We used our knives to free the other men and, grabbing what papers we could find without bothering to look through them, led the men back down the ladder and out to the gig. Twenty minutes later we were aboard the Agamemnon, and the Royal Edgar was still burning but was no lower in the water, and her list seemed not to have increased.
“We can’t leave her like this,” Captain Preisner said, “and I can’t tow her in; too many questions would be asked.”
“You’ll have to sink her,” Holmes said.
Captain Preisner nodded. “Order the main batteries to fire ten rounds each, controlled fire, at the destroyer,” he told the bridge duty officer.
About ten minutes after the last round was fired the destroyer gave a tremendous belch, and sank prow first into the sea. The entire crew of the Agamemnon, having been informed that it was a sister ship they were forced to sink, stood silently at attention as she went down. Captain Preisner held a salute until the onetime Royal Mary was out of sight beneath the waves, as did all the officers on the bridge.
Captain Preisner sighed and relaxed. “I hope I never have to do anything like that again,” he said.
Later that evening Captain Preisner called us into his cabin. “I have a berth for you,” he said. “We won’t be back in port again until late tomorrow.”
“That’s fine, Captain,” I said. “We still have to compose our report to send back to Whitehall.”
Preisner looked at us. “Those men you brought aboard—you spoke to them?”
“We did.”
“And?”
“The five suits of undergarments,” Holmes said.
“But you only brought four men along.”
“True,” Holmes said. “Our antagonist had begun preparing for his assault. One of the men was already drowned. The others would have joined him shortly had we not come upon the ship when we did. The plan was to chase the black yacht into the Trieste harbor, getting as close to the city as possible. Then fire some shots at the fleeing craft, which would miss and hit at random in the city. Then the destroyer would, itself, flee back out to sea. A small explosion, presumably caused by the yacht firing back, would cause the five drowned men to be flung into the water, there to be found in their Royal Navy uniforms by the locals.”
Captain Preisner stared at him speechless for a long moment. “And all this,” he said finally, “to discredit England?” he asked. “What good would it do?”
“Major conflagrations are started by small sparks,” Holmes said. “Who can say where this might have led?”
Preisner shook his head. “Madmen,” he said.
“Even so,” Holmes agreed. “There are an abundance of them.”
Later in our cabin Holmes turned to me, and asked, “What are you planning to do after we send our report?”
I shrugged. “The world thinks I am dead,” I said. “Perhaps I shall take advantage of that and remain away from public ken.”
“I, also, had thought of doing something of the sort,” Holmes told me. “I’ve always wanted to travel to Tibet, perhaps speak with the Dalai Lama.”
“A very interesting man,” I told him. “I’m sure you’d find such a conversation fruitful.”
Holmes stared at me for a long time, then said, “Good night, Professor,” and turned down the light.
“Good night, Holmes,” I replied.
The Strange Case of the Voodoo Priestess
Carole Bugge
As I sit down to write this account, thunder is tearing at the skies over New Orleans, and lightning is ripping jagged streaks across a darkened horizon laced with pelting raindrops. This sudden burst of Nature’s violence is entirely appropriate to the story I am about to tell.
My name is Lucien Brasseaux, and I am captain of the eighth district of the city of New Orleans. This district includes the French Quarter and its environs—in short, the most violent, crime-ridden neighborhood of a city that always attracted extremes of human behavior. There is a heady, bohemian atmosphere here, perhaps borne on the winds that blow in from the salt marshes of the bayou—but, whatever the reason, people feel a freedom in this town they seem to feel nowhere else. This Pandora’s box of human appetite and impulse has created wonderful music, spicy food, and a colorful, festive social scene. But the Crescent City, as it is called, can be a bloodthirsty, lawless place—and sometimes the worst offenses are committed by our supposedly solid, taxpaying citizens.
There are those who claim New Orleans contains echoes of Paris, and they may well be right; others see in its fresco blend of cultures similarities to other European cities, such as Cannes or even Barcelona; its seamier side is perhaps reminiscent of certain New York neighborhoods, or the outskirts of Chicago, and the Creole influence may recall Kingston or Port-au-Prince—but first and foremost, New Orleans is one of a kind. It belongs to itself.
New Orleans is a religious town, but it is even more a superstitious one. The mixture of Christianity and African voodoo clash and blend much like the waters of the Mississippi River as it rolls into the bay—churning and crosscurrents that make for treacherous tides when the spring rains have swollen the great river in its low, silty clay banks. But, like the mix of cultures in this overgrown small town, the clash of styles and speech and language and lore eventually blends, and pretty soon you can’t tell where the river leaves off and the bay begins.
My family is like that. My mother was English, and my father was Cajun, which is our term for “Acadian,” descendants of French folk who were expelled from Nova Scotia in the Great Expulsion of 1755 and fled all the way down to Louisiana, sliding steadily southward as though the continent was too slippery to hold them—until they ran smack out of land and ended up settling the bayou in and around the Big Easy. Why they call it that I’ll never understand, but they do. So I grew up speaking French, English, and that strange mixture of both we Cajuns call “patois,” and that everyone else calls Pidgin English. My parents sent me to the best schools, and while I am proud of my heritage, I like to think my English is as good as that of any Anglican.
It was with no little trepidation that I saw Madame Celeste heave her enormous bulk up the steps to the precinct house on Royal Street one warm and windy Friday afternoon in February. There was already a sense of anticipation in the air: Carnival was in its fifth week and Mardi Gras was not far away. The smell of lavender and sandalwood preceded Madame Celeste’s entrance into the police station—she mixes all her own perfumes and potions, and you can usually smell her coming from half a block away.
No one is more emblematic of the marriage of religion and superstition than Madame Celeste. A quadroon Creole woman of mysterious origins, she is by all accounts the most famous and powerful Voodoo Queen in the world. A devout Catholic, she is respected and feared, it is said, by the Pope himself. By day she weaves fabric and sews beautiful dresses and scarves that she sells down at the French Market, but by night she supposedly holds midnight voodoo rituals out behind St. Louis Cathedral. No one knows how old she is, and no one can remember her ever being young. It is said that she has lived here forever, and that she is the descendant of a gypsy woman who sold her soul (and her body) to the Devil—and that Celeste was the product of this unholy union. It is said she can summon spirits in the dead of night to do her bidding, and that to be in her presence on All Hallow’s Eve is to be able to peer through the thin membrane separating the living from those who have passed into the next world. In a city of ghosts, Madame Celeste holds a place all her own; some even claim she is a ghost herself, and that she never sleeps, but sits surrounded by her candles and her potions, weaving her spells deep into the night.
As I watched from the window, she took the stairs one at a time, lifting one elephantine knee to rest beside the other before assaying the next step, breathing heavily all the while. Whatever her origins, ghostly or not, Madame Celeste is a very solid corporeal presence. She must weigh close to three hundred pounds, and has a voice that suggests the union of a foghorn with a pile driver. He
r appetite is as prodigious as her size—once, at Lou’s Cajun Oyster Bar, she devoured four dozen oysters, followed by three dozen crayfish—before even beginning the main course.
Her prodigious bosom heaved and fell as she completed the onerous task of ascending the stairs, and sweat sprouted from her forehead like beads popping from a necklace. My sergeant, young Frank Pierce, took one look out the window and headed for the back door, claiming he was suddenly in need of a smoke. Madame Celeste inspires respect in some people and pure dread in others. Pierce was a good Catholic, and went to Mass every Sunday, but he had a healthy enough fear of the Devil that the thought of encountering one of his progeny caused him to flee like a child out the back door, leaving his newly opened pack of cigarettes in plain sight on his desk.
My own attempt to feel contempt toward his cowardice was compromised by the fit of rapid swallowing that overtook me as I heard the bell on the door commence its ting-a-ling, announcing the arrival of our august visitor. The door swung open before I could reach it, and Madame Celeste entered the room.
Her enormous figure was clothed in layers of colorful fabric—a turquoise blue vest over a sea-green linen dress, topped with a flourish of maroon and gold scarves, intertwined around her bulging neck. A tall hat of peacock feathers topped off the ensemble, worn jauntily to one side—or perhaps it had become somewhat dislodged during her journey up the stairs. Her jewelry was equally unrestrained; she wore a ring upon every finger, and a jangle of colored beads on a silver strand around her neck. Earrings dangling from each earlobe jingled with a delicate silvery tone.
She plodded to the nearest chair and sat heavily, as though the exertion she had just undergone was too much for anyone to bear, and wiped her frothing brow with a dainty little handkerchief. Her hands were surprisingly fragile, smooth and soft-looking, with delicate fingers and dimpled knuckles. Her skin was quite light, of the hue often referred to as café au lait. As a quadroon, her ancestry was likely a mixture of African and French, as well as Spanish or perhaps American Indian—as is the case of so many of our black Creoles, many of whom came here by way of Haiti.
I sat at my desk opposite her and assumed my best professional manner.
“What can I do for you, Madame Celeste?”
She gave me a sharp glance and passed the handkerchief over her forehead once again before answering me. A swirl of sandalwood perfume assaulted my nostrils, and I had to squint to keep from sneezing.
“Tiens, c’est trop chaud,” she said, her voice deep as the waters of mighty Mississippi. Her accent was cultivated, and her dialect was not the usual Creole patois, but a more educated French. Leaning forward, she looked me in the eye. “Monsieur, je voudrais—I wish to report a murder.”
I leaned forward upon my desk. “A murder? When did it happen?”
She shook her head impatiently. “Non, ce n’est pas … it hasn’t happened yet. But it will, no matter for dat.”
I sat back in my chair, as suddenly as if I had been pushed. I did not know what to say; in all my years as policeman, I had never been presented with such a proposition. If it had come from anyone other than Madame Celeste, I would have laughed it off as a silly prank, but, superstitious or not, one did not take her word lightly. When she predicted the Mississippi would flood several years ago, some people laughed it off—after three dry summers in a row, no one thought it possible. But sure enough, that August the skies opened up and let loose a deluge, day after day, until finally the great river swelled and rolled from its banks like a fat old woman toppling out of bed. Homes were ruined, livestock was lost, crops were buried beneath an avalanche of water. And Madame Celeste sat and sewed her fabrics, and wove her cloth, and just nodded to herself. After that, everyone listened when she had something to say.
I gathered myself and looked her in the eye, to see if she was testing me in some way, but I saw only sincerity and concern. Her dark brown eyes were large and almost perfectly round, not the almond shape one sometimes sees in Creole woman. Her generous lips were puckered in a frown, and her brow was furrowed; it was clear that she was genuinely alarmed by what she was telling me.
“Whom do you believe is in danger of being murdered?” I said at last.
She shook her head impatiently. “Alors, dere is no belief, monsieur; dere is only fact! I tell you he will die, most certainement, as I sit here before you!”
“Very well, then,” I replied as calmly as I could. “Who is going to die?”
If I had been unprepared for her first statement, the second one sent me reeling.
“Charles Latille.”
I felt the blood pounding in my head, and the room spun before my eyes. Everything went black for a moment. Then I swallowed, took a deep breath, and wiped my brow.
“Vous connais, monsieur?”
“Yes, I know him,” I responded at last. Unable to collect my thoughts, I reached absently for my coffee cup, but I seemed to have misplaced it.
Charles Latille was my best friend. My earliest childhood memories all included Charles; I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. We were boys together, and grew up playing in and around the bayous of Louisiana. By the time we were young men, we had become inseparable.
And less than a month before, I had become engaged to marry his sister, Evangeline.
“You are quite certain he will die?”
She nodded and then shrugged. “Sans doubt … Jordi pou mwen, demen pou vou.”
I recognized the French Creole dialect; translated, it means, “Today for me, tomorrow for you.”
“May I ask you how you come by this knowledge?”
She regarded me solemnly. “I had a vision.”
These words, spoken by most people, would strike any sensible person as ridiculous. But Madame Celeste was not most people.
“And in this vision—?”
“I foresaw his death.”
“Did you happen to see how he was murdered? Or who the killer was?”
She shook her head. “Je regrette a dit, mais non. The visions are sometimes cloudy when dey come … dis one, a very bad feeling, but not so much information. Dis I regret.”
“What are you proposing I do with about this information?”
She shook her head. “I do not know, monsieur—but it is my duty to report it to you, n’est-ce pas?”
There was a short silence, then she gathered up the fabric of her skirt and heaved herself to her feet, puffing a little as she adjusted her hat, which was listing even more to one side.
“Well, thank you for coming in, Madame,” I said, escorting her to the door. “I will do what I can.”
She turned to me. “Faits attention, monsieur—watch your friend, and be careful. You yourself are also in danger, I fear. Sa ki jwé vek chyen yè trape depise yè.”
I recognized this proverb as well; loosely translated from the French Creole, it means “He who plays with dogs catches fleas.”
She laid a dimpled hand upon my arm, and I could feel the heat of her body through my uniform jacket. “Be careful,” she repeated, then she was gone, the faint sound of her jewelry tinkling trailing after her as she descended the steps.
Dazed, I went back to my desk and sat, hardly aware of my surroundings. I needed to collect my thoughts, to make what I could of this extraordinary woman’s disturbing advice. What could I possibly do to protect my friend—or myself, for that matter—from unknown assailants? It seemed to me I had only enough information to be deeply disturbed, yet not enough to be useful.
As I sat ruminating, Sergeant Pierce took the opportunity to show himself, creeping quietly back into the room.
“Forget something?” I inquired, indicating the pack of cigarettes still on his desk. He took one look at them and reddened from his collar to his hairline. He was fair and freckled, with copper hair the color of a new penny, and he blushed easily. I watched with smug satisfaction as he coughed nervously, sat down at his desk, and pretended to be busy.
No sooner had Pierce seate
d himself than the door opened again, and a man I had never set eyes on before entered the police station. He was tall and thin, well over six feet, with black hair and a long, sharp face. His eyes were so deep set that I couldn’t make out their color at first, though they appeared to be grey or hazel. His features were lean and rather aristocratic, I thought—though there was an unhealthy flush to his gaunt cheeks that made me wonder if he was suffering from one of the fevers that makes it way through this swampy town from time to time. He was dressed like a gentleman, and the cut of his waistcoat was decidedly European—my first guess was British. His bearing, too, had the earmarks of a foreigner. There is a way people in this climate carry themselves, as if to spare every bit of energy they have to withstand the heat; but this man had the brisk, vigorous movements of a bird dog on a scent.
“Can I help you, sir?” I said, rising from my desk.
My visitor surveyed the office briefly before replying. There was something in his manner, and in the sweep of those deep-set eyes, that told me he missed very little. There wasn’t much to see—besides my desk and the one Sergeant Pierce occupied, there were a few filing cabinets lining the wall, a bulletin board with some out-of-date notices, a map of the city on the far wall, and, of course, the inevitable ceiling fan. I glanced at my sergeant, who was fumbling with the drawers on his desk, looking for something or other, and I couldn’t suppress a sigh. Apart from his fear of Madame Celeste, Pierce was a stalwart fellow, loyal and eager to please; but he was a bit of a bumbler. For some reason I found myself concerned about the impression he was making on our visitor.
“Why don’t you go ahead and clear off for the day, Pierce?” I said.
“Really, sir?” Pierce said.
“Yes, yes—go ahead,” I replied impatiently, anxious to be alone with the mysterious man.
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 31