Art in the Blood

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘It was then I did something I regret, Watson. I pulled out one of the photos I had brought with me. I showed it to Freddie. He went pale and looked away, with a curse, trying not to cry.

  ‘“You know him?” I asked.

  ‘“It’s Peter,” he said, in a whisper. “Nice lit’l kid. You got more of those pictures?”

  ‘I should not have shown him even the one. God forgive me, Watson, I denied having others. He turned to me, suddenly fierce.

  ‘“I will kill who done this,” he said.

  ‘“No, Freddie. The law will prevail. I will see them punished, I can promise you that,” I said. “Now I need you to help me.” I questioned him further about the “large man” but Freddie could provide no other description.

  ‘“Did nobody ask about these boys who had gone missing?” I wondered.

  ‘“I did, once, about my other friend Paulie. S’why you see me locked up in there. Told me, ‘Keep askin’ an’ you’re next.’”

  ‘“Freddie, we must leave now,” said I. “Can you get us outside?”

  ‘He nodded. I wondered why he’d not flown to safety before this.

  ‘“But I gots nowhere to go, Mr Holmes,” said he, as if in reply to my very thoughts.

  ‘“Leave that to me,” said I.

  ‘So it was that Freddie and I departed for the town. The temperature had dropped even further. I noticed that the boy’s threadbare clothing did little to keep his thin frame warm, and I stopped in a small shop and bought him a heavy coat, scarf, hat, mittens and socks.

  ‘But we could not linger in town easily. By now, Boden’s men would have heard of both my charade at Clighton and our visit to the gaol, Watson. They would soon hear of the runaway mill visitor and make the connection.

  ‘What I needed to do before the net closed in on me was to get to the mortuary to examine Lady Pellingham’s body. But what could I do with the boy?

  ‘It was then I remembered Dr Philo’s card. We made our way to the small, comfortable cottage on the outskirts of town, which housed both his surgery and his home.

  ‘I rang the bell. An impressive young Valkyrie, blonde hair pulled into a knot at the back of her neck, and clothed in the practical skirts and blood-stained pinafore of a wartime nurse, opened the door. She stood there with a questioning look. “Is this an emergency?” she asked, politely but with a tone that brooked no frivolity. “The doctor’s hours are over and he’s resting now.”

  ‘Freddie burst into tears, and immediately the woman softened. Annie Philo, for she was the good doctor’s wife, dropped to her knees to face him. “What is the matter, my little man?” she asked kindly. He held his hand out as if injured, and as she took it and examined it closely, he winked up at me. The little devil!

  ‘Dr Philo appeared at his wife’s shoulder. “Annie,” he cried, “this is Mr Sherlock Holmes, friend of Dr Watson. I’ve been telling you about him.”

  ‘Soon we were warming ourselves by the fire in the Philos’ spacious kitchen, plied with soup, tea, and brandy. Freddie ate like a starving pup, making slurping sounds until I admonished him with a look. But our comfort was short-lived.

  ‘When I asked Dr Philo what he had discovered about Lady Pellingham’s death, he replied thus:

  ‘“No call came from Clighton,” he said. “And so I proceeded to the mortuary on some excuse, and enquired about any deaths within the last twenty-four hours. They had received no bodies but an old farmer who had died of exposure the night before. This astonished me, but it was no use pressing further. I next went to the graveyard, and to my horror I discovered that a burial had taken place only hours earlier.

  ‘“No one would admit it, but I saw fresh earth in one area where the snow had been cleared. When neither coroner nor undertaker is called, one can assume that foul play is at work. Mr Holmes, I believe they buried the lady at three this afternoon!”

  ‘Upon receiving this news, I was struck with an urgency about this case that would not let me rest. I told Dr Philo and his wife that I would depart for the graveyard as soon as it was dark, where I would dig up the body of Lady Pellingham and get to the truth of her murder. I was thankful only that she had not been cremated.

  ‘Dr Philo understood me completely. “I shall go with you,” he offered. “The earth will be frozen and hard to turn.”

  ‘His wife put a hand on his arm. “You will do nothing of the kind, Hector. You have a family to think of, and if Mr Holmes is caught he could hang for this.”

  ‘“But the lady! Justice must be served,” he cried.

  ‘“No,” I interjected. “I will not allow anyone to accompany me. But if I do not return by morning, wire my brother Mycroft at this address with the enclosed message.”’

  At this point in his narration, Holmes allowed my interruption, replying, ‘I am sorry, Watson, I could not wait for you. This had to be done immediately, and under cover of darkness. And yes, it is true: had you been with me, things might have gone differently. But let me finish—’

  I did, and Holmes resumed.

  ‘Doctor Philo set out to provide me with the shovel and pick I needed, as well as a waterproof mackintosh and boots. As Freddie dozed by the fire, Mrs Philo covered him with a blanket and came to me. “I am sorry,” she said. “But I hope you understand.”

  ‘“Yes. You are pregnant, I perceive.”

  ‘“My God!” she exclaimed. “But how did you know? I have not yet told Hector!”

  ‘“Rhubarb on the table, magnesium there, and oranges out of season on your windowsill. You are troubled in the morning with sickness,” I said.

  ‘“Oh … well, that is obvious now that you mention it!” said she. As usual, Watson, when I give away my methods they seem trivial.

  ‘“Your secret is safe with me, Mrs Philo. In any case, I would not allow him to come. This is my work alone. But I should very much like to rest before it grows dark. Have you a place?”

  ‘As Annie Philo prepared an impromptu bed on a sofa in the study, I stood at the window, looking out. The winds had picked up and a flurry of snow began. A storm was promised for the evening, and I knew that a grave challenge lay ahead, in more ways than one. I was concerned about breaking through the frozen ground, and I hoped I was up to the task.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Watson Investigates

  rriving at 221B, I ran up the stairs to find the door wide open and Lestrade and his men still there – hours after being called in.

  I stared around me in alarm. A violent fight had evidently taken place within our rooms. While ‘a large quantity of blood’ was not in evidence, furniture had been upended, papers were scattered, the vases of flowers overturned and broken, their water adding damp stains on the rug and couch. One of the drapes had been torn.

  ‘My God, what has happened here?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Dr Watson! Ah, what a relief to see you, man! That is what we were hoping you’d tell us,’ said Lestrade, rising wearily from the couch and approaching me with a look of defeat. ‘We got your wire, and so glad to hear – we were worried about the two of you, Doctor.’

  ‘Holmes is safe in Lancashire,’ I said quickly, hoping that was still true. ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘That’s good news, Doctor. I was fearing we’d be dragging the Thames for your two dead bodies,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘But no one else was here when you came?’

  ‘Not inside. But it seems there had been a woman and two others at the time. French, it looks to be. A rather fancy lady, even.’ He eyed me with a kind of admiring suspicion. I had no time for this.

  ‘But outside? What did you find? Who called you in?’

  ‘Someone in the street heard noises, and told the local. By the time we arrived, everyone had cleared out.’

  ‘No dead bodies?’

  ‘Well, there was the one. Out front.’

  ‘A man? A woman? Not a child! Come on, Lestrade!’

  ‘Sorry, it has been a very long day. T’was a man about forty, I’d
say. Well dressed. Carrying a business card of Mr Holmes’s brother, Mycroft Holmes. We think he may have been working for the elder Mr Holmes. We are inquiring—’

  ‘But blood! The newspaper reported blood!’

  ‘We cleaned it already.’

  ‘Why? How can I tell what transpired here?’

  ‘We thought you’d been killed. So in consideration of your Mrs Hudson … The good lady was beside herself at the sight of it. Fortunately, she was out at the time of the attack.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that.’

  ‘But of course we have taken our notes and measurements, Doctor. Calm yourself. Mainly it was a pool, right here.’ Lestrade indicated a stain on the wood floor next to a window. It had been scrubbed.

  ‘Have you touched or moved anything else?’ I demanded.

  One of Lestrade’s men approached. ‘More blood, sir, on the stairway. By the door.’

  How had I missed that coming in?

  There was a large, dark-red mark along the wall near the front door. I examined it and saw within it a splatter, and then a smear. Using Holmes’s methods I deduced that someone had been struck a heavy blow, fallen into the wall, and then been dragged or slid along it, causing the smear.

  I felt a frisson of panic. Had it been Mlle La Victoire? Or the child? No, the smear was too high on the wall. Perhaps Vidocq then, or one of the assailants.

  I returned upstairs to examine the sitting room closely, attempting to use Holmes’s methods. But as most scents are undetectable by humans but obvious to a hound, I am sure there were clues aplenty that were simply unreadable to me.

  There was a slash in the couch. Knives. Our black-clad group, perhaps? I glanced around for bullet marks but saw none, except Holmes’s previous target practice displaying a ‘VR’ on the wall.

  Thankfully his Stradivarius was safe in a corner. But the chemistry table and equipment were in splinters.

  ‘I fear for the fate of our guests,’ said I. ‘Tell me what else you’ve found.’

  ‘First, who might those guests be?’ asked Lestrade. ‘Maybe that will tell us who came to attack them. The lady in particular, Doctor?’

  He looked at me with a smile. His curiosity about ‘the lady’ bordered on the impertinent.

  ‘A client,’ I said crisply. ‘Now, again, what have you found?’ My friend’s impatience with the police grew more understandable by the minute.

  ‘French, I take it?’

  ‘Lestrade! This is dangerous business, and there were three people here, including a child! Our client – and yes, she is French – her small son, and a man who was supposed to be guarding them.’

  ‘All right then; that explains the mess,’ he said. ‘There was quite a struggle. I’m thinking several men went to it down here in your sitting room. No bodies here; we’ve covered the place top to bottom. But who left with whom, and under what circumstance, that is the question.’

  It was then that I noticed a handcuff hanging from a post on one of our bookcases. What on earth had transpired there?

  I ran upstairs to my old bedroom. Throwing open the door I was assailed by the strong aroma of Jicky perfume. A bottle was broken on the floor, along with a crystal decanter shattered nearby. The bed was a wreck, as though someone had leapt from it in a panic. The side table, which had held many a medical book and seafaring novel during my residence, lay on its side. Mlle La Victoire’s valise had been overturned from a rack, spilling out delicate lace undergarments.

  These were being examined as I entered by a burly young officer, with perhaps more interest than necessary.

  ‘Any clues there?’ I asked sharply.

  He dropped the delicate item in embarrassment and squinted at me.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ he blustered.

  ‘Dr John Watson, and you are standing in my room. Or rather, what used to be my room.’ My outrage at his actions temporarily overruled logic. His eyebrow raised suggestively and he smiled in what could only be described as envious admiration.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Did not mean to pry.’

  ‘A woman and her son were using this room. I’ll thank you to keep to your business,’ I said.

  I looked around for blood but saw none. However, my relief was short-lived. Under the bureau, something caught my eye. I stooped and picked it up. It was a toy horse, its neck broken and lying at an odd angle. The child had been here and his toy crushed! My concerns deepened.

  ‘Ah, we missed that,’ said the young copper.

  I sighed. If only Holmes were here, he’d have the entire picture in mind by now. I returned downstairs, feeling the strong urge to act, but lacked a direction. Mrs Hudson entered with a tea tray for Lestrade and his men. Upon seeing me, she nearly dropped the tray, but set it down instead on the dining table. She rushed into my arms.

  ‘Oh, Dr Watson! It is too much! Too much!’ she cried.

  I embraced her warmly. Poor Mrs Hudson – first Holmes and his despair and fire, then these strange French guests and now this. ‘But you are all right, Mrs Hudson! Thank heavens!’ I said.

  ‘And Mr Holmes?’ she asked, still trembling.

  ‘Safe in Lancashire,’ I reassured her. ‘I must find where our clients have gone or been taken. You heard nothing?’

  ‘I was not here!’ she said. ‘I’d been called away to my sister’s in Bristol, only to find it had been a false alarm. T’was something to get me out of the way, I think!’

  I was relieved that Mrs Hudson had been out of harm’s way. However, I was also, quite frankly, at a loss as to what to do next. The lady herself provided the answer.

  ‘Come with me, Doctor, I have something for you,’ she whispered.

  I followed her downstairs to her apartment. She unlocked the door and I stood for the first time in our landlady’s small domain. The bright floral wallpaper and cheery entry table bedecked in holiday greenery, coupled with the delicious smell of gingerbread from Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, gave me a sudden nostalgic longing for my days spent here with Holmes. While Mrs Hudson was our landlady, not our housekeeper, she nevertheless looked after Holmes and me as a kindly aunt might look after a couple of late-maturing university toffs.

  But these thoughts passed quickly. Our clients were in peril. Mrs Hudson approached with a letter from Mycroft at the Diogenes. ‘It arrived by messenger two hours ago,’ she said. ‘How he knew you’d be here, I can’t say.’

  But Mycroft knew most things. I tore it open and read.

  Dr Watson

  My brother has no doubt sent you from Lancashire. Be assured your client Emmeline La Victoire, her son and Jean Vidocq are safe. My men arrived on the scene but a little late. M. Vidocq’s small head wound accounts for the blood you have discovered. However, it is suggested that you join them immediately at the address below where Vidocq brought them to take refuge. At all costs, dissuade the lady and her son from proceeding to Lancashire. Danger may await them both until my plans are consummated.

  Mycroft

  The address below was a place I knew well.

  I made my way by cab through the dusk down Baker Street and east on Oxford Street, cutting south through Hanover Square to arrive at Verrey’s, on the corner of Regent Street. This elegant French eatery was a place where Holmes and I had once dined after a particularly well-paying case.

  The restaurant was not yet crowded, as it was late for the ladies who frequented the place after shopping, and yet too early for the fashionable diners. The owner at first was reluctant to admit he harboured our client, but at the mention of Mycroft Holmes his manner altered immediately.

  He left me at a small door at the end of a flight of stairs behind the kitchen. I knocked. There was movement within but no answer.

  ‘It is I, John Watson,’ I called out. ‘Mademoiselle La Victoire, I have a message from Mr Holmes.’ I heard some angry whispering; then the door was opened a crack, and Mlle La Victoire peered out.

  Her face flooded with relief and she let me in. ‘Oh, Mon Dieu,’ she exclai
med. ‘Dr Watson, where is Mr Sherlock Holmes? Only a message? Is he not here?’ She glanced at the stairs, in evident hope. Then she flung herself into my arms.

  Thank God she was unharmed.

  ‘Ferme la porte!’ came a gruff voice from behind her. As she closed the door behind us, I noticed Vidocq lying back on a small bed, his head wrapped in a silk scarf from Mademoiselle’s vast collection. It was bloodstained, and the Frenchman was pale. And then I got my first glimpse of the child.

  Emil sat at a table to one side, slumped and still. His resemblance to his mother was marked – his pale skin, green eyes, and something of the nose resembled her closely, while his blond curls must have been his father’s legacy.

  But his demeanour concerned me. He was motionless and pale, and as I looked at him, his eyes drifted away, as if in doing so he might become invisible. He began to rock back and forth, humming softly. I’d seen such a condition in men overcome on battlefield. The boy was traumatized.

  I looked at his mother. Her eyes were filled with tears. ‘He cannot speak,’ she whispered.

  ‘Will not speak,’ snapped Jean Vidocq from the bed.

  I hesitated. The physician in me took precedence. The child’s condition, while of grave concern, could not be immediately remedied. Mlle La Victoire had suffered no injury, but Vidocq, on the other hand, might well have been concussed.

  At the lady’s request, I examined Vidocq’s head wound. With no grace whatsoever, he allowed me to unwrap it and I began to clean, stitch up, and dress the superficial but lengthy cut.

  ‘Who attacked you, Vidocq?’ I asked. ‘What did they want?’

  ‘The same men who attacked us in Paris. They had come to kill your friend.’

  ‘But not you, again?’ I wondered, as I pulled out a needle.

  ‘Ahh! Carefully, Doctor!’ He winced but I’ll admit I was not as sympathetic as I might have been. ‘Your friend was clumsy. I believe he managed to show himself while investigating at the docks, and led the villains back to his own home.’