“About three weeks ago.”
“And were you with her when she opened it?”
Hardy’s face formed a characteristic expression, almost wincing.
He nodded.
“Tell me exactly what followed.”
He drew in his breath resolutely. “We were in our sitting room. I had a letter of my own which I read and set aside. I vaguely heard her opening the letter. It was quiet with only the tick of the clock and the snapping of the fire. I glanced at her, then looked again. She was sitting very stiffly on the sofa and staring off into the distance. The two papers and the envelope lay on the floor before her. I asked if she had dropped something, and she did not respond. Her face was deathly pale.
“I stood up. ‘Marguerite?’ I repeated her name. I had begun to worry. I stepped closer and touched her arm. She was quivering, and her teeth were clenched. I became alarmed and said her name again. She did not even hear me. I took her arms and raised her up. I was afraid she was having some kind of fit. I begged her to speak to me. I touched her face, and finally she seemed to see me.
“I brought her some brandy, helped her sit, and told her to drink it. I had to help her. When she was finished, she sank back into the sofa, closed her eyes, and clenched her fists tightly. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but she would not answer. I picked up the newspaper article, looked at it, then read the odd letter twice.
“‘What is this nonsense?’ I said.
“The pupils in her dark eyes were huge. She looked down at the papers sitting on my lap, then snatched them and balled them up in her fist. She put them in the fire before I could stop her. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I asked.
“She shook her head wildly. ‘Nothing. It is as you said—it is nonsense—only nonsense. Only a joke.’ She made a fierce horrible laughing sound which completely contradicted her words.
“I asked her repeatedly to tell me what was the matter, but she would say nothing. I daresay she slept not a wink that night, and I was wakeful myself. The next day she made an effort to pretend all was well, but I was not deceived. After a few days of her obvious misery, I asked again what had frightened her. She was evasive as ever.
“That was when I mentioned your name, Mr. Holmes. I knew you were the best, and that if anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was you. I’ve already told you how she responded. She had discussed the situation with her friend Mrs. Stanton who knew of a woman in Paris who had helped a mutual friend. I could not believe my ears, but there was no budging her. She said I must trust her, that I must leave this matter to her. My pleas for some explanation of what was wrong went unanswered.
“I became almost angry, and that was when she began to weep, in a silent desperate way even as her hands shook.” He shook his head. “What could I do? I did not want to cause her further pain. She left for Paris last week. Since then I have mulled things over, gone back and forth, but I finally wrote you yesterday, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes ran his slender fingers along his brow and into his black hair. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it briefly. “Mr. Hardy, I have no doubt whatsoever that this is a serious business. You wife’s reticence about her past raises obvious questions. Are you… are you absolutely certain you want me to pursue this? I may discover things which may make you regret involving me.”
Hardy stared resolutely at him. “I love my wife, Mr. Holmes. I cannot bear to see her suffer. I suspect this will not simply somehow resolve itself.”
Holmes laughed once, harshly. “No.”
“I told her before we were married that I didn’t care about her past—that what mattered was what sort of wife she would be. I have no complaints on that score—none. She has been a good wife, and we have been happy together. Whatever she has done in the past is past, irrelevant to me. Our thirteen years together are what matter. Nothing can change that.”
Holmes nodded, his expression wistful. “Very good. It is just as well. I suspect she is in danger.”
Hardy had raised his brandy glass, but he held it suspended in midair. “Do you think so?”
“Yes. This is most definitely not a joke. I shall look into the matter. I can leave for Paris the day after tomorrow.”
“Excellent, Mr. Holmes—excellent! I wish I could accompany you. Typically in the course of a year, I travel constantly back and forth between London and France on business. We have a townhouse in Paris off the Champs-Élysées. However, I have crucial business to attend to in Scotland—the whiskey trade, you know.”
“It is best I go alone.” Holmes glanced at me. “Or with my usual traveling companion, one whose French is superior to mine.”
I shrugged. “My practice is as anemic as ever. I can spare a few days.”
Hardy nodded eagerly. “It is settled then.”
“Oh, and could you provide me with the name and address of your wife’s mother’s shop?”
“I believe so. I shall also give you an address for myself in Scotland and that of our Paris townhouse.” He gave a great sigh. “I am relieved, gentlemen, greatly relieved!”
Holmes stared down at his glass, swirling it slightly, then his gray eyes returned to Hardy, the corners of his mouth rising grimly. “That may be premature, sir.” He tossed down the last of his brandy.
* * *
Being mid-November, the sun had set by around four PM. Twilight hung heavily over London, the atmosphere thick with mist, drizzle and coal smoke as we walked back toward Baker Street. Light came from the gas street lamps, the lamps of passing carriages, and the large rectangular windows of shop fronts. The cobblestones and walks were black with moisture, white highlights glistening. Cries, rumbles and clatterings formed a great din all around us: paper boys in cloth caps, street vendors of baked potatoes, emaciated girls with flowers—all hawked their goods; horses’ hooves with their iron shoes clopped on the street while the vehicles’ wheels groaned. Two massive draft horses pulled a two-story omnibus which went by. I felt sorry for the unlucky people seated up top exposed to the elements. An advertisement lettered on its side said something about a “scientific dress-cutting” establishment on Regency Street.
“What is scientific dress-cutting?” I mumbled.
My words seemed to take several seconds to register with Holmes. “What was that, Henry?”
“Nothing important. I suppose you must still be thinking about Mr. Hardy and his wife. A mysterious business, that.”
Holmes gave a sharp laugh and shook his head. “I fear it may not be so simple as it appears.”
“Simple? It hardly seemed simple to me.”
“Come now, is not the lady’s former profession obvious enough? She was probably a prostitute who left her trade.”
“But he said she was a lady.”
He laughed. “Oh, Henry! You truly are a hopeless romantic. She would not have been a common trollop, but one of the higher class, more expensive variety—a courtisane. Such women can make a considerable fortune and, if they have any business sense, retire early. They can then marry and lead a respectable life. However, they are an obvious target for blackmail. I have handled such cases before. The husbands, however, were hardly so understanding and sympathetic as Mr. Hardy.”
“She could simply tell him the truth. She practically seems to have done so. As you say, I think he would understand and forgive.”
“Yes. That is why I suspect something more serious, more complicated. Blackmailers do not generally drag the Devil into their dirty trade, and I am always suspicious when a death is attributed to ‘heart failure.’”
I shook my head. “Murder. Again.”
“Yes, Henry. That is my stock and trade after all.” He glanced about at the street crowded with traffic and the people surrounding us, the men in their dark coats and hats, the women in their bright garments dimmed by twilight and mist. “You were raised as a Catholic, were you not, Henry?”
“Yes, Michelle and I both were, but as I have told you before, in my case it did not exactly take.”
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“And were you afraid of the Devil?”
An unwilled smile pulled at my mouth. “Terrified, actually. I was an agnostic at an early age, but my doubts didn’t seem to restrain my fear of the Devil. I was frightened of the dark, too. I thought Old Scratch might be lurking under my bed. The priests at school didn’t help matters. One told us that if you dug deep enough in the earth, ten feet or so, you would strike the fires of Hell.”
Holmes laughed. “That is taking literal-mindedness to an extreme! But then we live in an age of extremes. The marvels of science and new technologies overwhelm us, triggering a reaction. Some idealize the Middle Ages while others turn to devil worship. France and Italy, in particular, are hotbeds of Satanism.”
“Are you serious?”
“Oh yes. It is the dark shadow of Catholicism; the two go hand in hand. Most of it is harmless mumbo-jumbo, a blend of superstitious nonsense and perverted rituals like the Black Mass. Sexual decadence and perversion are also characteristic. But that note… Gaston was one of the four, and Marguerite, obviously, but the other two… Somehow I think a woman wrote that note. Three women, then, and a man.”
Remembering exactly how frightened I had been as a boy made me uncomfortable, even after so many years. “And you, did you believe in the Devil?”
“I did, but I was not terribly afraid of him. The fear came later.”
“Fear of the Devil?”
“No. Fear of evil. I too have my doubts about Old Scratch, but evil is another matter. I have seen too much of it. Many strong-willed people have a great force or power about them. In some cases that strength of character becomes warped and dark. Simply being in the presence of such people is deeply disquieting. And when they torment others and actually take pleasure in human suffering…”
I shivered. “In other words, why blame the Devil? Certain people are capable of unspeakable crimes on their own.”
“Exactly, Henry. Exactly.”
“And you think that is what we may be up against?”
“I hope not, Henry. But we shall see. Perhaps this will turn out to be an uneventful trip to Paris during which we enjoy the fine cuisine and take in the opera.”
Another smile briefly pulled at my lips. “Somehow when we travel together it never seems to work out that way.”
Holmes gave a sudden sharp laugh. “By the time we arrive, perhaps my female counterpart will have neatly wrapped up the case for us!”
Chapter Two
“Tomorrow we shall have a petit déjeuner français, Henry, but today we must fortify ourselves with a hardy English breakfast to prepare ourselves for a busy day.”
The Meurice was one of those rare hotels in France which catered to the client’s every whim. Thus instead of bread, confiture, croissants and coffee, we ate bacon, sausages and fried eggs accompanied by buttered toast. Afterwards, we sipped our strong black coffee and regarded the ornate dining room with its high ceilings and a sparkling chandelier, its elegant table settings of white linen and silver, the men in black frock coats and their ladies in colorful silks, all quietly and decorously eating.
“Where are we going today?” I asked.
“First we will visit with Mrs. Hardy’s mother, Madame Delvaux.”
“Her mother? But I thought they were estranged.”
“Indeed, and finding out why should be most informative. Afterwards we shall meet with a genuine curiosity, one of those unique Englishmen who combines both eccentricity and genius, the Reverend Algernon Sumners.”
“The reverend? A priest, then. Anglican or Roman Catholic?”
“Things are a little vague in his case. He studied at Oxford, then preached briefly as a village curate, but something happened which made him return to London. He later converted to Roman Catholicism and now wears clerical garb, but I am not certain he has actually been ordained.”
“He dresses as a priest, but he may not be ordained? He does sound eccentric. And what exactly is his area of expertise?”
“The occult, Henry, and Satanism in particular. In the afternoon, I think we might go our separate ways. You can play the tourist while I visit some art galleries and see what I can discover about our friend, the late Monsieur Gaston Lupin.”
Soon we strode through the big lobby and out the revolving doors to the Rue de Rivoli. Holmes whistled some tune and swung his stick rhythmically. To our left, across the street, the Jardin des Tuileries was mostly deserted, cold and desolate-looking under the gray sky, its trees bare of the foliage. It was quite a contrast to summer when the park overflowed with people and greenery on the warm days. We turned right at the first corner, the Rue de Castiglione and headed in the direction of the Opéra. This was one of the typical Paris streets which changed its name every couple blocks, becoming Place Vendôme and then Rue de la Paix just before the Opéra. This last street was home to the House of Worth, the most chic and famous temple to fashion in Paris; empresses and princesses from all over Europe went there for dresses.
Ahead of us we could see the tall column of the Place Vendôme with the statue of Napoleon up on top. I recalled that it had been taken down after the uprising of the Paris Commune in 1871, but reconstructed three or four years later. Madame Delvaux’s small shop was down a side street off the Place Vendôme, not too far from the more elite Rue de la Paix. On a plate glass window was written in large letters, DELVAUX, and then smaller, Couturière Exclusive. Holmes opened the door, and I followed him in.
A woman seated at a large desk stared up at us from over the edge of the spectacles perched on her thin nose. Piles of magazines, obviously fashion ones, were stacked behind her on shelves, and two beautiful silk dresses were on display. Through an open doorway we could see young women in the back working with brightly colored material and paper patterns. Intermittently came the whirring sound of a sewing machine being operated by a treadle.
“Oui, messieurs?”
Holmes had removed his black silken top hat. “Madame Delvaux?” At her nod, he continued in French. “I wondered if you might be able to assist me. I am here on behalf of Mr. John Hardy.” He paused, but the name made no impression. “Your daughter Marguerite’s husband.”
At this, she eased her breath out in a weary sigh, then sat back in the chair and crossed her arms. Her forehead had deep creases that appeared permanently worn in. Her dark hair was parted in the middle, shot with gray, and her black eyes were faintly hostile. A beautiful navy silk dress, no doubt one of her creations, contrasted with the pallor of her skin. “Is she in trouble?”
“Perhaps,” Holmes said. “That is what I mean to find out.”
“I can tell you nothing—nothing at all. I know nothing.” With this last, she swung her arm and hand out from the elbow in a dismissive gesture.
“If you could only answer a few questions, that would be most helpful.”
Her lips pursed briefly. “Are you from the English police?”
Holmes shook his head. “No, no, she has done nothing wrong, nothing dishonest.”
“But you said she might be in trouble.”
“Not in trouble with the law. Someone has threatened her. She is afraid.”
Madame Delvaux shook her head emphatically. “I can’t help you with that. I have not seen her for a long time.”
“How long exactly?”
Forehead still creased, she reflected briefly. “Over a dozen years ago.”
“You are obviously not on good terms with your daughter, madame.”
She smiled bitterly. “Very perceptive, monsieur.”
“When did this estrangement begin?”
“And why precisely should I answer your questions?”
“You are, after all, her mother, and I wish to help her. Besides, it hardly seems a secret.”
She laughed. “No, I suppose not. When did it begin? Not exactly at birth, but it was never easy. When she was eighteen I broke with her, but the difficulties had begun a year or two earlier. I had scrimped and saved to send her to a proper school, one ta
ught by the good sisters. I had no shop of my own then. I labored for hours a day cutting and sewing for a pittance. Even though she was poorer than the other students, you could never tell it from her clothes—I saw to that. But it was a mistake. She wanted to be rich and idle like the other girls. She was clever and intelligent, but she would not put her talents to good use. By the time she was eighteen, I was starting my shop. I wanted her to work here with me. I would have paid her well enough—far more than what I ever got!—but that was not good enough. Instead she must pretend to be a lady. She would flirt with men, and she would…” Her face had flushed, and she shook her head. “Never mind.”
Holmes glanced sideways at me. “How did she live?”
Madame Delvaux gave him a savage look. “Must I say it?”
“I suppose not.”
She stared down at the desk top and her hands. “She was not a cheap little… She did not have to register, thank God—no, she was better than that. She started with an infatuated young nobleman who gave her presents and money. She knew he would never marry her. She was not stupid. But she did not care. And after… I heard there were others.” She glared up at Holmes. “Now do you understand our estrangement? I am a decent woman, monsieur, I go to Mass every Sunday, while she…”
“She is about forty-eight now. That was a long time ago.”
She stared into the distance. “Some thirty years.”
“But you said you last saw her about a dozen years ago.”
“Thirteen—it was thirteen years ago.”
“What did she want?”
Again the bitter smile twisted her lips. “She offered me money. Imagine! She said I had been right, that her life had been wrong, but that she was a changed woman. She would give me money to show that she was different. I could retire. I asked her where the money came from, and she made up some ridiculous story. Long and short, she would not tell me, and I told her I did not want her filthy money. Unlike her, I was not made for a life of idleness. My store was flourishing by then, and I liked my work. She could keep her dishonest money and leave me in peace.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 3