“Madame, you must fetch the police. Get someone here as quickly as possible. I shall remain to watch over the body.”
The concierge seemed resigned now that the initial shock was over. (I, on the other hand, felt my insides all in turmoil.) “I would not have expected it of her.” She turned to leave, but Holmes grasped her arm.
“You would not?”
“Pas de tout,” she said: not at all. She lumbered off toward the stairway.
Holmes looked at me. “Stay out here if you prefer.”
I drew in my breath deeply. “I’ve seen dead people before. Even hanging victims.”
“But it is never an agreeable sight.”
“No.”
We went back into the room, and Holmes looked about. He noticed a lamp on a nearby table and struck a match to light it. I studiously avoided glancing at the body hanging near the wall. Holmes went nearer. I glanced at the lamp, and odd spots began to dance before the light. “I think I need to sit down,” I muttered.
“Henry?” Holmes’s thin fingers gripped my arm tightly, and he guided me to a large overstuffed velvet chair. I sank into its depths, drew in a deep breath, then leaned forward to get more blood into my head. “Are you all right?”
“Just a little dizzy.”
He gave my arm a final squeeze. “Rest a moment.” He turned and walked toward the wall where the body was hanging, pausing only to remove his top hat and toss it onto a chair.
Somehow I could not resist another quick look. She was wearing a blue dress which contrasted with the beige wallpaper with pink roses and green leaves. I repressed a shudder and looked down at the carpet. It ended about a foot from the wall. A chair lay on its side. Something caught my eye, and I blinked to see if it would go away. It did not. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing. Holmes gave me a curious glance. “There, on the floor.”
He bent over and picked up a black feather, turned it slowly in his hand. His lips had risen slightly, but his expression was glacial. “A crow or raven feather. If I had any doubts—which I do not—this would clinch it.” He threw the feather aside angrily, but it only floated limply to the floor. “She was murdered in cold blood.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure! Look at her—or don’t, as you will. There are no signs of a struggle—her hands are not even clenched. Without a clean break of the neck—impossible from the height of the chair—there is always a struggle. The mind may desire death, but not the body, and especially not from slow strangulation. She should have marred the wall kicking with her feet. That bracket looks none too strong. A person really battling for air might have even pulled it down, and yet it is not even bent, and the glass fixture on top is not out of place!”
“What a horrible way to kill someone.”
“Yes, although…” He hesitated for a moment. “I think that, in the end, she may not have suffered much. It would have been very difficult to haul up a conscious person, especially if their hands were not bound.” He reached out to grab one of her wrists and raised up her sleeve. “Which hers were not.” He looked about, then strode to the small sink and stove. He held up one of the wine glasses sitting face down on the counter. “How convenient. They probably tidied up after themselves.” He looked around. “Three clean wine glasses, but no open bottle of wine.” He looked in the dustbin. “Nor any empty bottles. Our murderess probably put some chloral hydrate into the drink to sedate her, then hoisted her up.”
“Could a woman do such a thing?”
Holmes shook his head, even as a frustrated laugh which was almost a snarl burst free. “Henry, will you never learn? Although… she could never do it alone. A man must have helped her. Perhaps he snuck in afterwards, or even at the same time, squatting below the bottom of the door where the concierge couldn’t see him. They must have had a length of rope and hoisted her up, heaving and ho-ing.”
“Good Lord,” I groaned.
“They took a frightful risk. They could have pulled the gas bracket off the wall, but Varin is a fairly small woman—well preserved, actually—or was, not is. Plump but not exactly fat. They probably would have found some other object if the bracket hadn’t held. Dujardin would have had a backup plan. She is clever this one, very clever. And that note with le Diable gagne, and the black feather. Oh yes, it is the same person without a doubt.” I noticed his long slender hands were trembling slightly. “Henry, would you mind if I smoked?”
“Of course not! This is one time… I wish I smoked.”
He smiled at that, then withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “An interesting medical question for you there, Henry. Would a drugged person awaken if they were being choked to death, or would they remain mercifully unconscious?”
“Oh I hope so—I don’t want to ponder it.”
“Forgive me. My mind plays curious tricks on me in circumstances like this. I suppose it would depend upon the dosage.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, then began to pace, his left hand resting below the small of his back, palm outward. I sat wearily in the chair taking slow deep breaths.
After a few moments, he stopped next to the body and knelt down to examine one of her brown button boots. “No marks on the back, no sign she kicked at the wall, which would be impossible if she were awake. Perhaps she was indeed so deeply sedated she was unaware what was happening to her. And this rope… A person really committing suicide would have cut off a length and tied it to the bracket. This is looped around in a bizarre way and awkwardly secured. After they hoisted her up, they must have wrapped it around and tied it. Perhaps they even balanced her on the chair briefly, so they could knot it, then let her go slack again.”
The sight of those two brown boots hanging there limply in the air two or three feet above the ground made my stomach feel queasy, and I had to look away. Holmes began to pace again. After finishing one cigarette, he lit another. When that was finished he shook his head impatiently. “It has been at least fifteen minutes. I would not think it would be so difficult to find a policeman.” The door was ajar, and we heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Madame Varin?” It was a woman’s voice, one with a slightly English accent which I could hear in her pronunciation of “madame.” But the voice was oddly familiar. Holmes had turned toward the doorway, and he slowly raised both hands, as if it were a terrible effort. Then he opened his mouth, his face very pale, and seemed to briefly freeze.
Two women came through the door, one on the tall side of medium height, obviously the mistress, the other a veritable giant among women, stocky and broad-shouldered, probably a servant. For a second or two my mind seemed to whirl about, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. The shorter woman had black hair hidden under her scarlet hat, an aquiline nose, pale skin and fine features, her cheekbones prominent. She appeared as thunderstruck as Holmes and I. The silence lasted a few seconds, and neither the woman nor Holmes moved.
“Mon Dieu,” the big woman murmured, staring at the corpse, but the other woman’s eyes were fixed on us.
I moved first, rising slowly to my feet. “Violet?”
She smiled at me. “Henry.” She turned toward Holmes, hesitated a fraction of a second. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Violet.” Holmes’s mouth twitched into a brief extravagant smile. “You are not?—then you are not a nun?”
She smiled back. “No, I am not. Not yet at any rate.”
Holmes frowned. “Have you actually considered it?”
“No, no, not really. I was never made for… obedience.”
He gave a great sigh. “I see.”
I glanced from him to Violet. “Well, I don’t! Whatever are you two talking about?”
“I saw her in front of Notre Dame, Henry, that afternoon that I… when I behaved rather oddly. She was wearing a sister’s habit.”
“So that was the shock you had. Why on earth were you dressed as a nun, Violet?”
“It was a useful disguise for an inquiry I was pursuing.” She smiled faintly. “
Surely you must understand about disguises.”
“Oh yes, so I do. How odd that I didn’t notice you.”
“You walked right past me,” she said. “You were distracted. But I saw you. And Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes nodded. “I know. I was certain…” He shrugged. “No matter, Mrs. Wheelwright.”
Her face stiffened. “I do not go by that name any longer. It has too many painful associations. I am Mrs. Grace now.”
Holmes smiled again. “Mrs. Rose Grace.”
“How could you know that?”
“Madame Hardy told me about you.”
“Madame Hardy? But she does not know Sherlock Holmes. She told me her husband wanted to hire you, but she would not have it. I suppose—he must have gone ahead and done it anyway. How like a man. But if you had come to her, she would surely have told me.”
“Did she mention a visit from a clergyman, a friend of her husband?”
Violet laughed softly. “She did indeed. One of your disguises, I suppose. Very good.” She was smiling, but her smile faded as she regarded the body hanging from the lamp bracket. “I am too late I see.”
“You also came to warn her?”
Violet hesitated only an instant. “Yes.”
“How ever did you find her?”
“I shall tell you if you, in turn, will tell me.” When Holmes nodded, she went on. “Marguerite had not seen her for many years, but they had some acquaintances in common. I managed to find one who was still living in the same house in Paris. This person had lost contact with Madame Varin—who was originally Anne-Marie Darel. Anyway, it is rather complicated. I had to find a friend of a friend, who had moved to Lyon. She gave me Anne-Marie’s current name and address. I returned from Lyon this morning, and I came straight away.” She shook her head. “For all the good it did.”
She and Holmes stared at one another, then looked away. Violet licked her lips, then bit at her lower lip. “And how did you find her?”
“Lupin’s accountant had her address. Lupin was paying her two hundred francs a month.”
“Lupin? Ah yes, and…”
I could restrain myself no longer. “Violet, where have you been all this time? And why did you not write to us? Michelle has been worried sick.”
She sighed softly. “I meant to write her, Henry, I swear I did. I started several letters, then threw them away. I thought it was for the best.”
I shook my head. “‘For the best.’”
Holmes breathed in through his nostrils, almost a snort. “So you are a detective now, a female consulting detective?”
She smiled. “You know what they say: imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I needed some outlet for my intellect and… my peculiar talents.”
His expression grew grim, and then he jerked his head in the direction of the body. “This is a very dangerous business. You would do better to keep out of it.”
“I can no more keep out of it than you could.”
He eased out his breath. “I see. Why does that not surprise me?” He went to a small table and took the note he had found on the floor. “This will interest you.”
Violet’s dark brown eyes glanced down at the paper; I was struck again by how they contrasted so starkly with her pale white skin. She nodded. “Le Diable gagne. The same person who sent the first note. It was not suicide, was it?”
“No.”
Violet frowned, then glanced sideways at her companion. “I am being rude. Berthe doesn’t understand much English.” We had been speaking English, but she switched to French. “Let me introduce my friend, Mademoiselle Berthe Lelou. Berthe, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Henry Vernier. You have heard me speak of them.”
“Yes, certainly. A great honor, messieurs.”
She and Violet contrasted dramatically: Violet shorter, slender, fair-skinned with dark hair, impeccably dressed; Berthe, a good six feet tall, plump, broad-shouldered with massive arms and hands, blond, rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed. I could tell from the way she spoke that she was native-born French of a lower class, not someone raised as a lady, but it wasn’t clear whether she was really Violet’s friend or merely a servant. Berthe’s practical blue muslin dress could have belonged to either. Holmes and I gave her a slight bow.
“You mentioned the first note,” Holmes said, “so Mrs. Hardy must have told you about it.”
Violet stared at him without speaking. “I cannot betray a confidence.”
“In this case, you already have. But I understand. I do not expect you to reveal any intimate secrets. All the same, we share the same objective: to protect Madame Hardy.” Again he nodded toward the body. “And there, if you require it, is drastic proof of the danger she faces. We should…” A certain wariness showed in his gray eyes. “We should pool our resources. We should work together.”
She looked puzzled. “Do you think so?”
“Yes. Do you recall how the first note began?”
“Quatre pour le Diable?”
“Yes. Lupin was one, Angèle—Anne-Marie Varin—was two. Mrs. Hardy is three. And do you know who is four?”
She hesitated only an instant. “Simone Dujardin, I suspect. Marguerite gave me a name. I must find her. I was going to look for her next. Although… I think Marguerite is genuinely terrified of her.”
“Again, we have the same objective. And do you know about the painting?”
“What painting?”
He smiled. “La Madonna della Mela. It is an interesting story.”
Part Two,
Michelle
Chapter Six
As the train reached the drab outer suburbs of Paris in the evening, the rain outside my window poured down, obscuring the buildings and the intermittent gas lamps. Despite the gloom, I smiled in anticipation. Ours was an age when couples of the upper classes were often separated for long periods: men would go off with other men on hunting expeditions in Africa or treks in Switzerland, while the wives would vacation and shop in France or Italy. However, for Henry and me, a week apart seemed an eternity. Amidst the frenzied activity of my medical practice and volunteer work, he was my anchor. Although I was always surrounded by people, I felt lonely without him nearby. A glass of wine and supper together in the evening was always my favorite part of the day.
And for once, I had not received a desperate letter or telegram begging me to come at once because a ghastly body had been discovered! That had come to seem inevitable when he and Sherlock traveled together. More than anything, I was looking forward to some nights alone with him in a plush hotel room, nights when I would not be so exhausted that I fell asleep shortly after dinner and when I could truly devote myself to my conjugal duties.
We entered the north part of the city, and the train soon pulled into the busy Gare du Nord, one of the largest train stations in Europe. I said my farewells to the elderly French woman from Montparnasse who had been my seat companion, then sought out a porter in his blue uniform and hat to help me with my bags. I had traveled light, bringing only two large leather suitcases with some essentials.
I stepped out into the cavernous expanse of the station and looked about. High overhead were the iron girders and opaque glass of the peaked roof, while to the side were the huge arched windows. Men in their dark overcoats and hats and women in their colorful silken dresses and fancy coats thronged and buzzed about like some gaudy species of bee or wasp. Many were embracing. A whistle sounded, and then came the rumble of a departing train from a nearby track. I started toward the front of the train and the distant entrance to the station proper.
I went round a stout gentleman speaking French and saw a particularly tall handsome man wearing the usual black top hat and overcoat. He smiled at me. Soon we were embracing, and then his mouth and the faintly bristly hairs of his mustache touched my lips. The kiss threatened to prolong itself, but I drew away at last.
“How are you, my darling?” he asked.
“Very happy—and very excited.”
“We shall just fetch
a cab out front,” he said to the porter, and we started forward, his gloved hand grasping mine lightly.
“I was just thinking,” I said, “how nice it was not to have received an urgent telegram from you about the discovery of a body, especially one that has been partly devoured by some sea creature.” He jerked to a halt and stared at me. “Oh dear. You cannot mean…? You do—you have found another body. But at least it was not partially eaten?”
We resumed walking. “No. But it was dreadful all the same. She had hanged herself.”
“Dear Lord,” I murmured. “Forgive me for being so flippant. And a woman? I didn’t think women hanged themselves.”
“Sherlock doesn’t think it was suicide.”
I slowly eased out my breath. “Of course he doesn’t. Well, so much for the idea the usual pattern might have been broken. Who was she?”
“He thinks she was the second person mentioned in that ‘four for the Devil’ note I told you about—Angèle. There was a theft and a brutal murder about twenty years ago, and… But must we go into all that now?” His voice was plaintive.
“Of course not! It can wait. Tonight… I have other plans for tonight.” I squeezed his hand.
“I think our plans for the night may coincide. The corpse is the unpleasant news, but I have some good news as well. At least I think it is good.”
“What is that?”
“Let’s wait until we get into the carriage, and then I shall tell you.”
Henry had an umbrella, which he opened, and we darted out into the heavy rain and found a cab, the porter following us. Soon my suitcases were safely stowed, and Henry held the door open for me. “The Hotel Meurice!” he said, then climbed in and sat beside me. With a sort of shivery sway, the carriage was underway. The rain glistened on the dark street and obscured the bright yellow gas lamps.
Henry peeled off his gloves, then removed my left one so he could grasp my hand with his. He raised my hand, then kissed my fingers lightly. A more prolonged kiss followed, one which would not have been permissible in a public setting like the train station. When we were finished, I stroked his cheek lightly. “I missed you so.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 12