‘Is there somewhere more private to talk?’ asked Holmes.
In a moment we were inside a small pantry next to the kitchen, the door closed behind us. It was dusty and close, and I began to perspire immediately. Holmes had begun without preamble, placing the man in a defensive position.
‘No, it was not normal, not normal at all,’ cried Peringes in a theatrical whisper. ‘I am not in the habit of serving food that did not come from my own kitchen.’
‘Of course not,’ said Holmes reasonably. ‘Then why this time?’
The chef shrugged and cleared his throat, tossing his head in a gesture that flung droplets of sweat nearby. I felt a sudden lurch at the thought of the meal I had just eaten. He was now in a frenzy of explanation. ‘I take great pride in my desserts,’ he continued. ‘For example my meringue with the cherries, and the cream, with vanille, just a touch of vanille, the special one, you see—’
‘M. Peringes! Please! What happened?’ said Holmes.
The door clicked open and a tall, cadaverous Spaniard poked his head inside. ‘You received a note,’ he stated. ‘I believe it was thrown away. Minot is looking for it now.’
Were we being overheard? The chef barked out a furious barrage of French and the taller man retreated with a sour look.
Recovering, Peringes attempted a smile. ‘All of this, so extraordinary! Vraiment! But due to a stupid error on the part of my sous chef, the soufflé that I had planned, for which I am justly famous, had collapsed just prior to the dessert’s arrival. This gift and its timing were fortuitous in the extreme. And so I sent out this dessert—’
The tall Spaniard poked his head in again. ‘The soufflé, she was good. You threw away—’
The chef screamed at him a rapid invective that I could not understand. The Spaniard retreated and the chef slammed the door, pushing it a second time to make sure it was closed. ‘Mon Dieu, one has the privacy of the marketplace here!’
‘Yes, well,’ said Holmes. ‘May I compliment you on your English. Where is this sous chef now?’
Chef Peringes looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Who knows? I fired him when the dessert, she is ruined.’
Holmes stared at the man with his penetrating gaze.
‘His name?’
‘Er, Bernard.’
Holmes paused. ‘There is no Bernard,’ he said. ‘Your staff will agree, no?’ Holmes opened the door but the chef quickly pulled it shut.
Holmes continued. ‘You responded to a note, anonymous, yes?’ The chef was the picture of guilt. ‘Ah yes, then you threw out your failed soufflé, and sent out this gift, without checking it.’
A small rivulet of sweat now dripped down the chef’s face and he mopped at it with a towel hanging from his waist.
‘The presentation, the bow, was clearly professional,’ snorted Peringes. ‘And time was of the essence. The soufflé was not one of my best. But I added the flowers to the gift.’
‘What was the content of the note that accompanied this gift? Let me see it.’
The chef turned a slow, dark red. ‘A little … a little money was there.’
‘How much?’
Peringes shrugged as if it hardly mattered.
‘How much?’
‘I do not remember.’
A small boy appeared at the door. It was apparently Minot, with a grease-stained note, picked from the trash. ‘Sixty francs,’ said the boy handing over the note. ‘You were angry because it said sixty but there was only fifty.’
Holmes snatched the note and examined it.
The chef was mortified.
‘You called the police,’ said Minot helpfully.
The chef began to shout at the boy in rapid, colloquial French. Minot backed away in fear as the man picked up a rolling pin and advanced on him. Holmes stopped the man with a hand to the arm.
‘Who delivered this note?’
‘How do I know?’ shouted the chef. ‘Probably it came to the concierge.’
The Spaniard, who had stepped in front of Minot to protect him, nodded at us. ‘Pierre Mathurin. In the lobby.’
Holmes released the chef, handed me the note, and took off at a run. We left the kitchen in chaos.
By contrast, the lobby was a calm oasis, bathed as it was in fresh sea breezes and lit by generous electric lights. There we found the concierge Mathurin, a handsome man with a smile that could melt the frown from the most travel-weary guest. While strained, he was yet the picture of grace under pressure.
The French police ran past us like ants to and from an anthill, and two of them slowly conveyed the horrific platter towards the entrance, its ghoulish contents now covered with a white tablecloth. Mathurin smoothly guided two nervous guests standing in the lobby away from the policemen, indicating the bar just beyond.
On spying us, he attempted to usher us there as well, but at Holmes’s brief explanation, he invited us instead into a small adjacent office, and closed the door.
‘Mr Holmes, we are lucky for your presence. Inspector Grégoire has told me of your reputation,’ he said. ‘We must keep as much from the guests as we can. Quelle horreur! Some of them are rather elderly. And all of them très, très respectable, you understand.’ Beneath his practiced manners Mathurin struck me as not only a kind man, but an honest one.
His story matched that of the chef. The covered platter was delivered in exactly the state in which it had been presented, beribboned and resting in a box, by a cab driver named Jean-Jacques whom he knew well. There had been a sizable tip for the concierge and the simple instructions to deliver the note and platter to the chef. There was a second envelope for the chef.
‘And you did not think to examine this gift?’ asked Holmes.
‘Alas, I did not. If only. But Monsieur, many guests here receive gifts – food, flowers, theatre tickets. Not usually a head. It would be indiscreet to examine each item that arrives.’
‘This cab driver; can you summon him, please?’
‘Sir, I have done so already. He should be here in a moment. I presume you wish to speak to him before the police do?’
If a talent for anticipating needs is the hallmark of a good hotel man, Mathurin was a genius at his profession.
Minutes later a man of forty, sleepy and dishevelled, arrived. Mathurin clapped him on the back and drew him forward to meet us. He evidently had been roused from his bed, and apologized to the concierge.
‘This is Jean-Jacques. He is an honest man. I know him well,’ said Mathurin. There was an easy familiarity between them.
Holmes asked him how the ‘gift’ had arrived in his possession, where and from whom.
‘The train station! I came directly!’ the man called Jean-Jacques exclaimed. ‘It was a gift of food, no? It had not been ruined by delay, surely? It was cold, very cold! I received it less than twenty minutes before I deliver! I came directly! Rapidement!’
Mathurin patted the cabbie’s arm. ‘Peace, Jean-Jacques,’ said he. Then, to Holmes, ‘If I may?’
Holmes nodded his assent and under the gentle questioning of the concierge, we learned that Jean-Jacques had been hired at the railway station by a stranger wearing what seemed to him to be an obvious disguise.
‘Details, man. And tell me your words and his, exactly as you remember them,’ said Holmes.
‘This man ask me do I speak the English,’ replied Jean-Jacques. ‘I reply that yes, I do. He then say he has job for me.’
‘Strange, no?’ said Holmes.
‘At this point I am suspicion!’
‘Suspicious. Hmm. But not reluctant?’ said Holmes.
The cabdriver shrugged. ‘I ask him “what kind of job?” I am no criminal. Once, you see, someone ask me to take a very young girl—’
‘Yes. But never mind this. What was the reply?’
‘He say, I have a gift that must be delivered toute de suite to the Grand Hôtel du Cap. It is food and will be ruined if not … if not to remain very cold, but … what an idiot, I am thinking. “I
have no cold box,” I tell this man. He annoy me. He look very strange.’
‘Strange, how?’ asked Holmes.
‘Comme dans une pièce de théâtre!’
‘What do you mean “like in a play”?’
‘Stupid, I think. So then I ask, “Why you wear this false beard and glasses?” And a wig, he wear a long, dark wig.’
‘You actually said this?’ I exclaimed.
‘Jean-Jacques has always spoken his mind,’ said Mathurin.
‘Your brother is in the wrong business,’ said Holmes with a smile to the concierge. He turned back to the cabbie. ‘Consider applying to the Sûreté.’
Mathurin was startled. ‘How do you know he is my brother?’
‘Family resemblance. The nose. Continue, please.’
‘This man he laugh. “It is the special surprise,” he say,’ said Jean-Jacques.
‘His accent? Foreign?’
‘He is from your island. I do not know. English? Scottish? He give me a great deal of money. And three envelopes. One for Pierre, here. One for the chef and one for the man to get this gift. A Sir Robert McLaren who is having the dinner party at that very moment, he say. “Time is very important. Hurry!”’
And it was there the trail ran cold. The box had been cardboard, and ruined by the dampness of condensation. The note from the kitchen was written in block printing and revealed nothing of use to Holmes, although he kept it. There was no more information to be gleaned and it appeared to both Holmes and myself that it was a simple matter of the hotel staff being bought that enabled the passage of the heinous gift to our table.
As we made our way back from the lobby to the dining room I asked Holmes his thoughts. He paused before two large windows looking out towards the moonlit ocean below us. It was a magnificent view, an expensive one, and yet it offered little comfort at the moment.
‘We have made only limited progress,’ he said. ‘The head came down on a later train than the family. It is likely that it was severed and frozen elsewhere. This was a well-planned and effective gesture, but to what purpose, I cannot say.’
‘But where is the rest of the body, Holmes?’
‘Indeed that is the question, Watson. Most likely it is still in Scotland. Consider how much simpler it would be to transport only the head.’
‘Then you think she was killed near home and the head brought down on the train?’
‘We have not enough data to theorize, but that seems the most likely scenario. Come, my dear fellow, back to the McLarens.’
CHAPTER 10
Unwelcome Help
e arrived at the private dining room after an absence of a little over an hour. To Holmes’s dismay the door stood open and the room was empty. Only Inspector Grégoire remained, and after a brief word with this gentleman in the corridor, Holmes rejoined me, closing the door behind him. Isla McLaren was nowhere to be found.
I regarded the table, which had not yet been cleared. Napkins were thrown onto empty dessert plates, and two chairs had been overturned by hasty departures. The many candles in the two candelabra in the centre of the table, left alight, now guttered. A wave of exhaustion overcame me and I sat. Holmes paced in front of the large windows, lost in thought.
‘The police, as I expected, gleaned nothing from the family,’ said he after a moment. ‘They refused to be interviewed and returned to their rooms. And they depart for Scotland in the morning.’
‘Surely you did not expect them to wait here for us to return?’ I asked.
‘I had hoped.’
‘Where next, Holmes? Shall we interview each in his room?’
‘I doubt they will cooperate. The chase is over for this evening,’ he remarked, continuing to pace. I turned back to the view. The flickering candles were reflected faintly in the large windows. Below us the Mediterranean flashed silver in the moonlight.
‘What of the man who brought the head in on the train?’
‘Grégoire has sent officers to inquire at all the local train stations. Of course the villain or his messenger will have changed his disguise and be long gone by now.’
‘What then, Holmes? Some coffee, perhaps?’ It was now after midnight and we had yet to return to Nice. I had begun to flag. At least the gold sovereigns would see us home in comfort.
But Holmes continued, on fire with this outré mystery.
‘You saw the reaction at the table, Watson. I am quite sure there was genuine grief from the laird, and possibly Charles as well,’ he said. ‘But the precise nature of their affection for the victim has yet to be determined.’
‘Holmes, you cannot think that the laird could have been in love with the girl?’
‘I must remain impartial. The head was sent as a message for someone in the room. Most probably the intended recipient is a man.’
Mrs McLaren’s words about Fiona filtered up to my consciousness for the first time since the head had made its shocking appearance.
‘Holmes, I do not understand why you refused Isla McLaren’s offer. She seems a very astute young woman, and may offer insight into the family.’
‘I did not refuse, but rather set her on a somewhat mundane task. She is quite underfoot.’ Holmes stopped pacing and turned to look at me with a small smile. ‘You are attracted to Mrs McLaren the younger. Now, that, dear Watson, is unworthy of you, married as you both are.’
I flushed uncomfortably. ‘Not attracted. Intrigued. Respectful. And yes, I do like her,’ said I. ‘I sense a young woman of intelligence and spirit.’
‘Let us remain impartial. No one at this point is above suspicion.’
‘But our own client—’
‘She is not our client,’ said Holmes. ‘Laird Robert is, if I proceed with the case.’
‘But I am on your side, Mr Holmes,’ said a female voice behind us. We turned to see the lady in question, who had opened the door noiselessly and now stood just inside the room. ‘Thank you, Dr Watson, for your kind remarks,’ said the lady. She smiled, then turned to Holmes. ‘But “Mrs McLaren the younger” has a somewhat gothic ring, do you not think?’
‘What have you found out, madam?’ said he, with more than a tinge of irritation.
‘I followed your instructions, more or less, Mr Holmes. Fainting was not in my character and would not have been believed, creative as that suggestion was. So instead I followed them to their rooms sequentially in the order of my own suspicions. I began with Charles and Catherine, listened at their door and can tell you that these two began a row about his indiscretion. Next I listened at the laird’s and, I am sad to report, he sobbed himself to sleep, or so it sounded. My own Alistair retired immediately and slept, as he always does, without sound.’
‘He did not await your own return?’ asked Holmes, one eyebrow raised. ‘And why is that?’
‘Alistair and I keep different hours. He is used to retiring well in advance of my own bedtime.’
‘Where would he assume you were tonight, then?’ asked Holmes.
‘He would neither assume nor care. I am accustomed to taking a stroll in the evenings when we visit here. It settles my mind, and gives me time to think. As I said, it would not be unusual. Alistair always retires before me.’
‘Even after the shocking events of this evening?’
‘Even then.’
There was a pause. I will admit to a fleeting curiosity about the state of their marriage. Isla McLaren slowly walked to the table and sat down across from me. It was as though she presumed to join our team. Behind me Holmes remained standing and cleared his throat. I sensed his sudden unease.
‘And so, gentlemen, what are the results of your inquiries?’ she asked.
‘Mrs McLaren, that is of no concern of yours,’ said Holmes. ‘I shall give my report to the laird. And to the French police.’
‘Holmes!’ I said. ‘Madam, forgive us. We are greatly fatigued.’
But she seemed unaffected by my friend’s inexplicable rudeness. ‘The police are back with the concierge now,’ said the l
ady. ‘Presumably they will follow your own path of inquiry, in their clumsy fashion. I have thought of something that may help.’
‘We would be most appreciative,’ said I. ‘Would you care for some coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ said she. ‘Eventually I hope to sleep. But I cannot until I have had my say. While I am saddened by Fiona’s death, it did not surprise me. The bizarre display of this evening, however, is another matter. This has to do with what I spoke to you about in Baker Street. Thank you, by the way, for not giving away our little secret.’
‘Your ruse was pointless. The laird was aware of your indiscretion,’ said Holmes.
‘He misses little,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I had hoped—’
‘Yet he did not predict the arrival of this singular dessert,’ said Holmes acidly. ‘What can you offer us that may help, Mrs McLaren?’
She appeared not to hear. ‘Are you certain that Fiona was murdered elsewhere?’ she asked, looking at me pointedly.
‘Much is unclear,’ I said. ‘I could not ascertain the time of death as the head was frozen.’
‘A pathologist will examine the head tonight, and will determine what he can. Now, madam, how long had the lady been missing from the estate?’ asked Holmes, seizing control of our wild conjectures.
‘Since Tuesday.’
‘And she eloped, it is said, with the groundsman’s son?’ pressed Holmes.
‘Upon reflection, she must not have done so,’ said the lady.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because he is, or was, incapable of such that we saw here tonight. That is what I wished to tell you. The boy is simple. But then how could her head have arrived in Nice, Mr Holmes? Could she have travelled here alive, and accompanied by her murderer?’
‘How does this eliminate the boy with whom she ran away?’ said Holmes. ‘Murders have been committed by people of impaired abilities before.’ He turned to me. ‘How long would it take to freeze a head all the way through, Watson?’
‘At least two days, I suppose. Longer, perhaps.’
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 10
