‘Called away?’ she gasped. ‘But—’
Behind her and unobserved, the Frenchman flashed a grin of triumph at Holmes. He put a protective arm around the lady’s waist. There was something distinctly proprietary about the gesture.
‘Attendez, Mademoiselle. The good news is this,’ said Holmes. ‘Emil is safe and here in London. You will hear the details from my brother, who will provide Monsieur Vidocq with the information he needs to return Emil to your care.’
Holmes turned to Vidocq. ‘Which is, I understand, your whole purpose in helping Mademoiselle?’ he said. Vidocq did not respond.
‘Then you are deserting us, Mr Holmes?’ asked Mlle La Victoire, searching his face for an explanation.
‘Not deserting, my dear lady. I have urgent business and must travel this afternoon. Again, please understand this is for the best. I will ensure success by keeping in close touch with my brother. And I intend to return shortly. If you are not satisfied,’ and here he shot a look at Vidocq, ‘rest assured I will step in to assist you at that time.’
‘But we may not have the luxury of time,’ she said quietly. Tears of anger welled in her eyes. I was in half a mind to insist we stay in London despite the danger to Holmes.
‘You are in excellent hands with a man who … loves you truly,’ he said, with more than a touch of irony.
Vidocq stood back, observing Holmes closely. ‘What urgent business takes you from this lady, whom you promised to help?’ he asked.
Holmes paused. ‘I’m afraid I am unable to tell you,’ he said. ‘But do not tarry, Vidocq. It is a dangerous world. The sooner Mademoiselle regains her son, the safer he may be. May I suggest you learn what my brother has to say. Good day.’
CHAPTER 14
Armed with Lies
olmes and I made it to Euston Station five minutes before our train was to depart. Once there, we settled into our first-class compartment, arranged by Mycroft, so that Holmes could study his art texts and I my brief on ‘Dr Richard Laurel of Harley Street’ in complete privacy.
I had packed in a hurry, returning to my home where all my wife’s little homely touches of domesticity – the basket of knitting, the floral teacups and the antimacassars gathering dust in the waning afternoon light – screamed out to me that I was some kind of madman, ricocheting once more off normal sane living and into the wilds of my former life with Sherlock Holmes.
I was strangely happy.
There had been no time for dinner. As I sat in the relative comfort of our luxurious train accommodation, a bit out of breath and wishing for a carafe of water, or better yet some stronger liquid, my thoughts were answered by a sharp rap on the glass door of our compartment.
I opened it to see a porter, carrying a tray with water, sandwiches, biscuits, and fruit. ‘Courtesy of Mr Mycroft Holmes,’ said the young man as I took the tray from him. ‘Oh yes, and something else you may need.’ He pulled from behind him an unusual wheelchair, elaborately constructed and elegantly decorated with a simplified floral motif, almost Japanese in feeling, and fully padded with red velvet cushions. It featured a mechanism by which it folded in on itself, like an accordion, and thus fitted easily, even in our small compartment.
‘Hmm,’ said Holmes, as soon as the young man had departed. ‘If a world-renowned art expert were to have need of such a device, then this is the very one he would have.’
‘Your brother leaves little to chance,’ I mused aloud.
‘This wretched thing will hamper my investigation.’
‘Mycroft seems to do quite well without moving around much,’ said I. His brother was notoriously sedentary.
‘My brother quite literally has the Army, and sometimes the Navy at his beck and call. I will have only you.’
‘Then I shall be your eyes and ears when needed,’ I said.
Holmes raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He began to unwrap the folder from Mycroft.
‘What exactly do you hope to find?’ I asked.
‘I am not yet certain. For Mycroft, obviously, the Nike.’ He waved a letter attached to his folder of information. ‘I am to cable his men, hidden in Sommersby, a village twenty miles to the south of the Earl’s estate, when it arrives. They will then sweep in to make the arrest.’
‘Twenty miles away? Why not involve someone closer, the local law, for instance?’
‘There is suspicion that they may be complicit,’ said Holmes. ‘It is true, in these far-flung towns, that the local law – sometimes the constables, all the way up to the magistrates, can come under the financial sway of the prevailing landowners of their region. That is less the case in recent years, but in the North, and along the Scottish border …’
‘Yes, in the North, things are different,’ I said.
‘It is possible they have been paid to look the other way,’ he said, scanning through the first pages like a hawk looking for mice.
‘But in our own case, what do you expect?’
‘We must discover why Emil was sent away, and what his past and future there hold. Only then can we advise our client. If the child has been endangered or mistreated, which I suspect, we must root out and neutralize that danger.’
‘If the Earl is arrested for the art theft, won’t that suffice?’ I asked.
But Holmes was engrossed in his reading. In a few seconds he looked up, realizing my question hung in the air.
‘He will most certainly stand trial,’ said he. ‘And it is Mycroft’s intention to confront the Earl with a number of transgressions including cruelty and child labour violations at his mills. I read here that his fortunes have rapidly declined in recent years; perhaps that has motivated these acts. Whether he will face punishment is another matter. You have begun to get a taste of how that works.’
I shuddered. If Holmes could be imprisoned so casually, it followed that the law was more easily manipulated than ever I suspected. I’ll admit this had shaken me to the core. At thirty-five, I often found my idealism clashed with reality. It would be many years before this changed.
Holmes would probably say I never fully relinquished my optimism about human behaviour.
‘There are other factors, Watson. The Earl is said to have a very long reach. We know little of his character. If he views Mademoiselle La Victoire as an enemy, then she, and perhaps Emil, may remain in danger as long as he is alive. And there is Lady Pellingham to consider. Little is known of the lady and her role in the matter. There are simply too few facts at hand.’
‘I have been wondering about Lady Pellingham. What do you know of her at this point?’
‘Other than that she is American, her dowry was large and based on her industrialist father’s textile factories in New Jersey, that this dowry brought the Earl back from the edge of bankruptcy, that she is remarkably beautiful, has set quite a style during her London sojourns with her Parisian-designed silk gowns, and has proved, sadly, to be barren after an initial miscarriage, I have little information on the subject of Lady Pellingham,’ remarked Holmes without irony.
‘Ha!’ I said.
‘But I know nothing of her character, and upon that, much rests.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘we do know that she seems to love Emil like a son. At least that is what Mademoiselle La Victoire tells us. This speaks of a good heart.’
‘It is entirely unclear whether this is true. Lady Pellingham has reason to despise the boy and feel threatened by his presence,’ said Holmes. ‘At this point we lack enough data to fully understand the situation. Now, let me pursue my studies, Watson.’
He continued to flip through the papers Mycroft had provided.
With trepidation, I turned to my own, opening the file on ‘Dr Laurel’. I was greatly relieved to find him to be very close to my own history and description, save only for the name. I grew more confident that I could pull off the ruse.
An hour later I closed the file, feeling proud of my accomplishment. This pride was short-lived; in the same amount of time my companion had already complet
ed his study of the Earl and his own ‘persona’ Fritz Prendergast, and had moved to a thicker set of documents on Greek statuary. He flipped through the pages at great speed.
Among Holmes’s many skills was the capacity for memorizing large volumes of facts, retaining and organizing them as if he were a human encyclopaedia. Many of these facts were odd and obscure, including details of cigar and cigarette ash, of military uniforms and decorations, of types of mud and earth, of spoken inflections and regional accents, perfumes and cosmetics, and many more of which I was unaware at the time.
His present study on Greek statuary and the Nike legend proceeded at such a pace that he had completed the task only an hour after I had completed my own. He set them aside, and then stared morosely out of the window.
‘I presume you are now well acquainted with Prendergast and his subject?’ I wondered.
‘Of course. He is an expert on Greek statuary and the Nike legend particularly.’
‘But what of the man himself?’ I asked. My Dr Laurel would of course be familiar with his patient.
‘Not a great deal. Unmarried. Not a club man. Few friends. Apparently somewhat acerbic when off his main topic.’
‘That should not be a challenge.’
A few moments passed. Our train rumbled on. Outside the waning light had turned the snow-clad countryside blue.
‘What was the cause of his paralysis? It is not explained here,’ I said, gesturing to my own meagre folder. ‘As your doctor, I would know.’
‘The cause was a fall from a carriage at age twenty, during a country ride with a young lady. There were no apparent romantic liaisons after. He is now aged forty-four.’
‘Ten years older than you. May I see the photograph again?’
In it, the gaunt Prendergast peered haughtily over gold-rimmed glasses. I observed a Napoleonic ‘hand in waistcoat’ gesture, giving him an imperious air.
‘He appears quite the pedant,’ I said. ‘Or Francophile, perhaps. The classic Napoleon pose.’
Holmes smiled. ‘Pedantic, yes, but you mistake the second point, Watson. He is not imitating Napoleon here. That stance is derived from the ancient Greek, where it was thought bad form to orate with one’s hand outside one’s robes. He is merely reflecting the subject of his passion.’
‘Mmm. Thin. Emaciated, almost. The cocaine, possibly,’ I sighed. ‘You have not touched your sandwich, Holmes.’
He abruptly stopped smiling and turned back to his studies.
‘How convenient that Prendergast cannot easily be contacted,’ I added, frankly prodding. I was still puzzling over Holmes’s extreme reaction to the news of Prendergast’s therapy in Vienna. Had Mycroft actually gone so far as to orchestrate this?
‘I am sure you are curious about the silk industry,’ said Holmes, changing the subject.
‘Not very.’
‘Well, neither am I, but I must now familiarize myself further with the minutiae of the Earl’s failing business. Let me continue, please.’
Holmes returned to his studies and I turned to the window. Flat land with a wide, white sky above gradually transformed into rolling hills with fields bounded by snow-covered hedges. It became slightly hillier as we travelled north, drawing closer and closer to the Lakes and the border with Scotland. Barren old oaks rose around us, their black arms twisting grotesquely into the solid white of the air.
As Holmes continued to read, he grew troubled. Finally, he gasped and flung the papers aside, staring out into the darkness, turning his head away from me. If I did not know my friend better, I would have said he was hiding tears.
‘Holmes, what is the matter?’
He turned, startled, as though he had forgotten my presence. His face was a mask of sadness.
‘The tale is darker than I feared. Take a look at this,’ he said. He handed me three photographs.
They were images I will never forget. Three children, all dead, their tiny bodies crumpled into unnatural positions, one in the corner of what looked to be a horse’s stall, and two outside, partially covered by debris and leaves.
Bile rose in my throat. ‘Good God, Holmes! What is this?’
‘The labour infractions at the Earl’s mills involved illegal child labour, apparently boys conscripted from an orphanage, including the three boys in these photographs. Each went missing, and their bodies were discovered as you see them. A fourth child, in addition to these, has since disappeared.’
‘Who took these photographs?’ I asked.
‘Unknown. But these made their way to Mycroft anonymously, posted from a village some forty miles down the road.’
‘The children look as though they have been … discarded. Almost like rubbish!’ It was difficult to form the words.
Holmes’s face hardened. I have often thought that while he appeared to be a cold, reasoning machine, it was not precisely true. Rather, Holmes was a man of very deep feelings, yet able to compartmentalize his emotions when the situation demanded it.
The horror of these children’s fate seemed to energize my friend. From his valise he withdrew his theatrical make-up kit, laying out needed items on the seat beside him. He quickly began the subtle physical transformation into Prendergast, art historian célèbre.
In under an hour, he was unrecognizable. Masterfully, his disguise included details such as a colourful pocket square and shoes with unused soles. With hair whitened at the temples and rearranged, teeth slightly yellowed, and gold glasses on his nose, Holmes completed the ruse by subtly altering his posture and expression.
It was no longer Sherlock Holmes before me, but another man entirely.
‘Remarkable, Holmes,’ I said, attempting to shake off the disturbing images that had burned into my mind. ‘One of your finest disguises.’
Outside the shadows descended and the blue-white snow passing by our now frigid train compartment seemed to rise into the air in a perfect miasma of bone-chilling fog. I could not help myself; I shuddered.
‘Steady, Watson,’ said Holmes. I turned to face him and he leaned in to me, speaking softly. ‘There is great evil where we are going; you sense it and you are correct. Be at all times on your guard.’
I fingered the revolver in the pocket of my tweed coat. ‘I am ready, Holmes,’ I said.
He sat back, and with a strange smile, transformed once again into Prendergast. ‘Good man … Dr Laurel,’ he said, in a nasal voice.
Our train steamed onward as darkness fell.
PART FIVE
BELLY OF THE WHALE
‘Artists who seek perfection in everything are those who cannot attain it in anything.’
Eugène Delacroix
CHAPTER 15
Arrival
ur arrival at Clighton, Pellingham’s grand estate, went smoothly, with nothing out of the ordinary about it, if visiting an earl’s enormous estate in Lancashire could be deemed ordinary. While Holmes had travelled in such circles on many occasions, I had far less experience with the landed gentry.
Originally we were to change trains at Lancaster for a small local to take us to the nearest village, Penwick. However that local had been stalled in the recent snowfall. This information had apparently reached Clighton, and so when we disembarked at Lancaster, we were met there by gloved footmen and ushered into an ancient but handsome carriage, finely appointed and comfortable inside, with velvet cushions and lap blankets to protect us from the cold. Prendergast’s wheelchair was handily strapped behind, and we made off at a gallop for what turned out to be a full hour’s ride in the waning light.
The weather was fiercer in the northern reaches of Britain, and I was glad of my heavy overcoat and woollen scarf.
Lancashire as an area was largely unfamiliar to me. Bounded on the west by rugged sandy beaches, it was forlorn in fog and cold ocean winds. Our journey took us past mill towns, collieries, and several factories, spewing waste into the icy air. The depressing, meagre settlements surrounding them gave way eventually to hills dotted sparsely with trees.
&n
bsp; These began to grow in number until they formed deep forests, lending an air of timeless medieval England. The dark smoke of the factories faded to a thin fog which wisped through the black trees as our carriage rolled onward to the Earl’s estate.
Finally we emerged from the trees to find ourselves at the base of a bare hill – a pure, dark blue-white expanse of snow, probably a grassed and cleared area in warmer weather, at the top of which sat a grand house, Clighton. Palatial in size, and with windows glowing gold in the night, it seemed to be an amalgam of Gothic, Tudor, and Victorian styles. It exuded wealth, history, and idiosyncratic taste.
A long drive lined with elms formed the approach, and as we drove up through them in the darkness I was surprised to see – at this hour, and for only a visiting art historian – a small array of servants lined up by the door to greet us. Dressed only in their indoor livery, they stood shivering and conferring among themselves.
‘The Earl must have quite a high regard for you,’ I whispered to Holmes.
‘I neglected to mention, Watson,’ said Holmes, keeping his voice low as well, ‘Prendergast himself is a baron, hence the Earl’s trust in a peer. At least it helped, one might presume.’
‘A baron!’ I exclaimed.
‘Bestowed four years ago, for his services to the culture of the Empire,’ said Holmes. ‘Unfortunately, this means that, even as my physician, you must address me as “my lord”.’
‘Good of you to mention,’ I said. ‘Had you forgotten this?’
‘Of course not,’ he said with a grin. ‘Why rankle you longer than necessary?’
‘Oh, it rankles,’ I said. ‘And only because you will enjoy it so.’
‘One takes one’s small pleasures.’ He smiled. ‘Ah, I note a clandestine romance among the staff. No, two. But one has recently ended.’
‘How the devil—’
‘Watson, it is only too obvious. Do you see the blonde chambermaid with the curls, there, and the dark-haired valet two down from her in the row? He slipped her a note as he took his place in line, and she— ah!’
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