by Ashton, Hugh
“Excuse me,” enquired Holmes, a queer smile on his lips, “but are you from the North or the South of France?”
“I am from the South, but I do not see that it makes any difference to the matter in hand.”
“Not, perhaps, from the West, from the region of Bristol?” suggested Holmes.
Our visitor looked astounded. “How could you tell?” he exclaimed, all trace of the French accent now gone.
“There are certain tricks of the English language that seem almost impossible for Frenchmen to pick up – the aspiration of the letter ‘h’, for example. One other is the ‘th’ sound that you pronounce so perfectly. Certain of your vowels taught me of your possible link to the West Country. And when I see you with one of the latest English novels in your coat pocket, a title, moreover, that depends on the subtle play of words for much of its effect, I am forced to consider the possibility that your English language ability is much stronger than your original speech would suggest.”
Our visitor laughed out loud. “You have me to rights, Mr Holmes. But I assure you that in many ways I am indeed French. I have lived many years in the country and I speak it the language almost as well as I do English. My story is a simple one. Long ago, I served in the British Army as a cook, and I was sent to the Crimea to ply my trade. The meals I prepared were simple, and I shudder now to think of the bully beef and other food with which I served our soldiers there. But then a revelation came. Perhaps you have heard of M. Alexis Soyer?” Holmes and I both shook our heads. “He was the chef de cuisine at the Reform Club, and he came to the Crimea at his own expense to reform the food in our Army. I tell you, Mr Holmes, it opened my eyes.
“I knew then that I should learn as much as I could about the art of gastronomy. I begged Soyer, though I was a mere corporal at the time, to give me an introduction to his French colleagues so that I might apprentice myself to them. He was kind enough to encourage me in my desire. I proved an apt pupil, and adopted a French name – François Lefevre is the French version of my English name, Frank Smith – as I learned the French language and adopted French ways.
“I wished to spend my old age in this country and accordingly applied for the post of chef de cuisine in the Club when it became vacant. It appears better in this profession for me to pass as French, though of course my employers are aware of my English origin.”
“I see,” said Holmes, obviously amused by this tale. “I am sure that this sort of nom de cuisine, as it were, adds a certain respectability to your reputation. But let us return to your tale of the birds. Surely you could have visited your friend, this M. Gérard, following your meal, to enquire of him the meaning of this strange occurrence.”
“Believe me, Mr Holmes, that is exactly what I planned to do, once I had scanned the menu at the G— Hotel more carefully, and noticed two or three items on it that I had regarded as my personal property. Naturally, I did not order them to taste them, since I had already eaten my meal. Instead, I asked to see M. Gérard.”
“With what result?”
“This is what I cannot understand. I had arranged my visit for a Wednesday, as I usually do when dining at the G— Hotel. I know that M. Gérard is always present on that day, and after my meal, we usually sit together over a glass or two of cognac. When I had finished, I asked the waiter if I could speak with M. Gérard, and to my astonishment, I was informed that not only was he not present, but that he had not been present for the previous four days, without informing anyone that he was to be absent.”
“Surely the hotel had attempted to locate him at his lodging?”
“Indeed they had, but there was no answer when they knocked at his door, and his lodgings showed no sign of being occupied, according to the hotel manager with whom I spoke.”
“And no-one else to whom you spoke could tell you of the appearance of the dish on the menu?”
“No, they could not. I did, however, discover that it had only appeared one or two nights before – no-one seemed to be sure when this was. I appeared to be the only person who had ever ordered this meal. The hotel is not very busy at this season.”
“I am somewhat ignorant of the workings of a hotel,” said Holmes, “but it would seem to me that some training of the staff would be needed in order to produce an item so new to the menu.”
The other shook his head. “While the chef de cuisine and the sous-chef may remain as a permanent member of the establishment’s staff,” he explained, “the sauciers, entre-metiers, poissoniers, and so on may not work in one establishment for extended periods, and accordingly are used to working from written instructions to prepare the dishes. It is, I suppose, possible that one of my staff could have noted the instructions provided to them, copied the recipe, and passed it on to the G— Hotel. But in that case, they would have omitted the finishing touches that I myself add when certain of my original dishes are served.”
“Where do you keep the written recipes?” asked Holmes.
“They are in a book stored in a locked drawer of my office at the Club. I always keep the door to the office locked when I am not there. I will not say that it is impossible for anyone to have obtained access to them, but I have observed no signs that this has occurred.”
“We will investigate,” replied Holmes. “At what time would it be convenient for us to call on you at the Club?”
“If you were to call at about four o’clock this afternoon, I would almost be certain to give you some time.”
“Excellent. We will ask for M. Lefevre, rather than Mr Smith, of course?”
“Of course,” replied the other, smiling. “One more question. Your fee?”
“Have confidence that my services will be well within your financial grasp,” Holmes assured him.
“That is some relief. And now I shall bid you adieu until this afternoon,” he replied, rising from his seat and leaving us.
“A pretty little problem,” remarked Holmes. “Your thoughts, Watson?”
But he was never to hear my incomplete musings on the matter. As I started to frame my reply, the door to our room burst open, and Inspector Lanner of the Metropolitan Police, a junior colleague of Inspector Lestrade, stood framed in the entrance, panting a little. His red face was covered with perspiration, and his entire body, which tended towards corpulence, shook somewhat as he panted heavily.
Sherlock Holmes had worked with Lanner on several cases before this, and on those occasions I had been struck by the contrast that I had observed between the brilliant amateur, constantly seeking and retaining clues to the solution of the problem, and the more pedestrian efforts of the professional.
“Mr Holmes,” burst out the police officer. “Forgive the intrusion, but I am at my wit’s end, and I would appreciate your help in solving a crime that, quite frankly, horrifies and baffles me.”
“Why the hurry, Inspector?” replied Holmes, lazily stretching his legs towards the fender. “Sit down, catch your breath, and take your time.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes, I will,” replied the little man, accepting Holmes’ invitation, and seating himself in an armchair. “Truth to tell, I have encountered a particularly horrid crime, and it has shaken my nerves not a little.
“Here, take this,” offered Holmes, extending a glass of brandy and water to the Inspector who, in truth, did appear to be badly affected by whatever had occurred. His cheeks were heavily flushed, and his whole demeanour was one of a man who has been severely shaken by an event out of the everyday round of experience.
“Thank you,” replied Lanner. “It goes against my usual habits to take a drink at this hour of the day, but in this instance...” He emptied the glass as if it were medicine, and his face resumed a more normal hue as his breathing slowed. “This is a murder, Mr Holmes. A murder such as I have never seen before, and I pray God I will never again encounter.”
Holmes lounged back in his chair, his keen eyes hooded, but keeping an alert watch on the official detective.
“We were called in,” continued La
nner, “by a neighbour of the dead man, who had complained of the smell emanating from the room. He had complained to the constable on the beat, who smashed down the locked door, and encountered what can only be described as a charnel-house. The limbs of the victim had been severed from the torso, apparently with an axe or some similar implement, and the whole room was a mass of blood and flies. The insects had apparently multiplied in this recent warm weather we have been experiencing. On beholding this sight, the constable, not unnaturally, felt unwell, but had the presence of mind to summon the detectives of Scotland Yard. I tell you, Mr Holmes, I have just come from the place, and I cannot bring myself to remember it without a shudder.”
“Is everything as it was when the constable opened the door?” asked Holmes.
“Believe me, Mr Holmes, there is not a man on the Force who would want to touch anything there. It is certain that this will have to be done, but I am unsure how and by whom this will be accomplished. I dare not invite any of my colleagues to share this horror, and I have some hesitation in requesting your assistance, but since you have been of some assistance to us in the past, I felt that perhaps you might be willing to...”
“Lanner, though we have not worked together on many occasions, I think you know my reputation well enough to know that I will be happy to assist you,” answered Holmes.
“I warn you, it is pretty bad,” said Lanner seriously. “Doctor Watson, will you come along? I fear that the police surgeon may be somewhat out of his depth, and I hardly dare to call Sir Justin Thorpe-Monteith, the pathologist, to the scene of the crime.”
“I have seen terrible things on active service,” I replied. “I will come.”
“My thanks for your assistance. I have ordered some long butcher’s coats to be in readiness for us, which I recommend we wear at the location. I assume that neither of you has any wish to end up covered in blood. I confess I was confident enough of your assistance, Mr Holmes, and that of Doctor Watson here, that I have ordered three such coats.”
“Thank you for your consideration,” Holmes replied. “Before we set off, I would appreciate your giving me any information about the man who has been killed and the place where we are going.”
“We will be going to a boarding house in Dean Street in Soho,” replied Lanner. “As to the man’s identity, he is a Frenchman, according to his landlord, employed at the G— Hotel as the chief cook there – the chef de cuisine is his official title, I believe.”
“That would be a Monsieur Gérard, I believe,” remarked Holmes.
Lanner dropped his notebook, from which he had been reading these facts, in consternation. “You are correct there,” he stammered. “How in the world could you possibly know that? Do you have some sort of supernatural powers?”
“I cannot deceive you, since the case is of such a serious nature. The gentleman was the subject of a discussion held in this very room a matter of minutes before your entrance. There is nothing of the supernatural involved.”
Lanner looked at Holmes quizzically. “In what regard was he mentioned?” he asked.
“It was remarked by my client that he had been missing from his place of work for several days, and no-one was aware of his whereabouts.”
“The poor devil was probably killed a few days ago,” confirmed Lanner. “So your mystery seems to be solved.”
“Not all of it,” replied Holmes. “And it would appear that you are bringing us a new mystery of your own. Let us be off, then, and inspect the scene of the crime.”
-oOo-
Before entering the room, Holmes, Lanner and I donned the white coats that had been provided. On opening the door, Lanner disclosed to us a scene of carnage and butchery that quite turned my stomach. The stench of decay was considerable, and it was all I could do to maintain my composure. The Scotland Yard detective, though he already knew of the horror within, was obviously likewise suffering, and even Holmes, whom I had thought impervious to such scenes, blanched and hesitated as he stepped across the threshold. A swarm of flies lifted themselves from the blood-soaked floor at the sound of our steps.
As we had been informed, the limbs had been savagely hacked from the naked body and distributed about the room, with gore staining seemingly every surface. The eyes of the corpse were still open, and appeared to be glaring at us with a ferocity that was almost inhuman. The face was livid, and appeared to be somewhat distorted in its expression, though it was possible to see that the dead man had been a handsome figure, somewhat stocky in build, aged about forty years, with dark hair cut short, and just beginning to turn grey at the temples. A small goatee beard adorned the chin, and a neatly waxed moustache graced the upper lip.
Holmes, whose nerves seemed to have recovered from the initial shock caused by the sight of the horrendous contents of the room, stooped and examined the left arm, lying in the centre of the room. He withdrew a lens from the kit bag he carried, and peered through it at the severed shoulder joint. He then moved to the other arm, lying beneath a deal chair, and repeated the operation.
“I would draw your attention to the way in which these have been removed,” he said to Lanner.
“I am no anatomist,” replied the police detective. “Your observations are wasted on me.”
“Watson, then,” he replied.
I suppressed my disgust at the sight of the dismembered corpse, and examined the severed joint. “This hardly the way we learned the art of dissection at Bart’s,” I remarked. “For one thing, I would guess that the instrument was not a surgical tool of any description. It would seem to me that an axe or some sort of similar instrument was employed.”
“I would concur with that judgement,” said Holmes. “Is there anything else that you observe?”
“The method of detaching the arm would appear to be the work of someone other than a trained surgeon. In fact, it looks almost like the work of a butcher.”
“Bravo, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes. “I think you have reached the same conclusion as myself.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lanner.
“Consider the dead man’s occupation,” replied Holmes, a little testily. “Come, man, think.”
The policeman appeared to be somewhat discomfited by this, but nodded. “So you believe the dead man’s killer was in some way connected to his work as a cook? He was murdered by someone in the same line of business?”
“The evidence I have observed so far would tend to argue that to be the case,” replied Holmes. “Something of which you are not aware is the fact that the hotel kitchen supervised by the dead man served up a dish whose recipe up until that time had been regarded as a professional secret. The client who visited me just before your arrival claimed that the recipe had been stolen from him.”
“You are now providing both a motive and means for your client,” pointed out Lanner. “If he is a cook, and there was some sort of rivalry between him and the dead man, we only lack the opportunity.”
“I trust that you are mistaken, but in any event, I would suggest searching the room now,” commented Holmes. “It may be that we will discover something of interest here that will serve to confirm your theory – or otherwise. While you and I are thus engaged, Watson, if you have a mind to do so, will you examine the body and make any notes that may occur to you?”
Lanner’s face fell somewhat at this suggestion, and I have to admit that the prospect of conducting a search in that apartment of death would have filled me with a sense of disgust. “Could it not wait?” he asked Holmes.
“Certainly it could wait,” replied my friend equably. “If you are prepared to risk losing the scent in this case, naturally it can wait.”
I considered Holmes’ remarks regarding scent to be in poor taste, considering the reek that pervaded the room, but it appeared that he was unconscious of any play on words.
“Very good, then,” Lanner grudgingly agreed. “Let us proceed with the search. I hope you will not withhold from us anything that you may discover.”
“I
nspector Lanner,” retorted Holmes stiffly. “I trust that your colleagues with whom I have worked in the past, such as Lestrade and Gregson, have acquainted you with me and my methods sufficiently for you to be confident that I invariably share any clues that I may discover with you and your colleagues. Furthermore, in the event that I solve a case and the police, for whatever reason, fail to do so, I do not seek the public credit for the solution. I would remind you that it is you who sought my assistance on this occasion, and not I yours. Work with me in a spirit of cooperation, and not against me in a spirit of competition, and the business will proceed in a much smoother fashion.”
Thus admonished, Lanner, drawing on a pair of fine rubber gloves which had been provided along with the white coats we were wearing, started to open drawers and search within. Holmes followed his example as I bent over the body.
“Here,” called Holmes. “Do you see this?” He pointed to the table, which he had been examining with a high powered lens.
“I see some breadcrumbs,” replied Lanner.
“Ah, but that is where you are mistaken,” retorted my friend. “Pray use my glass and then tell me if these are breadcrumbs.”
With a bad grace, Lanner took the lens and peered through it. “Maybe not bread,” he admitted.
“Certainly not bread,” replied Holmes. “May I?” he asked, retrieving a small envelope from his pocket, and making as if to sweep the crumbs into it.
“Why should I object?”
“This, my dear Inspector, may prove to be evidence,” said Holmes, shaking his head sadly. “I take it, then, that the Metropolitan Police will not concern itself with these trifles.”
“You are welcome to whatever rubbish you may find,” replied the other.
