Although I knew him to be fluent, Holmes in character as Stephen Hollister spoke no French. In an adjacent room behind the cash register, I could hear voices, and the door to this chamber opened frequently as people passed in and out. When it was open, their voices were quite clear. Several male and one female voice spoke in rapid French, using, I presumed, slang, for I could catch nothing of what they said.
At one point a handsome, intense woman of around sixty, in dark clothing and with a determined air, emerged from the room and walked through the shop.
‘À bientôt, Louise,’ called Richard.
She raised a hand and gave a faint smile.
‘Some of that goose pâté if you would, and some of those olives,’ said Holmes, and then considered the new coffee grinder, which I noted had the word ‘Peugeot’ inscribed on it. ‘Interesting contraption! If we can only get our landlady to accommodate it. I shall buy one and see.’
I knew full well that Mrs Hudson, who kindly furnished us with food, was a woman very used to routine and would not touch it.
‘Let us convince her with a gift of these,’ said Holmes with a smile, pointing to a triumvirate of small jars he had selected from the shelves – mustard, honey, and small pickles. ‘Oh, and – a baggetty, sill vooz plate,’ he said, purposely mangling the words. He pointed to a basket of the long, crusty loaves of French bread near the cash register.
‘Ah, non, non,’ the grocer replied. ‘For you, one of my best!’ He went behind the counter and selected another baguette, this one golden and crusty. ‘Still warm from the oven!’
Thus, laden with our treasures, we stood in the street, attempting to hail another cab. The heavy drizzle had turned once again to rain, and Holmes protected the baguette with a carefully angled umbrella.
‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘where to next – more errands?’ He glanced at me, reading my puzzlement, and laughed. Once again he flagged a four-wheeler and we climbed aboard. He began to restore his normal appearance as we proceeded north on Charlotte Street towards Euston Road.
‘That was obviously not about the food, Watson, although I’ll admit it is an added bonus. That little unassuming grocery store is the nexus for the French anarchist activity in London. That, and the Autonomie Club. I have slowly been gaining Richard’s confidence. You know my methods. The lady who passed through was none other than Louise Michel.’
‘Who?’
‘A famous French anarchist, Watson. She is said to have been one of the organizing powers behind the uprising in Paris in ’71.’
‘What is she doing here?’ I exclaimed, suddenly imagining barricades of furniture and bonfires in Trafalgar Square.
‘We have welcomed foreigners of all stripes and political persuasions, Watson. It is part and parcel of being a democracy.’
Our hansom turned left onto Euston which became Marylebone Road. The rain had paused, but dark clouds scudded across the sky and a chill wind blew about us. More stormy weather was on the way.
‘I do not understand why we should welcome violent extremists,’ I remarked.
‘I tracked her briefly earlier this year. Louise Michel is writing articles and giving speeches, Watson. There is no law against that.’
‘But someone in that crowd has graduated to explosives. Can that not be laid at her door?’
‘It is not that simple, I am afraid. We must uphold the freedoms on which our country is based, Watson. A democracy always faces the challenge of discerning what is free speech and what is sedition, what is ardent dissent and what is incitement to criminal acts.’
‘But still—’
‘Watson, you remarked earlier on the prejudice you heard from Billings. I’m afraid that attitude is growing due to the anarchists, a tiny but very notable minority among the many Italian and French who have come to this country peacably. Most of these immigrants have nothing to do with politics or crime. They are skilled artisans, chefs, woodworkers, and professional people. But along with these come many poor, unskilled labourers, desperate to start anew. For a small subset of these, their poverty and misery make them ripe for conversion to violence.’
‘It is a sad situation. Something must be done, Holmes.’
‘Yes, but to help them, do you not think? The anarchists are a small, renegade part of a larger movement who believe strongly in schools for the poor, did you know that? They want to provide a means for the impoverished to raise themselves. Louise Michel has founded such a school.’
‘All well and good, but bombs!’ I objected.
‘They feel their voices are not heard. It is a dilemma, Watson, but I agree there is no excuse for bombing. I shall combat terrorism in any form.’
‘There is a lot in the press about the immigrant problem, Holmes.’
‘Sadly yes, there is a growing movement – the “restrictionists”. They want limitations on immigration, tougher police, all based on fears of economic and racial decline. Titus Billings and his secret benefactor are clearly in the vanguard.’
I looked about me on Marylebone Road. We were passing the elegant Park Crescent dwellings, but even in this refined and lovely part of London there were vagrant individuals begging on the streets.
‘Titus Billings thinks the way out of our problems is by militarizing the police. By providing them with ever more brutal crowd control equipment. More deadly batons, handcuffs which break wrists, even guns. Turning them into soldiers, essentially, as if the streets were at war. How do you feel about that, Watson?’
‘Well, I … it is hard to say. Sounds a poor solution. But … bombers are criminals.’
‘Yes, they are, Watson. But should we allow fear to turn our country into a kind of police state? It is a delicate balance.’
‘This is beyond my ken, Holmes.’
Holmes regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Frankly, Watson, it is beyond my own as well. It is more in my brother’s realm. But I will help where I can. As result of this stop at Le Bel Épicier, I know the exact location of a bombing they are planning two days hence.’
‘How?’
‘The men in the back-room.’
‘You overhead them? How could they be so careless?’
‘They were speaking in code, with a great use of argot – French slang, Watson. They assume no Englishmen speak their language to such a degree. However, I do. As Mycroft noted, they are amateurs. But still dangerous.’
My friend was wise to ignore his brother’s admonition. This new information could well save lives.
He sighed. ‘What I do not know is when this bomb is to detonate.’
Our carriage turned south towards Baker Street and we just managed to make it inside as the drizzle turned into a downpour. Holmes scribbled two telegrams regarding the bombings and sent Billy off to the post office with them. As I hung up my wet things and noted the cheerful fire and tea things laid out, I felt a moment of thankfulness that I was not one of the homeless unfortunates huddling under an awning on Charlotte Street, or Tottenham Court Road, or even in the mews near to this very building. Instead I was comfortable and warm, and quite safe.
Of course, that would not remain the case for long.
CHAPTER 8
The Lady
I settled in again by the fire and cracked open a nautical adventure book I had left behind. Holmes, pacing, checked his watch. ‘Do not get too comfortable, Watson. We must go out again shortly. Crime does not halt for inclement weather. The Goodwin brothers have not been forthcoming with the list they promised. Perhaps it is time to pay them a visit.’
‘It has been less than two hours, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Give them a chance.’
‘It is ridiculous that they did not have the names in their heads.’
‘They are very social. Perhaps between parties and Parliament there are many names to remember.’
‘Yes, yes, Watson,’ said Holmes impatiently.
I nodded and added a shot of brandy to my tea. Holmes waved away the offer of the same and took out his notebook in which the Goodwins had s
cribbled the names of the few Luminarians they could remember.
‘Oliver Flynn is the odd name on this list. He is the only artistic member. All the rest are industrialists or businessmen. He does not seem to fit. I wonder if something is hidden in the man’s past.’
‘What a talent he is!’ I smiled at the thought of Flynn’s play Mary and I had attended at the Haymarket only last week. It was a trifle, to be sure, but a delicious evening of entertainment. His latest was what critics referred to as a “comedy of manners”, and we had thoroughly enjoyed his skewering of the aristocratic class, although done with a modicum of sympathy. ‘Of course, he is certainly a character,’ I said, ‘Was there not some scandal brewing? Something about his unusual … romantic life.’
Holmes looked up from perusing the articles on the table. ‘Raise your view, Watson,’ he snapped.
I turned back to my book, irritated.
‘Sorry, dear fellow. I should not let slander-by-Zander get under my skin. Flynn engenders more gossip than I do! He hails from Dublin originally, was an orphan who pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. This fact is little known – indeed, he hides it – but he has almost single-handedly funded the orphanage in which he spent his early years.’
‘Fascinating, Holmes. His public persona is so different from that.’
‘Few of us reveal our true selves in public,’ said Holmes, cryptically.
Mrs Hudson appeared with what at less pressured times was the kind of announcement dearest to our hearts. ‘Mr Holmes, a client is here to consult you. A Lady Eleanor Gainsborough.’ Her expression conveyed that the visitor had impressed her, and that Holmes had better respond, and quickly.
‘I am quite busy,’ said he.
‘She was most insistent,’ said Mrs Hudson.
‘Holmes, have you time for this?’ I wondered. ‘You seem to have a rather full plate.’
‘I shall determine that, Watson,’ said he, peeved. ‘Send her up, Mrs Hudson. When it rains, it pours.’
And although indeed it was pouring outside at that moment, in walked a lady as if blown into the room by a summer breeze, so untouched was she by the weather.
She stood just inside the doorway, a graceful woman of about forty-five. Her wealth and breeding were evident by her poised manner and costly raiment. But she also gave the impression, so common among the very rich, that she was wearing some kind of cloak of ethereal matter, protecting her from rain, dirt, and all the minor inconveniences.
She smiled graciously at the two of us. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? And the friend – Doctor, er …?’
‘Watson, madam, at your service.’
She smiled faintly and turned to Holmes. ‘I am so pleased to find you here, and willing to receive me, Mr Holmes.’
She held out her hand, palm down, and Holmes crossed to her, kissing it in the manner of a true gallant. ‘Lady Gainsborough! Welcome.’
‘Lady Eleanor, please, Mr Holmes.’
‘As you wish,’ he said.
I nodded deferentially as Holmes guided her to the basket chair which was angled closest to the fire. She placed her reticule on the table, took in the room with its slightly sinister and decidedly chaotic clutter, and then sat, arranging her burgundy velvet skirts around her.
As she did so, I took in the full measure of a born aristocrat, or so I gathered from her gracefully erect posture, her porcelain skin with only the slightest natural blush, her bounteous yet impeccably arranged coiffure of dark brown curls, and the subtle touches of discreet antique jewellery.
Her dress was of the finest quality, with a deep chevron of black lace panels down the front which narrowed into a waist whose tiny size belied her years. She smiled, and it melted any trace of the late autumn chill that lingered in the air and subtracted ten years from my estimation of her age.
‘Mr Holmes, I am sure you can help me. I have read so much of you and your remarkable achievements, both by Doctor Watson here, as well as in the newspapers.’
Holmes shot me a sudden glance, indicating the table where the damning tabloid articles were still arrayed. I had forgotten about them. I got up to stack them discreetly before our visitor could catch a glimpse, although I could not imagine a lady of her class taking interest in The Illustrated Police Gazette.
‘This is, of course, despite recent slander,’ she continued, dashing this thought to pieces and eyeing me with amusement. ‘My maid brings the Gazette into the house from time to time, Doctor. They are hard to resist.’ I finished stacking and sat back down.
She leaned forward as if to impart a secret. ‘Likening you to the Devil, indeed! For shame! In my view, you are an angel of justice. Your capturing the Covent Garden Garrotter last summer – what a triumph, Mr Holmes! I have followed your adventures for some time. My late husband was an admirer as well.’
Holmes, more susceptible to flattery than he would care to admit, softened slightly, but turned the conversation to business. ‘Madam, I can see that you are troubled. How may we be of service to you? It must be a matter of great importance for you to have travelled though this weather, rather than for you to summon us to your school. I read that you have visited this worthy institution before coming here.’
She started at this. ‘You read me … like a book?’
‘It is a figure of speech, madam. Watson, Lady Eleanor is the co-founder and funder of the remarkable Gainsborough School for Young Ladies, a private, charitable enterprise which rescues destitute young women from a life on the streets.’
‘Well, my goodness, yes. You are remarkably well-informed. Of course, my girls are not only poor, but have been plucked from very specific life on the streets,’ said the lady. ‘One in which the sad young things have found nothing to sell but themselves.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘I am surprised you know of us,’ said the lady to Holmes.
‘Your school is quite renowned, Lady Eleanor.’ He turned to me. ‘This laudable institution provides education and training which transforms these waifs into employable young ladies – suitable for work in service, is that not correct?’ He turned back to Lady Eleanor.
‘Indeed, it is, Mr Holmes,’ said the lady, pleased at the recognition. ‘But we are hidden away in an unfashionable part of town and have had little notice by the larger community. How do you know this?’
‘I make it my business to follow everything of importance in London, Lady Eleanor.’
‘You must not sleep, then. But returning to my question, how could you have read that I had just now been to visit the school?’ she asked. ‘The papers do sometimes follow me – as they do you – but not by the minute.’
‘It was written on your gloves.’
‘My gloves?’ She held an exquisite pair of pale lavender leather gloves in her left hand.
‘The ink stain on your glove, there,’ said Holmes.
Barely discernible was a small stain on one of the index fingers.
‘You are far too meticulous in your habillement to have left the house with a stained glove, therefore you did some writing elsewhere,’ said Holmes. ‘Normally, one removes gloves to write, but you left yours on, presumably because you were in an environment where you did not wish to sully your hands. I cannot imagine you engaging the type of barrister or accountant where you would feel the need, but paperwork at the school might have required your attention, and in that undoubtedly less pristine atmosphere you chose to leave them on.’
‘I could have done so while shopping. Written a cheque, perchance,’ said the lady, who seemed amused rather than offended by Holmes’s showy display.
‘I warrant you do not do your own shopping, save for very particular establishments, a dressmaker perhaps. And there not only would you have an account, but you would have removed your gloves.’
She laughed. It was a beautiful, silvery sound. ‘Well, you are entirely correct, Mr Holmes, and I am even more convinced that it is the right thing to consult you!’
Holmes smiled at the lady.
&
nbsp; ‘It is fascinating,’ she continued, ‘that Mr Zanders of the Gazette seems to attribute your powers, which he declares are waning, to nefarious means. I personally think your past results tell quite a different story. Is it jealousy, perhaps, or does the man hold something against you?’
Holmes’s smile faded.
‘That is an astute observation indeed, madam. I once took this journalist to task for a gross indiscretion. But please, let us turn to the reason for your visit. How can we help you?’
‘An incident occurred at my school and I require your advice, as well as your assistance.’
‘Please lay your problem before us.’
‘There has been an attack on one of my star pupils, a young woman named Judith. She was rescued from the streets three years ago and in that short time has proven herself highly intelligent, having quickly acquired remarkable fluency in reading, figures, and household organization. I did not know it at the time, but she speaks French, as her mother was French. Although it is French of the streets, she has sought to remedy that, and her colloquial English, with success.’
‘Good. This attack, Lady Eleanor? What happened?’
‘Judith was attacked in her bed last night as she slept.’
‘Attacked!’ I cried.
Holmes frowned. ‘Details, if you please?’
‘Judith, as one of our senior and most accomplished students, has earned a room to herself. It was about two in the morning … early this morning … when an intruder entered this room, pulled back the covers, grasped her hand, and attempted to sever one of her fingers with a knife.’
‘My God!’ I exclaimed.
‘Which finger?’ asked Holmes.
‘Er … I am not sure. The middle? The ring?’
‘It matters. And madam, you are sure? Which hand and which finger?’
‘The left, I think. Ring finger. But those are not the salient points.’
‘I will determine that. What else?’
‘The assailant was masked, hooded. She did not see the man.’
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