by Clive Barker
“But Holmes, how do you know where he – where they live?”
“That I gleaned from Sergeant Clark back there before Lestrade was even informed we had arrived,” he told me matter-of-factly. “I once got his brother-in-law out of a fix. I knew that we would need it, once we had spoken with Lestrade, so I took the liberty of dispatching two birds with the one stone.”
And I thought then that the Inspector was wrong about Holmes.
He never, ever wasted his time.
HOLMES WAS ALSO – more often than not – right.
Thorndyke’s spouse was very worried about her husband, and incredibly happy to see us.
“Of course I know who you are, gentlemen!” she said as she bid us welcome into her home, and her sitting room. “There is not a policeman’s wife who doesn’t, I should think. The famous Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr Watson. I thought it may be the press again, for I contacted them when my concerns grew... Please gentlemen, please tell me you come with news of my Joss.”
Mrs Thorndyke was a pretty young woman with blonde, wavy hair, and she lived in a modest house – a little too modest for an inspector, which made me wonder where all the money had gone that Monroe had been supplying.
“We’re... certainly here to help,” I told her, trying to calm her nerves.
Holmes had wandered over to a nearby table, crowned with a chess set. “Your husband plays?”
“Oh, yes. He loves games; puzzles of all kinds,” the woman informed us.
“I see,” said Holmes, finally taking a seat beside me and opposite her. “And when was the last time you saw or heard from him?”
“It has been a good few days,” she said. “I have known Joss to be away for a night or so before, working.” Mrs Thorndyke looked down and then up again, tears in her eyes. “But never this long. Something is wrong; very wrong. I just know it.”
“This ‘work,’ as you call it – you know of its true nature?”
She sighed. “I do. I also know of his habits, what goes on at that club he visits from time to time. I’m glad it burnt down!” Mrs Thorndyke put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, you don’t think Joss was in there when –”
“He was not. Of that you can be certain,” Holmes assured her, but she didn’t press him as to how he knew. Instead, my friend asked how she knew about his other ‘activities.’
“Joss talks in his sleep, Mr Holmes.” The tears were breaking free now, rolling down her cheeks and I offered her my handkerchief, for which she thanked me. “I know there have been others, and I know that sometimes he partook of substances stronger than a whisky or two. But he’s my husband, and I love him. I always have.”
“Of that I am certain,” said I.
“He didn’t used to be this way, Doctor. He... changed over the years. Perhaps it was the pressures of his job?” She shook her head, as though not really believing it herself. “People do change, as time goes on.”
“They can,” I replied, looking sideways at Holmes. I took in Mrs Thorndyke once more, thinking what a strong woman she was for putting up with so much. She and Laurence Cotton should have been a pair – they would have been a match made in Heaven, in fact – instead of which they were both partnered with the cruellest of people.
It was at that point I heard someone bounding down the narrow stairs outside the room, and a little girl – no more than seven or eight years of age – came rushing into the room. “I heard the door!” she yelled. “Is Daddy back?” She looked excitedly around and when she saw only us, her face fell.
Mrs Thorndyke wiped away her remaining tears, not letting the girl see how upset she was, and rose to meet her. “No, sweetheart. Not yet. These gentlemen are friends of his.” We both stood as well and I waved in greeting.
“But I thought...” The sentence tailed off. She was so adorable, the absolute image of her mother, with the same golden hair. It made me wish again that Mary and I had been able to have children. Then again, perhaps in my line of work that was a blessing.
“I’m sorry, Claire darling.” She hugged the girl to her, stroking that hair. “He’ll be back, soon. I promise.” It was not an assurance I would have given to the child, personally. “Now why don’t you run along back upstairs and finish your jigsaw before bedtime? Then I’ll come and read you more of Alice’s adventures.”
Reluctantly, the little girl turned and made her way back towards the door. But not before stopping, casting a glance over her shoulder, and returning my original wave. I couldn’t help smiling and gave her another one in return. Once again, I felt a pang. I would love to have read the Alice books to my own daughter – or son, even – for I had loved them so myself growing up (I read the first, devouring Carroll’s every line and word, when I was just twelve years of age).
“She’s very sweet,” I told her mother, who nodded.
“Joss dotes on her, calls her his Little Princess. He rarely misses saying goodnight to her himself, which leads me to conclude something terrible has happened. He does love her so, would do anything for her.”
“His affection for little ones extends to the case he was working, I’m led to believe,” mused Holmes, who had remained markedly silent all the while Claire had been in the room.
“The little boy?” said Mrs Thorndyke. “Yes, he spoke about that. Awful business. I know the conditions at the establishment he disappeared from were not wonderful, but even so... You think the two are related, Joss going missing and the child?”
“That is yet to be established,” Holmes informed her. “Before we go on our way again, is there anything else you think might be relevant? Anything that could help us trace your husband?”
The woman thought hard, her brow creasing. Then something came to her and her face lit up. “Gallery,” she said. “He said something about a gallery!”
“What gallery?” I asked, stepping forward.
“Oh, he did not tell me about it as such. It was another night-time conversation with himself, Doctor. But I did make that out. Is it important?”
“Quite possibly,” I told her, and Holmes shot me a quizzical look.
We said our goodbyes, promising that we would be in touch with Mrs Thorndyke should there be any developments; should we find her husband.
“It does not seem likely,” Holmes advised me as we travelled back to Baker Street again in the cab.
“Oh?”
“Surely you must have worked out by now that he shared the same fate as Monroe?”
“The same fate as Cotton and Spencer, too?” I reminded him. “He is dead, then?”
“I believe so, yes.”
We did not talk anymore until we returned to our lodgings, but once we were upstairs and Holmes was pouring us brandies, he asked, “The gallery, what makes you think it is significant?”
“Ah, yes.” I went off and retrieved the receipts from my dressing gown. By the time I returned, he had also retrieved his abandoned pipe from the mantel and finally lit it. “I’d almost forgotten about these – but it can’t be a coincidence, Holmes. It really can’t.”
“And they are?” he asked, puffing on the pipe. He took them from me and began perusing them.
“I’m astonished you didn’t come across them yourself while you were looking through Monroe’s papers on the table back there.”
He looked up at me, still waiting for an answer.
“They’re a lead, dear fellow. Our first real lead.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Missing Piece
THE GALLERY WE were seeking was not far from Piccadilly, so we set off the very next morning to visit it.
Located down a sidestreet, it was tucked away – where seemingly only those who knew about it would find the place. It also looked deserted, as if it had closed down in the time since Monroe had frequented it – or perhaps he had sent Thorndyke in his stead? The front was all glass, tiny pyramids etched onto it and separating the lettering that announced what this shop was. I commented then about the Egyptian connection aga
in; after all, Monroe had had pictures originating from that culture in his chambers. However, there had been many works of ‘art,’ from various cultures, in that depraved man’s quarters.
When we found the door to be locked, I peered in through one of the windows, shielding my eyes so I could see.
The inside was empty, no paintings on the walls, no sculptures taking up space on the floor. “It would appear that we are too late,” I said. “They’ve shut up shop – forever, by the looks of things.”
“A pity,” offered Holmes, stepping back and taking in the gallery again.
“Or not, depending on whether they’ve cleared everything out. There are always back entrances to places such as these – and you do have your lock-picking equipment now.” I looked about me to make sure we were not being observed, then made my way down the right-hand side of the shop.
The lock on the wooden back door proved no match at all for Holmes – though he appeared somewhat hesitant – and moments later we were inside. There was an entire back room that had receipts and records in it that had been left behind, although it was all in a bit of a muddle. We spent a good while going through these, looking for something, anything that might be of use. Finally, I found a record of where the pillar had originated.
“Here we are, Holmes – look. It was bought from a place in France, just outside Paris: the Malahide Institute. Originally the property of someone called... Le... it’s quite hard to make out; the handwriting is atrocious. Lemarchand, it looks like.”
“Curious,” said my friend, taking the record from me and reading it himself.
“Do you think he might be the owner of this institute place?”
“Possibly...”
“There’s a photograph of the pillar as well,” I told him, examining it. I squinted, trying to make out what was in its centre: the object that had been absent when we discovered it in Monroe’s secret lair. “It looks very much to me like the missing piece is some sort of box.” Holmes snatched the photograph from my hands and began to peruse it himself; I scowled at his rudeness, folding my arms, but he took no notice. “It would certainly be in keeping with the dimensions of whatever it was Cotton had with him in the attic room, wouldn’t you say? Though what it was doing embedded in a statue, I have no clue. Perhaps this Lemarchand fellow might be able to tell us more?”
Holmes said nothing, lost in his scrutiny of the statue – or more accurately what it had contained. The object that Monroe had obviously detached from it; the same object, Holmes seemed to believe, that was missing from the hidden room, that had been missing from the scenes of Cotton’s and Lieutenant Spencer’s disappearances, that had been retrieved by the vagabond.
“Holmes, are you even listening to me?”
He snapped out of his daze and looked me in the eye. “Of course, Watson. I’m always keenly aware of everything that is going on around me at any given time.”
“Then what do you think is going on here?” I unfolded my arms, tapping the photograph. “What is that and why have so many people died because of it?”
He opened his mouth, as if about to say something of great import – then closed it again and shook his head. “You are quite correct, Watson. This Lemarchand character might well have the answers we are looking for. That is why I need you to go and see him.”
“You need me to...” It was my turn to open my mouth, gaping at him in disbelief. When I’d recovered my composure, I said, “Go to France, you mean? On my own?”
Holmes nodded.
“What exactly will you be doing in the meantime?” I asked.
“Continuing with my investigations,” he said directly.
“But Holmes, this is –”
“Please, Watson, do not argue.” With his free hand, he rubbed his forehead, then fixed me with a stare. “I need someone I can trust to look into this. You have done so before, without question.”
“Yes, and on that occasion you followed me and hid in a cave. Will I get to Paris, only to find you there, too, disguised as a Frenchman?”
“No,” stated Holmes. “You will not. I shall remain here and look for the missing boy; the orphan. It is my belief that he, at any rate, is still alive. Who else is there to find him? Lestrade?”
I couldn’t really take issue with that. I gave a nod and told Holmes that I would do as he wished.
And by the beginning of the next week, I would find myself abroad – heading to the Malahide Institute in search of answers.
CHAPTER NINE
The Institute
I TOOK THE earliest train in the morning I could find to Dover, having already booked the steam ship to Calais. The surgery was fairly quiet at that time, but I arranged for what patients I did have to see another doctor in my absence; sometimes I wonder why they stayed with me as long as they did, when I kept deserting them like this at the drop of a hat.
Mrs Hudson fussed about me while I packed, as was her wont: asking if I had this and that. When the pantomime was concluded, I went to Holmes in his study and told him I was off – for he had already notified me he would not be coming to the station himself. I suppose I was lucky he was around to even say goodbye.
He had a book in one hand, held out at a distance, and a cigarette in the other, and barely looked up when I said, “Right then – I shall see you later.”
“Yes. Do let me know when you find anything out, won’t you?”
“Naturally,” I replied. “I will keep you informed every step of the way.”
“Very well, then.”
“Holmes.” I walked over to where he was sitting so he couldn’t really ignore me. “Holmes, you will be all right while I’m gone, won’t you?”
He did look up then. “All right? Whatever do you mean, Watson? Of course I shall be all right.”
“Only...” Now that I had started, I found I did not really know what to say. How does one approach a topic as sensitive as this? The changes in personality; the abuse he was putting his body through; his dalliances with death. In the end I said, “Just be careful, won’t you?”
He nodded. “You too, old friend.” I was almost at the door again when he added, “I do appreciate what you’re doing, you know, Watson.”
“I know,” said I.
“There is a pattern to all this, but I am at a loss to see it yet. You will be playing a vital role in helping me to do so, providing critical intelligence.”
I nodded. “See you when I get back.”
Then I left him, not looking back once; only asking Mrs Hudson upon my departure from Barker Street to, “Keep an eye on him, please.”
“I will do my level best, Doctor – but he does not make such things easy for me.”
I could never have imagined the circumstances in which we would meet again; not having the capacity to imagine it back then. Nor what it would result in for my friend.
And I could never have predicted what was waiting for me, either, across the water in France.
I ARRIVED AT the docks in good time, and my journey to Calais was smooth enough. From there, it was another train ride to Paris itself, passing the Eiffel Tower as I went: a marvel of modern design and engineering. I was desperate to visit, but reminded myself I was here on very serious business. There would be no time on this occasion for sight-seeing. I had been booked into an impressive establishment called the Hôtel Meurice – free of any charge, a consequence of another service Holmes had done someone in the past, although he did not go into details. It was characterised by a row of arches along the front, and a platform for terraces on the first floor. The inside was no less awe-inspiring: a huge, high-ceiling lobby crowded with people. I had been in some remarkable hotels in my time with Holmes (from the Ritz to the Savoy) and this was no exception.
“Monsieur Watson,” said the manager, his English almost perfect, as he arranged for my luggage to be taken to my room. “We have been expecting you. How was your trip?”
“Very pleasant,” I told him, once again wishing that I was here for
pleasure rather than information-gathering.
“And Monsieur Holmes, he is well?”
I nodded.
“Good, good. His family, they are remembered and still well respected in the area, you know.”
I knew that Holmes’ grandmother was French, the sister of the artist Vernet, but did not know his family was so well thought of in particular. “I’m sure he will be delighted to hear it,” I told the man. It had been a long journey, however, and the day was wearing on, so I decided to take dinner (which was superb, I have to say: the finest filet mignon I have ever tasted) and try to get a decent night’s sleep – before setting out early the next morning for the Institute.
Holmes and I had discovered that the place was in fact a facility – a sanatorium, if you will – for those afflicted with and recovering from problems of the mind. Privately run, from what we could ascertain, it had once been the home of some kind of nobleman – an aristocrat, possibly one of the Lemarchands? – at the end of the eighteenth century, but after he disappeared it fell into disrepair. It had been bought fifteen years previously by one Dr Malahide in order to serve its new purpose. I was expected there, having telegraphed ahead to request a day visit, under the pretext both of professional curiosity – I was ‘thinking of moving sideways into that area of medicine’ – and of observing the Institute and its methods for a possible paper. Flattery very often grants one access to places that otherwise would remain out of bounds.
Perhaps the pillar had been part of the house, left over from the aristocrat’s time? I wondered as I lay in bed, my stomach full, staring at the ceiling and trying to get to sleep. Maybe he was the key to all this; the fact that he’d disappeared as well was definitely suspicious. Had he been the first person to whom this had happened? All questions for the morning, but it did not prevent me from asking them over and over that night, with no possible hope of getting any answers.
The one thing I could be thankful for was that, when I did eventually drop off, I did not dream. There were no nightmares that I can recall.
