The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four

by Sam Siciliano

  * * *

  Monday morning Violet and I returned to Marguerite’s with my luggage. She was delighted to hear I was accepting her invitation, and we were served a wonderful lunch. Afterwards, as he had requested, Violet and I rejoined Holmes at the hotel. We took a cab to the police headquarters near Notre Dame, and just before two, we three strode down one of its grand marble corridors.

  Holmes paused before the door to Commissaire Juvol’s office and raised his right hand. “A caution, ladies. As you might well suspect, I have not said a word about Madame Hardy to the commissaire. As my client, her involvement in this business must remain a secret.”

  Violet nodded. “Of course. That goes without saying.”

  Holmes rapped twice, then opened the door for us. We stepped into the large spacious room with two tall windows. Somehow the room conveyed a sense of order, and the large mahogany desk had an immaculately clean surface. The man seated there rose and approached us. He was taller and more handsome than I would have expected, very well dressed in a smart navy suit, the arc of a gold chain showing across his waistcoat. He had big hands and brown hair with a reddish tint, not a typical-looking Frenchman at all. His mustache was even larger and more abundant than Henry’s. He smiled at us, his eyes giving Violet and me that appreciative glance of the French male appraising females.

  “Ah, my dear Holmes, and so these are the two formidable ladies you mentioned in your note!”

  After a round of introductions, Commissaire Juvol approached his desk, where a circular object leaned against the wall hidden by a cloth. Juvol paused for an instant, then snatched away the covering and gestured with his big hand. “Voila, mesdames! Je vous présente la Madonna della Mela.”

  The painting was tilted such that the warm light from the window illuminated it. Somehow I had thought it would be larger. It was less than two feet across. The Virgin had the distinctive long slender face and hands of Botticelli’s women. She had very full, rather sensuous lips. She wore a sort of gauzy veil and a blue robe with gold trim over a red-orange garment, all of which were highly idealized, not something the poor wife of a Jewish carpenter could ever have afforded. Her hand and the Baby Jesus’s jointly held the shiny red apple, and with his other chubby hand, he seemed to bless us spectators. Both faces had nearly transparent golden halos hovering about them. The blue and orange tempera appeared slightly faded, especially alongside the elaborate gilt frame. I had seen the Madonna of the Pomegranate in the Uffizi in Florence, but I couldn’t remember much besides it being considerably larger.

  Violet stared thoughtfully. My eyes shifted from her face to the painting, then back again. Both women had the same long slender face, but like many Madonnas, this one had wavy blond hair. The eyes were a curious pale amber color, while Violet’s were dark brown, and her mouth was much wider than the Madonna’s, although both, oddly enough, had a certain sensuous fullness to the lips. Violet’s face also had an intelligence lacking in the Madonna’s countenance. I noticed that Sherlock, too, was staring at Violet rather than the painting. I could tell from his eyes that his feelings for her had not changed.

  “Well, ladies, what is the verdict?” Juvol looked at Violet, but when she remained mute, his eyes shifted to me.

  “I could not begin to say,” I said. “It looks like Botticelli, but then I am certainly no expert. I would be easy to fool.”

  “And you, Madame Grace?” Both Juvol and Holmes were staring at Violet. She was still regarding the painting, the hint of a frown marring her smooth forehead.

  At last she gave a partial shrug. “I am no expert either, but that mouth… There is something rather voluptuous about those lips, as if they owe more to Rossetti or one of the Pre-Raphaelites rather than to Botticelli.”

  “Do you think so?” Holmes set one hand on the desk and leaned forward to more closely examine the Madonna. “Perhaps…” he murmured, “I see.” He reached out with his fingers, and they hovered over those painted lips, only an inch away, tracing the line of the mouth. He frowned, then stood upright and crossed his arms as he spoke to Juvol. “You have kept us in suspense for long enough. What is the verdict of your experts?”

  Juvol smiled amiably. “The verdict is… a draw!”

  “What do you mean?” Holmes asked.

  “Just that—we cannot be sure if it is an original Botticelli or only a clever copy. There are no obvious anachronisms in the painting, so I had two of the leading Parisian experts on Renaissance Italian art examine it. One said it was a genuine Botticelli, a lost masterpiece, un veritable chef-d’oeuvre worth a fortune. The other said it was a clever fraud, the woman’s face much too modern.” He glanced at Violet. “Perhaps he noticed the same issue with the mouth as you did. Anyway, at this point the painting’s status is indeterminate, and unfortunately it is likely to remain that way for a few years.”

  He had taken his left hand out of his pocket, and he gestured upward with both big hands. “Someday soon it will be different. There will be chemical tests to determine the exact nature of the pigments used, but our lab is not there yet. The skeptical expert thought, in fact, that the color of the robe appeared to be from cobalt blue, a paint only developed in this century. If that could be proven—which today it cannot—that would be conclusive. I must admit that I suspect that, given Lupin’s skill as a copyist, it is only a fake, but we cannot say for sure.”

  Holmes shrugged. “A pity you cannot be certain. However, there may be other ways of resolving the question.”

  Juvol stared at him closely. “And what might they be?”

  Holmes smiled faintly. “There may be some… old acquaintance of Lupin’s who might know the truth.”

  “Well, if you find such an acquaintance, be sure to let me know.”

  “Certainly, Commissaire. By the way, has your investigation of Madame Varin turned up anything interesting?”

  “No. She seems to have had no real friends, and her main occupation was drink—with occasional male visitors added to the mix. Another rather wasted life.”

  “I assume you must have checked her bank account. Did she have much money?”

  “Only a little. Her monthly payment from Lupin was her only source of income.”

  “Was there a will?”

  “None that we can find.”

  “So the state will get that pittance of hers. Well, Commissaire, thank you for taking the time to show the ladies and me the painting.”

  Violet and I also thanked him. We were about to leave, but Holmes stopped abruptly before the door and turned again to Juvol. “I nearly forgot—that other matter, the bottle of morphine. I hope the results were more conclusive than in the case of the painting.”

  “They certainly were, mon cher Holmes! The dosage in the bottle was three times as strong as what was indicated on the label.”

  “Ah.” Holmes nodded. “So if Lupin injected what he thought was his usual dose, whatever the amount, it would no doubt have been enough to kill him.”

  “Yes, indeed. Of course, the dosage could have always been off—it could have come from the chemist that way. They hardly manage to standardize these things, and dosages rarely match what the label says. Nevertheless, I think a plausible assumption would be that someone switched the bottles on him, thereby murdering him.”

  “You have, no doubt, questioned the servants. Barrault was probably the only one in the household who actually knew his master was using morphine, but he seems an unlikely suspect. For one thing, he would have disposed of the bottle afterward. I don’t suppose you could find the petite red-headed Mademoiselle Labelle?”

  “No. She vacated her lodgings the day after Lupin died.”

  Holmes’s sardonic smile appeared. “What an odd coincidence.”

  “Exactly! Au revoir, mes amis. Oh, and one other thing…” His pleasant face briefly grew stern. “If you should find this Mademoiselle Labelle or Mademoiselle Dujardin, please let me know. Especially if they are one and the same person! I am counting on it.”

&
nbsp; “So I shall. Au revoir.”

  We started down the corridor, passing two policemen in their blue uniforms with the neat blue brimmed caps and the short capes typical of the French police. I was on one side of Holmes, Violet on the other.

  “That was most interesting, Mr. Holmes,” Violet said.

  “I thought you would find it so.”

  “It may also prove helpful for me in the future to have made the acquaintance of the commissaire.”

  “Without a doubt. He is very good. For a policeman.”

  Violet laughed softly.

  “Are we going back to the hotel now?” I asked.

  “If you have the time and the inclination, I would like to make another stop. It is distant enough we shall take a cab. Would you like to see the bedroom of Monsieur Lupin?”

  “Ah!” Violet exclaimed. “I surely would.”

  “All right,” I said with little enthusiasm.

  We took a carriage across Paris to a neighborhood off the Champs-Élysées and stopped before a row of townhouses. A rather surly-looking butler let us in, but when the valet Barrault appeared, he smiled and greeted us enthusiastically. He was a small balding man with an enormous black mustache: we were all taller than him. However, when Holmes explained that we wanted to see Lupin’s bedroom and the private study, he grew troubled. Holmes mentioned a letter from the prefect of police.

  “But that did not say anything about any ladies,” he said.

  A faint smile pulled at Holmes’s lips. “This lady…” he nodded toward Violet, “is also a consulting detective, and we are working together.”

  Barrault gave a great sigh. “Very well, Monsieur Holmes. You know best.”

  We went up the stairs, and he opened the door for us. Violet and I both stared in disbelief at the Gothic monstrosity of the bed, an enormous black wooden construction with its four black square wooden posts joined by arches, the canopy formed of miniature gables.

  “Good heavens,” Violet said. “Is that a bed or a chapel with a mattress?”

  Holmes smiled, but his gray eyes were uneasy. “It is a unique piece of furniture.”

  Violet started toward it, but Holmes touched her arm lightly. “It does not merit further perusal. The artwork is of more interest.”

  Violet nodded. She was staring intently at the painting on the wall, a voluptuous nude of a red-headed woman with her back to the viewer.

  Holmes glanced at Barrault. “Please open the study door for us, and then you may go.”

  With another mighty sigh, Barrault nodded. “Very well.”

  Holmes waited until he had left the room, then opened the door. “Ladies.”

  Violet turned away from the painting, stared intently at Holmes, then followed me into the study. It was a large airy room with a desk, the walls covered with paintings, most of them easily recognizable masterpieces.

  “Good Lord,” I murmured. “I see what you mean about him being a superb copyist. I went to the Mona Lisa. It certainly looks like the one in the Louvre. And this self-portrait of Rembrandt…” I stared at the various paintings in awe. I recognized the couple in Renoir’s vibrant Dance at Bougival.”

  Abruptly, I realized that neither Holmes nor Violet had spoken. I turned. She was standing with her back to me before a large painting, another nude of a voluptuous red-head, probably the same woman as in the other work in the bedroom. Holmes stood a few feet behind Violet. He seemed to have risen up slightly on his toes, and his long fingers were spread slightly apart. All in all, he resembled some cat about to pounce. I frowned slightly, then approached Violet.

  The woman was seated, her body twisted slightly to the side, her head turning even further, just past profile, so that her ear and the bun of her hair were noticeable. One breast was only a rounded semi-circle, while you could see the shape of the other, the swooping curve down to the nipple, then the more rounded bottom. The rendering was very realistic, graphic rather than idealized, and it was clear that the red of her hair must have been colored, probably with henna, since her pubic hair was dark brown. All in all, her body had a certain sensual glow.

  “I think he must have been in love with her,” I murmured.

  Violet turned to me. Her face had an odd smile, half playful, half ferocious, but her dark eyes were troubled. “You don’t recognize her?” She glanced at Holmes.

  “Even as a physician, I don’t see many ladies displaying themselves thus!”

  “But her face,” Violet said.

  I stared more closely. “She is turning away. You can hardly see her face. All the same…” There was something vaguely familiar about the curve of the jaw, the ear, the partly revealed nose and mouth, the long neck.

  Violet stared at Holmes. “It is her, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  Holmes nodded in Violet’s direction, and she said, “Madame Hardy.”

  “Madame Hardy! I think not—I…” Something about the face suddenly seemed to come into focus. “Oh. I suppose… it might be her. But so much younger, and so carefree, so unafraid.”

  “Exactly,” Violet said. “And it is her exact ear, is it not, Mr. Holmes?”

  He smiled. “It is indeed.”

  “And her hand, as well,” I murmured, recognizing the long graceful fingers and something about the way they turned. “But how could she be so imprudent?” I asked, “—to pose as his model and let him paint her this way! I cannot believe she would be so stupid.”

  “That does seem idiotic,” Violet said.

  Holmes stroked his chin lightly. “I have pondered that, and I think that she did not actually pose for Lupin. He had a very good memory, an eidetic sort of memory. She must have been intimate with him, and afterwards, he probably made sketches. He may have even done this painting sometime later as a kind of memento of their relationship. I would wager she does not even know this painting and the one in the other room exist.”

  I groaned softly. “How dreadful it would be to discover such a thing! To be paraded thus naked before the whole world.” Violet said nothing, but I saw that she shared my sentiments.

  “This is Lupin’s private study,” Holmes said. “He kept this painting here for himself alone. It was not something he would have ever sold or put on display. He could always see her as he remembered her, in the full splendor of her youth.”

  Violet shook her head. “Remind me never to take up with an artist.”

  Holmes’s dark brows rose in dismay, and he was at a loss for words, but I laughed. “I had never realized, before, the dangers of such a relationship!”

  Violet was staring again at the painting. “You were right, Michelle. He must have been in love with her.” She looked around the room. “Everything else is a copy, an imitation. Her image is the only original one kept here. This proves that they were connected, that he was part of the conspiracy.”

  Holmes nodded. “I believe it was Napoleon who said, ‘Un bon croquis vaut mieux qu’un long discours.’”

  “What is a croquis?” Violet asked.

  “A sketch,” I replied. “‘A good sketch is worth more than a long speech.’”

  Violet drew in her breath and released it in a long slow sigh. “This painting must not be put on the market and sold to simply anyone. Madame Hardy does not deserve that. Can you and your friend the commissaire see to it, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes looked equally grave. “Yes.”

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning, I rose from the sofa to meet Monsieur l’Abbé Docre. He was three or four inches shorter than me, very slight and slender, and I felt like a robust giantess alongside him. To be fair, Henry was one of the few men who didn’t make me feel that way. The priest’s black eyebrows had come together in a sort of inquisitive frown. His eyes shifted from my face downward, quickly appraising me, then rose again. The pallor of his face contrasted strikingly with his curly black hair and the satiny black fabric of his soutane. His narrow mouth rose into a smile, and he ga
ve a short bow from the waist. “Enchanté, madame la docteur.”

  “C’est aussi un grand plaisir pour moi,” I replied, reflecting that I had never had a priest greet me with enchanté before.

  “So you live in England, although you are French. I suppose…” The creases deepened. “Do you still follow the Catholic faith?”

  “Yes.” Although I was not a regular churchgoer, that was still more true than false.

  His face lit up, his relief obvious, and again his eyes seemed to wander over me in a disconcerting manner. “Excellent! You are a true daughter of la France, after all.”

  Marguerite watched him impassively. We had been chatting amiably in her sitting room before his arrival, curses and the Devil forgotten, but now the small muscles about her mouth and eyes had tensed, a worn care showing in her eyes.

  “And you actually are a medical doctor?”

  My mouth tightened. “Yes.”

  “As such, then we have much in common.”

  “How so?”

  “We both act as confessors. People tell us things they hide from others. And we often see the sordid side of life.”

  I shrugged, thinking of my work at the clinic for the poor. “That is true enough.”

  “Yes, it is a somewhat trite observation, but our occupations are indeed much alike.”

  “How so?”

  “The care of others is our vocation. You labor to heal the body, while I treat the infirm soul.”

  An ironic thought made the flicker of a smile pull at my lips.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I was remembering that central precept for physicians: primum non nocere. First do no harm.”

  He seemed to rise up slightly, raising his chin. “That goes without saying. Unfortunately, sometimes, as with medicine, the cure for a cankered soul can be painful.”

  “They also say that sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.”

  “Not with the soul, madame la docteur—never with the soul. And you, back in England, do you have a spiritual advisor and confessor to guide you?”

  “No.”