea stretched out before me. Perhaps it was the Red Sea, but could it actually be this red? There were no waves, but the surface swayed and undulated. Even the gray sky had a pinkish tint. Something was wrong with the way the water moved: it was too sluggish, too thick. It was not water.

  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.

  Oh, not Macbeth again! He was whispering the words, then singing them in his deep baritone voice. It was blood, a sea of blood, and even from a distance I could see something bobbing about out there. Somehow I managed to draw nearer. It was a face, Marguerite’s face surrounded by her dark swaying hair, much of which was submerged in the bloody sea. Her hands struck at the water, keeping her up. I could see the terror in her dark eyes.

  It’s only a play, only an opera, only a metaphor. Take my hand. Take my hand. Perhaps I could pull her into the boat.

  She stopped struggling, and her hands disappeared. Her face stared up at me, and I had never seen such despair. She was there for a moment, and then she slipped under and was gone, only the swaying red surface of the bloody sea remaining.

  No, no, no. I might have plunged in, but Henry had grabbed hold of me. Have you taken leave of your senses? But she is drowning, she is drowning, she cannot breathe, her mouth and lungs are filling with blood, she cannot breathe. Even the sky is red now. She cannot breathe.

  My eyes jerked open. “Lord,” I whispered. Slowly I sat up. The clock near the bed showed that it was just after one. I had fallen asleep around ten. I hadn’t even taken my shoes off. I reached down to unfasten them, then pulled them off. I stretched awkwardly and took a long deep breath. The nightmare had not yet left me. It had been even more vivid and disturbing than yesterday’s. A candle on the nightstand flickered, casting a feeble light. I began to undo the buttons down the front of my dress, then hesitated.

  There was no harm in checking to make sure she was all right. I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hall. Marguerite’s was the next room down. The door was ajar and cast light onto the carpet and the opposite wall. I came closer, then grasped the doorknob and pushed gently. The hinges wanted to squeak.

  “Who is there?” Marguerite was sitting up in bed, a lamp lit nearby.

  “Only me.” I stepped into the room. She sighed, then sank back into the pillows. Her long dark hair hung loosely about her and spilled onto the white gown. “I had a nightmare.”

  She looked more closely at me. “Why are you still wearing your dress?”

  “I meant to take it off, but I fell asleep first.”

  The black pupils of her dark eyes were swollen in the dim room. “What was your nightmare?”

  “I… I don’t quite remembe
r. Some monster or something chasing me.”

  “I have dreams like that, dreams where some dark thing is chasing me, closing in on me.”

  I frowned. “I suppose you haven’t slept.”

  She shook her head. “I hate the night. It lasts forever.”

  “All the same, it always ends, doesn’t it? And day comes again.” I drew in my breath resolutely. “Let us go downstairs and sit for a bit. Sometimes it helps to get up.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. Come along.”

  She slipped out of the bed, put on some slippers and then a white robe. I had a shawl over my shoulders. I took the candle on its holder next to the lamp. We went quietly down the hall. We passed another open door, and I heard someone snoring loudly.

  “Who on earth is that?”

  “Jeanne.”

  “Who would have thought such a tiny woman could snore like that.”

  We went down the stairs, then to the drawing room. It was dark, save for the dim red glow of some coal embers in the fireplace. I opened the grate and set down another chunk of coal, then took up the bellows and pumped until flames were going. Marguerite had sat on the sofa and drawn up her legs, so that they and her feet were covered by the robe. One elbow rested on the sofa arm.

  “Would you care for brandy?” I asked.

  “No.” She smiled faintly. “I must admit… I can tell you this now, but you must promise that it will remain our secret.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I do not much care for brandy, even the most precious ones. It is wasted on me.”

  I laughed. “Surely your husband must suspect something!”

  “He does not. I know what one is supposed to say, how you are supposed to act.”

  “And you have never been tempted to tell him?”

  “No. Spirits are his great passion, both brandies and whiskeys, and he knows so much about them. I envy him, you know. I wish I had some such passion, or better yet, a passion like yours, madame la docteur.”

  I frowned slightly. I had hardly spoken with her about Henry. “What do you mean?”

  “Your profession. I can see that you are dedicated to medicine. Madame Grace told me what an excellent doctor you are, and I have seen that first-hand. My husband’s profession brings joy to people, I suppose, but it is not like yours. You help people.”

  “Well, I try to. However, it is with varying success.” I thought of something Henry often said. “We doctors always lose in the end.”

  She shrugged. “Such is life. You do good with your passion. Others…” She stared forward at the fireplace. “They do great harm. They have evil passions.”

  “Have you never had a great passion?”

  Her smile was brief and bitter. “Once, when I was young and foolish. There was a man, not so much wicked as… insipid. Then, too, I wanted to be a great lady. I did not understand then that wealth and position mean little, that they cannot make you truly happy.”

  “Doesn’t your husband make you happy?”

  She stared at me, her forehead creasing. “He tries. He tries so hard, and sometimes… he succeeds. He is a very good sort of man, unlike the other one.” She was staring again at the fire. “I have done nothing with my life. It has been… at best, a waste.”

  “You talk as if it were over with—it is not. Many years may remain. Do something with them.”

  She turned to me. “But what? That has always been the question.”

  “Is there no charity that interests you, no unfortunates that you might aid?” Again she turned her gaze upon me. “Well?”

  “I have given money to societies for fallen women, the prostitutes of Paris and London. At the beginning, I went to some of the homes to visit with them, but I could not bear it. I could not.”

  I shrugged. “That is, perhaps, understandable.”

  “Their situation is so dreadful here in Paris. There are these… examinations.”

  “It is an abuse of the medical profession!” My voice was angry. “Perhaps you should choose another cause, something more congenial. I work often at a charity medical clinic, but I admit it can be dispiriting. Perhaps you would enjoy working with children. They always need help at the orphanages.”

  She was silent a long while. “I wanted children, you know. They give a woman’s life a purpose. But it was not meant to be. I am not certain… When I was younger, being around children was difficult because it reminded me I had none of my own. Perhaps now that I am older…”

  “You are a devout Catholic, are you not?”

  “Oh yes, I hope so. You must have realized that from the visits of Monsieur l’Abbé Docre.”

  His name made my lips compress tightly. “Through your parish church you might find some work with needy families and children.”

  She nodded. “Yes, you are right. I must try it. It is not enough to give only money and to always be fretting about what cannot be, what I cannot have.”

  I smiled. “That’s better. And does your faith not help you?”

  She let out a long sigh. “It did. It did before. I found our Lord during the darkest time of my life. I was in despair, I did not want to live, but I went to the church and sat for many hours. Finally I made my confession to the priest. When I left I felt… all hollowed out, but forgiven—redeemed, reborn. Something of the feeling from that day has sustained me, but now…” She looked at me again. “I worry so about the Devil. I worry about Hell. He will not leave me be—he pursues me always.”

  “Is that what the abbé has told you?” I could not keep the anger from my voice.

  “The Devil is very strong,” she whispered.

  “But not so strong as God! That is doctrine, after all. He cannot beat God.”

  “No?” I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  “No.” I leaned over to squeeze her hand. She started slightly. I stared at her, then let go and sat back.

  She was silent a long while. “When I was younger, I committed a grave sin. Now I must pay for it.”

  “God can forgive any sin—that is also doctrine.”

  I could see the ripple along her throat as she swallowed. “If only I could believe that.”

  “You mustn’t let anyone frighten you, especially not a priest. Try to remember that feeling you told me about after your confession.”

  She let out a rather jagged sigh. “He has given me a terrible penance.”

  “What penance? Tell me.”

  “I cannot. It is a secret from the confession. Tomorrow I must… tomorrow…” She stifled a sort of moan.

  “Can I be of help? Whatever it is—you need not face it alone.”

  She turned toward me, her anguish apparent even in the dim light of the fire. “If only you could, but he said… only Jeanne, but perhaps if you were nearby…”

  “What is it? Where are you going?” Her eyes shifted to mine, and I willed her to speak.

  “Père Lachaise, the cemetery.”

  “What? What is there?”

  “I must visit a grave.”

  “Whose grave?”

  “I cannot tell you. I must go only with Jeanne, and I must be there exactly at 4:30. That is when Monsieur l’Abbé will begin his prayers in the church. Then we will find out for certain.”

  “Find out what!”

  “I cannot tell you. I have already said too much. It is a secret—it is my penance, and it is my burden alone.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  I could see the struggle in her face. “If only you could, but I must face him myself alone.”

  “Face whom?”

  She shook her head. “I cannot say. Only… perhaps you could come to the cemetery and wait for me—if you promise to obey me, to leave me and Jeanne alone for a few minutes. He did not forbid that, exactly. Can you promise me that?—that you will leave me alone for a few minutes?”

  “I don’t like to make any such promise.”

  “Then you must not come!”

  “But if
you insist, I shall promise it. But should you need me, you could always cry out—you could scream and I would come.”

  “Yes, yes, that is fair! A good idea, indeed. It would be good to know that I have a friend nearby. Someone I can count upon.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  She hesitated, then reached out and touched my hand. “Perhaps God has sent you as well—perhaps you are my guardian angel, after all.”

  I smiled. “I promise you I have no wings. I am no angel.”

  “But you are good,” she whispered. “I know that.” She stared intently at me. “I wish I had known you before all this… misery. I was not always like this—so weak, so afraid. I have never known any women like you and Madame Grace.”

  “How so?”

  “You are both so strong, so brave. I wish I had a fraction of your courage.” She yawned deeply, and it seemed to leave her relaxed, if exhausted. “I think I can sleep now. Would you like to come with me to Mass in the morning?”

  “Gladly.” Her yawn had done its work: I was doing the same. “Should we go back to bed?”

  “Yes.” We both stood, and I stretched out my arms.

  “Merçi,” she said. “Merçi infiniment.”

  * * *

  We went to a morning Mass at Saint-Roch, a late Baroque church in Paris which happened to be quite near the Meurice. As usual during the week, the participants were mostly women with only a few old men. Jeanne knelt to Marguerite’s left, I to her right.

  I must confess I gave the Mass little attention. I was trying to decide if I should tell Holmes about Marguerite’s upcoming visit to Père Lachaise cemetery. She had spoken to me in confidence, and my inclination was to say nothing. All the same, since this penance was Docre’s idea, I suspected some sort of trap. Then, too, she—and I—might be in danger.

  I had returned Holmes his revolver. Perhaps it was foolish, but I didn’t feel afraid. However, was it fair to Henry to put myself in danger without warning him? I suddenly recalled the time he had gone with Holmes into the foul and dangerous London rookery Underton without telling me first. I had been furious with him, upset and tearful. Didn’t I owe him the same courtesy I had expected from him? I had arranged to meet Violet in the lobby of the Meurice at one PM. I could discuss the situation with her— although even that was betraying a confidence.