Even from our darkened end of the long hall, I thought I recognized Titian, Rembrandt – and was that a Vermeer? Further on – Degas, Renoir …
‘Watson!’ hissed Holmes, snapping me from my awe. He had removed his coat and dropped it on the floor. ‘Eyes forward.’
He began to advance carefully down the hall towards the other end, moving from statue to statue but remaining unseen. I followed his lead. About two-thirds down the hall, the voices became clear and we paused behind a large, multi-figure work.
And then we saw her. Mlle La Victoire faced the Earl, her face locked in fury. Holmes had read her intentions correctly: she held a gun aimed straight at her lover’s heart.
Emil and Freddie were nowhere to be seen.
Pellingham moved slightly, blocking our view of the lady.
‘Where are you hiding the children?’ she demanded.
‘I … what children? Emil is gone. What do you mean?’
‘What did you do to our son? Something terrible. He cannot speak. Tell me now!’
‘Nothing!’
‘Where is he?’
‘If only I knew. Cherie, my darling, I love our son. Y-you know that, don’t you?’
‘Where is he? Tell me, or I shoot you now!’ she said.
Signalling me to stay hidden, Holmes stepped from the shadows. ‘We shall find him, Mademoiselle. Put down your gun.’
Our beautiful client stood wavering, her gun hand shaking. Gesturing to the Earl, she said, ‘This man is a liar. Always he lies!’
Holmes moved towards her slowly and extended his hand. ‘Give me the gun, Mademoiselle,’ he said gently. ‘If you shoot the Earl, you will hang. Emil cannot afford to lose two mothers.’
She paused, and then lowered the weapon. Holmes quickly took it from her.
He turned and aimed it at the Earl. ‘Now, sir, it is time to discuss the murder of your wife.’
The Earl turned white. ‘The culprit was gaoled—’
‘Your valet was framed, possibly at your behest. He died in that gaol, tortured to death. Hold out your hands, Pellingham.’
The Earl hesitated, uncomprehending.
‘Lady Pellingham was not stabbed to death. Not by the valet or by anyone. I dug up the grave and examined the body. She was strangled, and the murderer wore a ring on the little finger of his right hand.
‘You dug up her grave—?’
‘Hold out your hands, I say. Or I will shoot you.’
Lord Pellingham reluctantly brought his hands forward. On the little finger of his right hand was a signet ring.
‘It wasn’t me,’ cried the Earl. ‘I loved her! So beautiful … and mine …’
‘A part of your collection, then. But she disappointed you, didn’t she?’
‘No!’
‘First, in the matter of an heir?’
‘No … no … I loved her.’
‘And later, why? Did she love Emil more than she loved you?’
‘No! No! My darling Annabelle was not perfect. But I loved her every imperfection! She was, to me, like a great work of art. Perfect in its imperfection, she always—’
‘Stop talking!’ Holmes barked. He paused, thinking. ‘But of course! It is not perfection we admire in art. It is something else,’ he mused. He looked around at the collection surrounding us. ‘Art, by its nature, is not an exact representation of reality. If it were a perfect depiction it would be a photograph. But, imperfect as it is, it transcends its flaws and is the greater for them. And that is why it is treasured.’
What? Was the cocaine wearing off? Had my friend lost his senses?
‘Exactly,’ whispered the Earl. ‘So few understand. Annabelle was my special treasure.’
‘You would not destroy your special treasure. No, in spite of the ring, I believe you,’ said Holmes. ‘You did not kill your wife. She was part of your collection.’
Granted, the ring was circumstantial evidence. But if the Earl did not murder his wife, then who and why? For once, I doubted my friend’s reasoning.
A tiny movement caught my eye. I turned and saw a small figure back in the darkness, hiding behind a statue and watching all.
It was Emil!
I remained hidden, but waved my hand to catch Holmes’s eye. He glanced my way and I mouthed Emil’s name. Holmes turned back to the Earl, and I was not sure he had made out my signal in the dim light where I stood.
‘I have been wrong about you killing your wife,’ Holmes said, his voice growing louder. ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong! But I do believe you have harmed your son. And you will pay for it! You will pay for it right now!’
He raised Mlle La Victoire’s gun, arm extended theatrically, as if to shoot the Earl.
What the devil?
But Emil ran from the shadows and leaped into his father’s arms, putting himself in harm’s way.
‘No, no! Do not hurt Papa!’ the child shouted.
‘Emil!’ cried his mother.
Holmes paused, then lowered his weapon. ‘Thus proving my theory!’ He smiled and turned to our client. ‘Mademoiselle, this man has done no harm to your son. You can see the love the boy has for him. I have been quite wrong on many points. The Earl is weak, and others near him have suffered because of it. But he has harmed neither woman nor child.’
The Earl and his boy clung to each other in tears.
The sound of a gun being cocked riveted our attention. Boden stepped from behind a statue, holding his gun to Mlle La Victoire’s head. He grasped one of her arms and wrenched it hard, securing it behind her. ‘Drop your gun, Holmes, or the lady dies. Now, kick it away from you.’
Holmes complied, signalling with the hand nearest to me for me to wait.
‘Is there anyone else hiding in here?’ Boden called out with a laugh. There was no sound. ‘Good, then. And now, Sherlock Holmes, how is it that you are still alive?’
Holmes paused. Boden twisted his victim’s arm and she cried out.
‘Magic, Boden. You accused me of witchcraft, remember?’
‘I shall have to finish you, you know. But not yet. Keep joking and I’ll shoot this squirmy little wench in the stomach. You know what a slow and painful death that will be.’ He slowly lowered the gun to her stomach and smiled at Holmes.
Mademoiselle La Victoire cursed under her breath. Her eyes met Holmes’s. They were steady; the lady was strong.
‘But first, back to the Earl,’ Boden continued, turning to the stunned gentleman. ‘The “great detective” has given me what I need to gaol you for murder – whether you did it or not! I have been hoping to bring you in for a little … conversation for a long while.’
‘You work for me, Boden, you despicable vermin!’ said the Earl.
‘You only think I work for you,’ said Boden. ‘You are in my power now.’
‘I think not, Boden,’ said Holmes. ‘London has been alerted to your games.’
Boden paused, his face darkening. ‘My father is a duke. You cannot touch me!’
‘Idiot!’ said the Earl. ‘I have provided you with anonymity and a new life as a favour to your father!’
Boden wavered; the Earl continued: ‘He needed you far from Sussex. You were an embarrassment to the family after your imbroglio with the shepherdess and her young man. I simply obliged an old friend. A mistake.’ The Earl regarded Boden with disdain.
‘Ha! “Imbroglio” you call it!’ exclaimed Holmes, turning to Boden. ‘You’re the Duke of Wallford’s vanished youngest son, responsible for the Cullen–Cuthbertson double torture–murder of ’86! The missing fingers – ha ha, I see it all now! No wonder my services were declined by your father. He already knew the culprit.’
Boden’s face became a mask of cold fury. Still using Mlle La Victoire as a shield, he altered his aim to the Earl and Emil. ‘You arrogant old fool. Say goodbye to your son.’
‘Non!’ screamed Mlle La Victoire. ‘Not the boy!’
Emil stood, his arms wrapped around his father’s legs. The Earl tenderly unpeeled the child from
his embrace and pushed him away.
‘Emil, stand aside,’ said the Earl. ‘You are in danger here.’ The little boy wavered uncertainly and tried to return to his father.
‘Emil, no!’ shouted both the Earl and Emil’s mother in unison. The child froze.
‘Yes, that’s it, stay right there,’ said Boden. ‘It’s your father who interests me.’
The Earl stood tall to meet his death with dignity. ‘Shoot me if you must. But spare the boy. Please.’
Holmes smiled. ‘Ah, Boden, the final piece is clear! The small fry don’t appeal to you. You are a common or garden variety sadist, and adults make far more interesting victims.’
Boden turned to aim at Holmes. ‘I’ve made you sob like a child, and I’ll do it again,’ snarled Boden. ‘And this time finish the job. Where is your assistant, by the way? He has such concern for you! It will be a pleasure to have him watch.’
I would kill that man if it were my dying act. Still I had no clear shot.
‘The game is up, Boden,’ said Holmes. He turned to the Earl. ‘Lord Pellingham, this man tortured and murdered your valet. As for your wife—’
With a roar, the Earl ran straight at Boden.
Thrusting Mlle La Victoire aside, Boden took aim with both hands at the charging Earl as one would at an elephant – but Holmes leapt between them, knocking the gun from his grasp as both fell to the marble floor. Boden’s gun skittered away.
‘Run!’ screamed Mlle La Victoire to Emil. Holmes and Boden rolled on the floor, grappling for a chokehold. I leapt from my hiding place, saw my chance and took it. My gun rang out and Boden screamed. Holmes pulled free and the villain clutched his own leg.
My shot had hit an artery and blood gushed from the wound.
Boden stared with venom at Holmes and me. ‘I will see you both in hell,’ he snarled, and fell back with a moan.
I helped Holmes up.
‘Nice work, Watson,’ said he.
‘There there, now. Come to Grandpa,’ said a familiar American voice.
Everyone looked up to the doorway. Emil had run straight into the arms of Lady Pellingham’s father, Strothers. The man now stood backlit in the entrance to the room.
Strothers grasped the little boy and held him up as if in joy. Then, in a move I will never forget, suddenly crushed him tight to his chest with one powerful arm. The child’s legs kicked wildly and his screams were muffled, but he was pinned, unable to breathe. ‘That’s right, come to Grandpa, little one.’
From the back of his waistband, Strothers drew an enormous Colt 45.
‘Ah, finally, the man of the hour,’ said Sherlock Holmes.
‘Daniel?’ whispered the Earl.
‘Nobody move,’ said Strothers. ‘Drop the gun, Doctor. I know you are a good shot, but I could take you.’
I dropped the gun. At Strothers’ gesture I kicked it away. It ricocheted off a statue and landed near Boden. Damn. But the man lay unmoving. Dead, I hoped.
Strothers stayed back from us, holding the child as a shield. ‘I’ve been listening for awhile. You are pretty clever, Mr Sherlock Holmes, but you missed most of it. No match for good old American ingenuity.’
I glanced around me. Mlle La Victoire caught my eye and flicked hers briefly to the floor. Her gun lay four feet from where I stood, hidden from Strothers’ view. I blinked my recognition.
‘Quite possibly, Mr Strothers,’ said Holmes. ‘I know you are the mastermind behind the acquisition of this coveted prize.’ He gestured to the Nike and smirked. ‘This ridiculous piece of stone that three nations wanted and no one could capture. But you managed, didn’t you? You brought her here with hardly anyone in France or England the wiser. I tip my hat to you.’
Strothers fairly preened under the praise. ‘Well, you got that right,’ he said.
I edged towards the gun. In synchrony, Holmes moved slightly away to draw attention from me.
‘Loosen that child,’ he said. ‘Let him breathe, and I’ll tell the rest.’
Strothers paused, but Holmes pressed on. ‘Sir, you will kill us all anyway. The power is in your hands. Don’t you want them to know how you did it, first?’
What was Holmes playing at? I felt the perspiration dripping down my back. The boy’s struggles began to weaken.
‘Monsieur!’ cried the boy’s mother. ‘He cannot breathe! Please!’
Strothers wavered. ‘Yeah, but you’ll never guess. I want to hear the famous detective make a fool of himself. Go on.’ He loosened his grip and Emil gasped for air.
His mother moaned in relief.
Across the room, I noticed a movement from Boden. He shuddered, and a hand moved toward his wound. He was alive, and less than four feet from my own gun! I sensed that Holmes had noticed as well.
The Earl stood rooted to his spot.
‘Strothers, I do know something of American criminal ways,’ said Holmes. ‘From the Marseilles reports, and later in Paris, I recognized the signature killing style of a certain Mazzara, a famous New Jersey Mafioso. I wired a colleague in New York, and he confirmed the connection of your New Jersey industrial interests to that particular branch of la Famiglia. However, I was wrong about you. I thought that you were simply paying back the Earl for some favours, or perhaps acting at his behest. But no, you were manipulating him, weren’t you? You were the mastermind. You diverted his attention from his factories, his wife, his son, and focused it on the one thing he wanted above all else. Very clever, indeed.’
The Earl gasped. ‘God, forgive me, I have been a fool twice over.’
‘As your wife said: blind,’ said Holmes, never taking his eyes from Strothers. ‘Particularly strange for an art lover. This man had you cold!’
Strothers laughed. ‘Ha, very good. Very good! Right on that account. I am the mastermind. I may lack your manners and vocabulary, but look out for us country bumpkins!’
Holmes sighed and threw up his hands. ‘Exactly!’ he admitted. As he did so I edged closer to the gun. ‘A remarkable feat! And all the while you were controlling a number of puppets with your strings, Mr Strothers. It was quite enjoyable, wasn’t it, hunting small game? And acquiring the sartorial polish of the English country gentleman? Your new look, by the way, is very impressive.’
I sensed in Strothers a hesitation.
‘The ring on your left hand, in particular,’ continued Holmes.
All eyes went to Strothers’ hand, facing us as he gripped the child. He, like the Earl, was wearing a ring on the last finger.
Strothers laughed. ‘I’ve been listening to you through the door, fool. Yeah, I’m wearing a ring. So you think I killed Annabelle? Why would I do that?’
‘To keep her from revealing you as a pederast,’ said Holmes.
Mlle La Victoire stifled a little scream, and the Earl made a strangled sound.
‘One little problem. My ring is on the wrong hand, you idiot,’ said Strothers.
‘I think not. Right before the murder, you and Boden were in the smoking room. You heard, as we did, the argument between Lady Pellingham and the Earl. You had a motive: you knew she was close to the breaking point. And you seized your opportunity; the argument threw suspicion upon the Earl. The direct route to the library from where you were was through the small annexe. I also entered from there and noticed papers knocked from the desk. Someone had passed through in haste.’
‘That’s … that’s … nothing!’ exclaimed the American.
‘Lady Pellingham was facing the other end of the library when she was killed,’ said Holmes. He paused a moment. ‘The ring is on the correct hand if, as I now know, she were strangled from behind.’
The Earl staggered. ‘My God! Her own father!’
‘That is not all. The children from the factory were murdered and worse. You are a fiend!’ Holmes shouted.
‘You can’t know all that!’ gasped Strothers.
‘Ah, but I do. Your own daughter was the first you violated; probably when she was ten years old. But it is small boys who reall
y excite you. While you waited for little Emil to be the right age, you satisfied yourself with the orphans procured for you by Boden here and delivered to the mill for your choosing.’ Gesturing theatrically, Holmes moved closer to the Earl, drawing Strothers’ attention from me.
I knew instantly what I was to do. I moved even closer to the gun near Boden. I glanced at him; he was pressing his wound in agony. Did he see me?
‘Had the Earl been more involved in his affairs, he might have noticed, but you further distracted him with the Nike, thus leaving you to your playthings. Boden was your accomplice, a kind of evil twin with his own pathology. In return you bought him his office and his own playground.’
The room was deadly silent. I was two feet from the weapon.
Holmes continued. ‘This might have gone on for a long time, had you not raised your game to murdering the children after you took your pleasure. This attracted outside attention. London has been aware for some time, though looking, I might add, in the wrong direction.’
Strothers had gone dead white. ‘You are in league with the devil. Or …’ He turned to Boden. ‘Boden, you traitor. You told him everything.’
Boden looked up from his leg. ‘I told him nothing!’ he cried.
‘Impossible!’ shouted Strothers. He swivelled and pointed his gun at Holmes. ‘You are the very devil, man! Nobody is that smart!’ Emil began to thrash and Strothers changed his grip, with one large hand grasping the child’s thin neck. ‘Nobody could have figured—’
He suddenly screamed and his gun went off, the shot going wild. The orphan Freddie had emerged from the shadows and bitten him in the calf!
After that, everything passed in a flash. Strothers dropped Emil and aimed at Holmes. I dived for our client’s gun and took a rolling shot from the floor, grazing Strothers, who fell back.
Boden lunged at the other gun and pointed it straight at the Earl.
Holmes leapt between them.
Three guns went off at once in an incredible explosion of sound that boomed throughout the hall and rattled the windows. I had hit Boden between the eyes, his own shot going wild. I whirled to see Strothers, who now lay by the door, a river of blood flowing from a shoulder wound. Vidocq stood next to Mlle La Victoire, his smoking gun aimed at the heinous monster.
Art in the Blood Page 19