He nodded, then resumed pacing in front of the windows.
Isla McLaren stared at my friend with keen interest. Suddenly she rose from her seat and approached Holmes. She placed her hand gently upon his sleeve. He started and stepped away from her.
‘Mr Holmes, will you commit to this case and come to Braedern? I am sure the answer awaits us there. This is an act of pure evil and cunning villainy. There is no one more suited than yourself to help us.’
‘Mrs McLaren! I will take this case. But you must leave detection to the professionals!’ he said.
Before she could reply, I stepped towards her and took her arm, guiding her gently to the door. ‘Mrs McLaren, do understand that we have your best interests at heart,’ I said gently. ‘Whoever is behind this may begin to resent your curiosity. But we will come, won’t we, Holmes?’
There was silence. Isla McLaren stared frankly at Holmes, awaiting his answer.
He nodded once.
‘You are a cold man, Mr Holmes,’ she said, finally. ‘But I do look forward to seeing you soon. We are booked on the Train Bleu tomorrow. I shall see you at the station in Nice. Good evening.’ She swept from the room.
Holmes and I stood silent for a moment. He approached the door and looked into the hall, then closed it behind him. ‘Just making sure she has actually left.’ He smiled and fished in his pocket for a cigarette. I lit it for him. I noticed that his action had caused the corner of an envelope to protrude from that same pocket.
‘To Scotland, then, tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘And what is that in your pocket?’
‘Of course, Watson.’ He ignored my question, and nodded, inhaling with satisfaction. ‘Now give me those sovereigns and let us return to Nice.’
We made our way to the front portico of the hotel, Holmes stopping once more to confer with Inspector Grégoire and to arrange for the head to be returned to us at our hotel by morning.
As we awaited a carriage, I turned to Holmes. ‘You seem to have a marked aversion to Isla McLaren which I do not understand.’
‘She is irritating, that is all. The sovereigns, please. They are, after all, my earnings.’
I pointed at his pocket once again.
‘Oh, this,’ he said, pulling out the envelope as if he had forgotten it was there. ‘Wired by Mycroft today for the work in Montpellier.’
Despite my fatigue and the horrors of the evening, a flood of relief came over me. We were free at last. But then … ‘Holmes! At dinner you could easily have walked away!’ I said. ‘You did not need these sovereigns.’ I patted my jacket, still heavy with those painful earnings.
‘That is true, Watson. But we would have missed all the fun.’
‘Fun! Remind me never to play you at cards.’
‘I do not gamble – at least not at the game tables. Watson, stay away from that casino. In fact, give me those sovereigns now.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
We left the Grand Hôtel du Cap in adamant, if childish disagreement on the matter.
CHAPTER 11
A Fleeting Pleasure
knew, of course, from the moment of the grisly unveiling that there was never a doubt that Holmes would take the case. I had one small regret in leaving Nice. I had not had the time to explore the casino. But more important matters took precedence. We were off to discover the monster who had murdered and beheaded a beautiful young woman. At the Gare de Nice the next morning, we made our way to the platform designated for the illustrious Train Bleu, a glamourous conveyance I had seen advertised on many a colourful poster. A porter followed along, with our few meagre bags, save for one notable exception.
I was carrying one quite heavy and bulky carpetbag, containing the sorry evidence of the case on which we were embarking. The head had been delivered to us earlier, as prearranged by Holmes. I had organised the conveyance that very morning with the help of a butcher whom I had found two blocks from the Beau Soleil. Butchers, I reasoned, must have the means to keep their wares fresh while transporting them to luxury hotels and restaurants in the heat of the Côte D’Azur summers.
The device consisted of a waterproof metal box sitting within a larger metal box lined with ice, placed inside a leather container with the name of the butcher inscribed on it. To disguise this, I had placed the leather container inside an innocuous, if bulky carpetbag purchased at a street market near our hotel. All in all, a good solution for the ghastly problem, I felt.
As this was a first-class train, I was certain to be able to procure additional ice along the way.
Upon seeing my solution, Holmes deemed it ingenious and probably similar to whatever means the murderer, or the murderer’s emissary, must have used to get the head down here, though secretively, no doubt. He had arranged with Mycroft for the legal transport of our grim package.
We made our way down the platform, passing the famous dark blue cars with their elegant gold lettering. I was struck by the opulent clothing and jewellery of our fellow travellers. Expensive perfume lingered in the air, and the glitter of diamonds flashed in the oblique morning light of the train station. Porters scurried while nannies attended scrubbed and velvet-clad children, mostly British, and already complaining about the heat, and being shuttled about like puppets.
I sighed, feeling at last that Holmes and I would enjoy a touch of luxury. But it never once left my mind that I was bearing the gruesome remains of a victim for whom justice was so urgently required.
The bag was heavy, and as I shifted it to the other hand, I did so gently. I shuddered to think that anyone on the platform would suspect the contents.
Isla McLaren, in a smart green travelling costume and what was undoubtedly another French hat with a silk robin perched upon it, was standing in one of the windows of a first-class wagon-lit. As we passed it, she called out to us.
‘Mr Holmes! Doctor Watson! Enjoy your journey. Meet me in the dining car for lunch at noon, please?’ Holmes growled under his breath, and moved along. I waved and smiled. She indicated my case with a questioning look. I nodded and she shivered and withdrew.
As Holmes ascended to the car, he turned to help me heft the heavy bag in after him. Just as I began to hand it up, a sudden shrill whistle caught our attention.
Four French policemen ran in our direction full tilt down the platform. I looked past us to see what could be the disturbance, but without preamble, one knocked me aside, two pulled Holmes from the steps and seized the carpetbag, while the fourth clapped handcuffs on us both.
A small scream came from two ladies nearby. Like noisy geese rushing for breadcrumbs, a crowd ignited by schadenfreude instantly appeared to witness the fascinating spectacle of two well-dressed gentlemen being handcuffed and led roughly away.
‘Thank goodness!’
‘The ruffians!’
‘Criminals by the look of them!’
In twenty minutes we were seated on a hard bench at the police station, still in irons, with our luggage surrounding us, including the grisly package. To his credit, Holmes attempted to warn them of its contents.
But they had been told what we were carrying and undaunted, one policeman was determined to open it. As the inner box was unlocked, a stout policeman behind him fainted, landing with a soft thud on the floor. A flurry of reactions ensued. Holmes spoke in rushed French. I caught next to nothing except ‘investigation’ and the name of Holmes’s contact, Inspector Grégoire.
Eventually, we were freed from the handcuffs, and pushed into a dank cell with two long, narrow benches and a tiny, barred window high up on one wall. A tray was inserted under the door with water, two pieces of bread and one slice of mouldy cheese, evidently to share between us for some time to come.
At least we were alone. I rubbed my bruised wrists. ‘Well, what is the story, Holmes?’
‘The police chief was tipped off about our grisly package. He imagines we are two thieving murderers travelling with stolen body parts.’
‘Shades of Burk
e and Hare, then?’ I asked. ‘Surely the truth will come out. I heard you tell them to contact Grégoire. But who on earth would have devised such a thing?’
Holmes was looking past me through the bars to the corridor. I turned, and lounging there was the implacable and smiling Jean Vidocq.
Of course.
‘Bonsoir, mes amis,’ said he. ‘I see you are enjoying the fine cuisine of our French hospitality. What a shame you were unable to travel on the famous train! It is such a pleasure. I have done so many times myself.’
He inspected his manicured nails casually, and then picked an invisible piece of lint off his expensive frock coat.
‘Alors, it is so dirty in here!’
‘Do any of your compatriots know your real name, Vidocq? Or do they all swallow your tale of being related to the great Eugène Vidocq?’ asked Holmes.
‘But it is true; I am his great-grandson.’
‘And Watson here is a morganatic Duke, aren’t you, Watson?’
‘I am. You may address me as “Your Grace.”’
Vidocq snorted.
‘You know this will easily be cleared up, Vidocq,’ said Holmes. ‘Unlike your own situation.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the Frenchman. ‘But in the meantime, I am, how do you say, welcoming what providence provides. Enjoy your stay.’
He departed.
I sighed. ‘How did he know of the head?’
‘Ah, Watson. Police contacts are a requirement of our profession. No doubt one of Grégoire’s men is in his employ.’ Holmes sighed. ‘We must be patient on the matter of Vidocq. He has more friends in the police force than I do here. My evidence is circumstantial at best until I can link his fingerprints absolutely to the dynamite I kept from exploding at the laboratory.’
‘Where is it now, by the way?’ I asked, suddenly worried about its fate in our luggage, now upstairs with the French police. We could all be dead in moments.
‘I removed the cordite from it in Montpellier. The empty shell is in my valise.’
‘Can they do that with fingerprints? Compare them, I mean, with any certainty without the suspect to provide a live one?’
‘The technique is in its infancy, and as I said before the results will not yet stand up in court. But if the dynamite has enough of a print extant, and the police upstairs do not handle it, I can compare the prints with Vidocq’s previous prints. I believe they will match, and we will have our man.’
‘His previous prints?’
‘I have examples, which rest in my files at Baker Street, along with many dozens of others.’
Of course he did. Presumably he had begun this collection after my marriage, for I had never seen them.
Holmes stretched out on his bench. It was too short for his tall frame, and his feet hung off the edge.
‘Holmes, there is something troubling me. Simply ensuring his job for the French government does not feel like enough of a reason for Vidocq’s extreme actions. Surely there is some other reason to risk setting off explosives?’
‘Your instinct is correct, Watson. Money plays a role. It is his modus operandi to play both ends against the middle.’
‘But what is “the other end”?’
‘I believe that some deluded miscreant actually does want Docteur Janvier’s work to be stopped and is paying Vidocq to frighten off the scientist. Vidocq is making it look like he is carrying out these acts – but without actually harming Docteur Janvier or his work.’
‘Bombing where no one is present! Yes, now I see. Diabolical!’
‘And yet still rather dangerous. I suspect the McLarens, quite frankly. The coincidence of their arrival here is too great. They have the resources to pay Vidocq, and they were at the top of Mycroft’s short list of suspicious persons.’
‘How will you prove this?’
‘Well, first I need proof that the McLarens are involved. We are being handed a golden opportunity to find it.’
It occurred to me that Holmes’s mind must work like an enormous chessboard with hundreds of pieces, fanning out in all directions to distant horizons. It was difficult to keep up with his strategies, but I had learned over time to trust them. ‘You are positively Machiavellian, Holmes.’
‘The long game, Watson.’
By the next morning, the interventions of Mycroft Holmes via wire and Grégoire in person had evidently provided enough explanation to satisfy the aggressive police who held us, and after dawn we were released into a small back street and the brisk air of the early morning.
At last, with our precious cargo restored to us, and plenty of fresh ice, we caught the fastest train we could take back to Paris, and from thence to London, and then Scotland. I slept as we rolled through France, but I recall Holmes staring morosely out the window as I dozed off, and he was in exactly the same position when I awoke some hours later.
We were in London by the next morning and at Victoria, Holmes and I disembarked, taking a cab to Euston where we were to catch The Caledonian to Scotland. Holmes had wisely had some of his warm clothes and some files and study materials delivered to him at the station. I longed to return home for a short embrace and some warm clothes but had failed to plan. I did, however, send word of our plans to Mary.
The train pulled out of Euston and we were shortly northbound.
Holmes next plunged into his reading on the whisky and wine industries, as well as the agony columns he had recently missed, and would not be interrupted. Mary Shelley’s novel no longer suited my current mood as I cringed at the notion of galvanic stimulation bestowing movement on the contents of the container on the floor between us. I switched instead to a fanciful Jules Verne, napping intermittently, as our train steamed northward. It was not until we were an hour away from Edinburgh, that gothic and mysterious city, that Holmes roused himself from his studies.
‘I will disembark in Edinburgh, Watson, as I have arranged with a man there to examine the head for the cause of death.’
‘At the University? A medical man?’
‘You may know him. Doctor Aden Fleming.’
‘I have heard the name.’
‘I would like you to carry on to Aberdeen, Watson.’ Aberdeen was the gateway to the portion of the highlands, and Braedern castle lay due west, near Balmoral.
‘Holmes, I should prefer to accompany you. I was in Edinburgh for a time during my medical studies. I know the city.’
‘You are worried about our tongueless friend, Mr St John,’ said he.
Holmes’s attacker in London, I confess, did still give me pause. ‘Well, yes, a little. I am not convinced his “vendetta” as you call it, is over.’
‘Watson, I say it is.’
‘Your cavalier disregard for your own—’
‘I will stay well away from Mr St John. I know the city myself, even though I was but fifteen when I—’ Noticing my sudden look of interest, he cut himself off. ‘Never mind, Watson. Carry on to Aberdeen. Gather what information you can about the McLaren family, their estate, the family business. Any gossip, family lore. Take a room somewhere, leave word at the station, and I will join you in the morning.’
‘Fifteen? Were you studying then? In Edinburgh?’
Holmes had long kept his early life in the shadows, and while it was not in my nature to pry, it was ever a source of puzzlement. For some reason I felt this Scottish connection deserved attention. He pretended not to hear my question and instead rifled through the package Wiggins had delivered, took out Janvier’s article and became engrossed in it.
‘Holmes? Did you attend school in Edinburgh?’
He was annoyed. ‘It is not important.’
‘Is that where you met St John?’
‘No, Watson, I met him later, at Camford. Do not worry about St John. I told you I shall avoid him easily.’
‘Then how do you know Edinburgh?’
He sighed. ‘Watson, you are a dog with a bone. I attended school at Fettes for a year. Does that satisfy you?’
Fettes! The little
I knew of that institution did not fit with the man before me. Fettes was a Foundation school, created primarily to educate abandoned boys, founded less than twenty years earlier. It had a reputation for extreme austerity and a very vigorous team sports programme. Had Holmes been orphaned? Certainly no parent would have chosen it for the kind of boy he must have been.
‘I cannot picture you at Fettes.’
‘Pray do not. It was one year only. And you are correct; it was not exactly suitable.’ He glanced up at me and smiled. ‘However, ultimately it served me well. I learned to box.’
The Caledonian slowed into the approach to Waverley Station in Edinburgh, the great rock of the Castle rising above us in eerie, snow-dusted splendour. Holmes assembled his belongings and finally our grisly package.
I was relieved to be free of that tragic memento of our time in Nice, but despite Holmes’s dismissive response to my warning, or perhaps because of it, my mind was not at ease. I was not afraid for myself, certainly. But the strange sequence of events that we had just experienced did not fit into any pattern I could yet discern, and yet something told me that much of what had gone on was somehow connected.
As he pushed aside the door to our compartment he turned and said, ‘Watson, do suspend your worries for now. Reason dictates that we have not enough data to make theories, and the case of this tragic girl promises to be complex. I will find you tomorrow.’
But we admonished each other to take care, and frankly, that was unnerving in itself.
PART THREE
NORTHERN MISTS
‘When death’s dark stream I ferry o’er
A time that surely shall come
In Heaven itself I’ll ask no more
Than just a Highland welcome’
—Robert Burns
CHAPTER 12
Arthur
fter another twelve hours I disembarked in Aberdeen, into air so frigid that my breath threw white clouds ahead of me, and I shivered uncontrollably in my light woollen suit. I was dressed, after all, for the South of France, and had packed sparsely for only a couple of days in a distinctly different climate.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 11
