Art in the Blood

by Bonnie MacBird

  I doubted this. When Holmes wished to travel undetected he was rarely observed, especially in London where he knew every alley by heart. Even I had not recognized him disguised as an ageing seaman.

  ‘Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes makes mistakes,’ Vidocq said.

  At this Mlle La Victoire interrupted. ‘You are lying, Jean. You left for the docks yourself, and wearing Mr Holmes’s clothing! If one considers the timing of this attack, it was you who attracted the wolves to the den!’

  She and I exchanged a look of understanding. I let it pass. They were safe now, at least for the moment. Finishing with Vidocq, I returned to the child and knelt before him.

  ‘Emil?’ I said gently. ‘I am Dr Watson. I am a friend of your mo— of Mademoiselle La Victoire, here. This lady who loves you so much. I am here to help you.’

  The boy’s eyes shifted and rolled; he would not meet my gaze. Instead he squirmed and began to keen, softly. My God, what had happened to this little boy? I needed to examine him but this was not the time or place. I stood and noticed Mlle La Victoire gathering her things.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘I am going to confront this monster. His father will answer to me for whatever happened to my— to Emil,’ she said. ‘A train departs for Lancashire in forty-five minutes. Emil and I will be on it.’

  Oh, no.

  Vidocq sprang from the bed. ‘Mais oui!’ he said. ‘I will go with you, my darling.’

  Idiot! Of course he would wish to go to Lancashire. The statue was due to arrive at any moment!

  Not only had Mycroft warned me to dissuade them from returning, but I feared the child’s reaction when he discovered the woman he loved as his mother had been murdered. Forcing the child to face this fact in his current state could be a disaster.

  ‘No!’ said I, facing Vidocq. Behind him, Mlle La Victoire was gathering her things. ‘It is not safe for you to take Mademoiselle and Emil there!’

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Vidocq.

  I was unsure what to give away at this point. Nor did I wish to reveal all with Emil in the room. I lowered my voice. ‘Think of the child! He was sent to London for his own safety. He was not kidnapped. There is danger for him there.’

  Mlle La Victoire moved close and put herself between us. ‘Where is Mr Holmes now?’ she demanded.

  ‘He is seeing to the Earl as we speak,’ I said. ‘It is a complicated affair, and best left to a professional, Mademoiselle. The police will be called in shortly.’

  ‘Will they? Monsieur Holmes has made many mistakes, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps this is another,’ said Vidocq. I knew his thoughts were still with the Nike.

  ‘Please,’ said I, addressing the lady. ‘This is a complex matter. There are other children involved.’

  ‘Other children?’ demanded Mlle La Victoire. ‘Have other children been …’ she glanced at Emil and did not wish to continue the sentence.

  ‘Worse, Mademoiselle,’ I said. She held my gaze.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Then if what I fear is true, Emil may never be safe until the evil is put to rest. You say Mr Holmes is on my case? And Vidocq here will journey with us. What of you, Dr Watson? Will you come? With three such men as you, I feel Emil and I will be protected.’

  I hesitated. My concern for Holmes was burning in my mind and I was eager to return to Lancashire myself.

  ‘In any case,’ said the lady, ‘come or stay. I will depart on the next train.’

  ‘And I will be with you,’ said Vidocq.

  Dashing a quick note to Mycroft, I departed with them for Euston. Within the hour we were seated in a first-class compartment headed for Lancashire. Emil was asleep in his mother’s arms instantly, she dozing over her young son. Vidocq and I remained awake. As the train pushed northward into the gathering storm, I gestured him to join me in the corridor outside the compartment where we could speak freely.

  ‘Vidocq,’ I said, offering him a cigarette. ‘I need some information.’ He took it and paused, expecting me to light it for him. I ignored this and he shrugged and lit his own, carelessly tossing the match to the floor.

  He then reclined casually against the window, his insouciant smile and scarf bandage giving him the distinct air of a theatrical pirate. He took a few drags, and eyed me through the smoke. ‘What do you need?’ he asked. God, the man was irritating.

  ‘Tell me what transpired in London while we were gone. What have you learned of the people who took Emil? What have you noticed of the child? Tell me anything else you think may help us in Lancashire.’

  He paused, inhaling the smoke and savouring it. Then, stubbing out his cigarette on the floor of the train, he began his tale.

  CHAPTER 25

  Vidocq’s Story

  s Vidocq and I stood in the corridor outside the compartment, dusk descended early beyond the icy windows of the train. Mlle La Victoire and Emil dozed within our snug compartment, visible from where we stood through small openings in the curtained windows. While I cannot vouch for the accuracy of our French colleague, I can be sure of my own; I made notes immediately following this conversation. I believe the broad strokes, at least, to be true. Here, then, is what Jean Vidocq told me, in his own words.

  ‘As you well know, Cherie and I visited your friend’s brother Mycroft after our meeting with you in the street. Neither of us was pleased with his plan; I was instructed to give up my pursuit of the Nike (thus confirming Cherie’s suspicions that the Nike was my priority, and hardly endearing me to her!) Mycroft Holmes ordered me to go to an address in Bermondsey where his men had positively located Emil. I was informed that your friend had located the statue at the London docks, but Mycroft Holmes assured me that he had arranged with the Sûreté that the Nike would be returned to France and that I would share credit in her recovery – in return for my cooperation now.

  ‘I fully realized that I was being pushed aside so that Mycroft’s noxious brother – no, I will not mince words regarding your friend – could publicly recover the Marseilles Nike, while I was saddled with my darling and her missing son. I will admit that this did not, how do you say, “sit well” with me.

  ‘While I am, of course, not immune to my dear lady’s fine sentiment and painful emotions, nevertheless it seemed only logical to ignore this meddling poseur Mycroft Holmes. And, as you might have done in my place, I decided to pursue my most pressing mission first.

  ‘My thinking was this: the statue would no doubt be leaving London in the immediate future for its final destination, while the boy was thought to be safe, and not likely to be moved soon.

  ‘With this priority in my mind, I caused us to return to 221B where I asked Cherie to pack our things for a “hasty departure to Paris” while I would set out alone to retrieve the boy and return him within a few hours. My plan, of course, was a quick visit to the docks first, but naturally I did not confide in her.

  ‘But hélas! My darling Cherie would not hear of this. She wanted to go to Emil herself. She had wished to go directly from the Diogenes, and even our return to 221B made her wildly impatient.

  ‘But I suspected another agenda from my dear one. I read a deep fury in her – a seething rage that would not be, how do you say, mollified with the mere rescue of Emil. He was her first priority, but … she wanted to know the what, who, and why of his condition. And if the child had been harmed in any way, I knew she would never leave England without revenge.

  ‘A woman’s emotions, ah! They are not helpful in our business, n’est-ce pas? She stood by the door in your friend’s apartment, furious, irrational, refusing to let me go alone. I knew at once that she could easily jeopardize my own mission, as well as the rescue of her son. I made a sudden decision.

  ‘“Cherie, my darling,” I said. “Come! Look out the window here. Is there someone in the street below, who has followed us? We may have to take evasive measures to retrieve Emil!”

  ‘She approached the window and looked down. “Oh my God,” she said. “There is someon
e there! I saw this man outside the Diogenes not twenty minutes ago, Jean! It cannot be a coincidence.”

  ‘But … what was this? I had enticed her to the window with a ruse, in order retrieve something from my valise – which I now hid behind my back. But was there vraiment someone?

  ‘Concealing the object in my pocket, I joined her and drew back the curtain. My darling was right. There, across the street, was a man huddled under the eaves, attempting to conceal himself. As we regarded him, he looked up at the window. Alors! But perhaps I could use this. I closed the curtain and took Cherie’s hand in mine.

  ‘“Darling,” I said, “it would be safest if you remain here. I can lead him away and evade him myself more easily, and it will be in Emil’s best interest.”

  ‘It would have gone better for us both had she acquiesced. “Never!” she said. “I will go with you to Emil. He will not come away with a stranger.”

  ‘Alas, I disagreed. With a quick move, I removed the pair of handcuffs I had hidden in my pocket and secured my darling lady to the post of a large bookcase in your salon.

  ‘In the South of France, we have a special kind of wind. It seems to arise from nowhere and hits with a fury that can take down a small house. It is called le mistral. And that was precisely the response of my delicate flower.

  ‘With a kick aimed at my most vulnerable area followed by a sharp right from her free hand, I was knocked backwards on to the floor, a pot of her damned flowers crashing down upon my head.

  ‘“Salaud!” she screamed, which I will not bother to translate. There followed a barrage of words and wild struggling. Arising from the floor, I picked up a chair and gently extended it towards her, as one would approach a circus lion. She obliged me with a roar.

  ‘My intention was only to give her a place to rest as she waited for me, but she wrenched the chair from my hands and flung it across the room. It barely missed some old violin – I’m sorry, but what is “a Strad”? In any case it took down a small table covered with chemistry equipment which shattered on the floor. Some bubbling liquids went everywhere. The smell!

  ‘Foiled in this attempt to give her comfort, I grabbed two pillows from the divan and, from a distance, threw them at her. ‘Sit!’ I shouted over her screams. ‘I will be back – with your son!’

  ‘I noticed that my greatcoat and hat were dangerously within her range, so I left them there, and instead grabbed a hat and coat from a stand by the door, and dashed out.

  ‘Once in the snowy streets. I looked around me but the man hiding in the shadows had apparently given up and gone. Perhaps it was not a follower, merely someone taking shelter. But I had better things to do.’

  At this point in his narration, I interrupted. ‘You left Mademoiselle La Victoire handcuffed and alone? With treachery about?’ I demanded. The man was an irresponsible cad!

  Vidocq shrugged. ‘Ah, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes said it himself; those threatening us are after the statue, and me, not Mademoiselle.’

  ‘But you could not be sure!’

  ‘Reasonably sure. In any case, no one came for her. Let me continue – that is, if you would like to hear of Emil’s rescue?’

  I acquiesced. It is true, she was not harmed. But I was filled with outrage at the man’s callous disregard for the woman he professed to love. I urged him to continue nevertheless.

  ‘Mon Dieu! Your London air is freezing,’ he exclaimed, picking up his tale. ‘Once on the streets, I put on the clothing I had taken. In my haste, I had grabbed the coat and rather fine top hat that Holmes had worn in Paris. I put them on now; the coat was constricting on my larger frame, and altogether too grand for my next mission. Ducking into an alley, I dented the hat and bent its brim, and smeared some mud and slush on both garments, to age and conceal their finery. I did not wish to be conspicuous in the dockyards, eh bien?

  ‘Satisfied with my work, I made my way to the docks. There, proceeding to the address I had read – upside down – during my meeting with Mycroft. It is one of my special talents – what, not so special, you say? In any case, I easily located the Nike herself, covered in layers of canvas and held up by wooden supports. She was well guarded.

  ‘I recognized two of the men from our adventure at Le Chat Noir. I had only to wire Paris now with the Nike’s location, thus ensuring my credit in her recovery, as the French could be said to have located her as easily as the English. If the Sûreté had men in London, she would be in our hands by nightfall.

  ‘Departing to send off my cable, I felt that I was being followed, and took evasive action. But I never saw anyone, and completed my mission uninterrupted.

  ‘Now that the statue had been located I could attend to the matter of Emil. I next proceeded to that vile industrial area of London called Bermondsey. Mon Dieu, the stench!

  ‘The sweet baking aroma of your Peek Frean’s biscuit factory (why you English persist with these tasteless biscuits in face of our far superior patisserie is beyond imagination) combined with the acrid smells of the many tanneries made it difficult to breathe. As I saw others do, I tied a scarf over my nose, and proceeded to the address provided by Mycroft.

  ‘There in a dim little house behind another off the main road, I discovered my quarry. Mycroft told us that Emil had been hidden with a sister and brother-in-law of one of the Earl’s servants – a tanner by trade, who had taken in the child and housed him. Whether this action constituted a kidnapping for ransom, or a rescue from some ill treatment at his former home with the Earl, remained to be seen. Who knows?

  ‘I saw through the window a sad little boy, sitting alone at a table, cradling a small toy horse. I recognized him from my darling’s description. He was slight, with curly blond hair, introspective – and with that recognizable patina of wealth. This glow, whether it be from an abundance of good food, the lack of physical labour, or even, I think, from not having to worry where one’s next saucisse would be coming from, was obvious.

  ‘But there was a kind of – how do you say? – deep sadness as well. I saw no physical injuries. And yet something was not right. The child sat with his toy, rocking back and forth mechanically, his face frozen in a blank, sad stare. Something bad had happened to him.

  ‘Few comforts were provided. Aside from his horse, there were no other toys, and the boy’s breath was visible in the room. A small bed was made from several straw mattresses in one corner with a few threadbare blankets folded neatly on it. Embers in the kitchen fire were low. The boy must have been suffering.

  ‘There was no time to waste. I circled the house from the outside, peering in at the windows to see who else might be present. It appeared he had been left alone, though for how long I could not guess. I was lucky but needed to act fast.

  ‘Returning to the kitchen, I easily unlocked the window and climbed through it.

  ‘“Emil?” I asked. “Emil? I have come from your mother. I am to take you to her.” I forgot that my face was masked against the odours by the scarf. That and my foreign accent must have frightened the boy. I should have realized this.

  ‘The child screamed and backed away from me. He picked up a chair and held it between us. He was his mother’s child, certainly.

  ‘I tried reasoning with him. He would not reply either in English or French, nor would he make a move to accompany me.

  ‘“Please, Emil, will you come?” I begged him. Although why indeed would he follow a stranger who terrified him?

  ‘But then I heard the sounds of someone returning through the front door, I gave up being polite. I seized a large canvas bag lying in the corner of the room and threw the child into it.

  ‘Calmez-vous, Dr Watson; I did so carefully; I am not a monster! I carried him bodily back to 221B Baker Street. What? Yes, in the bag.

  ‘Now, for my troubles, was I greeted with gratitude and love upon returning to my darling? Mais non! You cannot imagine! I entered your apartment and set down my struggling parcel. Cherie saw the bag move and knew immediately it was Emil.

  ‘The m
istral became a virago! I was forced to reveal the boy at the opposite side of the room before I dared to approach and unlock her.

  ‘The second she was free, it was as if I had disappeared from the earth. Cherie ran to her son and gathered him in her arms. He hugged her back. There were tears.

  ‘“Emil, mon cheri!” she said.

  ‘The boy did not speak and suddenly he backed away in confusion. She was not, after all, the mother that he knew. But a family friend was certainly better than this masked stranger.

  ‘“Ah, my little one. You do know who I am, non?” she asked. He nodded. He did recognize her but was still confused. “You are safe, mon petit, come to me.” He hesitated, then fell again into her arms amid a flood of more tears from them both.

  ‘She covered him with kisses, checked him all over for bruises or signs of injury, and took him upstairs, where she called for a warm bath for the boy.

  ‘Thus abandoned, I discovered a rather choice brandy on the sideboard and settled down to read the evening papers and smoke a very fine cigar I found in a box on the mantelpiece. In this way we spent our evening. She did not speak to me until the child had been safely tucked away in her own bedroom, and was fast asleep.

  ‘There is something to be said for the comforts of your English sitting room, and I was dozing by the fire when she returned downstairs. She entered sheepishly, or so I interpreted it. “Jean,” she began, “I cannot get Emil to speak. Was it difficult to rescue him? What condition did you find him? Who was guarding him? Did you suffer danger or injury? What happened?”

  ‘When a woman questions one in such a fashion, there is no use in simple honesty. “No. Silent. No one. No. I threw him in a bag,” would never do.

  ‘And so instead, I will admit to a touch of embroidery. Is not a finely embroidered silk abécdéaire more beautiful than a piece of plain linen? I was careful to be accurate in my description of the child and his condition, perhaps only a few details gained in the telling. A woman enjoys a good story.

  ‘Eh non, Dr Watson, do not look sceptical; this story I tell you is the real one. I assure you.