‘Well, your method bears some explanation,’ said the laird. ‘But you may very well have hit the nail on the head. Has he, Charles?’ Charles said nothing but reddened. Poor Catherine looked down at her lap and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. Alistair offered Charles his seat with a flourish and the elder brother duly changed places and sat, glowering.
The laird laughed, although with some discomfort. ‘Well, then, you have just given us confirmation, son. You must learn discretion.’ He turned to Holmes. ‘And how did you come to this theory? Pardon us, Catherine.’
‘They are not theories,’ began Holmes. ‘They are—’
‘I am no philanderer!’ exclaimed ‘Chimney’. He turned to Holmes in a fury, and pounded his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. ‘Be damned man, I will not have my name besmirched.’
‘I am merely acting at your father’s behest,’ said Holmes quietly.
‘Hmph. I see that you are right,’ said the laird. ‘Charles, you reveal yourself piteously. Get control. Mr Holmes, I demand to know your reasoning. What are the clues?’
‘Perhaps it would be best—’
‘Sir, I insist.’
Holmes shrugged, and then turned on his considerable charm. The malice beneath it was obvious to me but masked, I hoped, to others. I glanced at Isla McLaren. Her look of alarm told me I was mistaken. At least one other saw what was ahead.
‘It was quite simple. Obvious, really,’ said Holmes. He turned back to Charles. ‘Your wife called you by your nickname earlier when you arose to speak to that waiter. Softly, but I heard it. Your shifting in your chair, obvious discomfort, and the placement of a small pillow to support your lumbar region – none of the rest of the chairs has one – and your particular manner of eyeing the flaxen-haired young woman pouring coffee, and your wife’s observation of this tells me what I need to know. Perhaps your back condition is not due to riding horses, but some other strain. You must take care. And then, the gambling—’
His furious wife stifled a gasp. Holmes turned to her. ‘By the way, you, my dear lady, must see a doctor and soon. The slight palsy in your hand and your pale face indicate lead poisoning. It could be the use of an inauspicious cosmetic, and made all the worse by drink. Perhaps Doctor Watson could be of service.’
The laird shifted in his chair. ‘Catherine, see to it, my dear. I will not have you failing when the McLaren clan needs wee ones for our future. We look to you and Isla for an heir. Get yourself in hand.’
He then turned to Holmes. ‘Well, I do not quite know what to say. But that is simple observation, after all. Anyone might have noticed these things.’
‘But anyone did not,’ said Holmes. ‘My methods always seem trivial when explained. If you wish me to continue, I will not offer further explanation.’
‘But then where is the fun?’ asked the laird.
‘Indeed I do not know,’ said Holmes.
‘You are a charlatan!’ said the eldest brother. He turned to his father. ‘There’s no magic here. He has investigated us beforehand; I am sure of it. That I gambled before is well known, but those days are past. He has simply read things and now is making up stories!’
Alistair turned towards us. ‘Hmm. It is true that you are gratuitously insulting. What is your game?’
He turned a fierce stare upon my friend.
‘No agenda, gentlemen,’ said Holmes, lightly. ‘Recall that it was the laird who invited us here. As to reading, yes, of course I have read up on all the great families of Britain. I make it my business to know those who play a role in business and society.’
And crime, I was thinking. Although I wondered if Holmes had taken more interest in Isla McLaren’s story than I originally suspected. Might our two days’ delay have given him time to research this family?
‘Father,’ said Isla, ‘this is a dangerous recreation. I recommend we instead ask Mr Holmes or Dr Watson to entertain us with an account of one of their more interesting cases.’
‘Aye!’ chorused everyone at the table.
The decision rested with the patriarch, who clearly ruled his extended family with a velvet-clad iron hand. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. ‘All right then. Enough. The purse is yours, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes stood up. I joined him and began to gather the sovereigns into their little suede bag. The laird smiled at me.
‘At least one of you has sense,’ he said. ‘And I apologize to you. You were doing nothing more than obliging my request. Please stay for dessert.’
But Holmes remained standing as I leaned across him to pick up the last of the prize. ‘Thank you, no,’ he said. ‘Come, Watson. And thank you, your Lordship for a most interesting evening,’ he added with a straight face and nod of his head.
Holmes signalled to one of the waiters for our coats. As he did so, a large platter was brought in with much fanfare. It was covered with a silver dome, and this dome was tied onto the platter with a copious amount of ribbon looped into a frothy bow on top, in which fresh flowers were arranged. Flowers were also strewn around the plate rim.
An envelope rested on the front of the dome and the entire thing was placed before the laird.
The headwaiter bowed. ‘A gift. Dessert, sir.’
He withdrew. The laird stared at the thing for a moment. Whatever this dessert was, it had been chilled, as condensation appeared on the silver dome. ‘Something frozen, then! What do you think?’
‘A bombe!’ said Charles.
At my confused look, Isla McLaren offered. ‘It is a frozen ice cream dessert, Dr Watson, in a round shape. Very popular here in France.’
There was nervous laughter. Holmes and I exchanged a glance.
‘Yes, ice cream, and delicious. Sit down, gentlemen, please, and enjoy it with us,’ said the laird with a smile that must have melted many a female heart. ‘No more games.’
I glanced at the younger Mrs McLaren. Her look silently beseeched us to stay.
I tugged at Holmes’s elbow and he flashed me an angry look. ‘Come on, Holmes, be a sport.’ I whispered and sat down. He remained standing. But now he was staring at the platter in a curious manner.
‘Did that come from the kitchen?’ he asked suddenly. But the waiter had retreated and no reply was forthcoming.
‘Wait, the note! Who sent it?’ The laird opened the envelope and shrugged.
‘Empty,’ said he, waving it aloft. He tossed it aside, took up his knife, and flicked it through the ribbons. ‘Chocolate, then? Or strawberry?’ he mused.
‘Leave it!’ shouted Holmes.
But the laird ignored him and lifted off the dome. A round, snow-white object lay on the platter. It was covered with a light layer of frost that caught the light in a shimmer.
Something strange, not ice cream.
And then I recognized it. It was, God help us, a frozen, human head.
There was a moment of dead silence.
‘Fiona?’ said the laird in a small voice.
A scream went up around the room. Both sons leapt to their feet, and Charles’s wife Catherine pitched forward onto the table in a dead faint. Isla McLaren sat stunned.
The laird dropped the dome with a clatter onto the floor and stared at the head before him. He had gone as white as the frozen orb. I was transfixed in horror at the awful thing.
The head lolled on the platter, suddenly revealing the young face. It was deathly pale, ice crystals in the red eyelashes, the beautiful features frozen in open-mouthed astonishment. The head was completely bald, snow tipped, ethereal.
Isla McLaren leaned in for a closer look and stifled a gasp. She turned beseeching eyes to us. ‘Mr Holmes!’ she cried. ‘It is Fiona!’
I turned to my friend. Like a hawk on a promontory who has finally spotted its prey he stood charged and unmoving, every cell aquiver with attention. All eyes went to him.
‘No one move,’ commanded Sherlock Holmes.
CHAPTER 9
The Staff of Death
ll eyes were on the d
etective as he approached the platter. He removed his magnifying glass and with the detachment so characteristic of him in such moments, began to inspect the frozen monstrosity close up, moving in to get a better look. The room was silent except for stifled murmurs of panic. Charles stood, his hand covering his mouth to suppress vomiting. Alistair gently helped Catherine to sit up in her chair, his own face a mask of revulsion.
‘Holmes,’ I said.
He glanced up at me and I gestured to the waiting group. An overturned water glass dripped onto the floor in a steady rhythm. A clock over the fireplace ticked loudly. Every face was ashen and tinged with revulsion. Charles McLaren gagged and turned away. The laird was vibrating with shock. Holmes shrugged and looked back down at the hideous apparition.
‘Laird McLaren,’ said Holmes. ‘Please send the ladies to their rooms.’
The laird seized control of himself and he and Alistair gently guided the two women towards the exit. His younger daughter-in-law paused at the door. ‘I should like to remain,’ said she.
‘I know, my dear,’ said the laird, and seemed to consider this briefly. ‘But no, Isla,’ he said. ‘Help Catherine, if you would. Waiter!’ He signalled to a waiter hovering in the hallway. ‘Escort the ladies to their rooms, please.’ He closed the door behind them. Only the men remained. I studied each in turn. Charles coughed, fighting the urge to vomit. Alistair was grim, shaking his head slowly back and forth as if in denial. Holmes continued to examine the frozen object, now picking up a large serving fork and moving it gently. It rolled nauseatingly on the platter. ‘Doctor?’ he said. I joined him. He handed me the glass.
Despite my years on the battlefield, I shivered in revulsion. Close up, the ghastly white globe with its lifeless eyes and melting frost was unworldly, unreal, and utterly terrifying. Death in itself is only natural, but this death was anything but.
Strangely, there were burn marks on the severed edges of the neck. From heat or cold I could not tell. I turned the head over. It appeared to be frozen solid. I pressed the skin on the face, directly under the left eye. It was just beginning to defrost and gave to my pressure only slightly, but felt deeply frozen just below the surface.
The room remained silent. Time stood still. Bile rose in my gorge. I called upon my training and steeled myself to examine it further. But in its present state, and disembodied, there was little I could tell.
The lips were parted and I attempted to view the tongue. Holmes stared at me, waiting. So did everyone at the table. I shook my head, not wanting to say more in company.
As I continued my careful examination of the head, Holmes asked of the laird, ‘You can confirm the identity of this unfortunate young person?’
‘It is Fiona Paisley. A young servant at our estate,’ said the laird in a strangled voice. ‘Isla was correct.’
‘You are certain?’ asked Holmes. I glanced up and he was taking in the group with that particular piercing regard. He was searching for a reaction, of that I was certain.
‘Of course it is she. It could be no other! We all know her!’ cried Charles.
‘Mr Holmes! I wish you to investigate this matter,’ said the laird. He paused, struggling to control his emotions, and clearly unused to the need to apologize. ‘I did not mean to make light of your gifts. Sir, will you take this case?’
Holmes waivered. But, to give him credit, for only an instant. ‘I will investigate the delivery of the remains here tonight. It will have to be done in concert with the local police. As to the rest, I will give you my answer in the morning.’
The laird nodded. ‘Gentlemen, give Mr Holmes your full cooperation.’
‘I do not wish to remain in the room with that gruesome relic,’ said Alistair. ‘The head was brought here while we were all at table. It was not one of us, clearly!’
‘It is true,’ said the laird in a choked voice. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we all returned to our rooms. The shock—’
Holmes abruptly pocketed his glass. ‘Gentlemen, no. I will follow up in the kitchen while the trail may still be warm. But I ask you to wait here while I do so.’
The laird began to object but Holmes silenced him with a finger to his lips. ‘Sit,’ he commanded. ‘All of you. And do not leave this room. That is, if you would like this case solved.’
‘I will not remain in the room with … with—!’ cried Charles, looking at his father.
But just then the doors burst open and four French policemen ran into the room, led by a tall and moustachioed officer. Isla McLaren stood behind them in the hall.
‘Ah, Inspector Grégoire!’ exclaimed Holmes, recognising the man in charge. ‘How quick you are!’
Holmes moved to block the view of the grisly platter from the inspector.
‘Monsieur Sherlock Holmes! I remember you well, sir. The contretemps with the Venetian and his lapdog!’
‘A trifle, Grégoire, and some time ago,’ said Holmes, modestly.
‘I have not forgotten and must thank you again.’ The Frenchman clicked his heels and bowed.
‘It was nothing. But how is it that you are here, just now?’ Holmes eyed the row of policemen, the three underlings now lined up behind Grégoire.
‘We are summoned for a theft in the kitchen. But this lady, she says there is something, a murder—’ He indicated Isla McLaren, still lingering in the hall, her keen interest evident.
Holmes sighed. I am sure he had hoped for a little more time before the police arrived. ‘Here is the problem,’ said he, stepping aside to provide a clear view of the head on its silver platter.
‘Ah, alors!’ said Grégoire. He stepped over to regard the head, removed a monocle from his waistcoat pocket and leaned in for a closer look. He grew pale.
The laird, seeing his daughter-in-law hovering in the doorway, ushered her out with a whispered remonstrance and closed it after her.
Grégoire touched the poor victim’s face gently. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘Elle est gelée!’
‘Frozen, yes, Inspector Grégoire,’ said Holmes.
Recovering, the policeman smiled up at Holmes. ‘Monsieur, how is it that you are so often at the scene of the most interesting, well, events? Please, if you will excuse us.’
Grégoire waved his hand and barked a command. Two underlings seized the platter, and carried it off, both holding the grim artefact at arms’ length, and in doing so, nearly allowing it to roll off onto the floor. ‘Attention!’ he cried.
There was a murmur of revulsion in the room.
All this might have been comic had it not been so tragically bizarre. Grégoire reiterated Holmes’s request for them all to remain and the third policeman was posted at the door.
Holmes and Grégoire next slipped out and I glimpsed them through the doorway having an intense interchange. Whatever was said, Holmes seemed to have prevailed, for in a moment he returned to the doorway and waved for me to follow him.
Once beyond the McLarens’ earshot, Holmes explained. ‘Vidocq is not the only one with friends in the South. I have been given unofficial leave to conduct our own inquiry. To the kitchen, quickly! I would like to stay ahead of the police. Grégoire is to retain everyone at the table until our return. I have given instructions to them to keep the head frozen.’
‘It is remarkable that they are here, now.’ I said.
‘Yes, that theft in the kitchen! It must relate.’
‘But four of them?’
‘Watson, use your imagination. What policeman would not like to visit the kitchen of the Grand Hôtel du Cap? It is surprising that the entire department did not heed the call.’
As we hurried down the corridor towards the kitchen, we came upon Isla McLaren heading back in our direction.
‘Where are you going, Mrs McLaren?’
‘Back to the dining room.’
‘You cannot be helpful there,’ said Holmes.
‘Then where can I be? To you, perhaps? I will do anything to help you discover who killed Fiona.’
Holmes sighed wi
th impatience.
‘Seriously, I implore you, sir. A murder has been committed.’
‘Are you quite sure, Mrs McLaren? Despite the grisly and theatrical presentation, do you know it was murder?’
‘Are you joking, Mr Holmes?’
‘No. Consider suicide. She was an emotional young woman, recently shamed and terrified. Might she have killed herself?’
‘And then cut off her own head?’
‘Of course not. Perhaps some enterprising villain found the body and decided to use it for his own purposes. Many things are possible.’
‘Mr Holmes, you insult me.’
‘All that I say is possible. If you will excuse us—’
‘Fiona would never have killed herself!’
‘People may surprise one on that account,’ said Holmes.
I remember at the time thinking this was a peculiar theory and I wondered why it had arisen at that moment. The lady said nothing, but stared at Holmes with intensity.
Holmes shrugged. ‘All right, unlikely then. Do you know who the culprit is?’
‘If I knew I would surely say it. Again, sir, can I help?’
Holmes considered a moment. ‘Stay here, in the hall. The police are questioning the men. If, afterwards, you can discourage any of them who may attempt to leave the room—’
‘I can have no effect if they choose to leave.’
‘Understood. Then follow them and determine where they go if not straight to their rooms.’
‘If I may split myself into three, I suppose that might be possible.’
Holmes smiled. ‘You will think of something,’ said he. ‘Faint, perhaps?’
I thought I saw the glimmer of a smile from Isla McLaren. An unusual girl, I thought. On this note we left her and proceeded to the kitchen.
Over the next hour, Holmes quickly interviewed every member of the staff in the chain of the receipt, transport and delivery of the head to the dining room. Working backwards from the moment the head was served, Holmes discovered the young waiter had touched the platter only briefly, and had it directly from the chef.
Entering the kitchen, we found it buzzing with whispered gossip and excited theories. Holmes approached the chef, Gaston Peringes, a rotund Frenchman of about forty-five, who was perspiring madly as he tried to rein in the chaos around him.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 9
