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

by Sam Siciliano

  “Brandy for you.” She gave a snifter to Michelle. “And whiskey and soda for you.” Marguerite wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief, then took the glass. Violet stared at Holmes and me. “Gentlemen?”

  “Whiskey and soda,” Holmes said.

  “Brandy,” I mumbled. I thought of trying to help, but I felt somehow incapable of moving.

  Violet brought us our drinks. I took a big swallow, felt the liquid smolder its way down. Violet and Holmes sat down. We all quietly sipped at our drinks. Marguerite was still crying, but she would pause to take an occasional swallow of the whiskey and soda. The clock on the mantle ticked loudly, and we could hear the sound of traffic on the Rue de Rivoli below.

  Marguerite stopped crying at last, drew in a great shuddery breath, then let her head briefly fall back against the sofa. She downed the last of her drink. Her eyes were red, and she looked absolutely exhausted. She stared at Holmes. “What now, monsieur?”

  “Will you be guided by me, Madame Hardy?”

  “Yes. I am so tired of this all. Will it ever end?”

  Holmes’s mouth twisted. “I suspect Monsieur l’Abbé Docre told you that if your prayers at the tomb did not work, a special ceremony would be required, a sort of exorcism.”

  She frowned, a strange smile briefly appearing. “You do know everything.”

  “It is this Saturday evening, is it not? He plans a Black Mass.”

  The fear showed in her eyes. “Then the Devil…”

  “The Devil has nothing to do with this! It is the two of them, Dujardin and the priest. You must play along with them and go. Of course, he won’t tell you it is going to be a Black Mass.” She looked alarmed, but he raised his hand. “But Henry and I shall be there, too.”

  Michelle set her hand on Marguerite’s. “And I shall accompany you.”

  I clenched my teeth and slowly eased my breath out. “Michelle.” Her eyes were defiant. I felt the sudden fear in my chest. I knew it would be futile to argue with her.

  Violet nodded. “And I shall also go with Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes’s gray eyes were troubled. “I wish there were another way. She has three lodgings that I know of in Paris, but she has disappeared, completely vanished. She is a wild animal stalking her prey, but she senses that she is being pursued. She knows I am on her trail. She is cautious, but she will not be able to resist this opportunity, especially since you and Michelle will say that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was suddenly called back to London on urgent business even before he could speak with you. You will mention that in front of Jeanne, who will doubtlessly tell her aunt.”

  “I shall do as you say.” She stared intently at Holmes. “I would do anything to be free of her once and for all. I dream of it, dream of the time before… Do you think I might possibly be able to pay her to leave me alone?”

  Holmes frowned fiercely. “No, I do not think so.”

  A wan smile pulled at her lips. “She wants me dead, doesn’t she?”

  Holmes stared at her. “I am not so sure. If that was all there was to it… I think she could have killed you by now if that was her primary objective. I think… I think she wants you to suffer.”

  Marguerite’s mouth opened wide, and a second later she went, “Ah.” She drew in her breath, then laughed once. “Of course. Well, she has certainly succeeded in her objective.” You could see the truth of that in her dark eyes.

  Holmes still looked troubled. “I am hopeful… I…” His frown returned.

  “They should both be locked up!” I exclaimed. “Or… if anyone deserves the guillotine, it is her! She has murdered three people, and that priest must have helped her kill Anne-Marie. She truly is like a savage beast, one not fit for human society!” Violet was staring oddly at me, an ironic smile pulling at her mouth. “Do you find this amusing, Violet?”

  She shook her head. “No, Henry, not really. I envy you your moral fervor.”

  Marguerite’s dark brows had come together, her eyes half-closed. “You are wrong, you know, Monsieur Holmes, when you say the Devil had nothing to do with it. The Devil has everything to do with it. She truly is his tool, his way of…” She shuddered. “I also was his tool once, and I did not even realize it. I was so proud, so proud of myself. I was a fool. I see that now. Pride is… pride is like an open doorway, an invitation to the Devil. If you leave that door open, you can be sure he will come in.” Her eyes were desolate.

  “Ah,” Violet murmured softly.

  Michelle gripped Marguerite’s hand. “But in your case, you have closed that door. He cannot get at you now.”

  “I pray you are right.”

  Holmes had been listening, his face grim. “Madame Hardy, all these thoughts about the Devil—or curses, or supernatural poisons, or specters—only makes things worse. We are all poor weak creatures, but we have our reasons. That is what raises us above the animals. In a case like this, you must cling to your reason. You must not surrender to dark fantasies or to despair. That way lay only ruin.”

  Marguerite sighed softly. “I do not know if I believe in reason.”

  “It is all we have.”

  Michelle and Violet exchanged a look. Violet spoke first. “That is most certainly not all we have. There is God, after all.”

  “And there is love,” Michelle said.

  Violet smoothed a tendril of black hair off her face and drew in her breath. Holmes was staring at her. The corners of her mouth rose and fell. She stared down at the empty brandy snifter. “But we must not start philosophizing, not now—not when it is time for dinner.”

  Marguerite gave her an incredulous look. “I cannot eat.”

  “You could sit with us.”

  Marguerite shook her head. “I want to go home.”

  “As you wish,” Holmes said. He swallowed the last of his drink and set down the glass.

  “I shall keep her company,” Michelle said. I eased my breath out slowly but said nothing.

  “Why don’t you have dinner with Henry and Mr. Holmes?” Violet said to Michelle. “I can go with her.” Marguerite’s expression made it clear she wanted Michelle to stay with her. “Or perhaps not. Instead… it shall be a ladies’ night again! I assume you can feed us?” Marguerite nodded. “In that case, we shall leave the gentlemen to dine in peace.” She stood up.

  The rest of us rose. My feelings must have been evident from my expression. Violet touched my arm with her long slender fingers. “Cheer up, Henry. Tomorrow you can see your bride, I promise you! In fact…” She turned to face the others. “I would like you all to join me for a lunch in the country. We can forget this wretched business for an afternoon, and you can see my home in Auteuil and meet Berthe and Alphonse. Collins and Gertrude are eager to see everyone again.” She glanced at Marguerite. “And you are welcome to come, too.”

  Marguerite still looked dazed. “I do not know.”

  “A change of scenery will do you good.”

  Holmes raised his hand. “One word, Madame Hardy. Your maid and the abbé must suspect nothing. You must try to act the same as ever with them. And as I said, you must mention in Jeanne’s hearing that Sherlock Holmes was called away on important business—even before he could speak with you. Say, too, that he will return next week and will meet with you then. That should give matters a sense of urgency.”

  The ladies started for the door, while I stared at Holmes glumly and shook my head. Michelle hesitated at the door. “Go on down,” she said to the two women, “I shall join you in a moment.” She closed the door behind them, then turned to Holmes. “Sherlock, you must send for her husband. She has dealt with this on her own for long enough. She needs him by her side.”

  Holmes’s brow furrowed. “Do you think so?”

  “I am certain of it!”

  “Very well, I shall telegraph him. He is still in Scotland, I believe, and it will take him at least two days to get here. Hopefully things will be resolved by then.”

  “You should have sent for him long ago.”

  “I
had certainly thought of it. Believe me, I do not enjoy seeing Madame Hardy suffer. I would spare her if I could. All the same, if her husband were here, he would be one more target, one more way Dujardin would have to torment her.”

  Michelle paled slightly. “I had not thought of that. Au revoir, then.” Her eyes still troubled, she turned toward the door, stopped, then walked over to me, smiling. She pulled off her glove and touched my cheek with her hand. “Poor darling.” She kissed me lightly on the lips. “I shall see you tomorrow. A few hours’ respite in the country does sound wonderful.” I took her hand and kissed her knuckles. She smiled again, then turned and left.

  I shook my head. “Well, Sherlock, time for another tête-à-tête dinner together in Paris, the great capitol of romance!”

  Holmes laughed. “A good bottle of Bordeaux will help raise our spirits.” He shook his head. “We have certainly earned it. What a day.” His smile faded away.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I am glad Madame Hardy did not kill the count. That would have… complicated matters.”

  * * *

  The sun had broken through long gray strips of cloud, setting the grass, the moss, the green bushes and a fir tree aglow with a wintry light. Yellow glistened off the black feathers of the chickens, and their red combs and wattles were radiant in the sun. They strutted about behind the wire fence, clucking and cooing as they pecked at the earth. Behind them was their sanctuary, a well-built coop where they could lay their eggs. Holmes and I had worn tweed suits for our Auteuil visit, and his battered woolen walking hat somehow softened his stark angular visage.

  He gave an appreciative nod. “Magnificent birds. You must be regular consumers of omelets.”

  Violet laughed. “Indeed we are.”

  The cold had brought a flush to Michelle’s fair skin, and she looked quite happy. Her right hand grasped my arm tightly. “I’ve always been curiously fond of chickens. A pity, Henry, that we cannot raise them in the city.”

  I stared in disbelief. “They are only rather dumb birds.”

  “They may not be as clever as crows,” Holmes said, “but they are hardly stupid.”

  Violet clapped her gloved hands together. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes! I would not have thought you would be an admirer of our feathered friends.”

  “I grew up in the countryside, and someday I hope to retire there.”

  Violet cocked her head slightly, smiling. “You must certainly be joking!”

  “Not in the least. London has its many attractions, not the least of which are all the musical events, but who could actually prefer the wretched air of a London winter? ‘Air’ is actually rather generous for the foul yellow fog. One can hardly breathe it. No, one of these days I shall weary of the detective business and flee to the country. I shall play my violin for an hour or two every day and write my memoirs to correct Watson’s many falsehoods, and of course, I shall raise chickens.”

  Violet slipped her hand about his arm. “Bravo for you! It seems an enviable life, but I cannot really believe you.”

  Holmes glanced down at her. “No? And why not?”

  She stared up at him, her head held high in a way which emphasized her long slender throat. In the sunlight her brown eyes were not so dark, had more color in them. “Because you enjoy the thrill of the chase, and the challenge of a worthy case. I think you would soon grow bored in the country and long for London, wretched fog and all.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. But a wise man knows when it is time to quit, when it is time to retreat from the battles of life.”

  Violet smiled. “You are not one to retreat—not you.”

  He stared closely at her, smiling in turn. “Neither are you.”

  Violet gazed again down at the earth where the hens pecked about searching for fragments of grain. “Some of us humans may have the pleasure of retiring, but for chickens, retirement—alas!—means one thing. My cook Madame Parigaux is quite strict. Once they stop laying, a twist of the neck and straight to the pot with them!

  “Well, our little tour is almost finished. Last would be that row of espaliered apple trees.” She raised her gloved hand to point at the stone wall with its series of trees wired together, thick trunks with the lateral branches interleaving like fingers. A few apples still remained, but the majority must have been harvested. “The French invented espaliered trees, and they are the masters. There are some splendid examples in the Jardin du Luxembourg. And now, our lunch must be nearly ready.”

  She and Holmes started back for the house, her hand still grasping his arm lightly, and Michelle and I followed. Violet had exchanged her fancy boots for a pair of wooden clogs. Michelle, Holmes and I wore sensible shoes, so the wet grass and stretches of mud were not a problem. Marguerite, on the other hand, had dressed more formally and had not wanted to dirty her fancy boots or twist an ankle. She was inside with the two couples: Collins and Gertrude, Alphonse and Berthe.

  The old house was constructed of stone, but some of the trim was painted light blue, which rendered it more cheerful. A pathway of brick led to the back door, a row of rhododendron bushes to one side, the lawn to the other. Large trees grew about the property, their leaves gone by now—up ahead was a matted yellow-brown carpet under the barren branches. The dwelling was truly a refuge from the turmoil of Paris with its block after block of apartment buildings and shops.

  Violet opened the door for us, stepped in last and slipped out of the muddy clogs. She sat down on a wooden bench to put on her shoes. We all hung up our coats, then went to the sitting room. Alphonse was leaning forward at his end of the sofa speaking French to Marguerite in an animated manner. Berthe listened quietly.

  Being situated between the two women made Alphonse seem even smaller. His frame was slight and wiry; his thin wrists and gawky neck stuck out from the white shirt cuffs and collar. He was probably in his thirties, but his hair was already receding. No doubt by way of compensation, he sported an enormous black mustache which drooped to his jawline and dominated his face. Marguerite’s wrists and hands were bigger than Alphonse’s, her shoulders broader, too, but Berthe was truly colossal—her hands with the broad knuckles and huge fingers bested us all. As I had suspected, when we were all introduced, she was the only woman I had ever met who actually made Michelle appear small.

  Collins and Gertrude sat on the nearby love seat. He was ruddy, blond and tall, while she was fair-skinned, dark-haired and short. They were frowning slightly, probably because they could not understand Alphonse. Violet had explained that the two couples had been trying to teach the other couple their own language. It was slow going, no doubt, and I had already noticed that Alphonse’s French was not exactly up to the standard of l’Académie Française!

  Madame Parigaux appeared. “À table,” she cried, “à table!”

  We all went to the dining room and sat around the large oval table, and then Madame Parigaux appeared with a china platter bearing a steaming leg of roast pork, the smell delectable. “Would you do the honors, Mr. Holmes?” Violet asked.

  “Gladly, madam.”

  The platter was placed before him. He picked up the knife and a sharpening steel, made a few passes across the blade, then carefully touched the edge. “An excellent knife.” He began to carve, while Madame Parigaux reappeared with a large bowl of potatoes and another with carrots and other vegetables.

  “And, Henry, could you pour the wine?” Two open bottles of red were at my end of the table. I stood, and began to fill everyone’s glass.

  The meal was not the fancy cuisine of an expensive Parisian restaurant, but it was simple and delicious. Everyone seemed hungry, including Marguerite. I paused in my meal to occasionally refill the wine glasses, while Holmes was also eager to slice and pass out more meat. Surprisingly, although he was the smallest of us at the table except for Gertrude, Alphonse ate by far the most. The wine seemed to stimulate conversation. Madame Parigaux brought out two more bottles. Gertrude and Collins were talking with Michelle about how diffe
rent Paris was from London. At the other end of the table, we were all speaking French. After the meat and vegetables, a salad course was served, then a cheese plate, and finally an apple tart made from the fruit of Violet’s espaliered trees.

  Afterwards Violet brought out a flask of apple brandy from Normandy, and we lingered a long while at the table. The light coming through the nearby window still had a welcome golden hue: the sun had not been out for an entire afternoon in many days. Michelle and Marguerite had been discussing the difficulties in finding gloves and boots for larger women like themselves, but Berthe had laughed and said they knew nothing! Her secret was to buy men’s things. Holmes and Violet were discussing breeds of chickens, something I would not have believed if I had not actually heard it. I savored the brandy even as my eyes lingered on Michelle. She had a certain way of smiling, of curving her lips upward mostly at the corners.

  I covered my mouth, stifling a yawn. “It’s a good thing we are not going anywhere tonight,” I said. “I’m far too sleepy.” Too late, I realized my blunder: I must have reminded Marguerite of the Black Mass tomorrow night. Her mouth stiffened, her smile faltering. No doubt it was always at the back of her mind. She had told us that Docre had visited that morning and proudly claimed that his ceremony would block the Devil’s curse once and for all, turning it back upon its perpetrator.

  Violet had been watching Marguerite, too. She lowered her arms, stretching them downwards and spreading her fingers. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the sitting room. It is more comfortable. Moreover, I think some entertainment might be in order.”

  “Entertainment?” Holmes said.

  “Musical entertainment.”

  He smiled. “No doubt you have your violin with you, that splendid Guarneri del Gesù. You must play for us.”

  “I had hoped you might play for us, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I am sorely out of practice, while you on the other hand… I suspect you must play every day.”

  “I try to, at least an hour.”

  “Then I would be hopelessly outmatched.”