by Barry Day
Now Smith and Pascal were next to one another and, again I thought the wretched man would collapse.
And then Pascal did the strangest thing. He beckoned to the màitre d’ to take Smith’s right hand and hold it towards him, palm uppermost. Then, taking a device that lay next to the bowl on the table, he proceeded to ‘pipe’ the confection on to the man’s outstretched hand.
At which point Smith almost did collapse. By stretching up on tiptoe I could see what the chef had done that caused Smith’s reaction.
On the palm of his hand was a swirl of cream in the shape of the letter ‘G’.
The crowd had largely dispersed, puzzled but amused by the incident we had just witnessed. Outside in the square Pascal’s handmaidens were serving portions of the famous dessert, which rapidly became the centre of attention.
Within a few minutes Lestrade and I were left alone, wondering what to do next. Then the double doors at the rear opened and Pascal appeared. He stood looking at us and twirling the ends of that magnificent moustache.
And then he spoke.
“Come Watson—Lestrade, aren’t you going to congratulate me on my performance?”
It was the unmistakable voice of Sherlock Holmes!
Seeing our consternation, he gave one of those sharp barking laughs of his.
“Walk this way, messieurs, and all will be revealed.”
He led the way through the doors and up a flight of stairs.
Now I could see how he had managed the transformation. As he had often explained, there is usually one main feature that characterises a person. Capture that and few people will look for anything else. In Pascal’s case he was his moustache; little else of his face was discernible.
He said nothing more but opened a door, indicating that we should enter the room beyond. When we did, I felt just as Alice must have done when she passed through into the Looking-Glass world. For there, sitting on a simple hard-backed chair, with an assistant in close attendance, was another Pierre Pascal!
“Monsieur Pascal, may I present my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard?”
Pascal half rose shakily from his chair and shook our hands. Looking at him more closely, I could see that he was badly shaken by some recent experience. Nonetheless, he appeared determined to tell his story.
“Gentlemen, it is to your friend here that I owe my very life. I was here in my private quarters while my staff were preparing for la Fête. I myself had determined to make a small rehearsal for my grand dessert, because I had not prepared it for some time. Surprise Pierre is not for the amateur, my friends …”
I looked at Holmes, who shrugged with what for him passes for modesty.
“You must excuse me, but my Oxford English has been—how do you say ‘polluted’?—by my native tongue. So—I was absorbed in what I was doing, when the door opened and one of my assistants entered. Or so I thought. I had given strict instructions that I was not to be disturbed but I did not recognise the fellow, although he was wearing our uniform. On these occasions it is necessary to take on extra staff and one cannot remember every face.
“I began to remonstrate with the man, but he closed the door and stood with his back to it. And then he said to me something that really held my attention.
“He said—‘You don’t remember me, do you, you old sinner?’ I looked at him and, in truth, I did not. It was the kind of face that can be any face, you know.
“Then he said—‘Just as a matter of interest, dear boy, I don’t suppose you have that old book you chaps used to pore over in the old days?’ He could clearly see from my reaction that I had not the faintest idea of what he was talking about.
“‘I thought, not, old sport. You don’t mind my asking, I hope? Ah, well, c’est la vie, as you Frogs like to say. Or, in your case, mon vieux, I very much fear it will be a case of la mort’.
“It was then that I noticed he had his hands behind his back. Mine were occupied with my implements, as you may imagine. Suddenly he sprang at me and I saw that he was carrying a length of cord. Before I knew what was happening, he had me bound fast to this chair and my mouth gagged, so that I could not cry out.
“He now appeared very excited and his eyes were shining. ‘Are you a religious man, Pierre?’ he said. ‘I do hope so. In this country there is a proverb—‘The greater the sinner, the greater the saint.’ You should all thank me for making you great saints before your time. My only regret is that none of you will ever understand the greatest irony of all. By dispatching you who once dispatched me, I shall be the Greatest Sinner of you all. But no one will know it.’
“Then he became most angry. ‘You ruined my life. My generation discarded me. I carried the mark of failure with me. I made a few little mistakes, perhaps …’ And now his eyes were mad. ‘… but the business in Calcutta was not my fault and they blamed me for Amsterdam but there were others involved. It was a conspiracy—and it all began with you and your stupid Sinners …’
“At that moment he seemed to fight to control himself. ‘But all that is in the past now. Now I am the winner. I follow my destiny, make my destiny.’ And he laughed a most horrible laugh that I shall remember to the day I die.
“And then …”
He stopped and breathed in heavily, as if he were in some pain at the recollection.
“Pray continue, Monsieur Pascal,” Holmes urged gently, “your ordeal is almost over.”
“Then,” the Frenchman continued, “the devil began to feed me my own concoction, my Surprise Pierre. He pulled aside the gag and spooned it into my mouth, spoon after spoon. I could do nothing to prevent it and soon I felt myself choking.
“‘The Glutton dies from his own food. I think we might call that his just dessert, don’t you, old sport? Don’t bother to answer. In this country we are always taught not to speak with one’s mouth full.’
“And then a desperate idea came to me,” Pascal continued. “I pretended that he had succeeded. I made as loud a noise as I could and slumped forward in my chair against the bonds. He seemed satisfied and just at that moment we heard someone in the next room. He slipped out of the door and just before he closed it, he said—‘Bon appetit, Pierre.’ And then I really did lose consciousness …”
He sat back exhausted and his attendant handed him a glass of water.
Holmes moved to his side and put a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder.
“It was not I who saved your life but your own ingenuity.”
Then he looked over to where Lestrade and I were standing.
“It seemed to me inevitable that our killer would not be able to ignore such a visible opportunity to add this particular Sinner to his haul …”
“But I thought …” I interjected.
“That Monsieur Pascal might be our murderer?”
The Frenchman choked over his glass of water.
“Oh, no, my dear fellow, that was never a possibility from the moment we saw the photograph. The ear, Watson—the ear. The imperforate lobe. It was always clear that Staunton was our man and the conversation which our friend here has just recounted confirms the man’s twisted rationale. A man who is a congenital failure in life—and a potential sociopath into the bargain—has to find someone to blame for that failure. By definition, it cannot be his fault.
“Over the years Staunton has decided that everything that has gone wrong can be traced back to that Oxford rejection—which, in itself, was almost certainly not the first he had experienced. The more he heard of the success of his contemporaries, the greater his resentment grew, until the Book of Kor crossed his twisted path and gave him, in his mind, the perfect excuse. I have no doubt that all of his victims have heard some such rambling diatribe before …”
Then, seeing Pascal’s obvious distress, he changed his tack.
“I determined that the best way to protect this particular Sinner was to be inside the tent looking out. Consequently, I became one of Monsieur Pascal’s supernumerary waiters for the
evening—unpaid, I hasten to add—so that I could mingle freely with the crowds.
“This I duly did, until I saw your lady friend arrive, Watson, with her usual retinue. Then I knew I was on the right track. But then—blind beetle that I was—I lost sight of ‘Mr. Smith’ or Staunton, as we might as well now call him.
“Once I had assured myself that he was not among those present, I realised that, although Lestrade here had the outer perimeter guarded, the inner defences were perilously thin. If I could wander at will, so could our murderer.
“I hastened back stage, as it were, and had my worst fears confirmed. Discarded on the upstairs landing was a waiter’s white jacket identical to the one I myself was wearing. Staunton had devised the same strategy as had I.
“Luckily, I heard a noise from this room and arrived to find Pascal here in extremis. Fortunately, old fellow, I have picked up a smattering of medical knowledge from you over the years and, having torn off the gag, I was able—by employing what I believe is called the Heimlich Manoeuvre—to, shall we say, ease the situation. In doing so, I made one other vital discovery …”
“Which was?”
“I discovered that his magnificent facial accompaniment was not, in fact, his. May I …?”
And with that he reached across to Pascal and carefully removed the moustache from his upper lip. Now Holmes was the only Pascal in the room, if you follow me.
The clean shaven Pascal gave a shy smile.
“I suppose when I was a Sinner, I should have taken ‘V’ for Vanity, if there had been such a thing. I was still a young man when I inherited the company from my most distinguished father. It seemed to me that a moustache would add to my gravitas—you say ‘gravitas’? And since I was impatient, I could not wait to grow one. So …”
“It was Pascal’s little affectation that gave me the idea,” Holmes added, “an idea that may prove to be the turning point in this little affair.
“I had no doubt that Staunton would wait to see the outcome of his actions. Suppose he were to see a dead man come to life? Would that not cause him to question what he had hitherto seen as his success? And might the fact that he had, in his terms, failed yet again cause him to lose his nerve and give us the initiative? It is, as Shakespeare says, ‘a resolution devoutly to be wished’ and I fancy we have just gained it, gentlemen.”
“There’s one thing that still puzzles me,” Lestrade interrupted. “’Ow did you manage to make that Surprise stuff—begging your pardon, Mr. Pascal?”
“Why, I read Monsieur Pascal’s recipe, of course, which was elegant in its simplicity. Too many of our native cooks, I regret to say, are inclined to present their work as something out of the black arts.”
“Black, as in burnt,” I sniffed in support.
“And so,” Holmes concluded, “armed with Monsieur Pascal’s recipe, spare moustache and moral support, I sallied forth to make my debut as a Mâitre de Cuisine—with the result you saw a few minutes ago.
“Incidentally, I would not recommend you to try Surprise Sherlock. I have to admit that there appears to be a certain je ne sais quoi that eludes the recipe.
“And now, Watson, after all this haute cuisine, I think perhaps we might take ourselves off to partake of Mrs. Hudson’s rather plainer English fare. Lestrade, if you would care to join us …?”
An hour later we were doing just that.
Chapter Ten
“The beast is abroad and you are its only remaining prey.”
“And what do you propose I should do about it?”
“I think you must prepare to die!”
The exchange was between Holmes and Mycroft and it left me aghast. Surely Holmes could not mean what I had just heard him say with my own ears?
It was the following morning and we were in Mycroft’s rooms in Pall Mall, just across from the Diogenes Club.
Holmes had related the events of the previous evening to the accompaniment of an occasional grunt from his brother. His only question had been about Pascal’s plans.
“He showed—quite understandably, I would say—no further inclination to remain in England’s green and pleasant land and so Lestrade’s men have given him an escort to put him on the next packet from Folkstone,” Holmes reported. “But at least he had recovered his sense of humour. He told me to tell you that he did not believe that the worst excesses of the French Revolution could be any worse than what he had been through and he would be sure to invite you round for a special meal he would cook himself when he returned. He said, Senior Sinners should stick together.”
That prospect, at least, seemed to arouse a spark of interest.
“In any case, if my sense of Staunton’s psychology is correct, then Pascal is now safe from him. He will not wish to revisit the scene of one of his failures.
“Which leaves only you, my dear brother. It leaves you and a man whose demons will now drive him to make up for yesterday’s humiliation. He will come, make no mistake about it. The only question is—as whom?”
The room fell silent, as each of us considered the implications of what Holmes had just said. Of course, it made perfect sense. Staunton was clearly insane and the logic of the situation would be of no concern to him. If he could reach one man in the wilds of Scotland and another in the privileged chambers of Westminster, he could attempt anything.
And Holmes had put his finger on something else. Whereas the man had presumably approached his first two victims in his own persona, he had assumed another guise with McKay and yet another with Pascal. From now on virtually anybody might be ‘Mr. Smith’.
“Undoubtedly you have a plan?” This from Mycroft.
“Indeed. Would you care to hear it? I’m afraid it will mean that for a day or two Her Majesty’s ship of state will have to manage as best it may without your hand on the tiller.”
“Before you continue, Sherlock, there is one other piece of intelligence you may care to factor into your plans. I heard earlier this morning that Challenger is expected back in England somewhat earlier from his wanderings. Now where did I put that paper?”
He rummaged among a sheaf of memoranda and I was struck—not for the first time—by the contrast between the brothers in certain areas. Those two great minds missed nothing but organised themselves so differently.
Had we been in Baker Street, the memo would undoubtedly have been transfixed to the mantlepiece—along with his unanswered correspondence—by a dagger. In Mycroft’s case the papers were neatly squared and held down by a weighty tome which, as he moved it, I saw was Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome.
Having found the paper he was seeking, Mycroft scrutinised it.
“Ah, here we are … Professor Challenger’s boat arrives in Southampton on—September 3rd. And today is—let me see …”
“August the twenty-first,” I chipped in.
“Which gives us just about enough time for what I have in mind,” said Holmes decisively.
“Which is …?”
“Watson, do you remember the little episode which, if I remember rightly, you chronicled as ‘The Dying Detective?’ 1887 or 8, if memory serves.”
“Do I, indeed! Second only to the Reichenbach business, it threatened to bring these grey hairs of mine with sorrow to the grave, as the Good Book says.”
Holmes took up the narrative.
“I was attempting to trap a particular nefarious but extremely clever fellow called Culverton Smith, who was using his knowledge of tropical diseases for his own hideous purposes. By pretending to have contracted a rare disease myself …”
“The symptoms of which were all too realistic,” I felt obliged to add.
“And all due to the art of makeup—which meant that I could not afford to have my old friend and medico get too close. Something for which it took him some time to forgive me …” And he gave a brief smile in my direction.
“But, as I say, it was enough to lure Culverton Smith to my parlour, convince him that I was dying, and coax a confession out of him in front o
f a witness.”
“Ah, I thought the case seemed familiar. One of your finest tales, Doctor. If I remember, you were the witness, hidden behind the invalid’s bed?”
“Indeed, I was,” I replied, “and I have no intention of repeating the experience.”
“Nor will you need to, old fellow. This time it will be my turn to do the honours.
“Friend Staunton has a finely developed sense of the dramatic. The Sinner’s fate must fit the ‘sin’. Therefore, Mycroft, your ‘death’ must be related to Sloth. Purely for the purposes of dramatic consistency, you understand?”
“Hm,” was the only response.
“We shall let it be known that you have contracted a rare form of narcolepsy. Perhaps you can help us out here, Watson, with a few exotic details …?”
“Well,” I said, pleased to be able to talk for once from one of my areas of genuine expertise. “We might go for the variation known as cataplexy. The sleepiness is often accompanied by quite severe hallucinations. Rather like the condition you feigned Holmes, with all your gibberish about oysters taking over the world.”
He laughed at the memory but then returned to the matter at hand.
“You may be sure Staunton will be watching carefully for any weak point. He wouldn’t be afraid to tackle you in Whitehall or at the Diogenes but, then, you will be at neither.”
“Oh, and were shall I be?”
“Right here. Confined to your own rooms by your mystery illness. An unconfirmed rumour of your indisposition will appear in tomorrow’s newspapers. I have taken the liberty of passing it on—entirely confidentially, of course—to certain journalists of my acquaintance …”
“Thank you for your concern,” said Microft with heavy irony.
“Don’t mention it,” his brother replied. “Two days later there will be an inter-office memo. Strictly classified, of course, but that, too, will find its way to the gentlemen of the Press.”
“And then?”
“And then we sit back and wait for our friend to call.”
“And what am I supposed to do, pray, to occupy my time as le malade imaginaire?”
