“I have brought some reinforcements,” Violet said.
Marguerite stared up at them, then away. Her earlier terror had abated, but she seemed numb or dazed. Holmes stood before her, refusing to be ignored. I stood, and she did the same.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, Madame Hardy. You have heard of me.”
Her lips parted, and she stared up at him. She closed her mouth without speaking.
“Your husband has engaged my services. I know you did not want that, but he—and I—have your best interests at heart. This has gone on long enough.”
An odd laugh slipped free, and then she clamped her lips tightly together.
Holmes glanced at me. “And who might you be, madame?”
I gave him a curious stare.
“What is your name?”
“I am Dr. Michelle Doudet Vernier.”
“Ah, a physician. I take it the lady is in your care?”
“So to speak.”
“And what has happened?”
I hesitated only an instant. “We were at the cemetery. She thought she saw a man and a dog, the ghost of Count de Laval and his animal.” The name made her eyes widen and fill again with fear.
“I do not believe in ghosts, Madame Hardy. Why would you think a man and his dog were ghosts?”
“Easy…” I whispered to her, even as I gave her arm a squeeze.
“He looked exactly like the count, and they were near, but Jeanne could not see them.”
“Ah. She could not?” Jeanne was hovering nearby, and Holmes turned and swept toward her. She took half a step back. “So, mademoiselle, you did not see this man and his dog?”
She licked her lips, looked away, then back. “I… I cannot be sure.”
“You cannot? You either saw them or you did not. Did you see them?”
“If… if madame saw them, then they must have been there, I suppose.”
“A curious answer. You are not sure if you saw them?”
“It was so rainy and misty. I do not wish to contradict my mistress. Oh, I am not certain!” Her eyes had filled with tears.
Holmes turned back to Marguerite. “So you see, madame, perhaps your ghosts were creatures of substance after all.”
Marguerite was staring at Jeanne. She looked exhausted. “Jeanne?” The maid said nothing.
Holmes crossed his arms. “Madame Hardy, I would like you and Dr. Doudet Vernier to come with me to my hotel. We can speak briefly and then have a good supper together.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“All the same, will you come?”
She stared at him. She appeared totally spent. “I don’t know.”
“Please.” She nodded at last. Holmes turned again to Jeanne. “Fetch her coat, mademoiselle.” He turned again toward us. His gray eyes almost glowed. “Yes, this has gone on far too long.”
Part Three,
Henry
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday night I did not sleep well. Perhaps Michelle and Violet had been in no real danger from Docre, but Michelle’s willingness—her eagerness—to take risks, worried me. I thought of the many terrible things that might happen to her.
Holmes had told me to meet him at eight in the morning should I wish to go to Saint-Lazare with him and Violet, but given my mood, visiting a gloomy women’s prison was the last thing I wanted to do. I rolled over in bed around 7:30 and went back to sleep for a while. Holmes was back by mid-morning, and Violet had business to attend to, so I joined him on two other visits.
The first was to a Madame Lebrun, the older sister of Simone Dujardin. She might have been a beautiful woman at one time, but she had become rather fat. Her plump face showed a certain weary lassitude and disinterest, but her sister’s name made her scowl. Neither she nor her parents had seen Simone since she had been sent to prison. Madame Lebrun knew of her sister’s release, but she had made no effort to find her or meet with her. The two girls had attended the same Catholic girls’ school, but Simone had “gone bad” early on.
Holmes stared intently at her, his black eyebrows coming together over his long nose, forming two creases. He only seemed to be half listening. She told us she had no idea where her sister might be, nor did she care.
“Tell me, madame,” Holmes said. “Do you have any children?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Yes.”
“A daughter?”
She laughed. “A good guess, sir.”
“And only the one? Well, thank you for your time, madame.”
We started down the winding staircase of the apartment building. “That was an utter waste of time,” I said.
Holmes laughed softly. “You are mistaken, Henry. Did Madame Lebrun look at all familiar to you?”
I frowned. “Now that you mention it, she did. But I cannot say to whom.”
“Ponder it for a while. Eventually it may come to you.”
Next we went to the Reverend Algernon Sumners’s lodgings in the Marais. The stout oaken door swung open, and there, an orange tabby cat at his ankles, stood the reverend. As before, he was wearing a black soutane, and the golden pince-nez was perched on his bulbous nose just above the abundant salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee. The smell of pipe tobacco assailed our nostrils, partly masking a strong odor of cat excrement. Behind him we saw the large desk strewn with papers and books, as well as the tall bookcases filled with thick volumes.
“Ah, Holmes, Dr. Vernier! Do come in.”
Holmes came quickly to the point and asked if he had discovered anything about upcoming Black Masses in Paris. Sumners had had to do some probing, but one of his sources had finally come through. A Mass was scheduled at an abandoned former convent near Saint-Sulpice on Saturday evening. He was not certain who would be presiding.
“Could it be Monsieur l’Abbé Docre?” Holmes asked.
“Docre!” I exclaimed.
Sumners puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. “I cannot rule it out. My sources agree that Docre is an enigmatical figure with an interest in the ladies, but not about whether he is an actual Satanist.”
“Wouldn’t a priest who can quote from Baudelaire’s ‘Litanies of Satan’ be a likely candidate?”
Sumners shrugged. “It is suspicious, indeed, although perhaps he simply wants to know the enemy, so to speak.”
“I think Henry and I shall be attending that Black Mass on Saturday evening.”
Sumners sat upright and smiled broadly. “Oh, might I come along as well? I haven’t been to a Black Mass in simply ages! Unlike the genuine article, they are never boring, and I always seem to learn something. Not, of course, that I condone blasphemy and sacrilege! All the same, they are quite interesting in a bizarre way.”
Holmes stared at him, a sardonic smile gradually appearing. “We would be delighted to have your company.”
We returned to the hotel and found Violet waiting for us. She took Holmes aside to speak with him. I sank wearily into one of the plush chairs. Holmes gave me a quick look, then resumed his conversation with her. He nodded once. Afterwards, he told me they had further business to attend to, but he asked me to wait for him there in the lobby after six o’clock.
I went to the front desk, hoping there was a message from Michelle and that she might join me later on that afternoon, but there was nothing. The weather was so wretched I resolved to spend time in the Louvre. I wandered about the long galleries glancing at masterpieces. I wondered if anyone had actually ever counted the number of fat cherubs drawn, painted or sculpted in the museum. How I wished for Michelle’s company! This had hardly been any sort of holiday for the two of us. I saw more of her back home in London than I had in Paris.
I was in the lobby of the Meurice reading a newspaper at the appointed time when Holmes entered accompanied by Violet, Marguerite and Michelle. My eyes widened, and I frowned as I stood up. Holmes gave me a grim smile.
“Come along, Henry. I shall explain soon enough.”
We went upstairs to Holmes’s room, a suite, which
had a comfortable sitting room. Holmes turned to Marguerite. She appeared somehow both exhausted yet keyed up. “Madame Hardy, this is my cousin and friend Dr. Henry Vernier.”
She looked faintly puzzled. “Vernier?”
“He is Dr. Doudet Vernier’s husband.”
She seemed even more confused, looked at Michelle, then again at me. “I don’t understand.”
“I did not want to explain at your home,” Holmes said. “Not in front of your maid.”
“Why not?”
“Because she is in the employ of Simone Dujardin.”
She certainly reacted to that: she flinched, her eyes opening wide. Instinctively, Michelle put her hand round her upper arm. “No, no,” Marguerite said.
“I’ll wager anything she has been in your service a year or less. How long exactly?”
“I… I…” You could see her struggle to concentrate. “Seven or eight months.”
“Dujardin probably gave your prior maid a substantial sum to quit. Jeanne is the daughter of Dujardin’s sister. I’m certain her mother knows nothing about it, but the girl must have met up with her aunt. Dujardin is probably paying Jeanne to spy on you, and I suspect she has convinced Jeanne of the righteousness of revenging herself upon you.”
Marguerite closed her eyes as she sighed. “Not Jeanne. Not her, too. Oh Lord, can I trust no one?”
“You can trust me, madame. First, and above all, you must believe it when I tell you that the Devil or ghosts or diabolical curses are not involved in this business. Only human maleficence is at work. You did not see the Count de Laval’s specter today. That was only Docre’s servant disguised with a false beard. They also have a hound which resembles the count’s dog. It was the same animal who approached you in front of your home last week. On that occasion, it was, no doubt, called back by one of those high-pitched whistles which only dogs can hear.”
“Docre’s servant? But the abbé could not have known about it—he wants to help me. And he is a priest.”
“Yes, but he is also the lover of Simone Dujardin.”
She shook her head. “No, no—that cannot be—he has taken a vow of chastity! He is a priest!”
Michelle sighed softly. “That vow means little to him, believe me.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Violet said. “Docre is a garden variety lecher, and he is Dujardin’s creature. You must believe us. We only want to help you.”
Marguerite stared at Holmes. “All the same, it might have been a ghost—you cannot be certain.”
“Madame, I was there. I was watching. I saw the man and the dog, and I saw you nearly faint. I followed the man. I even spoke with him. I complimented him upon his dog. That white blaze on the dog’s head is only makeup.”
“But… but I did not see you.”
Holmes smiled. “That is because I did not wish you to see me.”
Violet nodded. “I was there, too. There were no ghosts, only a flesh-and-blood man and dog.”
Marguerite’s gaze shifted from Violet to Holmes, then to me, then to Michelle. “You are all in on this together,” she murmured.
“Yes,” Holmes said, “all in it together to help you.”
“How can I trust you?”
Michelle again touched her arm. “You trust me, don’t you? You must know I would not harm you, that I want to assist you. It is the same with these others. We can save you from that monstrous woman.”
Marguerite put her lower lip between her teeth and lowered her eyes. “No one can help me. She is the Devil.”
Holmes shook his head impatiently. “You give her too much credit.”
“You do not know her, monsieur. You do not know who she is, what she is capable of. The Devil works through her—she is his tool.”
“Madame, that attitude is not helpful. She is only a mortal. She may be evil, but she has no diabolical powers. She can be bested.”
Marguerite’s forehead had creased. “Can she?”
“Yes, but you must be honest with me, madame. You must work with me. Why don’t you…? Please sit down.”
Marguerite sat in the sofa, and Michelle joined her. Violet and I sat in the chairs, but Holmes remained standing. He began to pace in a way which reminded me of the big cats in the Lion House at the London Zoo.
“I know nearly everything, madame. You were a courtesan, most likely a celebrated one, but when you reached your late twenties, you must have seen the writing on the wall. Perhaps, too, you had wearied of your occupation and the triviality of the high society life. Furtive meetings with the likes of the Count de Laval must have grown tiresome. You wanted to retire while in your prime. Your affair with Lupin was probably based on mutual attraction. Perhaps you saw the Madonna of the Apple at the count’s home or heard about it, and then it came up in a conversation with Lupin. He was amused and could not hold his tongue. He told you that the painting was his own invention, only a clever fake he had created based on Botticelli’s Madonna with the Pomegranate. He must have boasted of his skill and ingenuity.”
She shrank back into the corner of the sofa. “How can you know all these things?”
“And so the two of you concocted a scheme to steal the painting. Or rather, given all that I have heard about Lupin who was not particularly clever, you concocted a scheme. Lupin could then paint copies of his fake and sell each for a fortune. An ironic twist, that! There is always an underground market for stolen masterpieces. In this case rich Italians would have been interested, and perhaps a few American millionaires. Each would buy their copy, hide it away, and savor it in secret. Those forged paintings made you and Lupin rich, didn’t they?”
She looked at him a long while, then jerked her head downward in a brusque movement.
“You didn’t want to take any chances. Dead men tell no tales, as they say. The safest thing was to eliminate the count.”
A sort of dull anguish showed in her eyes, and her lips parted. Michelle’s lips drew back even as she set her hand on her forearm.
“The count enjoyed women, and the more the merrier. You and your friend Anne-Marie had already entertained him, but he was interested in a trio at his home. It was arranged for a time when his wife was away traveling. He must have let you in secretly after the servants had retired. You had met Simone Dujardin at the perfume counter at Au Printemps. You saw something in her, something cold and calculating, as well as a formidable intelligence. She was a kindred spirit, a younger version of yourself. You knew she would serve for your purposes. You invited her to be the third member of the trio and to join in the conspiracy. But you didn’t tell her the real objective was the painting, not money or jewels. She could help in the theft, but then be left to take the blame. Somehow you planted a picture frame in her apartment, and you gave her the count’s diamond ring. Lupin must have sent the telegram alerting the police. She was… the sacrificial goat.
“And so that fateful night, you tied up the count and gagged him. He thought it was only a game. But then… you stabbed him—you stabbed him through the heart and left Dujardin to take the blame.”
Marguerite drew back as if she had been struck, and I felt a sort of sick pain low in my belly. Michelle looked horrified, but Violet scowled. Marguerite suddenly sprang to her feet and shook her head wildly. “No, no, no.”
“That was your plan—that was the way it was supposed to be.”
Marguerite held her two hands outward, palms upward in supplication. “Yes, but I could not do it, monsieur!—I could not! It was the plan, but when I held the knife and saw his white belly…” She made a choking sobbing sound.
“You deny it then?”
She wiped at her eyes. “Monsieur, I have committed many grave sins, but I am not a liar—not now. I blame myself for the count’s death, but… I have returned to the Church. It is my consolation. I am a Catholic, and I believe in God. I swear to you by His most holy name that I did not kill the count, that I did not strike the blow.”
Holmes’s mouth compressed tightly. “Then who di
d?”
“You know everything, monsieur—everything—I see that. Then you must know who.”
He sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do. It was Simone Dujardin, after all.” A cold smile flickered over his lips. “The butcher’s daughter.”
“Yes.” Marguerite had begun to cry. “I tried to stop her. I told her that somehow it would be all right, that we needn’t kill him. She laughed at me, and then she stuck him as if he were only a pig or some other animal…” She shuddered. “It was horrible, horrible. He could not cry out because of the gag. Anne-Marie and I were both sick, but not her. So much blood—blood everywhere! She was proud of what she had done. I knew then—and ever since—that I had made a mistake, a terrible mistake; that my life was over, that my life was ruined, that…” She could not go on.
Holmes and Violet were pale and stern-looking, while Michelle was clearly distressed. I felt slightly sick myself. There was no doubt in my mind that Marguerite had told us the truth.
Holmes sighed at last. “So you went ahead and took the painting—probably after the other two women had left. You gave it to Lupin and let him paint his copies. You let him make you both rich.”
“May God forgive me—I followed the plan.”
Michelle rose, put her arm about her, and gently helped her sit back down on the sofa. “Sherlock, isn’t this enough?” Michelle’s voice shook.
He shrugged. “For now, yes.”
Violet folded her arms, then glanced about. “I think we all need something to drink.” She stood up and walked toward the sideboard with its bottles and glasses.
“Heavens, yes,” I groaned.
Michelle still had her arm around Marguerite. “It’s done now, my dear.” She looked at Violet. “She hates brandy. Give her anything but brandy.” The two women sat on the sofa.
“She hates brandy?” I said dully.
Violet picked up a bottle and examined the label. Holmes stared down at Michelle and Marguerite. Michelle took out a handkerchief and offered it to the other woman. She wiped at her eyes and wept quietly. Violet poured some amber liquid from a decanter into one glass, then whiskey from a bottle into another. She used the gasogene to add soda water, then went to Michelle and Marguerite.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 23
