Art in the Blood

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Yes, yes. It is in all the papers.’

  ‘But what is his relation to our client?’

  ‘That is the question of the hour. How is the neck?’

  I removed my handkerchief. ‘It has stopped bleeding.’

  ‘Come on!’

  We pressed on up the hill, the air so cold it burned my lungs. The picture became clearer. ‘Four men were killed in Marseilles,’ I said. ‘Stabbed, I believe, with a stiletto. Tonight, that rat-faced little man—’

  ‘Watson, you scintillate. Yes, yes, of course it is the same man.’

  ‘But you were called, as you said, on that Nike case—’

  ‘Yes, and I refused.’

  Holmes turned to leave.

  ‘But, are you on that case? Because it certainly seems to me—’

  ‘I told you, no.’

  Yet Holmes had arranged to consult the Nike expert at the Louvre. My frustration with his secrecy got the best of me, and I stopped in my tracks. ‘If you want my cooperation you must tell me what is going on!’ I shouted. The sound reverberated in the empty street.

  A window above us opened and a slop pot of God knew what rained down several feet away. We both dodged instinctively. ‘Fermez les gueules!’ someone shouted from above and slammed the window shut. It was Holmes’s turn to laugh. He grabbed my arm and began to drag me up the hill. We picked up speed.

  ‘All right. It is possible that the cases are connected,’ he admitted.

  ‘Fine,’ I gasped. ‘But you said Miss La Victoire is going to a safe place. Can’t we resume this in the morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Let go of my arm.’

  ‘I must speak to Mademoiselle La Victoire tonight. Vidocq may be there soon and will interfere.’

  ‘The man did save my life, Holmes. He can’t be all bad.’

  Holmes sighed. ‘I know Vidocq well. He would like nothing better than for us to return to London. He thinks I may take over his case.’

  ‘Perhaps you are worried he may take over yours,’ I said, wrenching free. ‘Go on ahead. What is the address?’

  ‘Turn right at the corner, and two more blocks: 21 Rue Caulaincourt.’

  ‘I shall meet you there.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Oh, and Watson, my dear fellow, Vidocq is the man who pushed you down the stairs at the Louvre. Perhaps you may wish a word with him yourself.’

  Holmes knew me too well. I took off at a run.

  CHAPTER 9

  L’Artiste en Danger

  oments later, we arrived at the corner of the elegant Rues Tourlaque and Caulaincourt at a luxurious building with a gracefully curved portico and ornate grillwork. As a maid took our coats and hats in the entry hall of an apartment on the fourth floor, I noticed Mlle La Victoire’s velvet cloak and Vidocq’s top hat and cape hung on pegs nearby. Holmes’s rival had arrived before us. I seethed with desire to settle my account with this Vidocq. But of course the case took precedence.

  We were ushered into the main salon and left alone. Surrounding us in the brightly lit room were the strangest curiosities imaginable – a veritable circus of wonder – costumes, a trapeze, painted backdrops, a bathtub, Japanese prints, theatrical lights, a hookah, and more … with an artist’s easel, canvases and paints crammed into one corner. Alice down the rabbit hole could not have felt more out of place than I did at that moment.

  The room was empty and a fire roared in a large fireplace off to one side. We stood there, waiting for someone to appear. ‘Mademoiselle?’ called out Holmes in a shrill voice.

  Instead a small, dwarf-like man, oddly attired in a Chinaman’s silk pyjamas and hat, weaved uncertainly into the room. He was gloriously ugly and at the same time fascinating, with thick lips and large, dark eyes, a pair of pince-nez resting on his nose. He had a certain refined dignity, despite being deeply inebriated.

  ‘Welcome friends! Bienvenue!’ he said in heavily French-accented English. ‘We are expecting you, Monsieur Holmes!’

  ‘Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec,’ said Holmes, striding forward and bending down to shake the little man’s hand. It was the world-famous artist himself! ‘Bonsoir. I need to speak to Mademoiselle.’

  The little man reached up to shake Holmes’s hand with enthusiasm. ‘Soon. Soon. She is in the bath. I have read of your exploits, Monsieur Holmes, and Docteur Watson! Look, I am the great Anglophile!’

  ‘Monsieur Lautrec, it is urgent,’ said Holmes.

  But Lautrec had turned to me, and now pumped my hand with vigour. He broke off, caressing my sleeve. ‘Ah, the fine English tailoring,’ he murmured. Then, with a wink, he added, ‘As you see, the English of me is perfect! Or nearly.’

  He dived in and embraced us in the French manner, kissing us on both cheeks. The scent of alcohol radiated from every pore.

  ‘Monsieur, the lady?’ Holmes enquired again.

  ‘And,’ I ventured, ‘if Monsieur Vidocq might be available?’

  ‘First you must refresh,’ said Lautrec, snapping his fingers for the maid. She reappeared instantly. ‘Marie! Tremblements de terre pour tout le monde!’ He smiled at us. ‘Earthquake, she is a recipe of me for the drink – cognac and absinthe. You will enjoy. The earth, she move.’

  Then, to Holmes, he added with a wink, ‘We must wait. The lady finish her bath. Always after a performance.’

  Always, I wondered? How did this man know? As if in answer, he turned to me.

  ‘Mademoiselle, she model for me. The bath. The cabaret.’

  ‘And Vidocq?’ I prompted.

  Lautrec shrugged. ‘The back, perhaps he help to wash?’ He winked at me, and then turned to Holmes, who had been unable to mask his surprise. ‘Ah, Monsieur is jealous,’ he observed.

  Holmes snorted. ‘Of course not! She is my client. I need to speak to her, that is all.’

  The little man stepped nearer, staring up at my friend with that artist’s peculiar close regard, not unlike Holmes’s own. He shrugged in sympathy and then smiled. ‘Everyone love Mademoiselle Cherie.’ He squinted at Holmes. ‘But do sit down. She will come.’

  Grateful for the chance to rest, I took a seat on a red velvet sofa strewn with silk pillows. I would see to my business with Vidocq when the time was right.

  Holmes moved towards the fire, rubbing his hands briskly before it. He was disturbed, and attempting to hide it. It would be unusual for him to take a personal interest in a client, even one as beautiful as the lady. But for all his cold reasoning, Holmes could be a very emotional man. In the flickering firelight, I could see the pallor of exertion and fatigue colouring his countenance.

  ‘Sit down, Holmes,’ I entreated. He ignored me.

  Lautrec continued to regard him.

  ‘The cheekbones very strong, and the eyes, there is something there. You, Monsieur Holmes, must sit for a portrait,’ he said.

  Holmes said nothing but continued to regard the flames.

  ‘You are a haunted man; I will capture this!’ Lautrec said. He stared intensely at Holmes. ‘Yes. Who are your ghosts?’

  Holmes looked up, startled, from his reverie. ‘I do not believe in ghosts!’

  The maid entered with the drinks, followed by a tall, sombre man in conservative dress. He introduced himself to us as Dr Henri Bourges, friend of Lautrec. Holmes refused a drink, nodded almost rudely to Bourges, and returned to his contemplation. I, however, recognized the name. Henri Bourges was a rising young medical man, whose recent paper on diphtheria had impressed me profoundly. What was he doing in this madhouse?

  It became immediately apparent.

  The man turned to Lautrec, who had already consumed half his drink in two large gulps. ‘Mon vieux,’ said Dr Bourges, gently removing the glass from the artist’s hand, replacing it with a sketchbook and pencil, ‘you must not miss the opportunity to sketch our honoured guests.’ He led Lautrec to another sofa, settling him there. With a quick move, he surreptitiously dumped Lautrec’s unfinished drink into a potted plant.

  Ho
lmes had grown more agitated, pacing in front of the fire. I crossed to him and taking his arm, I whispered, ‘Holmes, pray take a seat!’ Holmes shook his head violently and moved away to pace by the window.

  ‘Dr Watson? It is a pleasure to find another medical man. May I have a word?’ said Henri Bourges from across the room. I stepped away from Holmes and joined him.

  We exchanged pleasantries, and I complimented him on his paper. At a lull in the conversation we looked over at Holmes and Lautrec. Holmes had finally sat down, jaw clenched, but was still in motion, his knee bouncing as though driven by St Vitus’s Dance. I felt simultaneously concerned and embarrassed for him. I hoped Mlle La Victoire would arrive soon.

  Dr Bourges, too, was staring at Holmes.

  ‘Do you live here?’ I asked him, intending to distract.

  Bourges nodded. ‘Some of the time. Henri and I are friends since childhood. He is a great artist. A talent which burns too brightly. I consider it a mission to keep him from his excesses.’

  We smiled in mutual understanding. ‘I recognize the temperament,’ I said.

  ‘I see that you do,’ he replied, eyeing Holmes. ‘Cocaine?’

  I hesitated, but one cannot fool a medical man. I nodded. ‘And the work.’

  ‘Of course. It is agony for them without the work,’ said Bourges. We stood a moment in silence.

  Mlle La Victoire swept into the room. She was stunning and refreshed, in a forest-green Grecian dress embroidered with iridescent beading which set off her colouring and beautiful figure.

  Vidocq followed her in. I felt my blood rise at the sight of him.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Holmes stiffly, rising to greet her.

  ‘Thank you for your help tonight, Mr Holmes,’ she said, moving easily past his awkwardness, and kissing his cheeks. He blushed, self-consciously.

  ‘You and Dr Watson both.’ She blew me a kiss.

  Vidocq grinned at this and I noticed that he too, was refreshed, debonair in his tailored evening attire, and hardly the worse for wear after our pitched battle. Yes, he’d saved my life, but I’d saved his as well. And he’d pushed me down a flight of stairs. I walked straight up to him.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘you have not been a gentleman. Is there anything you wish to say to me?’

  He laughed and glanced at Holmes. ‘Ah, I am discovered.’ Then, to me, ‘Your friend may tell you, I am rarely a gentleman,’ he said with a grin. ‘But sometimes I am an ally.’

  ‘One last chance,’ I said. There was no response. ‘Please forgive me, Mademoiselle,’ I said to our client. ‘But he leaves me no choice.’

  I hesitated no longer, but turned to Vidocq and struck him a hard right to the jaw. He dropped like a stone.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ cried the lady.

  Vidocq stared up at me from the floor, rubbing his chin. ‘Alors,’ he said.

  ‘That was for the Louvre,’ I said, shaking out my hand.

  ‘What happened at the Louvre?’ Mlle La Victoire asked.

  No one answered her. Holmes smiled down at Vidocq, who shrugged, grinning up at us with insouciant charm. ‘A little disagreement,’ he offered. Then, to me, ‘I only hoped to frighten you off. But you are more, how shall we say, robust than I anticipated. We are even now. Help me up.’ He held his hand up to mine.

  My manners deserted me. I walked over to a sideboard where I poured myself a glass of water, or what I thought was water. I took a hearty gulp and choked. Gin! Bourges appeared and handed me a glass of water. ‘I never liked him either,’ he whispered with a wink. ‘Lautrec thinks he is, how do you say, a bounder?’

  Mlle La Victoire glided to where Holmes stood. ‘Monsieur Holmes!’ she said in her charmingly accented English. ‘I am sorry to make you wait, and after your so kind rescue tonight. I will admit I am shaken.’

  Holmes led her to a settee and seated her gently, but remained standing. Vidocq insinuated himself next to and quite close to the lady, raising a protective arm behind her. She shrank ever so slightly from his touch.

  ‘Monsieur Vidocq,’ said Holmes with considerable irritation. ‘I would like a word with Mademoiselle alone.’

  Vidocq did not move. ‘Cherie and I have an understanding. I will remain to protect her interests.’

  ‘Mademoiselle’s interest, and my own, is to find and recover her son, Emil,’ stated Holmes. ‘You, however, are on the trail of the Marseilles Nike, are you not? A trail with a rather large reward at the end?’

  Vidocq said nothing, but looked away. Holmes turned to Mlle La Victoire. ‘Mademoiselle, what do you think has transpired this evening?’

  The dear lady seemed surprised. ‘Mais, évidemment … those men, they came to Le Chat Noir to kill me …’

  ‘Really? Is that what this gentleman has told you?’

  She shrugged. Vidocq broke in. ‘Of course. It is the truth.’

  ‘Then why, pray tell, did our attackers not follow you, Mademoiselle, in your cab, but instead stayed to fight the three of us?’

  Mlle La Victoire looked doubtful.

  ‘Let me answer,’ said Holmes. ‘Because they were there to kill Vidocq, and you were merely in the way.’

  She turned to her lover. ‘Jean! But why would they want to kill you?’

  He shrugged and said to Holmes, ‘You cannot prove this.’

  ‘They were hired professional killers, probably with a contract to kill and the same weapon used at Marseilles,’ said Holmes. ‘Vidocq, as you are the only one investigating the stolen statue, might they not have been after you?’ He turned again to Mlle La Victoire. ‘I am curious, Mademoiselle. Has Monsieur Vidocq questioned you closely on the habits of your acquaintance, the Earl of Pellingham?’

  Vidocq interjected. ‘Of course. He is the father of Emil.’ He kissed our client on the cheek. ‘Anything to find your dear son.’

  ‘Convenient, then,’ said Holmes, cheerfully, ignoring Vidocq’s gesture. ‘Were you aware, Mademoiselle, that the Earl is a primary suspect in the Nike theft?’

  Mlle La Victoire hesitated. ‘No, I was not.’ She turned to Vidocq. ‘You have been very curious, Jean.’

  ‘Cherie, ma petite!’ exclaimed Vidocq, ‘My feelings are quite genuine for you!’

  But the singer stood up, putting a little distance between them. ‘What does this mean, Mr Holmes?’

  Holmes turned to Vidocq. ‘Your feelings did not prevent you from placing her in harm’s way this evening,’ he stated coolly.

  Vidocq snorted. ‘Ridiculous. I had no way to predict they would attack tonight.’

  ‘You noticed them in the audience, as I did,’ said Holmes. ‘I saw you.’

  ‘But then I have a question for you,’ said Vidocq. ‘If you are on Mademoiselle’s case, and not the Marseilles Nike, why then your visit to the Louvre and the Greek curator earlier today?’

  ‘I am a lover of great art,’ said Holmes smoothly. ‘That is all.’

  Mlle La Victoire looked from one man to the other uncertainly. Vidocq stretched his arms towards his lover. ‘Surely you do not believe this nonsense?’ he said with the broadest of smiles. ‘Ma petite, where is your faith?’

  She paused, and then, to my great surprise, rushed into his arms.

  ‘I believe you, Jean,’ she said with passion. He embraced her and the two turned to face us.

  Holmes snorted. ‘Mademoiselle, I ask only this. You summoned me here. Allow me the privilege of a private conversation before you choose sentiment over logic.’

  ‘She will not listen,’ said Vidocq.

  Mlle la Victoire turned to Vidocq and silenced him with a look. ‘Do not force me to choose, Jean. I believe you. But I will speak to Mr Holmes, alone. Please leave us.’

  Vidocq paused. Something passed between the two men; then, with a shrug, Vidocq melted again into his relaxed, Gallic charm. ‘But of course,’ he said with a grin. Turning to the lady he added, ‘I will be in the next room if you require me.’ He sauntered out.

  ‘Yes, take Monsieur Lautrec with you,’ ca
lled Holmes.

  I turned to see that the little man had seated himself on a nearby mound of cushions and had been sketching Holmes throughout the conversation, Bourges standing appreciatively by. Lautrec shrugged. ‘Perhaps some more drinks,’ he said, following Vidocq into the next room. Dr Bourges trailed after him with a nod to me.

  Holmes’s demeanour immediately changed. He sat down next to Mlle La Victoire, patting her hand in a surprisingly comforting gesture. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he began, his voice much kinder now but with a distinct urgency. ‘Monsieur Vidocq’s feelings may or may not be genuine. But you know his reputation. I can assure you that his feelings for you aside, his primary interest is in the Marseilles Nike and not your son. You know of this famous statue?’

  ‘I know of it.’

  ‘Ah! Pray let us continue so that I can help you find Emil. Those men who attacked tonight, did any of them look familiar to you? Perhaps one resembled the man who accosted you on the street.’

  ‘Non. I am sure he was not among them.’

  ‘As I thought. And Jean Vidocq? What are your feelings for him?’

  Here the lady paused. It was my impression that a kind of veil slipped over her and came between her true intentions and us. ‘I … we … I will admit that we have grown close,’ she said.

  ‘Clearly you are intimate,’ Holmes stated flatly. ‘And yet you have reservations.’

  She started. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Really, mademoiselle, it is obvious.’

  She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Please do not think harshly of me. I am an artist, and many assume that I am promiscuous as a matter of course. But that is far from true.’

  ‘Trust and intimacy are separate issues for you,’ said Holmes. ‘It strikes me that you may be using the gentleman, if I may refer to him thus, for your own purposes.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  A glimmer of surprise passed over her features, but was quickly hidden.

  ‘When exactly did this relationship with Monsieur Vidocq begin?’ Holmes inquired without hesitation.

  ‘A month or so ago. And I do love him.’

  Holmes grunted. ‘Not months then. But how long before the attack?’