Try as I might, I could not get Holmes to tell me what he knew.
“But why won’t you tell me?” I pleaded, as we walked toward the station house.
“I have my reasons, Captain. And I intend to bring this fiend to justice—but I must ask you to trust me.” He stopped walking for a moment and faced me, his sharply etched features earnest. “I know this is difficult for you, but please believe me when I say I have a plan and that I need your cooperation. I promise you will not be in the dark for long.”
My eyes met his, and I felt the full force of his personality in those grey eyes—deep—set and keen as a hawk’s. I was not a man accustomed to receiving orders from others, and I did not like being kept in the dark, but, after all, this was the great Sherlock Holmes—how could I refuse him?
“Very well,” I said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Now, as to this ball tomorrow—do you think you could procure me an invitation?”
I sighed. “It may prove difficult.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Perhaps you should explain.”
As we walked along, I told him about the krewes of New Orleans—private clubs that each sponsored their own Mardi Gras floats. Every krewe also had its own ball, and each year they would try to outdo each other in elegance and style. The Latilles were founding members of Comus—the oldest and most prestigious of all the krewes—and Charles always managed to get me an invitation, but they were very hard to come by.
“But I’ll see Charles about it right away,” I concluded.
“Good—it is vital. Now, you must have a backup force of policemen at the ready—but they are not to make themselves known in any way, and are only to act upon a signal from you. Does that present any problems?”
“No. I can have them stationed outside, around the house; it will be dark, and no one will see them.”
“Good, good. We need to lay a trap—but an obvious police presence would scare off our prey.”
“So you feel that something will happen at the ball—that the killer will show his hand?”
“Yes, I think I can safely guarantee that.”
“And will Charles or Evangeline be in any danger?”
“I would be lying to you if I said no, Captain. But I also think we must strike, and this is our best chance.”
I sighed. “Very well.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon following Holmes’s instructions. I was able to convince Charles that procuring an invitation for “Mr. Altamont” was essential—and, in the end, we got one for Sergeant Pierce, too. I dispatched half a dozen backup men to station themselves around the exterior of the house where the ball was to be held. It was at one of the many grand houses on St. Charles Avenue, at the corner of Napoleon Street.
There were not many costumes available at this late date, but at last I was able to get something for both Holmes and Pierce, though I had to pay handsomely for them. For Holmes I found a black prelate’s costume, the kind a French Catholic priest might wear. I recalled that in one of Dr. Watson’s stories Holmes had occasion to dress as a clergyman, so I thought it was a fitting choice.
That evening, Holmes and I arrived at the Latilles’ to escort Charles and Evangeline to the ball. When I saw Evy coming down the hall in her costume, I realized that everything I had ever felt about other women was a mere dress rehearsal for what I now experienced-utter and complete intoxication. She was dressed as a duchess, in a satin gown with white fur trim, and when she entered the foyer and those dark eyes met mine, I felt the full power of that intoxication, like a powerful drug coursing through my entire body. Charles wore a toreador outfit, and looked very dashing in his red sash, ruffled shirt, and black boots. I was dressed as a jack of clubs, and I had carefully hidden a revolver in my loose-flowing, pantaloon-style pants.
We all walked the few blocks to the party and entered the grand hallway, to find the festivities in full swing. People in elaborate costumes and masks swirled around the dance floor, and waiters circulated with heaping platters of food. Drink flowed freely, as it always did in this town. I poured Evangeline some punch from the shining silver punch bowl and escorted her to the ballroom, where a small orchestra was playing.
Following Holmes’s advice, I planned to keep Charles and Evangeline in my sight the entire evening. The only other specific instruction he gave me was to be down at the lake at midnight. There was a small boating pond at the bottom of the property, and he seemed to think that whatever was going to occur would happen there. I saw him have a private word with Charles, but I have no idea what they said to each other.
As I watched Evy walk around the room greeting people, Sergeant Pierce came up to me. He looked miserable in his costume. He was dressed as a donkey—it was the best we could do at last moment’s notice. His left ear drooped sadly to one side, and the costume’s thick grey fabric looked uncomfortable and hot. A long, tasseled tail dragged behind him.
“Hello, sir.”
“Hello, Pierce.”
“Everything going according to plan, sir?”
“I hope so, Pierce, I hope so.”
The evening wore on, but there was no sign of any suspicious activity, and I was beginning to wonder if Holmes for once was wrong. As midnight approached, I found myself on the other side of the ballroom from Charles and Evy, keeping an eye on them at a distance.
The partygoers swarmed about me in an ever-tightening circle of frenzy, the masks on their faces frozen into grotesque parodies of human emotion. There was something frantic about Carnival this year—it was as if if we ate, drank, and danced hard enough, we could somehow erase the stains of our sin, and wash the blood of those eleven murdered Italians from our collective conscience.
I was not far from the French doors leading out to the terrace, and I could see Holmes across the room, on the other side of the orchestra, not far from where Charles was standing, talking to some friends. Pierce was standing by the front door, looking uncomfortable in his costume, his long tail drooping, his left ear flopping over lopsidedly.
Across the room, Evangeline sat with some other women in a row of chairs along the wall, in her feathered regalia, trimmed in fur and satin. In spite of my apprehension about the evening, I couldn’t help admire the whiteness of her throat, the delicacy of her wrist as she fluttered the fan in front of her masked face. I realized at that moment that I had loved her ever since I could remember, and my heart still thrilled at the sight of her. She moved to straighten the billows of laced skirts around her ankles, and I fancied I could hear the rustling of silk even over the din of music and laughter and smell the faint aroma of her perfume, dusky and hinting of wilted roses, as it rose from her downy neck.
I looked around for Holmes. He was managing to blend in, not calling too much attention to himself, in spite of the watchful attitude of his long, lanky form. His costume suited him, I thought; black as his slicked-back hair, black as the soul of the fiends who were after my friend. Holmes caught my eyes and nodded, indicating that so far, all was going according to plan. I looked at the clock—it was ten minutes to twelve. In the pit of my stomach, a cold seed of fear began to sprout, and my mouth lost all its moisture.
I tried to maintain my post as the crowd jostled me more and more—it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep both Charles and Evangeline in my sight. A plump, jolly little man dressed as a leprechaun danced in front of me, grinning madly as his fat, diminutive body spun around, his stubby legs clad in forest green leggings. His feet scampered to the beat of the music, which seemed to be getting louder. It made me quite dizzy to watch him twist and turn, the tassel on his green pointed hat bobbing up and down like a lure dangling in front of a trout. He winked at me merrily as he hopped from one foot to the other, as if we were in some sort of conspiracy together, and he was enjoying sharing our little secret. I had never seen the man before in my life, but not knowing what else to do, I winked back at him, hoping that he would go hopping off to torment some other poor soul.
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But to my dismay, he stayed right in front of me, toes tapping, arms happily flailing, dancing his little jig, as if for all the world he really were one of the Little People come out of the woods to cast a spell on me. The false beard clinging to his chin began to droop and hang off in pieces as sweat poured from under his mask and down his face, loosening the glue. Still he danced and still he winked; and I felt as if I was caught in some hellish Sisyphean nightmare, doomed to forever face this demoniacal dwarf. If I moved left, he moved left; when I went right, he followed. I was beginning to wonder if the man was seriously unbalanced.
The orchestra began to play “If Ever I Cease to Love You,” the song that had become the official Mardi Gras anthem some two decades ago. The music was as forgettable as the lyrics, but when the crowd heard the first strains of music, everyone cheered and began to sing along.
If ever I cease to love
If ever I cease to love
May the moon be turned to green cream cheese
If ever I cease to love
I had lost sight of Holmes and Charles entirely. The crowd had become so dense that the crush of bodies prevented anyone from moving very much. A tall, thin woman clothed entirely in white ostrich feathers slid in front of me. A preposterous plume of a hat was perched atop her head, obscuring my line of sight. Between her and the mad leprechaun, my view of both Charles and his sister was blocked. Suddenly panicked, acting out of impulse and desperation, I began to dance. I gyrated as crazily as my green-clad tormentor, swaying from side to side as if possessed, my eyes half-closed. Somehow, I managed rather clumsily to knock the ostrich woman’s hat to the floor, hopefully making it look accidental, thus opening my line of sight again. Irritated, and seeing that I was making no attempt to retrieve it, she bent to pick it up while I made remorseful gestures. By then the noise in the room was so loud that conversation was out of the question.
I peered over the stooping back of the ostrich lady as she bent to retrieve her hat—but there was no sign of Evangeline! Panic surged through me like a bolt of electricity, and I gathered my strength to push through the crowd, dense as it was—but suddenly she reappeared again, nodding and smiling, still holding a fan delicately in her fingers. But now the fan was between me and her face, and I craned my neck to watch as she bent down to say something to a passing reveler, a man dressed as an eighteenth-century cavalier.
May the moon be turned to green cream cheese
If ever I cease to love
Still the crowd sang, and still the leprechaun jounced, jostled, and jigged. He was breathing heavily, and by then I was convinced the man was seriously deranged. His eyes bulged like overcooked eggs from behind his mask—the mad, obsessed stare of a lunatic.
Just then the big brass clock in the foyer struck midnight, sending the revelers into an even greater frenzy. Midnight—I had to get to the garden! I somehow managed to elbow my way to the other side of the feathered lady, pushing the people on either side of me. I shoved through the press of bodies, sweating and straining to make my way out of the horrible vise of humanity. Taking a deep breath, I slipped out the French doors onto the terrace. The music and singing inside the house rose to a raucous crescendo, and the sound of drunken voices followed me out to the patio.
If ever I cease to love
If ever I cease to love
I closed the doors behind me, doing my best to shut out the sound. I took a gulp of fresh air and stepped out into the night.
The evening was soft and full, pregnant with promise, but my stomach was hollow with fear and anticipation as I patted the revolver at my side, glad for its reassuring bulk in the pocket of my costume. The garden was deep, bordered by hedges on either side, and a series of winding paths crisscrossed in every direction, eventually leading down to a sloping lawn, at the bottom of which was the lake. The air was heavy with the scent of bougainvilleas, and the gentle cascading of crickets blended with the sound of peeper frogs. Torches had been lit along some of the paths, but others were in darkness, their destinations a mystery. I followed one of the lighted paths, stepping carefully lest I should twist an ankle or something. Heading toward the pond, or so I thought, I turned down a dimly lighted path; half of the torches had burned out already. I thought of turning back, but it felt like the way down to the lake, so I headed forward.
I squinted and strained my eyes, trying to see farther ahead, but my line of vision was severely limited. I resolved to go back, but just then I came to a three-way fork, and was uncertain as to what was the way back. I followed what I thought was my original path, but the night suddenly seemed to close in around me. I groped and stumbled along for a few yards, straining to see, my heart pounding in my throat. The sound of peepers seemed to be getting louder—then I turned a corner and suddenly I was facing the pond. Just as suddenly, the moon emerged from behind a cloud, casting its pale blue light upon the lake, thick with lily pads, their white blossoms faint and ghostly in the moonlight. I could see the dark shapes of willow trees hanging over the water, their leaves barely brushing the shore. A small boathouse sat nestled along the willows just a few yards from me, its white-painted clapboards shining dimly in the moon’s reflected light. The scene looked unreal—it had a dreamlike quality, like a landscape of the imagination. It was all too perfect, like a painting—the weeping willows, the boathouse, the stillness of the water under the cool light of the full moon.
My muscles ached from tension, and my throat was a desert, swept dry of any saliva. There was a rustle in the bushes along the side of the boathouse. I took a few steps toward it.
“Who’s there?” I whispered fiercely.
More rustling, then a few stifled grunts.
“Who’s there?” I whispered again, this time more loudly.
A voice came from deep within the bushes. “Is that you, sir?”
I sighed. “Yes. Come on out, Pierce.”
“Coming, sir … it’s just that—” More grunts, followed by a groan.
“What is it, Pierce?” I took a few more steps towards the bushes.
“Well, sir, I’m … I’m a bit stuck, sir.”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
“If I knew, sir, I could get unstuck … but, well, sir, I’m afraid I need some help.”
“For God’s sake, Pierce, keep your voice down, or you’ll ruin everything!” I said, bending over to help him. Somehow, the tail of his costume had wound itself around a yew tree shrub.
“Sorry, sir.”
I tried to unwind the tail but the material had frayed and stuck to the sticky sap of the branches.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take it off, Pierce.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“The costume—take it off.”
“But, sir—”
“Take it off!”
“But then I’ll be naked, sir.”
“Aren’t you wearing something underneath?”
“Well, yes, sir, my union suit, but that’s hardly—”
“Shh!” Just then I thought I heard footsteps along the path I had come from. I ducked down into the bushes next to Pierce.
“Don’t say a word,” I whispered, drawing my pistol from inside my pocket.
The moon dipped under a cloud and once again shadows descended over the lake. I stood up and squinted, peering out over the bushes. A movement to my right side caught the corner of my eye. At that moment the cloud slid away, and once again the lake was lighted in the moonlight. There, standing in full view at the far shore of the lake, was Charles. The red sash around his waist made him a perfect target, and I took a step toward him, but he held a hand out toward me to stop me. I started to call to him, but hesitated—what on earth was he doing here?
There was the sound of light footsteps at the entrance to one of the paths, and I looked in that direction. There, at the edge of the path, was Evangeline. Her fur-trimmed cuffs and collar shone bone white under the pale moonlight, and her vermilion satin gown had the black mottled look of dri
ed blood. I tried to speak to warn her, but no words came—only a hoarse croak; my throat felt as thick as the bullfrogs along the banks. I rose from the bushes and started toward her, but she didn’t see me; her attention was focused on Charles. She raised her right hand toward him—to warn him, perhaps. I took a breath of air and cleared my throat to speak, but just then a shot rang out.
I found my voice at the exact same moment, but the sound of gunfire drowned out my words.
“Evy! Charles! Watch out!”
But it was too late, and I watched as my friend crumpled to the ground. Evangeline turned toward me slowly, and it was then that I saw the cold hard gleam of metal in the moonlight.
At that moment my world ended.
My beloved, my dear Evangeline, held the gun that had fired at Charles, and it was now aimed at me. Still my brain refused to comprehend what my eyes told me to be true. There was a terrible silence as the frogs, the crickets, and all the creatures of the night seemed to hold their breath.
“Evy—no!” I cried, but a second shot reverberated in the stillness of the night. Instinct took over my body, and I ducked simultaneously as I lunged at her, managing somehow to grab the hand holding the gun.
“Pierce!” I yelled as I wrenched the gun away from her. Sergeant Pierce emerged from the bushes, clad only in his red union suit, and loped toward us. Evy hissed and writhed like a creature possessed, but between the two of us we subdued her.
“Hold her!” I shouted to Pierce as I dashed along the bank to where Charles lay collapsed on the ground. Bending over to examine him, I gently removed his mask. To my astonishment, it was not my friend at all under the black mask, but Sherlock Holmes! The bullet had caught him in the left shoulder—just a few inches lower, and it would have pierced his heart. He lay gasping for breath, clutching the wound, from which blood flowed freely.
He was dressed in the same toreador costume I had seen Charles wearing, complete with red sash and leather boots. I could see how at a distance and in the dark, he could easily be mistaken for Charles. Both were tall, with black hair and the same lean build, and though Holmes was wiry and more muscular, you could not discern such differences in the moonlight and at a distance of a hundred yards or more. He had pulled a switch with Charles, and both Evangeline and I had been taken in by it.
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 35