Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘The McLaren family is or will be en route shortly to the South of France where they winter each year in the vicinity of Nice. This year it is the new Grand Hôtel du Cap Eden Roc in Antibes. Did your client fail to mention this? I wonder why she came to see you? It is a curious coincidence.’

  ‘She came on another matter. a domestic intrigue. And she is not my client, as I turned down the case.’

  ‘Dear me! If you are declining cases left and right, how wrong I was to imagine you in straitened circumstances, dear brother.’

  Holmes actually turned scarlet at this jab.

  ‘In any case, you are free to travel,’ Mycroft said.

  ‘No, Mycroft. Watson, call for our coats, please.’

  I stood.

  ‘Our Monsieur Reynaud fears that an attack on Dr Janvier is imminent. It seems precisely your kind of case, Sherlock. Protect an innocent who advances science.’ Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette and sipped his coffee. He smiled kindly at his brother. I immediately thought of a mongoose.

  ‘I said no.’ Holmes leaned forward, stubbing his own cigarette into the ashtray in the centre of the table. Without shifting position, and with a dexterity I could scarcely credit, Mycroft suddenly thrust his arm forward and clapped his large hand over Holmes’s long thin one, slamming it into the ashtray and onto the still smouldering cigarette. And there he held it. I could not believe what I was seeing.

  His hand unmoving, Mycroft’s voice remained warm and friendly. ‘Consider the plight of this man, Dr Janvier, Sherlock. He is brilliant, a genius with few friends. A naïf in a certain way. But his work is vital, with economic and political repercussions. I assure you, no British official wishes him dead.’

  He continued to hold his hand clamped over Holmes’s. My friend indicated nothing, but I could see the sweat beading on his brow. With a sudden move, I took up the coffee pot and poured a small splash of hot coffee on Mycroft’s hand. With a cry he released Holmes and the two sprung back from the table, each cradling an injured hand.

  ‘So sorry, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘As long as we are discussing saving wine and Western civilization, might we not be a little more civilized ourselves?’ I said.

  ‘And there is my point, Sherlock. Paul-Édouard Janvier has no Watson. Do this for me, will you not, little brother? You are uniquely suited. England will thank you. I will thank you, and a certain august personage at Windsor will certainly be grateful.’

  From his pocket Mycroft now withdrew a large, thick envelope and placed it on the table. ‘You will be needing an advance, of course. Report to me daily on your progress.’

  Holmes stared at the envelope in disdain. But he then looked away thoughtfully, and to my surprise, reconsidered.

  ‘I will do it, Mycroft, for this man Dr Janvier. But not for you,’ said Holmes. He reached down and flicked the envelope back across the table to Mycroft. ‘Keep your advance. Pay me when the case is closed.’

  Mycroft smiled and sat down, delicately wiping the coffee from his hand with a white linen napkin. ‘Dr Watson, you have been little challenged of late. Might you break free from the marital bonds to accompany my brother on a trip to the Riviera?’

  Little challenged! Had I been watched as well? Holmes glanced my way with a nod of encouragement. ‘This can be arranged,’ said I. ‘My dear Mary has some obligations herself, you see, as she has to—’

  ‘Capital! The 4.15 from Waterloo, the day after tomorrow,’ said Mycroft. ‘Tickets, and a packet of information will be at Baker Street within the hour. You may change your mind later about the advance, Sherlock. Meanwhile, enjoy the South of France. The sunshine will do you both good.’

  He glanced in my direction. ‘But do stay away from the casino, Dr Watson.’

  I could feel my cheeks colouring at this comment. ‘I have given up gambling,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said both brothers simultaneously.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Mycroft.

  I will admit to a curious, if not longing glance at that thick envelope as we departed.

  Back on the street my friend was in a dark humour. The snow was coming down in a fury now, and I looked about for a cab.

  ‘Your brother is mad,’ I remarked. ‘And you are not far behind.’

  ‘No, Watson. He is just a type you have not encountered. He is … effective. But I am generally ahead of him, and will be quicker next time.’

  Quicker? What kind of family spawned these two?

  ‘Why did you not take the money?’ I asked.

  ‘I dislike taking payment in advance,’ said he. ‘It changes the equation.’

  But in this he was inconsistent, as in so many things. At last I spotted a free cab. I would use my last coins if need be to get out of this weather. Holmes preferred to walk, and as the cab departed I looked back to see his thin, lone figure vanish in the swirling snow. Whatever awaited us in the South of France, it would include sunshine. Of that, and only that, I was certain.

  CHAPTER 5

  Nice

  s Mycroft had decreed, Holmes and I began our journey two days later. Passing through Dover, we traversed the channel and our train wended its way south through France. Holmes buried himself obsessively in notes and newspaper clippings on the phylloxera epidemic, and the Scottish families named as suspects in the threats to Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. I, on the other hand, could not help but wonder about Mrs Isla McLaren, and her curious tale. That the McLarens featured in two cases presented to Holmes within twenty-four hours intrigued me. But Holmes was not willing to converse, and so I passed the time buried in Mary Shelley’s intriguing novel inspired by Galvani’s electrical experimentation. We thus passed the journey in companionable silence.

  Our route took us through the Loire valley where Holmes disembarked unexpectedly at the city of Tours. ‘I have arranged to meet with someone who may assist us in this case,’ he explained ‘Would you be so good, Watson, as to carry on to Nice and attempt to make contact with Isla McLaren?’

  ‘Certainly, Holmes. But why?’

  ‘In light of the suspicions about the McLarens and the threats to Dr Janvier, the coincidence of her recent visit grows even more curious.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘If she still wishes to engage me, perhaps you might get her to invite us to dine with her family. If not, I will think of something.’

  I still did not fully understand his motive but I will admit that the prospect of seeing this fascinating young woman as a client was intriguing. ‘Shall I wander, then, by the Grand Hôtel du Cap?’ I asked.

  ‘No. It is in a secluded location, and our contact must appear to be serendipitous. I have it from a reliable source that the lady walks daily along the Promenade des Anglais and enjoys shopping in Nice. I suggest you frequent the Promenade and keep an eye peeled. I will follow later and will step in if needed.’ He smiled at me. ‘Though with your wide-ranging experience with the fair sex, I hardly doubt you will be successful.’

  ‘I am married now, Holmes,’ I said with a bit of pique.

  ‘You needn’t remind me.’

  There were worse assignments, certainly, and I carried on with enthusiasm, despite Holmes’s curt refusal to elaborate further on his own immediate plans. He did, however, specify a hotel in Nice where we would be lodged for free, he said, due to his special relationship with the hotel detective. That was a relief as I had little money with me.

  Arriving in the bright sunshine of Nice, my spirits lifted. It was a welcome change from the relentless grey and dismal snow of London. During my short ride from the station, I was struck by the difference in the air – the tang of fresh ocean breezes blended with warm smells of garlic, flowers and baking bread.

  I soon arrived at the Hôtel Du Beau Soleil. The ivory stone façade, which sparkled in the sun, promised glamour, but inside, the dim and faded lobby with its scuffed marble floors and drooping ferns spoke of better days. My hopes plummeted further when I opened the door to the one room allotted to
us both. It was a cramped, dingy space with two single beds, hard and uninviting. To make matters worse, the single window opened over the rubbish bins, their ripe odour quite pungent. I slammed it shut.

  This was not quite the holiday glamour I had anticipated.

  Holmes had said the hotel detective might consult him on one or two issues in exchange for free lodging. He should only get half an issue for this sorry room, I thought. However I had a mission to accomplish, and soon wandered several blocks down towards the seaside, and the famous Promenade des Anglais.

  What a sight! A vivid azure sky topped a deep turquoise ocean. Palm trees and bright flowers competed with the equally colourful frocks of a number of very attractive ladies. Below me, extending out at the end of a long pier stood one of Nice’s famed casinos, its exotic Byzantine architecture evoking something between a Russian Orthodox church and a carnival.

  Nearby, children devoured fruit ices, and the rich scent of coffee enticed me to purchase a hot cup from a small stand. The air was cooler than I had thought, but the sun warmed the skin. It was an instant balm to my spirits, and I felt myself begin to relax.

  I had a twinge of regret that Mary was not with me here to enjoy this beautiful city. She had loved Brighton and longed for another restorative, peaceful sojourn together. The seaside was her preference, calm and soothing. But my gaze returned to the casino, and I could not help but feel a small thrill of anticipation. Perhaps I might have time to slip away and try my hand at baccarat, if a few extra francs came my way.

  But finding Isla McLaren was my goal, and I spent the next hour or two walking, wondering where might be the best place to spot my quarry. Eventually I grew discouraged and stopped at another stand, considering a second coffee.

  I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder. I turned and there stood the lady herself! She was attired for a holiday in a fetching navy and white striped dress with a matching parasol and hat. Her skin and hair were glowing in the slanted sunlight of late afternoon.

  ‘Dr Watson, what a pleasant surprise!’ she exclaimed, examining me with her forthright and penetrating gaze. ‘I hardly expected to find you in Nice.’

  ‘Nor I you,’ I lied. ‘How lovely to see you here, Mrs McLaren. Are you wintering here by chance? It is wonderful to escape the snow, is it not?’

  ‘We are, and yes, it is, Dr Watson, though I doubt you are here for a holiday. Mr Holmes seems hardly the type.’ She looked around me. ‘He is here with you, is he not?’

  ‘Er, yes, in Nice.’

  ‘Are you following us?’

  ‘Why do you think that? You did not tell us you would be here.’

  ‘Do not be coy, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes has his methods, you write about them. If he wished to know where I had gone, he would easily find out. Let me see. If you are not following us, you two must be on a case. No doubt something more compelling than my own sad story of the sheared little parlour maid?’

  ‘You look quite lovely, by the way. Your hat—’

  ‘All right, then, Doctor.’ She fingered her velvet hat with its jaunty white ostrich feather, and smiled, coquettishly. ‘Thank you, kind sir. My hat is French, bought only this morning. They do these chapeaux only too well.’

  She dropped the act and took my arm. ‘Now, do you mind? There is news about Fiona. I should like to bring you up to date. Shall we stroll?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said I. ‘If Mr McLaren would not object.’

  ‘He is not the jealous type.’

  She took my arm and we sauntered along the Promenade. The sun gave Mrs McLaren’s chestnut hair bright copper highlights, and the frames of her small gold spectacles glinted as she spoke. I wondered anew why Holmes had turned her away so abruptly.

  ‘I shall come straight to the point,’ said the lady. ‘When I returned to Scotland from London, I found that Fiona had disappeared again and no one knew where she had gone. The laird hesitated to leave for France yesterday with mystery hanging in the air, but then a note was found. She seems to have eloped with the groundsman’s son.’

  Eloped. ‘Well that is certainly good news,’ I said.

  ‘The family is greatly relieved. Fiona had been so upset by what had happened to her that she could not function. Though we may never know what precisely did happen.’

  ‘Well, then, it was certainly a domestic intrigue, as Holmes surmised. What brings you to Nice?’

  ‘I told you, Dr Watson. We winter here in the South of France.’

  ‘Yes, but I mean specifically here, in Nice, today. The Grand Hôtel du Cap is more than an hour from here.’

  She stopped walking and just stared at me. Her voice turned icy. ‘Then Mr Holmes is tracking the family. How do you know we are staying at the Grand Hôtel du Cap?’

  ‘Well, the Grand Hôtel du Cap … I just presumed you would be in the best hotel in the area,’ said I, realising my gaffe.

  She looked unconvinced. I knew I was in trouble and went on the offensive. ‘Well, I might then ask you how you managed to discover me here, on the Promenade? That is certainly serendipitous.’

  ‘In fact, it was exactly that, Dr Watson. I came in for some shopping. You see?’ She opened a large canvas bag she had been carrying which contained some brightly embroidered linens, and then tapped her new hat. ‘We have only just arrived and it is always how I spend my first day.’

  As Holmes had said, of course. ‘Forgive me,’ I said.

  ‘Forgiven,’ she said with a smile, taking my arm. We resumed our walk. ‘Though I do not give up easily, Dr Watson. I know full well that the McLarens are under a cloud of suspicion of having to do with the phylloxera epidemic and some vague threats to the research. I do not see it myself. The laird is not the warmest of men but he is not an evil man. His elder son, Charles, has not the courage or brains to have engineered such a thing, which began some years ago, anyway, and my Alistair thinks the notion of the epidemic being man-made is foolish and impossible. Nevertheless we have been questioned and I would not be surprised if your Mr Holmes was sent to investigate us.’

  This young woman was making me nervous, and I am not a nervous man. The McLarens were most certainly on Holmes’s agenda.

  ‘No, he has been sent on another matter,’ I said, thinking that investigating Vidocq made this at least partly true. ‘Would you care for a fruit ice?’

  ‘Dr Watson, you are a very poor liar.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘I noticed a book on phylloxera on his table in Baker Street. The research on this pest is centred in Montpellier. When do you plan to visit?’ The lady stood looking at me, her blue and white dress now billowing in the sea breeze. She held on to her feathered hat with one hand and smiled at me.

  ‘The wind is coming up, madam, perhaps it would be best if—’

  ‘That is all right. Let me help you. Dr Watson. I would wager my last shilling that you are here on the business of the French wine industry. What you fail to understand is that I am on your side. I brought the dynamite to you, did I not? If there is something amiss in my family, I am as interested as you or Mr Holmes to discover it.’

  ‘I really do not know what to say, Mrs McLaren.’

  ‘I will make sure you and Mr Holmes are invited to dine with us at the Grand Hôtel du Cap. It is a stunning hotel, and as you said, the best in the area. You will at least be certain of a wonderful dinner.’

  My luck was changing. ‘Well, perhaps—’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Beau Soleil, here in Nice.’

  ‘Hmm, I have not heard of it. Dr Watson, will you hail me a cab, please? It is growing chilly and I should like to return to my hotel. You can expect an invitation soon.’ Stepping into the street, I easily procured a cab for her, and as she mounted it, she turned and gave me a small wave.

  How very curious, I thought. If it were not so illogical, I might entertain the thought that she was pursuing us, or Holmes, for some unfathomable reason. But the wind had picked up, and I was dressed lightly. I shivered and turn
ed back to the Beau Soleil.

  Some hours later, after a fitful nap and dinner in the modest hotel restaurant, I returned to the room to find Holmes stretched out, catlike on one of the wretched beds.

  ‘Ah, Watson. I see from your expression that you have been successful,’ he cried. ‘And so have I. Your news first!’

  ‘Yes, I found the lady almost immediately, or rather she found me,’ I said. ‘She had her shopping with her. But she seemed to suspect that we are on the trail of her family regarding this vineyard problem! Why she could possibly—’

  ‘Watson, Mrs McLaren is observant. Remember that she espied the miniature still on my table in Baker Street and likely the phylloxera materials as well. It is not a very far leap to infer my involvement.’

  ‘I suppose. Holmes, let us leave this room and take some air.’

  In a few moments we were on a rooftop terrace with glasses of Pernod. There was almost a view of the ocean, if somewhat marred by intervening buildings in various stages of disrepair. Ours was not precisely a first-class hotel.

  ‘If only I had known of the suspicions surrounding the McLarens, I might have taken Isla McLaren’s case then,’ said Holmes. ‘No matter, I shall take her case now.’

  ‘Too late. The maid Fiona seems to have eloped with the groundsman’s son. There was a note.’

  ‘A shame. I could have used that as our entry point—’

  ‘In any case, Holmes, Mrs McLaren said we would be invited to dinner. Just as you had hoped.’

  Holmes reacted strangely to this. ‘This is rather more convenient than it should be. And yet I do not believe in coincidences. I wonder about her agenda.’

  ‘She did know that her family is suspected of interference in the phylloxera research.’

  Holmes started at this. ‘Interesting. I am surprised she did not mention it in Baker Street.’

  ‘But what of your detour in Tours? Did you accomplish what you hoped?’

  Holmes’s meeting, as it turned out, had been with a man we knew from an earlier case. This supremely wealthy and powerful gentleman had, since our dealings with him, bought a château and vineyard in the Loire Valley, in order to be nearer a certain French singer of our acquaintance with whom he was most painfully in love. Her name was Cherie Cerise, or Mademoiselle Emmeline La Victoire, as we had known her.