“Why not?” I asked.
“Because they do not eat corporeal food.”
I smiled awkwardly. “Oh. Yes.”
He stared closely. “Do not assume that what you cannot understand is madness, Monsieur Grantly. During the long history of the true church, many have been gifted—or cursed—with the power to see angels and devils. It is true that this is rarer nowadays than in the past. I did not ask for this power. In truth, I have not always wanted it. But it was given to me and has allowed me to help those under diabolical threat.”
Holmes nodded. “Well, this has been most enlightening, Monsieur l’Abbé. I think it is time for us to be on our way.”
We both rose, as did Docre. “Do you know the way out? Good.” He relit Holmes’s candle from one of his own. “I shall remain here for prayer and meditation.” Holmes grasped the candle by its holder. “You said you are leaving Paris. That is for the best. It should not be necessary to warn you, but all the same—do not interfere in this matter. It is beyond your powers or your understanding. You would only make matters worse for Madame Hardy.”
“We certainly don’t want that! Good evening, sir.”
Holmes and I followed the walkway back toward the landing. The great ribbed expanse could hardly be made out in the flickering candlelight. We went down the winding staircase, then through the vestibule and out of the church. The rain had subsided again to a drizzle, but the wind on my face was cold and damp. I thrust my hands into my pockets. “What a lunatic,” I muttered.
“That was not mere lunacy, Henry.”
“You cannot believe that someone can actually see angels and devils?”
“The idea is part of Christian theology.”
“All the same… Lord, I’m freezing, and I’m sick of this false beard and wig. Can we stop for a quick apéritif somewhere warm, and then get back to the hotel so we can take off these ridiculous clothes and have some dinner?”
“Ridiculous, Henry? Shame on you! Have you no respect for men of the cloth?”
“They don’t have to have pillows belted round their waists. It’s coming loose, by the way. I just hope it doesn’t end up down by my ankles.” We started across the street toward the square. “That was quite a surprising story he told, although your brother…” I gave the word ironic stress, “…helped prepare me. All the same, can we not rule out diabolical poisons concocted of excrement, fish oil, and profaned hosts?”
“Perhaps so, Henry, but there are many different kinds of poisons. He was right about one thing. Mrs. Hardy is in great danger.”
Chapter Four
The next morning after a more limited French breakfast, we set out again on the Rue de Rivoli. “How long a walk did you say it was to Gaston Lupin’s home?” I asked.
“Perhaps twenty minutes, certainly no more than half an hour. It is only a few blocks from the Champs-Élysées, very near the Hardys’ townhouse.”
I laughed softly. “How could an artist ever afford to live in such a neighborhood?”
“That, Henry, is the obvious question about Gaston Lupin. Second-rate artists do not generally live alongside the nobility and ambassadors. While his female nudes in oil were well executed, they were never sold for much. He could not have made a fortune from his work.”
“Perhaps he came from a wealthy family.”
“I could not find him in any of the French equivalents of Debrett’s or Burke’s.”
“Maybe his father sold wine and spirits.”
Holmes laughed. “Perhaps. Hopefully we will have some answers by suppertime.”
“And who will provide these answers?”
“Mr. Barrault.”
“And who is Mr. Barrault?”
“Who else? His valet. What better source for the intimate details of a man’s life? And as I said, he is an admirer of mine. I also hope to obtain the name of Lupin’s doctor and his lawyer. I am curious about Lupin’s will.”
We crossed over the invisible border between the First and Eighth Arrondissement, and found the townhouse on a quiet narrow street away from the bustle of the Champs-Élysées. The stone was beige-colored, and short black wrought-iron railings were at the bottom of each tall window with white shutters along the sides. Holmes raised the brass knocker and rapped twice.
The door swung open, revealing a short man in black, his face very pale, his long sloping forehead and balding crown all aglow from the gray light. His dark eyes stared up at us, and the corners of his mouth were lost under the enormous black mustache which seemed the biggest part of him. “Monsieur Holmes, ah, bienvenue! Entrez, entrez, s’il vous plaît.”
Holmes and I removed our top hats and gloves. Holmes introduced me in impeccable French. Barrault stared at me, his forehead creasing. “Pas Docteur Vatson?”
Holmes glanced at me, clearly amused. Watson’s stories had been translated into French two or three years ago, much to Holmes’s dismay. “Bad enough every Englishman thinks I am an intimate acquaintance,” he had said. “Now the French can make my life miserable as well.”
Barrault set our top hats on a table near the door and put Holmes’s stick in a colorful Chinese vase two feet tall. “This is a great honor for me, Mr. Holmes. I have always followed your exploits with great interest. My English is not the best, but since your adventures are available in French as well…!”
“Very good, Monsieur Barrault. This morning I want to have a thorough look at the room where you found your master. Also, should you have any doubts about confiding in me, this letter should resolve them.” He withdrew an envelope from his inner jacket pocket.
“Not at all, Monsieur Holmes—not at all!”
“All the same, have a look.”
He took the letter from Holmes and went to a nearby lamp. I followed and glanced over his shoulder. Written in that pompously elevated style of the most formal French, it stated that all citizens and officers of the law should assist Monsieur Sherlock Holmes in any way possible, as he had the full confidence and assurance of the French Third Republic. It was signed Monsieur Louis Lepine, Prefet of Police, Paris. I gave Holmes an incredulous glance. The prefect was a political appointee and the highest ranked police officer in France.
Barrault handed the letter back to Holmes. “I am not surprised, Monsieur Holmes. This letter was not really necessary, but it does clarify the matter.”
“Very good. I believe it was you who found Monsieur Lupin in his bedroom?”
Barrault made a grimace. “Yes, cold and dead in the morning.”
“Show me the room, if you please.”
“This way, monsieur.” He led us through a beautifully furnished parlor with many grand paintings to a stairway.
As we went up the stairs, Holmes asked, “Had your master been in ill health recently?”
“Not at all, Mr. Holmes. His death came as a complete surprise.”
“And how were his spirits?”
“His spirits?”
“His mood. Had he seemed sad or unusually silent or self-absorbed?”
“Not at all. He had gone out with a friend and returned with her after dinner. They seemed most animated and content.”
We went down a hall to the bedroom. It was even larger than the parlor, and again, paintings were hung everywhere: a country landscape with cattle and mountains, a still-life of fruits and a dead pheasant, and closest to the bed, a nude red-headed woman, almost life size, whose white flesh seemed to glow even in the dim room. However, fittingly enough, the dominant feature in the room was the bed itself, a Gothic concoction of black wood with four thick pillars topped by miniature spires, complete with crosses. Joining the pillars were four arched spans which supported the canopy, each span rising in the middle to form a broad gable. A scarlet quilt covered the mattress along with several pillows in scarlet cases.
“Good Lord,” I murmured, “it looks like it belongs in a church. Or it might be a confessional which has gone terribly wrong.”
“Mr. Lupin was very proud of it,” Barrault
said. “He found it some ten years ago.”
Holmes’s thin lips had formed a bemused smile. He stepped nearer, touched one tall pillar with his long fingers and let them slide slowly downward. He hesitated, then lowered his head to look up under the canopy. “Interesting. Did it originally come with the mirror?”
Barrault opened his mouth but said nothing, even as his cheeks slowly flushed. At last he shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”
“No? How many years were you with Mr. Lupin, Barrault?”
“Thirteen.”
“And he must have often had female visitors to his bedroom.”
Barrault was still flushed, but he said nothing.
“Need I remind you of the letter I showed you just now?”
“No, sir, of course not. It’s only… we were together for many years, and he was always truly kind to me. I would not want his reputation sullied.”
“Let me assure you, sir, I am no scandalmonger. I will be discreet.”
Barrault nodded. “He did have many lady visitors over the years, but…” He scowled, obviously thinking hard. “Ladies only of the highest class.”
“And was there a special lady, one who was a more frequent visitor? You spoke of a friend who had joined him for dinner the night before he died.”
“Yes, a Mademoiselle Labelle, a red-head, older than most. She was a recent acquaintance. She was with Mr. Lupin during the day and that evening.”
Holmes seemed to actually rise up on his toes for an instant. “Was she now? And did she spend the night here?”
“No, sir. As I said, I found him alone in the morning. She had left around ten the night before.”
“Are you certain of that, Barrault?”
“Yes. She had sought me out to say that the master needed me before she departed.”
“And what did he want?”
“He didn’t want anything, sir. He said she must have been mistaken. He seemed annoyed with me at first, until I explained that she had told me I was needed.”
“You said she was a frequent visitor. Did she often stay the night?”
Barrault gave a reluctant nod. “Yes, sir.”
“And how long had he known her?”
“Let’s see now, it was last summer, after Bastille Day, I believe. Yes, almost exactly after, so the middle of July was when she first came calling.”
“About four months, then. And just how frequent were her visits? Daily even?”
“Not quite daily. Once a week at first, but three or four times of late.”
Holmes nodded, even as his eyes swept about the room. He raised his long slender hand in the direction of a door at the far side of the bedroom. “Where does that door there lead?”
“That is to Mr. Lupin’s private study. He was not to be disturbed in there, not unless it was something of great importance. The maid did occasionally clean the room, but only under his strict supervision.”
“I shall want to have a look.”
Barrault stiffened slightly, his fists clenching. “But…” He seemed to reconsider. “Very well, sir. I can unlock it for you.”
“Please do so. By the way, I assume Monsieur Lupin had an address book. If so, could you fetch it for us.”
“Yes, monsieur, and he kept it in the study there. I’ll only be a moment.” He crossed the room, unlocked the door and went into the study.
I stepped forward and looked up under the canopy of the bed. Sure enough, a large mirror ran its entire length. I laughed softly. “It hardly goes with the Gothic motif.”
“No. That and this painting reveal a great deal.” He approached the nude to the right of the sculpted bed headboard. “It is signed Lupin. Notice the long curve of the back and the rounded buttocks, the warm sensuous flesh tones. Clearly he was an admirer of the female form.” He gazed at it until Barrault returned frowning.
“It is very odd. I cannot find the address book. It was always in the right top desk drawer, but it was not there, or in any of the others. I cannot imagine where it might be.”
“Well, if it turns up, please contact me at once at the Meurice Hotel. You may leave us now.”
“Leave you?” Barrault was clearly uneasy.
“I intend to do a lengthy and thorough search. There is no reason for you to remain here.”
“As you wish, Monsieur Holmes.” He nodded and departed.
Holmes tossed aside one of the pillows on the bed and pulled back the red quilt. “Pity. Doubtlessly the sheets have been changed. If only I had been here that morning! Let us first have a look at this mysterious private study.”
Holmes entered first. The room was again filled with art, but this time much of it was immediately recognizable. My eye went to a copy of the Mona Lisa, then to another much larger nude alongside it. The woman’s face was partly visible in this painting, turned to the side, showing a corner of her mouth rising in a slight ironic smile. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled up in a chignon which left her long slender neck bare and showed off her small exquisite ear. Her torso was turned so that one breast was also in portrait, so to speak, curving up underneath to the nipple, while the other was more face on. The areolas were painted the faint pink of a woman who had not conceived babies and nursed, and she looked to be in her early twenties. She was slender, but voluptuously curved. My eyes swept down to the dark triangle of pubic hair, and then I looked away, mildly embarrassed at both the painting and my predictable reaction to it.
Holmes went straight to it. “Yes, another Lupin. Definitely an eye for the female form. And that ear…” He was silent for a moment, then murmured, “Yes.” He turned and went to the carved walnut desk, glanced at a bookshelf alongside it, then pulled open the center drawer. “Ah.” He took out a leather covered case about nine inches long. “If I am not mistaken… Yes. A hit, Henry—a veritable hit!” Inside lying on blue velvet was a hypodermic syringe of silver metal and glass, the barrel and plunger separate from the two needles with their fittings.
“Good Lord,” I murmured softly. “Do you think…?”
“Cocaine or morphine, without a doubt. Probably morphine. It is the drug of choice nowadays in France, très à la mode.” He hesitated, then took the barrel and plunger and held them up toward the open window. “Empty, of course.” He shook his head, then gazed at me. “The syringe and hypodermic needle may have been conceived of as a medical device to help alleviate pain, but more often they are carriers of death. Sometimes the process is through gradual degradation. Other times it is swift. The Angel of Mercy becomes instead the Angel of Death.”
He opened the side drawers. One of them was very deep. Holmes took out a large wooden box and set it on the desk top. Inside were several small vials in a holder and a large bottle. Holmes drew in his breath sharply through his nostrils, raised the bottle to show me the label. Alongside a pink poppy, written in black script were “Morphine” in large letters and the name of the chemist’s shop at the bottom. It also said the dosage was one gram per ounce.
“Do you think he took an overdose?” I asked.
“I would give odds on it. The question would be if it was deliberate on his part or not. I suspect not. Barrault said he was in good spirits, but more significant is Madame Labelle. She may have sent up Barrault to give herself an alibi, to show that Lupin was still alive when she left.”
“But why would she want to murder him?”
“That, Henry, is what we must find out—if it is the case. One thing we can do is have the contents of this bottle examined; if there is more than one gram per ounce, then it was probably modified to kill him. However, we must not presume too much too soon. All the same…” He smiled slightly, his eyes gleaming. “I must search this room and the bedroom thoroughly. I shall begin with this desk.” He pulled out the center drawer again and began to take out the contents.
I walked away from the desk. Butterflies seemed to flutter in my stomach. Why should I be surprised? Murder and death followed Sherlock Holmes like his shadow. The mo
del in the big canvas had a certain sardonic look in her eye, as if she found posing naked to be faintly comical. Or perhaps it was the artist’s lust she found comical. The image made me restless. Despite her extravagant red hair, the pupil of her eye was brown. Somehow she seemed familiar. I felt uneasy for a moment, for some unknown reason, and turned away. It also reminded me I would not be seeing Michelle for a few days.
I walked around the room glancing at the other paintings. The one of the Mona Lisa was very well done, to my eye almost identical to the one in the Louvre. On the nearby wall was a small round painting of a Madonna and Baby Jesus, she holding an apple in her long slender hand. Probably a copy of a Botticelli, although it had no signature. Next to it was the much darker, gloomy self-portrait of the aged Rembrandt.
“He is certainly good at imitation,” I murmured.
Holmes froze for a moment. “What did you say?”
“That Lupin was good at imitation.”
Holmes laughed sharply. “Yes.”
“What is so amusing about that?”
Holmes did not reply. I went to the big overstuffed leather armchair next to the bookcase and sat down. I closed my eyes, sighed, and wished I was back home. I tended to forget until I was in the middle of things that these cases with Holmes could be quite disturbing. I opened my eyes. He had finished with the desk and was glancing about the room. He clasped his left wrist behind his back with his right hand, his white hands standing out against the black of his frock coat, and began to examine the paintings. He stopped abruptly before one.
I closed my eyes again and drew in my breath deeply. I hadn’t slept well the night before. Madame Hardy and Docre were both troubling. And I always missed Michelle’s presence in my bed when I traveled alone. I almost dozed, but opened my eyes at last. Holmes was standing in the same place, his back toward me, but his hands hung at his sides now, the fingers spread apart. His face was hidden, but his entire body showed the tension like a cat about to pounce.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 8