Art in the Blood

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Art in the Blood Page 18

by Bonnie MacBird


  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Mlle La Victoire.

  Vidocq put an arm around to comfort her but she brushed him off, ‘Pas maintenant,’ she said. ‘Not now!’

  In addition to the lacerations, there were a number of cuts and deep bruises. Holmes lay deathly still as we careered through the icy streets. Mlle La Victoire stared down at him.

  ‘Will he live?’ she asked.

  I could not answer truthfully. My initial examination revealed no broken bones, and yet the situation was dire. Hypothermia coupled with shock and blood loss was a terrible combination.

  ‘Doctor?’ she repeated softly. I glanced up to see her eyes filled with tears. I was strangely touched but could not bear to linger lest I be drawn there myself. Detachment was what I needed to function.

  ‘We will try,’ I said, turning away.

  We carried Holmes in through the entrance to Philo’s office on the side of the house. We passed through a small waiting room into his surgery, a large well-lit room which was ready and waiting for us. The adjacent kitchen was visible through another door.

  Here, a fire glowed in the grate, buckets of warm water were standing by, and everything we needed was lined up near a large table – carbolic acid, bandages, suture and needles, sponges, painkillers and stimulants, all arrayed with professional precision. I recognized the technique of emergency triage, and learned that Mrs Philo had served in the Afghan War for two years as a Nightingale-trained nurse.

  For the next several hours, Dr Philo, his remarkably competent wife and I applied ourselves in a prolonged attempt to save Holmes’s life. Mlle La Victoire and Vidocq were banished from the room and sent to look after the two boys.

  As the hours progressed we worked relentlessly and tediously with warm compresses to bring Holmes’s body temperature up, hoping he would revive enough to take fluids. But he remained unconscious.

  During this time Philo related the rest of the events leading to Holmes’s arrest.

  ‘When we told him of Lady Pellingham’s sudden burial hours earlier, he was keen to examine the body that very night. Despite our entreaties, he insisted on visiting the graveyard alone as soon as it was dark to dig up the body. Snow was predicted; we tried to stop him.’

  ‘Your friend does not back down,’ said Mrs Philo.

  Philo then related that Freddie, a little boy Holmes had rescued from the mill, took it upon himself to run after Holmes into the gathering storm to ‘help’ his new-found hero. Hidden behind a gravestone, he had witnessed Holmes being surprised and ruthlessly taken by Boden and four men – not without a heroic fight, apparently.

  ‘But had he succeeded in examining Lady Pellingham’s body?’ I asked.

  ‘I think so,’ answered Philo. ‘The Lady herself was laid out on the snowy ground. Freddie said he was bent over her, and in this concentrated state did not hear the others arrive.’

  ‘Holmes!’ I stared at the still, white face. What had he discovered? Would he take Lady Pellingham’s secret to his own grave? I was nearly overcome with a mixture of grief and rage. Damn him! Why had he not waited for me? I thrust this thought from my mind and returned to my task. Carry on,’ I said, as much to myself as to them. ‘What happened next?’

  Philo summarized. According to the boy, two men attacked Holmes. But the child said his hero Sherlock Holmes had turned into a kind of wild dancer, and leaping and parrying with his shovel, had easily fought off both of them.

  This was probably no exaggeration. Holmes had already considerable gifts as a boxer, stick fighter and, later in his career, master of baritsu.

  But then Boden set two more men upon him, and against four, Holmes had no chance. Once they had him cuffed and on the ground, only then did Boden approach and apply his own hand to the shackled prisoner, striking him in the face.

  Freddie then ran to tell Dr Philo and his wife of Holmes’s capture. In spite of Mrs Philo’s entreaties, Dr Philo ran to the police station.

  I interrupted Dr Philo’s story at this point. Holmes’s body temperature was now close to normal and we needed to change tactics.

  ‘Help me turn him as I attend to his back,’ I said. As we worked to clean and dress our unconscious patient’s lacerations, Philo continued his story, in detail as he’d thereafter seen it first hand.

  ‘It was close to four a.m. when I arrived at the prison and burst in to find a mock trial in progress, despite the hour,’ he said. ‘Holmes was handcuffed and standing at a makeshift “dock” with Boden presiding as judge – but as though it were a celebration as well as a trial, a broad smile on the villain’s face. His minions sat together in a row, making up a kind of jury.’

  ‘“Ah, Doctor,” Boden said to me in his most jovial manner. “Had you not arrived I would have summoned you! This situation promises to require your services. Please bear witness as we administer justice to this heinous imposter, grave robber, murderer and blasphemer.”

  ‘Two of his men approached and literally pushed me on to a bench facing the scene. They stood by me, in case I had plans to leave. I’ll admit to being terrorized, Dr Watson, but I would have run to summon help had I been able.

  ‘The “trial”, if it can be called that, lasted less than five minutes. In it, Holmes was accused of grave robbing, grand theft, and finally witchcraft. The man doubling as the clerk gently reminded Boden that he would need some more details, in case anyone asked what Holmes had done to constitute witchcraft.

  ‘Boden then produced from his pocket a finger he had carved from the body of Lady Pellingham! I’ll admit that even as a doctor who has seen a corpse or two in my day, I quailed when I saw it. Boden walked over to Holmes and brushed the finger gently over his face, then placed it in your friend’s vest pocket.

  ‘My God!’

  ‘Holmes did not move. He said nothing. He was stoic to an unimaginable degree.’

  I could well imagine it. ‘What then?’ I asked.

  Philo continued breathlessly: ‘Boden pulled out several tarot cards, crystals, a feather, and a small bag of some substance, perhaps ash. He placed the items in the pocket, along with the finger, then smeared ashes on Holmes’s face. He had obviously planned ahead.

  ‘“Looks like a kind of satanic ritual, I’d wager,” said Boden. He turned to me. ‘“We, as men of science, Doctor Philo, know this to be pure hogwash, do we not? But to these men here, this is witchcraft. What say you, gentlemen?”

  ‘His four lackeys nodded in assent. “I knows it when I sees him the first time,” said one.

  ‘“’E had the look o’ the devil about him,” said a second. They laughed.

  ‘Holmes, his hands still cuffed behind him, stood silent. Whatever he was thinking, I could not discern it. His eyes had grown dark and his face unfeeling.

  ‘Boden sentenced him to eighty lashes and life imprisonment. The second was superfluous; eighty lashes are lethal. Your friend knew it but said nothing as they led him away. Boden seemed to have a fresh idea. He turned to me. ‘This time you will watch as we carry out the sentence.’’

  At this point, Philo glanced at his wife, and back to me. He was ashamed.

  ‘I tell you, Dr Watson, this terrified me and Boden knew it. To watch a man being flogged to death and yet be unable to stop it, I, I …’

  ‘There was nothing you could do,’ I said.

  ‘Doctors!’ said his wife, bringing us back to the present. ‘His blood pressure has dropped. We are losing him.’

  Holmes remained deathly pale and unresponsive. We had failed to rouse him despite all our efforts. It could only be blood loss.

  ‘We must get fluids into him!’ I said. But one cannot force fluids into an unconscious man.

  ‘Transfuse, perhaps,’ said Mrs Philo.

  I had been thinking the very thing. But with what? At the time of this event, transfusion was in its infancy. Water and milk had been used with an almost zero rate of success and this technique had been discarded as unsafe. Animal blood was hardly better.

  Mrs Phil
o stepped in. ‘Person-to-person live blood transfusion. I have seen it work.’

  ‘Where?’ asked her husband in surprise.

  ‘Afghanistan. Only once. But I assisted and I know how.’

  ‘I as well,’ I said. ‘Three times. But all three men died. The odds are very poor.’

  ‘Even so, they are better than zero,’ said the nurse calmly. ‘And we are at that point, Doctor.’

  It was true. I looked down at Holmes. Death was near, if we did nothing. Mrs Philo took me aside to explain she wanted to volunteer but was pregnant, a fact which she wished not to reveal to her husband yet. Then Philo himself volunteered, but I refused.

  The donor would be at risk as well. It would be my blood we would transfuse. I would hear no argument.

  A cot was immediately set up and I lay prone on it as the connection was made. Across from me, Holmes was white and still as death. I closed my eyes as Philo inserted the long needle into my left forearm, connecting it with a length of rubber tubing.

  As the blood flowed from my veins, I gave a sudden shiver and felt a coolness, and a strange ‘drawing’ sensation in my abdomen and legs.

  Nurse Philo stood beside Holmes, ensuring that the blood flow into his arm was unrestricted; her husband watched that my own connection functioned properly, occasionally making adjustments to the angle and position of the tubing connecting us.

  Literally the lifeblood was leaving my body. I looked across at Holmes. He lay there, unmoving, several cuts on his face showing up bright against his pallor. I am not a praying man, but I closed my eyes, willing my life force to reach out to my friend and not kill him in the process.

  I am not sure how much time went by; I may have passed out. A groan sounded nearby and to my left. I opened my eyes. It was Holmes!

  I sat up in excitement, and was overcome with dizziness. ‘Easy, Doctor,’ said Mrs Philo, handing me a brandy and crushed fruit. But her face shone with anticipation. ‘It seems to have worked!’

  Soon the apparatus was disconnected and we stood, surrounding Holmes.

  His colour had returned and he stirred in discomfort. His hands and legs were warm, and we sat him up, managing to get some brandy and water down his throat. He sputtered and coughed. We persisted.

  At last his eyes opened. He stared around in confusion, and then a wave of pain contorted his features, as the effects of the night’s traumas overcame him. ‘Ah …’ he moaned. ‘Some morphine would be most welcome,’ he said to me, in the familiar, sharp voice.

  He was attempting to direct his own recovery, now.

  In an hour, we had Holmes seated and taking in some crushed fruit, and more liquids. He had begun to shiver, a good sign, and we sat him near the fire, wrapped in blankets. With a small amount of morphine in his system, his pain receded.

  ‘Watson,’ he whispered, as the others began to tidy the equipment at the other end of the room. ‘It was as we suspected: Lady Pellingham was strangled, not stabbed. I need one additional piece to the puzzle before I can move in for the arrest.’ He paused, and a look of alarm crossed his face. ‘But what day is it? How much time have I lost?’

  ‘A single night only. It is Tuesday. Holmes, you are going nowhere. You must let Mycroft’s men confront Lord Pellingham. You can present your evidence later. Your recovery is paramount. You nearly died!’

  Mrs Philo rushed in from the adjacent room. ‘They are gone!’ she cried.

  ‘Who?’ demanded Holmes.

  ‘All four of them. The two French, and the two little boys. I believe the children left first. And the adults followed, in a rush it seems! The door was wide open to the elements. They have all gone!’

  ‘But why? And where?’ I wondered.

  ‘Damn it, man, why did you let them come? They’ve gone to Clighton!’ cried Holmes. ‘Emil is running to his parents. Freddie, no doubt, offered his help. The two French will never stop them in time. We must hasten to the estate! There is no time to lose!’ Filled with the adrenalized energy I have seen so often, Holmes leaped to his feet, the blankets falling from him.

  But he swayed suddenly, his knees buckling. I caught him as he stumbled.

  ‘Sit down!’ I commanded. He acquiesced and I stepped back.

  ‘Let Mycroft’s men take over, Holmes. Surely they received my cable,’ I said. ‘They will be there by now.’

  Mrs Philo snorted. ‘Did you cable them from the post office in town? You might as well have put your message in a bottle.’

  Philo leaned in. ‘She’s right. Every message sent from there passes through Boden.’

  ‘Then Mycroft’s men are still are twenty miles away!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Those children are in danger. Give me cocaine. A seven per cent solution. Now! It will see me through.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ I shouted. Turning to Mrs Philo, ‘You have no idea—’

  Her husband stood rooted to the spot, unsure. But his cool-headed wife was already preparing the injection. ‘Of course we do,’ she said. ‘We have seen the needle marks on his arm.’

  She held the hypodermic out to Holmes and before I could stop him, he grabbed it from her and slammed it into his own arm.

  ‘No!’ I shouted, but the nurse stepped between Holmes and myself.

  She grasped both my arms, staring me in the face. ‘I have seen enough to understand this man. Your friend will go to Clighton with or without cocaine.’ She paused. ‘This way he has a better chance.’

  I could not argue. I looked over at Holmes. He stood, breathing deeply, eyes closed, fists clenched, gathering his astonishing strength as the cursed drug coursed through his body.

  Annie Philo was right. There would be no stopping him now.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Winged Victory

  n minutes we were in a carriage, racing across the frozen countryside to Clighton. Meanwhile Dr Philo set off to send a protected cable from a neighbouring town, instructing Mycroft’s men in Sommersby to proceed to Clighton at once. I hoped that this one would reach its target, and that they had not been decoyed elsewhere.

  We approached the grand house as darkness settled, and a chill wind started up. The massive buildings loomed deep purple in the twilight, in high Gothic splendour, with few lights in the windows. At one end, still shrouded by trees, I could see a long, single-storey wing lit golden from within. The Palladium Hall. The collection.

  The temperature in our carriage plummeted, and the rugs which covered our legs and backs were of little use. Shivering from the cold myself, I glanced at Holmes. He sat up, eager and ready, his eyes glittering from excitement and the effects of the drug.

  Whatever evil awaited us at Clighton would be met by a powerful force for good. But my friend was all too human, and while this manic, drug-fuelled energy posed a formidable threat to the Earl, it did nothing less to Holmes himself. I greatly feared the cost.

  He caught my glance. ‘I’ll be fine. Check your firearm and have it at the ready,’ said he.

  Holmes next signalled the driver to pull up behind a stand of trees, and we stepped from the carriage. He whispered some instructions to the driver, and slapping his horse, sent him off.

  We made our way on foot along manicured paths towards the darkened house, finding ourselves presently in an elaborate French-style garden behind the Palladium Hall. Ice-tipped topiary glinted in the moonlight.

  As we drew closer, the lights from within Pellingham’s private art Mecca glowed ever brighter, casting a yellow haze through the dim garden and creating ghostly shadows among the trees.

  Someone cleared his throat near us in the darkness. I drew my weapon. There, seated on an ornate iron bench, was Vidocq, slumped in the moonlight. He shrugged in the Gallic manner, holding up an arm. He was handcuffed to the bench! Vidocq’s expression turned sardonic as he took in our little party ‘You seem remarkably recovered, Holmes. It is good to have a doctor for a friend, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Where are the children?’ Holmes demanded.

  ‘Hélas, we never caught up
with them. But we tracked them here.’ He sighed theatrically, rattling his handcuff. ‘The lady, she insist on continuing alone.’

  ‘She means to kill the Earl,’ said Holmes. ‘You would only complicate things. Come, Watson!’ He turned and melted into the darkness.

  ‘Ah, non!’ cried Vidocq. ‘I will freeze!’

  ‘Where are your lock picks?’ I asked.

  He nodded to where the small kit lay in the snow, out of reach. The lady was no fool.

  I hesitated, then removed my own coat and threw it to him.

  ‘Merde,’ he muttered behind us as we ran.

  On reaching the rear entrance to the magnificent hall we peered through the double doors leading into the gallery from the garden. Standing at the distant end of the room was Pellingham, his clothes awry, his gestures emotional as he spoke to someone not visible from our position on the terrace.

  Numerous large sculptures were arranged along the centre of the hall, impeding our view, but at the far end and off to one side was an enormous statue that dwarfed the others. It was held temporarily in place by wooden buttresses and guy wires. The form was a female, bearing a torch aloft, her flowing robes wrapped around a figure of such exquisite beauty that even I was affected by her stunning grace.

  ‘There she is – the Goddess of Victory!’ whispered Holmes. ‘That, dear Watson, is the famous sculpture that cost the lives of so many.’

  It was the Marseilles Nike!

  The doors were locked but yielded quickly to Holmes’s expertise. We entered at the far end of the long hall unseen by Pellingham, screened as we were by the mass of statuary.

  He continued to speak in low but strident tones to his unseen and silent listener. At this distance, the words echoed in the marble-floored hall and were unintelligible.

  I considered the large statues between our position and the Earl. They were sculptures from many eras – originals, no doubt – worth not one fortune but many. On the walls, densely hung from floor to ceiling, was a collection of paintings to rival the Louvre.

 

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