He gave her a curious look, as if this were the most incredible request he had ever heard. He nodded. “Gladly. I shall not sleep tonight.” They sat on the sofa, a distance of about a foot separating them. Both of them were so long and slender, their faces pale and wan against their dark clothing, a restless energy illuminating their eyes. Violet looked royal in purple, her chin thrust forward resolutely.
Michelle and I went upstairs to my room. Her night clothes were back at Marguerite’s, but once in bed, I held her tightly and warmed her. “I wish it had not had to happen this way,” I said, “but it is wonderful to have you back alongside me.”
She kissed me. “I have missed you.”
It was a while before I felt the subtle changes in her body, in her breathing, as she fell asleep. I was still wide awake, troubled, but grateful to have her alongside me once again. I had a restless night. When I finally slept, Simone Dujardin lurked in my dreams, gloating. Her white face in its nimbus of blond hair was young and beautiful, but her blue eyes revealed her evil nature. She was like some splendid-looking fruit with worm-eaten rot at its core. I tried to keep Marguerite away from the stairs to the tower, but she would not listen to me.
Although I was late falling asleep, I woke up early. I went down for breakfast around eight, leaving Michelle still fast asleep. Holmes sat alone at a corner table, sipping coffee, half a pain au chocolat on a small saucer before him. He had shaved, put on clean linen and a black frock coat, and he had some color back in his face. I sat beside him and ordered the same thing.
He took another bite of his pastry. “I must leave soon. I told Juvol I would meet him first thing in the morning. We have a few things to discuss.”
“But you said he would keep Madame Hardy’s past a secret?”
“Yes. And early this afternoon I have my other task. I must meet Mr. Hardy at the Gare du Nord.” His mouth briefly pulled outward, and then he sighed. “He will be expecting his wife as well.”
I hesitated. “Would you like me to come with you?”
He shrugged. “It is not necessary. I am the one he hired to protect her.”
“All the same, I’ll come if you wish it.”
He smiled faintly. “You and Michelle have tender hearts, Henry. I can take care of this alone.”
“Very well.” I was greatly relieved.
He sipped his coffee. “I shall be busy much of the day, in and out, but let us plan on dinner together here at the hotel at eight thirty. Violet will also join us. We agreed upon it last night.”
“How late were the two of you up?”
“Until three.”
“Three! What on earth were you talking about all that time?”
“Mostly about music. We began with Bach and ended with Wagner.” He smiled. “Appropriate, chronologically.”
I shook my head. “Wagner? Why Wagner?”
“It was a distraction, Henry, a long and pleasant one. She wanted to hear about Bayreuth. She has never been there. As you may remember, I last went there two years ago for a performance of Parsifal. She has heard a great deal about the opera and would like to hear it, but Wagner specified that it can only be done at Bayreuth. Someday she would like to make the musical pilgrimage there.”
“As I recall, you had mixed feelings about the work.”
He smiled. “It is very long, even for Wagner. Much of the music is sublime, but in its totality, the opera is somehow, ultimately, unconvincing. Wagner himself was, in many ways, a thoroughly odious man, and perhaps that explains why his grand story of redemption does not quite ring true in the end.” His gray eyes peered closely at me. “Why are you smiling that way?”
“It is the idea of you and Violet discussing Parsifal in the wee hours of the morning. You two are a pair.”
His smile was ironical. “That is not typical, I suppose.” He swallowed the last of his coffee, then stood up. “I must be on my way.”
“Good luck with Mr. Hardy.”
All traces of good humor vanished. “Thank you, Henry.”
* * *
I did not see Holmes again until just before dinner. I had gone down ahead of Michelle. Still wearing the black frock coat with the silken lapels, he was seated at one end of our familiar friend, the green sofa, the long fingers of his right hand clutching at his chin as he stared fiercely into the middle distance. When he saw me, he nodded, the tension in his face easing.
I sat down beside him. “How did it go?” Both of us knew exactly what I was talking about.
He drew in his breath, his face contorting. “Badly—very badly, as one would expect. He was devastated. You, I think, can well imagine how he must have felt. He loved her very much, and he was not expecting such news.” A grim ironic smile flickered across his lips. “After all, Sherlock Holmes was on the case.”
“You mustn’t be so hard on yourself—there was nothing you could have done.”
Along with bleakness, a faint anger showed in his gray eyes. “Let us not talk about it.”
“And what were you doing all afternoon?”
“Walking. And thinking.”
“The weather was certainly dreadful.”
“It matched my mood. I went into the Louvre for a while, but I was too distracted to pay suitable attention to the masterpieces.”
“There you are!” Michelle strode across the lobby. She had retrieved her luggage from Marguerite’s house, and she wore one of her electric-blue dresses, our favorite color. It had the popular gigot sleeves ballooning out from the shoulders, then tapering and tight round her forearms, her hands hidden by white gloves. She was one of those few “outrageous” women who did not wear a corset, at least in informal situations, and to my mind she did not need it. She had a perfect shape, a narrow waist and broad curving hips, pleasantly full—not scrawny, but not fat either. Her red hair was bound up, and silver earrings glistened at each ear. I smiled at her, incredibly grateful to be loved by such a woman and aware that nothing could be more terrible than to lose her.
Her eyes filled with sympathy when she saw Holmes. We went to the dining room together, Michelle in the center holding each of us by the arm. We were barely seated when Violet came in. She looked about, saw us, then smiled and started for our table. Her face was faintly flushed, and she looked much better than she had the night before. She wore a beautiful green silk which I vaguely recalled from a few years ago.
Michelle rose and kissed her on the cheek. “You look much better. You must have slept.”
“I did, a good nap on the sofa. It is so quiet at home in the afternoon.” She turned to Holmes. “And you?”
He shrugged. “Morpheus and I are intermittent acquaintances under the best of circumstances.”
We ordered our dinners, and Holmes selected a white Bordeaux to start with. “Champagne will not do this evening,” he murmured. After the waiter had arrived with the chilled bottle and filled our glasses, Holmes raised his. “To Madame Hardy, a woman who…” His eyes seemed briefly lost, words escaping him. “Would that she were here,” he finally said. We all said her name and clinked glasses. The wine was delicious, but we were all thinking anew of Marguerite’s death.
Holmes held up his wine glass, staring at the pale yellow wine, twisting it slightly, then sipped again. “I have made a resolution I had best tell you about, so that I can eat my dinner in peace.” He paused, then squared his shoulders slightly. “I have decided to give up my work as a consulting detective and retire to some rustic dwelling in Yorkshire.”
We all stared at him for a few seconds. Michelle was the first to speak. “Is this some sort of joke?” Violet was still looking at him, but the set of her lips showed that she had no such doubts.
“I would not joke about such a thing,” Holmes said.
I shook my head incredulously. “But that is simply insane! You are only in your early forties, and at the height of your powers! How could you abandon your profession now? You are irreplaceable.”
He shrugged. “I would have to give it
up some day. Better sooner than later.”
“All this because of Madame Hardy’s death?” I asked.
His smile was bitter. “I don’t want to ever again have a conversation like the one today with Mr. Hardy.”
Violet’s dark eyes were fixed on him. “You told me that a consulting detective cannot always win. Can you not see the wisdom of your own counsel?”
“I have done this work for slightly over twenty years, and I have failed more times than I care to remember. I have also seen nearly every variety of human evil and perversion. It wears on a man. You are just starting out. It is not the same.”
“Isn’t it?”
I stared at him and shook my head. “I cannot believe it—nor can I believe you have thought this through. I have seen the black moods you are prey to when you do not have an interesting case to occupy your mind. Nor do I think prolonged isolation will be good for you. You were made for the bustle and activity of London, for the great varied masses of humanity, for the thrill of the chase after criminals—and not for some bucolic setting with only cows and sheep for company!”
They all smiled at this, even Holmes. “My mind is made up, Henry. Let us enjoy our last meal together in Paris and not mar it with arguments.”
“Last meal?” I said.
“Yes. I shall leave in the morning and be back in London in the afternoon. I shall take the express train to York the following morning, then go on to Whitby. And… I was hoping… I was hoping…”
I stared at him. “You want me to come along?”
“I know you do not approve, but—yes. Just for a day or two, until I am settled.”
My eyes rolled upward. That was the last thing I wanted to do! More days and nights apart from Michelle. But how could I refuse him?—especially if he really followed through on his decision. I jerked my head downward in an angry nod, before I could follow my more selfish impulses and refuse. “Very well.”
Michelle leaned forward and set her big white hand on his wrist. “Sherlock, you are making a mistake.”
His mouth stiffened. “I expected these objections. However, I must ask you to respect my decision, and again, let us not ruin our parting meal in futile discussion which can only lead to hard feelings. My mind is made up.” He shrugged. “Perhaps, after all, it is not irrevocable. I may reconsider in a few months, but you must not count on it. Let us move on to more pleasant topics, so that…” he gestured at the plate just set before him of snails in their shells, reeking of garlic and butter, “…I can truly relish my farewell plate of escargot!”
Violet stared at him thoughtfully. “No one knows the strength of your will better than I. If it is truly your wish, I shall not try to dissuade you. All the same…” She smiled wistfully. “Might you consider staying on a few days in Paris? We have all been so busy and so preoccupied with fears and worries. We have hardly had time to enjoy one another’s company, and who knows when we may be together again? Why not take a few days’ holiday in Paris before setting off on this expedition to the wilds of Yorkshire?”
Holmes looked at her, then lowered his eyes. “You tempt me, madam, but I must strike while the iron is hot. With the full Yorkshire winter coming on, I wish to be settled in as soon as possible.”
She shook her head. “A pity. If Henry goes with you…” She turned to Michelle. “I know your practice calls to you, but perhaps you might stay a little longer, even if only two or three days?”
Michelle gave Holmes a brief hard stare, then smiled at Violet. “Gladly. You are right. We have spent hardly any time with one another.”
Violet clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! And there is room for you at Auteuil. I wasn’t exactly telling Marguerite the truth when I said my house was full.”
Holmes paused with the tiny snail fork in his hand, his eyes sweeping warily round the table. “All is settled then. Henry and I depart for London tomorrow, then Yorkshire, while the ladies remain behind.”
I nodded angrily, not trusting myself to speak without bitterness.
“Settled, yes,” said Violet. “All the same… a pity you are not Roman Catholic, Mr. Holmes.” Her smile was faintly ironic. “You could retreat for a while to some isolated monastery in the French countryside for prayer and meditation. That was what the knights in all the old tales did, especially after some moral crisis. Lancelot went to a monastery, and Guinevere to a convent.” Her cheeks flushed slightly as she realized the implications of the comparison. “Not that it is the same. You are not Lancelot, and I… You are more like one of those knights who has slain the dragon in a fierce and bloody battle and suffered grievous wounds. Again, in the past you might have retired to the monastery or gone off to become a hermit.” Her voice took on a lilting, mocking tone. “You do not, I hope, intend to live in a cave, eat only nuts and berries, and wear rough woolen robes?”
“I do not. My repasts will hardly be the equal of Parisian food, but I shall hire a decent cook who can keep a well-stocked larder and prepare simple but hardy meals.” Holmes turned toward me; I was scowling. “Come, Henry, you must not give me such looks.”
“It was not directed at you. I was thinking of Simone Dujardin, that tiny blond woman with her deceptive beauty and innocence. Despite her diminutive stature, she was certainly the equal of some monstrous dragon.”
Violet nodded. “Dragons are often female in the stories. And they are frequently motivated by greed. It is an apt comparison.”
Holmes scooped out the black gooey flesh from a third shell. “A pity no one else cares for escargot. I would gladly share these.”
“I am feeling adventurous.” Violet resolutely set her small plate nearer Holmes. “It has been many years since I last tasted one. I shall give it another try.”
“It is best with bread, especially if you are new to the delicacy.” He took a piece of baguette, set it on the dish, then removed another snail and set it on the bread. He used his spoon to take up some butter and parsley to drip onto the bread. “Try this.”
Violet took a large bite and chewed thoughtfully. She swallowed, then her mouth twitched. She raised one shoulder.
“Well?” Holmes asked.
“It is, frankly, not so bad as I remembered. All the same, I am not a convert.” She picked up the bread and took another bite. “But I shall finish what I started.”
“Bravo!” Holmes exclaimed. “Well, more for myself, I suppose.” He took up the green bottle and poured more of the wine into our glasses. “While I eat these, you can at least occupy yourself with this agreeable white Bordeaux.”
The restaurant was warm, pleasant, and quiet, the well-dressed crowd chatting or eating politely, no loud clattering of silverware or sloshing of glasses, and the wine did help raise our spirits, or at least helped us to relax and enjoy our time together. As he had requested, no one spoke further of Holmes’s decision, although I had resolved to work on him during our journey. While we were all saddened by the death of Marguerite, still there was relief that the uncertainty and violence of the case were finished, and that Dujardin was gone forever and could harm no one else. And in the end, too, if I had learned anything growing up in France, it was that few comforts in life can equal that combination of good food, good wine and good company.
I also appreciated beautiful women, and Michelle and Violet were each stunning in her own way. Each had such beautiful hands, although they were so different: Violet’s long and slender, graceful, Michelle’s larger and stronger-looking, her skin even paler. Holmes might have an austere, at times forbidding exterior, but I knew that he felt the same attraction toward female beauty. You could see it in his eyes, especially when he gazed at Violet. But it was far more than mere admiration: a much stronger emotion was at work.
Our plats principaux soon arrived. Michelle and I often ordered lamb shanks in France. Neither of us liked bloody meat, and they were generally well cooked; more tender and less gamey than what passed for lamb in London. The rich smell was incredible. Holmes had a seared steak with
slabs of fried potatoes, and Violet half a roasted chicken covered with herbs. The waiter had already brought a second bottle, a very good red Bordeaux, the dark double of the white.
Holmes swirled the Bordeaux artistically in his glass, held it before the lamp at the center of our table, observing its brilliant scarlet glow, then took a lingering sip. He shook his head. “Wonderful! And now I think it is time for another toast, a happier one. It is trite perhaps, but why not end as we began a few nights ago? To friendship.” We echoed his words and all clinked glasses.
“We must not wait again for three years before we see each other,” Violet said. “I know I have no one to blame but myself, but I promise I shall not be remiss in the future.”
We all set to decorously with our cutlery. Violet was almost as good at carving up a fowl with knife and fork as Holmes. “If you go into hiding again,” Michelle said, “I shall drag Sherlock Holmes out of retirement and have him hunt you down!”
Holmes nodded. “An enviable task, one I would gladly accept.”
Michelle was staring closely at Violet, and Violet gave her a curious look. “Don’t you trust me? Why are you looking at me that way?”
Michelle hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders. “It is only… it is not exactly dinner conversation.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Michelle set down her knife and fork. “You once said that you needed to do something to atone for your crimes. You were not certain how long it might take. I wonder, have you… have you finally managed to balance the scales?”
Violet’s lips formed a crooked ironic smile. “And you expect a serious answer?”
“Only if you wish.”
Violet stared at her. Her eyes shifted to Holmes who was watching her closely, then back to Michelle. Some three years ago, Michelle had told me about the final meeting of Holmes and Violet in Switzerland. They had confessed their love, but Violet had asked him if he could wait for her until she had somehow made amends for her crimes.
“If you had only asked me a few days ago! Things were going so well. I had just saved a seventeen-year-old English girl from a fortune-hunting scoundrel.” She smiled at Holmes. “It was nicely done, even if I do say so myself. I employed Gertrude in the scheme. She had been asking to help in my endeavors, and she is really a very good actress. Collins was not so sure, but we brought him around. We made Gertrude into a wealthy heiress and set her up as bait for the bounder. He was completely taken in, and dropped his pursuit of the girl to go after Gertrude. Better yet, he sent Gertrude a love letter that was practically a duplicate of his earlier love letter to the girl! The young lady was heartbroken, but that is far better than being ensnared at an early age by such a man.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 28