Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  “Dr Watson,” I responded, attempting to keep the tremor from my voice as I turned to acknowledge his constant companion. “Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes returned the greeting with a curt bow. How little the man had changed in the years since we’d last laid eyes on each other. As tall and gaunt as ever, his hair resolutely dark, although a few flecks of grey dotted those monumental eyebrows. It was curious that the brows never made their way into Mr Paget’s illustrations. Perhaps the editor of The Strand had insisted on a more noble aspect for his hero. Give the people what they want, and all that.

  I sat, indicating for Holmes and Watson to do likewise. Within seconds, a waiter had appeared at our table and orders were taken, delaying Watson’s inevitable apology.

  “Mrs Langtry, I realise that you specifically asked for me to come alone–”

  “And yet you have brought company,” I interrupted, turning to regard the great detective of Baker Street.

  Holmes smiled sincerely. “You must not blame the doctor.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Watson is incapable of keeping a secret, especially from me. From the moment he opened the letter, I realised that something was afoot. First, there was the look of surprise on his face, and then the ridiculous attempt to appear nonchalant as he continued to read.”

  “Really, Holmes,” the affronted doctor complained.

  “Well, if you will leave the envelope on the arm of your chair, where I could easily make out the handwriting…” Holmes returned his gaze to me. “Naturally, when Watson announced that he was leaving for the continent–”

  “You insisted on accompanying him.”

  Holmes nodded, a genuine smile on those thin lips.

  I sat back, regarding them both.

  “Mrs Langtry.” I laughed, as if rolling my own name around my mouth. “I half expected you to address me as Mrs Norton, or Miss Adler, for that matter.”

  Watson granted himself a chuckle, although I couldn’t tell if it was formed of amusement, or acute embarrassment. “You read my account, then.”

  “Of course. It’s not every day a girl finds herself immortalised, even under an alias.”

  “One has to protect the innocent.”

  “And the guilty?”

  Holmes laughed heartily, as colour rushed to his Boswell’s already ruddy cheeks.

  “Mrs Langtry,” said the detective, “tempting though it is, I’m sure you didn’t summon us all this way to taunt Watson over his literary foibles.”

  “I didn’t summon you at all.”

  “Touché.”

  Our verbal sparring was interrupted by the waiter as he delivered the gentlemen’s orders. Holmes’s eyes never left me as the over-attentive Frenchman fussed at our table. Sweat prickled on my neck.

  After what seemed like an eternity, we were again left to our own devices. Holmes waited expectantly as I turned to his biographer.

  “I am grateful that you would come all this way, Doctor. I admit I had little idea who else to turn to. My letter must have come as something of a surprise.”

  “I cannot pretend that it did not.”

  I nodded. “I am a proud woman, and not accustomed to asking for help, from anyone.”

  Before I could utter another word, Holmes took control of the conversation once again.

  “It concerns your husband, Robert Langtry,” Holmes interjected, drawing a rebuke from his companion.

  “Holmes, really. Let the lady speak.”

  The detective inclined his head in reluctant apology.

  “It is that obvious?” I inquired.

  “A lady writes to a man with whom she has had no contact for over a decade. She offers to pay for his transport, insisting that he tells no one his destination. Then, when they finally meet, she spends the entire time playing with the wedding band on her finger.”

  I glanced down to see that, as always, the man was correct. I clasped my hands together.

  Holmes continued, reeling off his theories as if they should be obvious to all. “Her marriage is therefore very much at the forefront of her mind.”

  “Could it be that she is in trouble herself?” I asked.

  This he considered, before rejecting it completely. “Possibly, although if that was the case, why meet in public, choosing a table so near the window? No, she is not concerned for herself, but for the man she loves.”

  The detective sat back, so confident in his own abilities that he had no need to inquire if his supposition was correct. I burned beneath his gaze, tears welling in my eyes.

  “You are correct, of course,” I eventually conceded, the mere mention of my beloved’s name catching in my throat. “Robert has… not been himself of late.” I reached for my bag as the first tear fell. Dr Watson produced a handkerchief quicker than I could find my own. Of course he did.

  Offering thanks, I dabbed at my face before continuing my tale.

  “After leaving London, Robert and I travelled for a while, before settling here in Paris. Robert established a practice and we started making friends. Good friends. It was everything we’d always wanted.” My voice failed me again. “Almost.”

  “Almost?” Watson echoed.

  I offered the doctor’s handkerchief back to him, but he waved it away. I folded the cloth and placed it in my bag, knowing all too well that both men’s eyes were still on me.

  “While Robert and I could build a home,” I continued softly, “it soon became obvious that we could not build a family.”

  Watson’s mouth dropped open at my honesty.

  “My dear, I’m so sorry…” he began, somewhat flustered that the conversation had taken such a personal turn.

  “At first, Robert hid his disappointment, insisting that we had each other, which was all that mattered.

  “And yet I know it burned away at him. Our friends would regale him with stories about their children and his face would darken, a shadow that came to consume him over time. He starting drinking heavily, staying out to all hours. He said it was on business, but a wife knows when she is hearing lies.” The words stung even as I spoke them. “It is all too easy to fall into the wrong crowd in Paris, gentlemen.”

  “And, once you fall, all too difficult to claw yourself back out again, I would think,” Watson offered.

  I nodded, giving the doctor a grateful smile. “He kept up appearances, of course. I was dressed in the latest fashions, we were seen at the right events, and yet…”

  “Yes?”

  “Things would disappear from the house. Trinkets at first, but then paintings, the miniatures he had begun to collect when the practice had started to do well. He claimed he was bored of them, and yet no replacements took their place. And then I realised that his mother’s jewels were missing.”

  “He was gambling?” Watson asked, the look of compassion in his eyes almost too much to bear.

  Again I nodded, the sounds of the café filling the silence around our table: the clatter of china, the buzz of mid-morning conversation.

  Finally, Holmes delivered another painfully direct question.

  “Where is your husband now?”

  I swallowed, struggling to maintain my composure. “I do not know,” I told him, the merest shake of my head sending fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.

  “A week ago, Robert went out to work and never returned. No one has seen him since. People have been very kind, but I know what they are thinking. You should have seen him, Mr Holmes, that morning. He wasn’t the man I married with you standing behind us, stinking of shag tobacco in your ridiculous disguise.”

  A flicker of recollection crossed Holmes’s narrow features, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

  “He was as pale as I had ever seen him,” I continued, “his hands shaking as he picked up his case. He didn’t even say goodbye, but rushed out of the front door, slamming it behind him in his haste.”

  “And when Mr Langtry failed to return home…” Watson began, obviously choosing his words carefully, so
not to upset me further, “did you–”

  “Did I find anything else missing?”

  Watson nodded, looking embarrassed that he would even have to ask.

  I sat up straight, determined not to play the helpless woman any more. “As you know, Doctor, I have lived an interesting life. I am not proud of everything I have done, but I stand by the decisions I have made.”

  “Decisions that have made foes along the way,” Holmes reminded me. “Fortunately, you have taken out certain… insurances.”

  “I have articles that assure my safety, yes. As long as they are in my possession, then the individuals I have wronged will leave me alone–”

  “In fear of you going to the press.”

  “Or going to other interested parties. You may not approve, but it has served me well. I have never demanded so much as a penny for my silence, never acting in spite or retaliation.”

  “Very… honourable,” Watson muttered with little in the way of commitment, but I didn’t care a jot what he thought of me. It wasn’t as if the man hadn’t made his mind up about my “dubious and questionable memory” long ago.

  “These articles,” Holmes inquired, “your husband was aware of them?”

  I nodded. “Of course. I kept nothing from him.”

  “Which must have been all the more galling when you discovered that he had absconded with them.”

  It was not a question.

  “My husband was… is a loyal and loving man, Mr Holmes. Whatever he has done, Robert would never knowingly place me at risk. Wherever he is, I am sure that he believes he is doing the right thing–”

  “But has no idea what dangers await him.”

  “The reason I approached Dr Watson rather than yourself is that I fear for my husband’s life.”

  “My presence would have been more conspicuous.”

  “Which is why I now regret my choice of this café for exactly the reasons you suggest. We can easily be seen from the street. Meeting Dr Watson in such a place is one thing…” I turned to the medical man. “Your appearance is somewhat nondescript, after all, Doctor.”

  Watson did his best not to look insulted.

  “Whereas Mr Holmes bears one of the most recognisable profiles in all of Europe, thanks to your stories.”

  “You fear my presence can only spell more trouble for your husband, wherever he is.” The detective considered my words, before delivering his verdict. “Mrs Langtry, I apologise that I foisted myself on the good doctor. Tell me, have you any idea of the establishments that your husband frequented in the weeks leading up to his disappearance? You say he had been drinking and gambling.”

  I nodded, opening my purse once again. “I found these,” I said, drawing out two dog-eared books of matches. Holmes reached for them, turning them over in his long fingers to read the garish legend emblazoned across the cover.

  “Le Cabaret de L’Enfer.”

  I let my distaste show on my face. “It is a nightclub on the Boulevard de Clichy.”

  Holmes looked up from the matches. “Near Place Pigalle? The wrong crowd indeed.”

  “Have you visited this… cabaret?” Watson chimed in. “To ask if anyone has seen him?”

  “Watson, the cabarets of La Pigalle are not places for ladies of good character.” The doctor soon gathered Holmes’s meaning. “Nor could Mrs Langtry request that any of her husband’s friends or colleagues investigate on her behalf.”

  I shook my head. “For its bohemian splendour, Paris is more conservative than Monsieur du Maurier would have you believe. Having survived one scandal in Bohemia, I am eager to avoid another.”

  Holmes rewarded me with another tight smile. “Watson, you will go to Le Cabaret de L’Enfer,” he commanded.

  “Of course,” the doctor agreed, ever the faithful bloodhound. “I’ll make enquiries, see when your husband was last seen, that kind of thing.”

  “If you are sure,” I said. “Le Cabaret is rather… theatrical.”

  “Watson’s a man of the world,” Holmes insisted. “Not much shocks him, isn’t that right?”

  The doctor chuckled, although I could see the trepidation in his eyes.

  “And what of you, Mr Holmes?” I inquired.

  “I shall return to our hotel,” he replied, drawing a look of dismay from Watson. “As you quite correctly surmise, my presence would draw too much attention. As always, I can rely on Watson to be my eyes and ears.”

  Holmes rose to his feet, reaching for my hand. I had thought that he was a man who balked from human contact – and yet, he bowed and kissed my hand, with such gentleness that I almost caught my breath.

  “Au revoir, dear lady. Please be assured that we will do everything within our power to reunite you with your husband.”

  With that, my saviours departed, leaving me alone at my table. The door to the café closed, and I released the breath I had barely been aware I was holding.

  Perhaps everything would be as it should be, after all.

  * * *

  That evening, the streets of Montmartre were heaving from the moment the sun dipped below the horizon. You could almost taste the anticipation in the air. The brave and foolish descended onto the narrow roads, wondering what adventures the night would bring.

  No one gave me a second look, sitting outside a pleasantly shabby bistro, smoking a cigarette, a newspaper laid in front of me as I waited, just another soul wiling away the hours until the revels began.

  I saw him at once, parading down the road, back ramrod straight, looking neither left nor right, no doubt in case he caught the eye of devils proffering temptations of both body and soul. I couldn’t help but laugh. John Watson, the Englishman abroad, desperately trying to look as though he owned the place, even though he was so very far from home. I extinguished my cigarette and rose as he approached.

  “Dr Watson?”

  He started, caught between stopping to see who had called his name and fleeing in panic.

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  His voice trailed off as realisation dawned, his eyes growing wide as they took me in from head to foot. “Good lord!”

  The doctor took a step closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear. “Mrs Langtry?”

  I thrust out my hand, only increasing his bewilderment. Out of habit, he took it, and I shook his sweating hand vigorously.

  “That’s it,” said I, my voice a good octave lower than normal. “Just two old friends meeting in the street. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “I– I wouldn’t say that,” he stammered, struggling to find the words.

  I released his hand, and brushed an imaginary piece of fluff from my sleeve. “I must admit that I’m out of practice, but it’s gratifying to know that I can still fool you as I did Mr Holmes on the steps of Baker Street.”

  Watson was still staring open-mouthed at my attire, from the top hat perched atop a masculine wig to my sharply pressed trousers. “As Mr Holmes suggested, ladies of good character would never frequent Le Cabaret de L’Enfer, but as for gentlemen? Well, the same standards never apply, do they not?”

  “Surely you don’t intend to come in with me?”

  “I certainly do. I admit, I wouldn’t venture through the gates of hell on my own, but by your side, I fear no ill.”

  “Shall we then?” the good Doctor asked, wisely deciding that the argument was lost.

  I took one last sip from the cup of coffee I had been nursing and, leaving my paper on the table, led Watson down the street. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  Dr Watson’s expression on finally seeing our destination was a delight to behold. If the sight of a woman in man’s clothing had been enough to rock his world to its very foundations, nothing could prepare him from the entrance of Le Cabaret de L’Enfer. The exterior been fashioned to resemble molten lava, the upper reaches of the building adorned by hideous statues of naked men and women writhing in agony and ecstasy. The door to the nightclub was surrounded by a gigantic carve
d face of Lucifer himself, crimson eyes blazing with hellfire. You entered by means of a gaping, fanged maw, the doorman dressed as a horned imp, complete with cape and pitchfork.

  “Dear God,” Watson muttered, appalled at the sight.

  “There is little of the Almighty beyond those doors, Doctor,” I promised. “At least, that’s what the customers hope and pray.”

  “And your husband came here, to such a den of iniquity?” he marvelled, staring at me with judgement in his eyes.

  I let my pain show in my face. “Yes,” I said quietly.

  Realising his insensitivity, the doctor placed a comforting hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I realise this must be difficult. If you wouldn’t rather–”

  “No,” I said abruptly, before he could send me home. “I’ve come this far and need to know if Robert was here.”

  The doctor took a deep breath, and looking as if he was about to offer me his arm, thankfully stopping himself at the last moment.

  “Shall we?” he said, covering his embarrassment.

  I punched him manfully in the arm. “Whatever you say, old man.”

  Watson laughed, playing along at last, and we approached the astonishing facade. All at once, the impish doorman danced a jig and hooted in merriment. “A-ha,” he shouted out to us in his native French, “still they come, the lost and bedevilled. Oh, how they shall roast.”

  To his credit, Watson didn’t hesitate. He marched up to the red-faced fellow and, with surprising mastery of the imp’s own tongue, demanded entrance. The doorman bowed dramatically. “Of course, foolish mortal, we welcome all sinners here.” With a flourish, the gaudy fellow opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped aside. “Enter and be damned. The Evil One awaits.”

  Showing more humour than I expected, Watson rubbed his hands together as he crossed the threshold. “Well, I hope he’s stoked the fire. It’s been positively freezing all day.” The doorman brayed a peel of frenzied laughter, slamming the door behind us.

  We found ourselves in a sloping corridor, decorated to resemble the Devil’s gullet and lined by glowing grates that belched thick smoke.

  “Charming,” Watson commented, coughing into his gloved hand. “I’m surprised they don’t open a concern in the West End.”