Art in the Blood

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘I do not remember. Perhaps three weeks. I had contacted him to help me find Emil,’ she stated. ‘Jean frightened off my attacker! As tonight! I owe him my life.’

  ‘As I pointed out earlier, the man in the street was merely warning you,’ snapped Holmes. ‘Mademoiselle, why did you write to me asking for help … when you have a man you love close to hand?’

  Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘I do not know. There is something about Jean … about Monsieur Vidocq … that I do not understand. He is very attractive and we … and yet …’

  Holmes remained still, his keen grey eyes boring into the lady’s. ‘And yet you are not sure of his intentions. Your instincts are finely honed, Mademoiselle.’ He paused and smiled. ‘The reward for recovering the Marseilles Nike for France will probably be a Chevalier.’

  ‘I do not see how this relates.’

  ‘But you see very well, Mademoiselle. Of course you know that your former lover, the Earl, is one of the great art collectors in the world. Did it never cross your mind that he might be involved in the Nike case, which floods the headlines? Your information about him might be useful to a detective on his trail.’

  The lady rose. ‘Oui, all right then, Mr Holmes. Yes, it is possible that Jean Vidocq wishes to use me in some way to get to the Earl. Although … I cannot help. I have had no contact with the Earl for years. I have asked Jean to help me find Emil and he is pursuing inquiries here in Paris. Perhaps, as you said, I am using Monsieur Vidocq just as you think he uses me.’

  ‘But he has disappointed you. And I have been engaged … in reserve, I suppose,’ said Holmes a little bitterly.

  ‘I will do anything to find Emil,’ said the poor lady. ‘That is all I care about. I believe you are here for that reason alone, as you must have turned down the Nike case for your brother to have hired Monsieur Vidocq.’

  This startled Holmes. ‘How did you know that my brother hired Vidocq?’ he asked. It seemed that even Holmes did not know this fact until now.

  ‘I chanced to see a cable from a Mr Mycroft Holmes before Jean destroyed it.’

  ‘So, I see. This makes me your second choice to find Emil, and Vidocq the British government’s second choice to locate the statue.’ Holmes barked a laugh. ‘This is all quite amusing.’

  In a fury the lady crossed to Holmes and slapped his face. He stepped back in surprise.

  ‘You laugh, but my son is missing, Mr Holmes,’ she said. ‘Two of the most famous detectives in the world have offered help, and yet I believe neither of you cares about this fact, but only about an antique piece of carved stone. Emil is ten years old. Wherever he is, if he is alive, he is very frightened. Or worse. I care nothing of your rivalry with Jean Vidocq, or a Greek statue, no matter how valuable. Can’t you work together? Will you, or will you not help me?’

  Holmes approached and took her hands tenderly in his ‘My apologies. I am at your service, Mademoiselle. And I will find Emil. It is why I am here.’

  The lady considered his words.

  ‘Mademoiselle. Mr Holmes is a man of his word,’ I said, stepping forward. ‘As am I. We will do everything in our power to find your son.’

  ‘I believe you both,’ she said. ‘I do not know why, but I do. Please forgive my doubts.’

  ‘Forgotten,’ said Holmes. ‘I have reason to believe Emil is still in England. Whoever has taken him is probably connected to the Earl, and would wish to keep a close eye. We will depart, the three of us, for London in the morning. It is now four o’clock. We must get some rest first.’

  ‘There is an eleven o’clock train for Calais from Gare du Nord in the morning,’ she said, gathering her shawl around her.

  ‘We will be on it,’ said Holmes.

  ‘The four of us.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Holmes sharply.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mlle La Victoire’s Story

  e slept a few hours on two of the various chaises longues in Lautrec’s apartment. From his maid’s practised and quick accommodation with cushions and blankets, it was clear we were not the first adventurers to take our repose in this salon of wonders. But exhaustion made short work of the novelty.

  In the morning we were served coffee and croissants. Then, despite her professed trust in Holmes, our client again insisted on Vidocq coming to London with us. In contrast to the night before, Holmes acquiesced easily.

  I bade a grateful farewell to Dr Bourges, collected our belongings from the hotel, and in the cab to the Gare Nord, asked him why.

  ‘Keep one’s friends close, and one’s enemies closer,’ said Holmes with a grin. ‘He will follow us there anyway. This way we can keep an eye on him.’

  Shortly after, we were London-bound on the Chatham in a private first-class carriage.

  The frosty countryside flew past us. As Vidocq dozed against the window of our compartment, Holmes questioned our client more closely regarding the Earl.

  ‘Tell me, Mademoiselle, the circumstances surrounding your brief relationship with the Earl. Any detail may be important; leave nothing out. You were eighteen, were you not? And working where?’

  The lady hesitated, and drew up a soft wool travelling blanket around her shoulders. A dreamy look came over her face as she began to recount her start in Paris.

  ‘I came up from Provence,’ she said, ‘the small village of Eze. I had a letter of introduction and began to model first at l’École des Beaux Arts, and soon for a number of private artists in the Latin Quarter, where I met Degas, Renoir, and later, Lautrec.

  ‘My heart was in music, and I had hoped to make my way as a singer,’ she said with a smile … ‘Through a small group of writers called Les Hydropathes I received an invitation to sing at one of their soirées. From there, I soon began to sing in several cabarets, while still working as an artist’s model.’

  As she continued her story, we learned that Lord Pellingham had spotted Mlle La Victoire one evening at one of these small cabarets. The handsome Earl had been carousing across Europe incognito, apparently in an alcoholic ramble disguised as an art acquisition trip, and hidden from all, including his peers in the House of Lords and every member of his family.

  I kept to myself the thought that the singer had been, perhaps, the most important of his ‘acquisitions’.

  After her performance, she and the Earl – whom she knew as ‘Count Wilford’ – had a brief liaison which lasted for three deliriously happy days and nights ensconced at the Grand Hôtel du Louvre. There he wined, dined, and courted the young girl in a way that seemed destined for a bright future.

  The young singer was in heaven. She understood herself to be entertained by some minor royal personage, but on the third morning, as ‘Count Wilford’ slept off the previous night’s champagne, a missive arrived on a silver tray which she received at their suite.

  Her paramour slept on and, curious, she opened it. It was an urgent business communication regarding a crisis at one of the gentleman’s largest holdings, a silk factory near the family seat in Lancashire. It detailed some worker unrest and dire financial challenges. But that was not all. It also revealed details of his life that froze her in his tracks. ‘Count Wilford’ was indeed a member of the peerage – but actually named ‘Lord Pellingham’ né Harold Beauchamp-Kay, an art collector, major figure in the House of Lords, and most shocking of all … married.

  His American wife, Annabelle, had taken ill, and he was requested to return to his home in Lancashire immediately.

  Upon reading this letter, and realizing she had been pinning false hopes on a married man and a famous one at that, the young girl replaced it carefully in its envelope, quietly gathered her things and disappeared into the predawn mist of Paris.

  She wandered round Montmartre for four days, bereft at the deception and furious at herself, for she had quit her cabaret singing post, nurturing the classic and sadly romantic hope of nearly every poor, beautiful young woman across the world – that she would be rescued by some form of roya
lty and whisked into another life altogether, her true destiny. She was but eighteen years old, and could be excused for this rather naive dream.

  She heard nothing from Pellingham in the days following and tried to put him from her mind.

  She was hired at another cabaret, and her talents and stunning beauty took her back into the limelight. Within a month, however, she realized she was pregnant, but disguised this fact by creating a fashion statement with a rainbow of flowing silk scarves which hid her burgeoning curves. It was at this time that she earned the sobriquet ‘la Déesse des Mille Couleurs’ or ‘the Goddess of a Thousand Colours’. The scarves had remained as her personal signature ever since.

  After she discovered her pregnancy, Mlle La Victoire wrote to Lord Pellingham but received no reply. She wrote a second and third time with the same result.

  Nine months later, at the home of a friend in Montmartre, she gave birth to a baby boy whom she named Emil. It was a difficult birth but the baby was healthy, handsome, and thriving.

  Holmes had listened patiently to this story. But at this juncture he leaned forward with keen interest. ‘How exactly were the arrangements made to give Emil to the Earl?’ he asked.

  ‘Two weeks after Emil was born,’ said the lady, her eyes glazing over at the memory, ‘a man named Pomeroy came to me.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Dark and how do you say, stocky. An Englishman of French descent, who spoke to me in French. He said he was a close associate of Lord Pellingham. He had an offer to make me. Ah, I regret—’

  ‘Describe the offer exactly.’

  ‘Lord Pellingham would adopt Emil, and raise him on the estate as his own, with his American wife Annabelle. Our son would have every advantage, and he would inherit the estate upon Lord Pellingham’s death. But there were conditions.’

  ‘Naturally; what were they?’

  ‘I was to tell no one. It must seem my new baby had died. I had to sign a paper, a legal paper. I would receive no money. But Lord Pellingham would, through his connections in Paris, open doors for me to sing and perform throughout Europe.’

  ‘And did he do so?’

  ‘I like to think he did not need to do so.’

  ‘Of course not; your talent is beyond question,’ I remarked.

  She smiled but the smile faded quickly, and she continued her tale. As she had mentioned before, she would be allowed to see Emil once per year, at Christmas time, in London, with very specific and immutable conditions.

  Holmes pressed her for details.

  Each year this Christmas meeting took place in the tea room of Brown’s Hotel, and as I watched her describe her pitiably short hour with the child over the years, my heart broke for them. She had been introduced only as a friend of the family. Each year she brought the child a small present, usually some beautiful, valuable handmade plaything – once a toy theatre; later, a hand-carved horse which had enchanted the child and became his favourite toy.

  Emil seemed to respond to his mother and her gifts with sensitive appreciation, and she swore that there was a bond between them, even though it remained unspoken. The boy, in accordance with the arrangement, was never to be told of their real relationship.

  Holmes had listened to this description with eyes closed, leaning back in his seat. He opened them now, regarding Mlle La Victoire with curiosity.

  ‘You seem intelligent. What inspired you to entrust your son to this man who so cruelly deceived you?’ asked Holmes.

  Mlle La Victoire paused. ‘An instinct. I felt … I don’t know why … that this was best for Emil. And at first, it surely seemed so. Emil was a happy child …’

  ‘Why in the past tense?’

  ‘I … No reason.’

  ‘There was no hint of disturbance in the child’s demeanour last Christmas? Any unease?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘No,’ the lady said, puzzled.

  ‘Think! Was the child withdrawn at all, sombre? Or was he changed in any way?’

  ‘I did not notice anything wrong,’ said Mlle La Victoire. ‘Except … except that as he left, he looked back at me. I saw tears. Never before were there tears.’

  Holmes exhaled sharply. ‘And yet you did nothing?’

  Her own eyes moistened. ‘I thought perhaps he had missed me.’

  Holmes said nothing but I could sense the wheels of his mind turning. He looked away, to stare out of the window. The southern English countryside hurtled past us, an icy blue-white blur. The snow had turned to sleet, and even in our heated compartment I could feel the chill seeping in from the windows.

  Vidocq rose and removed himself briefly from our compartment. Immediately, Holmes seized the moment and leaned forward to speak in low, earnest tones. ‘One last thing, purely as conjecture. Do you continue to believe your son to be alive?’

  ‘I do,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I am as certain about it as I am of your word, Mr Holmes.’

  She paused.

  ‘Please. I have made a terrible mistake; I know you think it. But I cannot find Emil alone. I need your help, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘And that is why we are at your service, Watson and I.’

  ‘And now, I have a question for you,’ she said. ‘You have not fully explained. Why London?’

  ‘I am not certain that he is in the city itself,’ he replied. ‘But I believe him to be in England. Whoever has Emil may wish to ensure his safekeeping. It would be too hard to arrange in another country. As for London, there are a great many tanners there. I believe there is a chance that Emil has been removed by friendly hands, but because he is in danger for some reason. That is why we must tread very carefully, so as not to lead the threat to him.’

  ‘I see. But who or why?’

  ‘We have much to learn. But I do think the danger is real. I must make a request of you.’

  ‘Anything that will help,’ she said.

  Holmes regarded her with that peculiar piercing stare. ‘You must not allow your feelings for Jean Vidocq to stand in our way,’ he said, watching her carefully.

  Mlle La Victoire’s face became a perfect mask. As a performer, she had an uncanny ability to appear transparent at one moment, opaque at the next. ‘Of course not,’ she said finally.

  And then she smiled. The compartment was immediately warmer.

  PART FOUR

  BEHIND THE SCENES

  ‘The artist must be in his work as God is in creation, invisible and all-powerful; one must sense him everywhere but never see him.’

  Gustave Flaubert

  CHAPTER 11

  Baker Street Irregularities

  e returned to 221B to find that Mrs Hudson had arranged for repair of the sitting room from Holmes’s recent fiery adventure. It was a comfort to return to the familiar rooms, where even the furniture had been restored to the state of my residence there.

  All evidence of Holmes’s drug-fuelled debacle had been eliminated, his papers and chemical equipment tidied, the room aired and scrubbed. A cheery fire had been laid and tea, brandy, and scones set out on the table awaiting our arrival.

  There also was a note from Mary. Her mother’s needs necessitated her staying longer, and so I was free, at least for the time being, to continue with Holmes. ‘My only request, dear John,’ she wrote, ‘is that you promise to take care of yourself as well as you do me … and your friend. Please stay safe.’

  It was with tremendous relief that I set down our valises, hung up my coat, and poured a cup of tea. However, Holmes surprised me by offering Vidocq and Mlle La Victoire my old bedroom, where they were to be his guests during the London search for Emil.

  Since my marriage, the room had been unused except as a kind of laboratory and dumping ground for Holmes’s equipment, papers, and research projects. These were summarily removed to the basement by Mrs Hudson and a boy.

  ‘Holmes, this is unlike you,’ I ventured when Mlle La Victoire and Vidocq went upstairs for a rest. ‘And more than a little improper.’

  ‘Watson, you know I car
e little for propriety. This way I can better ensure Mademoiselle’s safety.’

  ‘It is all about her wellbeing, then, I suppose,’ said I. ‘You are not attracted to the lady? Perhaps even a little.’

  Holmes snorted. ‘Watson, really. If I were, would I lodge her so cosily with a lover right under my nose?’ He paused and grinned impishly. ‘Were you by chance wishing to return to your old room for the duration?’

  In fact I had rather looked forward to it. ‘No,’ I replied, more sharply than intended.

  Nevertheless I lingered to write up my notes, spending a companionable afternoon as Holmes busied himself with telegrams, a visit from the Irregulars, and some reading. However, as our French visitors came and went, the apartment grew redolent of soft, ripe cheeses, and filled with flowers as if France had annexed our old rooms. Holmes left on an errand later without explanation, and as I awaited his return, my irritation became intolerable. I gathered my things to leave.

  At that moment Holmes sauntered through the door and flopped down on the couch with a sigh. Once again I noticed a distinct pallor of exhaustion. ‘What have you been up to, Holmes?’ I asked.

  He rolled his eyes upwards, indicating the presence of his guests in my upstairs room. ‘Later, Watson.’

  ‘Get some rest,’ I said. ‘Doctor’s orders. Now I must be off.’

  ‘Do stay for supper.’

  ‘I will see you in the morning,’ said I, and departed.

  After stopping at a pub for a sandwich, I returned to my residence to sleep. Both irritated and exhausted, I fell into bed, dropping immediately into a dreamless slumber. After what seemed only minutes, I was awakened by a loud ring of the doorbell. I glanced at the clock.

  It was barely six in the morning and before our housekeeper was awake to answer it. I reluctantly dragged myself to the door, a dressing gown thrown over my nightclothes.

  There before me was an ancient derelict with broken and stained teeth, cringing on the doorstep like a malevolent rat. A sailor of some sort, judging by his clothing. ‘What is it, man?’ I bellowed in none too friendly a fashion.