‘I continue. Now grateful, she seemed to forgive me completely on the matter of handcuffing her to the bookcase earlier. Any strong feelings she may have had vanished in the face of her new worry – what had happened to Emil to make him so silent? Even she could not get him to speak, and she was beside herself with concern on this point.
‘“I will kill him if he harmed the boy,” she said.
‘“You refer to the Earl?” I wanted to be sure.
‘“Yes. He either hurt Emil, or overlooked something that happened to our child. I will discover what that is, and he will pay. I will make him pay!”
‘“Calmes-toi, Cherie. I am sure Emil will speak eventually,” I said to her.
‘“We must leave at once for Lancashire. I will get to the bottom of this!”
‘At last we were united in our agenda! Lancashire was exactly where I wanted to be. The statue could very well be heading there in the morning.
‘Yes, yes, and of course to help the lady. Dr Watson, do let me finish.
‘I needed to delay her, however, to make certain it actually left London. I said, “Ma Cherie, shouldn’t Emil rest the night here? He is asleep, n’est-ce pas? What is best for the child?”
‘Seeing reason, she agreed to travel in the morning, but without even a kiss goodnight, she retired to our room where she had put Emil to sleep in our bed and closed the door. Then the door opened and she threw my sleeping clothes out and down the stairs, closing the door again.
‘This left me either the salon or Sherlock Holmes’s room for my own repose. I entered it and looked around. Mon Dieu! So cold and empty, the bed so hard and narrow, the books and papers everywhere, wax from many a night-burning candle, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, a small, cold fireplace with no wood nearby, a large tin box, and strange photos of criminals lining the walls. I would sooner sleep in a demented monk’s cell!
‘Returning to the sitting room, I collected various cushions, a soft red blanket which hung over a chair, and made myself infinitely more comfortable on the couch. Sleep came easily.’
At this point I could not contain myself. In spite of the urgency of the tale, I was infuriated at Vidocq’s casual violation of our, or rather Holmes’s, private sanctum.
‘Have you no propriety, man?’ I exclaimed. ‘Except to attend to illness or injury, and once to search for … er, something, I have never ventured into Holmes’s bedroom, nor would I consider examining it in this way.’
‘Perhaps you should,’ Vidocq said. ‘It pays to really know with whom one associates. Holmes’s asceticism borders on martyrdom, you know.’
I objected to this, citing the many pleasures Holmes takes in his violin, the opera, museums, and …
‘And his drugs,’ said Vidocq.
‘Finish your story,’ I said.
Vidocq continued with his tale.
‘It was most fortunate that I was in this room and not upstairs with Cherie, as I am convinced we would both be dead had this been the case. I was awakened in the night by the sound of a sudden cry. It seemed to come from outside on the street, and very close by. Then I heard the lock being picked downstairs. I was on my feet in an instant and, seizing a poker by the hearth, I hid behind the door when they entered. There were three of them, black-clad and masked, yet I recognized them as the men we fought at Le Chat Noir.
‘I knocked one down, but the second and third caused me considerable – how do you say? – problems. But hearing noises, one left the fight and bounded upstairs, returning with Cherie and Emil at knifepoint as I struggled with the third in the salon.
‘I will not detail the disaster that followed, but one of them shouted out your friend’s name. Evidently they mistook me now for Sherlock Holmes all along! This was his home, after all. And I was in nightclothes. We are both tall. I don’t know. I am the more handsome—
‘All right, I continue. The men were professionals. I was hampered by the close quarters, the need to protect both the child and his fearless mother, and my lack of hard shoes.
‘I managed to take them, killing one, but received a cut on the forehead. Head wounds bleed a lot, and my own blood, mixed with two of the others, was everywhere. I apologize for this mess, but of course you understand.
‘Cherie, the boy, and I barely made it alive from the place. We took our clothes and ran. In our haste, we nearly tripped over a body at the entrance. It was the man whom we’d seen waiting in the shadows earlier, who had followed me to Bermondsey. Mycroft Holmes’s man, I thought, but had no time to check – no doubt it was his death cry I’d heard at first.
‘We escaped into the night. Through the dense fog, I saw the two remaining attackers escape down a side street with the body of their comrade.
‘Not too far from Baker Street is the restaurant français, Verrey’s. It is owned by a friend of mine. Cherie, Emil and I ran and took refuge there. My friend, he keeps a small room upstairs for guests. Cherie did her best for my poor head; then she and Emil fell asleep as I warmed my frozen feet by the small fire. It was there you found us, Doctor.’
Vidocq finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor, grinding it into the carpet without a care. As if in complaint, the train groaned to a halt.
We entered the compartment where Mlle La Victoire and Emil slept on, unaware. Swirling snow and nothing else was visible outside the windows. The purser arrived shortly and informed us that the storm had made all progress impossible, and that we would be stranded, midway between London and Lancashire, until the tracks could be cleared. It would probably be many hours.
Blankets and tea were brought round. Vidocq shrugged and settled in but I returned to the corridor, attempting to calm my worries with a cigarette. I wondered how Holmes was faring. If he needed my help, there was nothing I could do about it here.
Had it been a mistake to travel to London? I’d recovered our client and determined who had attacked 221B, and possibly why. I could now deliver Mademoiselle and her son to Holmes’s safekeeping. Perhaps that was a small consolation. But I felt I’d done little to unravel the mystery surrounding the boy, and wondered if bringing him north at this point was in his best interest. With these uneasy thoughts I retired for the night.
PART EIGHT
THE WASH OF BLACK
‘A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.’
Leonardo da Vinci
CHAPTER 26
Man Down
ometime in the early hours of the morning our train restarted, and we reached Penwick shortly after dawn. We were awake and ready to descend as the train pulled into the station. However, our little group was in disagreement over precisely what we would do upon arriving.
My first concern was to locate Holmes. Mlle La Victoire wished to find a safe place for Emil, then proceed to Clighton to confront her one-time paramour. However, I’d informed Vidocq of Lady Pellingham’s murder and for once, he agreed with me. Mademoiselle’s plan was unsafe, and together we convinced her to find Holmes first, and travel as a group, backed up with Mycroft’s men, to the estate.
However, none of this was to transpire.
As we descended from the train, a tall, handsome blonde woman in a state of high anxiety rushed up to us. She was accompanied by an emaciated small boy with a fiercely intelligent expression on his young, careworn face.
‘Dr Watson, I presume?’ the woman gasped, out of breath. ‘I am Mrs Philo, the doctor’s wife. Please come with me quickly. Your friend and my husband are in grave danger!’
With this she turned to Vidocq. ‘And you! Are you a friend of Mr Holmes?’
‘Sometimes he may think me so,’ said Vidocq with a smile, ignoring the lady’s apparent distress, or perhaps thinking his Gallic charm would distract this hysteric. Instead it provoked the woman.
‘No time for this,’ she snapped. ‘Friend or foe? Lives are at stake!’
‘We are his friends,’ said Mlle La Victoi
re quickly. ‘How can we help?’
‘What has happened?’ I demanded.
‘Follow me; I shall relate as we go,’ she said. She took off at a run. Leaving our bags with a porter at the station, I ran after her along with Vidocq, but Mlle La Victoire paused. Emil stood rooted to the spot, confused. He was shaking.
The other little boy, who I later learned was the orphan Freddie, instinctively took his hand. Emil looked at him and some understanding passed between the two boys.
The five of us hurried after Mrs Philo.
The bright winter sun came in low over the horizon and slanted through the town, blinding us at certain turns as we pressed on through mounds of snow and along the icy cobblestone streets. The town was nearly deserted, exactly as it had been the morning before. I recognized the route – we were heading to the gaol.
My God, the gaol.
‘Fill us in, Mrs Philo. Please!’ I gasped, catching up to her.
‘Mr Holmes was arrested last night while digging up Lady Pellingham’s grave. He did not give in without a valiant fight. This little boy, Freddie, witnessed it. My husband discovered this and went to the gaol to try to help him. Neither has returned. Freddie … an orphan … I will explain later … followed my husband to the gaol. He heard screams.’
‘’orrible screams,’ said the child. ‘I don’ know whose. But awful.’
Mrs Philo did not need to exhort us further. Within minutes we were approaching the gaol. Standing in front of the building was the magistrate himself. Boden was talking and laughing with two of his men. I gestured urgently for everyone to stop and duck out of sight behind a building. I found a carriage to hide behind and approached to where I could overhear them.
‘Go and sleep it off, Wells. Too much entertainment tires a man,’ said Boden with a laugh. The other laughed shrilly, as though uncomfortable. ‘Take care of the mess, would you? But go have a pint on me first – make that a coffee, and a good breakfast too. It’s been a long night for us all. And Carothers and Jones took a bit of a beating from that London toff. See that they’re looked after.’
We needed to get inside the gaol at once. But I willed myself, and the little group, to wait until Boden’s men left. In the meantime I instructed Mrs Philo to leave with Mlle La Victoire and the two children, and to return with a conveyance that could transport the prisoners – in whatever state they might be.
Any other woman would have insisted on rushing to find her husband. But she knew where he was, and displayed a cool logic I would soon admire. ‘They may need medical assistance. I am a nurse; I will prepare what you need at his surgery,’ she said. She departed with Mlle La Victoire and the boys.
Turning our attention to the gaol, Vidocq and I saw three men come out of the building, two limping piteously. ‘These men are murderers,’ I said. ‘Have you a pistol?’
In response, Vidocq pulled a French MAS 1887 from his jacket, an elegant weapon and no less deadly than my own trusty service revolver.
We approached the gaol from the back. The door opening on to the alley was locked. Frustrated, I yanked at the door. Folly; it rattled loudly.
‘Ah, non!’ said Vidocq. ‘You work too hard.’ He withdrew a lock-pick kit almost identical to Holmes’s own and quickly undid the lock. ‘Eh, voila!’
I ran in, drawing my pistol. Vidocq followed, brandishing his own. We made our way down a darkened corridor past several empty cells, and came to the large room at the front of the gaol that served as reception, courthouse, and office, all in one. A single man stood at the front desk, sleepily filling out some paperwork. Like the previous attendant we had encountered, he was immense and appeared slow-witted. He sported an enormous cut across the forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise over one eye.
I raised my gun and entered. Vidocq did the same. ‘Where are the prisoners?’ I demanded. The man looked up, confused.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
I cocked my gun. ‘Now!’
‘Do you mean the doctor? He’s right down there,’ said the man, fearfully, glancing between Vidocq and me. He indicated a second hallway.
‘And the other? Tall, very thin man. About thirty-five. Dark hair.’
At this the man paled. ‘Uh. Uh … I don’t rightly know, right now that is, but the doctor, maybe he … he saw … he, uh … I was here the whole time. At this desk. I swears.’
Vidocq, to my surprise, ran up and grabbed the man by the collar, and jamming his gun to the man’s head dragged him towards the second corridor. ‘Show us,’ he growled. ‘And bring your keys.’
We arrived at a small cell in which Dr Philo, in shirtsleeves and with his head in his hands, sat alone on a scarred wooden bench. He looked up in surprise, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. He leapt to his feet as the guard unlocked the door. He appeared uninjured.
‘Dr Watson, thank God! But I fear you are too late!’
‘What has happened?’ I asked. ‘Where is Holmes?’
‘Boden arrested him last night at the cemetery. There was a “trial”, and Boden convicted him for grave-robbing and witchcraft.’
‘Witchcraft? What insanity is this? Where is he?’
‘Downstairs, I think. If he is still alive. The sentence was eighty lashes and—’
‘Downstairs where?’
‘There is a special cell where Boden does his work,’ said Philo, a look of horror on his face.
The little boy with Annie Philo had heard screams.
‘Take us,’ I shouted to the guard. With Vidocq’s gun jammed in his neck, the gaoler led us down a darkened hallway to some stairs at the back of the building. As we descended to the basement, the temperature dropped twenty degrees and the air grew damp and frigid. The image of Pomeroy floated before me, dying bloodied in his cell. I began to shake uncontrollably from the cold, and the fear of what we were to find in this lawless hellhole.
We were blocked by a locked door. The guard fumbled for keys.
‘They strung him up,’ said the young doctor. ‘There is an old rack, over a hundred years old, and they tied him to it.’
The guard was still fumbling. ‘Vidocq!’ I said. Vidocq sprang forward and wrested the keys from the man, sending him reeling with a sharp kick in the groin.
‘Your friend is a proud man, and brave. He refused to show fear and called the magistrate a coward and a bully.’
Vidocq could not find the right key, either. ‘Kick the door down, man,’ I shouted. I turned back to Philo, ‘What then?’
‘Boden just smiled at this. But when Mr Holmes predicted the magistrate himself would die on the gallows, a disgrace to his family, the man went insane. He attacked in such a fury—’ Philo hung his head. ‘I did not see it all. They dragged me away. It was more than an hour ago.’
But Vidocq had at last found the key and we ran through the door and into a large room, icy cold and stretching off into total darkness. It seemed to be some kind of holding cell. Facing us was a wall of bars, bolted and locked. Vidocq signalled the cringing gaoler to open it for us. This time he did not hesitate.
We barged in. We could see nothing in the pitch-blackness.
‘Quiet!’ I said. No one moved. Silence except for the small sound of a liquid dripping.
‘A lantern!’ I cried. But Vidocq was ahead of me on this, collaring the man and jamming the gun under his throat. ‘Light us. Now,’ he said.
The man nodded stiffly and proceeded to find a lantern in the corner and lit it. It cast a feeble glow in a small circle around us. We moved further inside.
‘Holmes?’ There was no answer. I turned to the guard. ‘Where?’ I demanded.
The guard indicated with a nod an area off to our right.
‘Show us.’
He would not move, but stood there gripping the lantern in shaking hands. ‘Hold him,’ I said to Vidocq and, taking the lantern, Dr Philo and I proceeded further into the darkness. My foot slid sharply on the slick floor, and I looked down to see that I was standing in a pool of blood.
&
nbsp; ‘Oh my God. Holmes!’ I cried. ‘Holmes?’
‘Over here!’ said Philo.
I turned and shone the lantern on to a sight I will never forget.
Sherlock Holmes was spread-eagled, shirtless, and tied against a wooden frame shaped like a gigantic artist’s easel. His body faced in towards the frame, his face averted. His upper body, neck, and all four limbs were secured to this frame with thick leather straps holding him against red leather pads. His legs had given out and his thin body hung limply from the restraints.
He did not move.
‘Holmes!’ I cried, running to him.
His back was black and red with blood, and lacerated with too many wounds to count. Some of the cuts were deep, and still bleeding profusely. His breathing was shallow. Next to him on the floor was the cause of these injuries, the type of whip called a ‘cat o’ nine tails’.
‘Barbaric. You English!’ said Vidocq.
‘Step aside!’ Philo moved in to support Holmes, taking the weight off his arms.
‘My God, Holmes can you hear me?’ I cried. I felt for a pulse at his wrist. Faint, but it was there. Holmes was alive but in shock.
‘Looks like more than twenty blows,’ said Philo. ‘They dragged me away after five, but Boden stops when he cannot revive them. It lacks appeal for him if there is no reaction.’
‘Holmes! Can you speak?’ I whispered.
I touched his face. It was white as death and very cold. But his eyes fluttered open. Seeing me, he smiled weakly.
‘Watson. Good of you to come.’ He passed out.
CHAPTER 27
Blood Brothers
inutes later, Vidocq, Philo and I had Holmes in front of the gaol, where, as Annie Philo had promised, a carriage was waiting.
In it were blankets, several foot-warmers, and to my surprise, Mlle La Victoire. As the carriage moved quickly across the snow and ice-covered landscape towards Dr Philo’s surgery, the three of them, at my direction, rubbed our patient’s hands and feet against the shock and hypothermia, while I checked Holmes for additional injury.
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