Art in the Blood

by Bonnie MacBird

  Vidocq then strode over to the prone figure of Strothers. Wresting the gun from the old man’s hand, he then returned to embrace his lady and Emil. Freddie stood by in mute admiration.

  Holmes, remaining next to the Earl at the base of the Nike, nodded towards Boden’s body. ‘Good work, Watson. It looks like he’s actually dead this time.’

  He turned to the little group. Vidocq knelt by Mlle La Victoire and Emil, encircling them both in his arms and gently kissing her face. ‘Ma cherie, ma petite!’ he whispered.

  ‘In at the last, Vidocq,’ said Holmes. ‘As usual.’

  ‘I would not miss it for the world,’ said the Frenchman, drawing Mlle La Victoire closer. The beautiful lady’s eyes were on Holmes, however.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Holmes,’ she said softly. She turned to me. ‘And Doctor Watson. Ah, mon Dieu, you are wounded!’

  It was then I noticed the bullet wound in my bicep, now bleeding a bit faster than one might wish. It was not fatal, but I would need a pressure bandage and quickly. ‘Someone give me a hand with this—’ I began.

  The boy, Freddie, approached me and offered his scarf.

  ‘Mr Holmes! I mistook you. You have saved my life … and that of my son …’ gasped the Earl. ‘But my darling Annabelle! Our child! I cannot conceive …’ Hands to his head in despair, he staggered backward.

  As he did so, he tripped on a support at the base of the Nike. Holmes leapt to catch him but missed. The Earl slipped through his hands and fell heavily against the base of the giant statue. For a hideous moment the Nike wobbled on her temporary perch. In horror I watched as the ropes holding her snapped. The goddess slowly toppled forward.

  ‘Look out!’ I shouted.

  The statue crashed to the ground and splintered, pinning the Earl and Holmes under its largest piece.

  PART NINE

  221B

  ‘Everything is simpler than you think and at the same time more complex than you imagine.’

  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  CHAPTER 29

  London Bound

  ust then Mycroft’s men, along with Hector and Annie Philo, miraculously burst into the hall. The room swarmed with activity. Mycroft’s men hastened to the shattered Nike while the doctor and his wife ran to my assistance as we pulled Holmes and the Earl from the rubble. Pellingham had suffered a broken arm and would mend without incident, but my friend Sherlock Holmes had fared less well.

  He had suffered a serious fracture of the left leg. After quickly wrapping my own wound, the Philos and I attended him. Mycroft’s men took charge of the rest, calling in the Earl’s private physician, and relieving us all of any further dealings with Boden and the villain Strothers.

  The next day we were London-bound through the snow on a privately equipped train provided by the grateful Earl.

  Adjoining compartments held Holmes’s sickbed and my own resting place. Down the hall, additional compartments accommodated Mlle La Victoire, Emil, Vidocq, and a member of Scotland Yard as protection.

  The Marseilles Nike, or what was left of her, had been loaded on to an adjacent carriage. She was destined for the British Museum, unless Vidocq and the French government prevailed. I cared little at that point.

  I spent the hours, worried, at my friend’s side. The fractured bone threatened to break the surface and the risk of infection in such an injury as his was very high; I’d wrapped his leg in carbolic-soaked pads and wired ahead to a bone specialist in London who was to meet us in Baker Street.

  Holmes drifted in and out of consciousness, but within an hour of London he regained his senses, as if knowing that he was close to home.

  I called for tea.

  ‘Emil,’ he said wearily. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He is here on the train, with his mother. The Earl will rejoin them in Paris soon.’

  ‘Watson, you must see that he receives help … a counsellor, perhaps.’

  ‘I will do so,’ I said. ‘Now rest.’

  ‘And you, Watson? Your arm?’

  ‘It is a flesh wound only. Not to worry, Holmes.’

  He lay still, staring out the window at the snow-covered countryside.

  ‘Pity about the Nike,’ he said.

  ‘It’s only stone pieces now,’ I said. ‘But the British Museum is good at that kind of puzzle. You’ve solved the big one. Rest now, Holmes.’

  He shifted uncomfortably and a groan escaped his lips.

  Distraction, I knew, would help ease his pain. ‘Then perhaps you would care to elucidate some of the finer points of our recent adventure,’ I said.

  ‘Is it not entirely clear to you?’

  ‘I do understand that Lady Pellingham’s American father, Strothers, was at the heart of the series of crimes. Daring to pose as a philanthropist and champion of children’s rights! But I do not understand his motives. Surely, if he wished to engage in his sick pursuit of children, and that alone, he could have his pick among the many orphanages he founded in the United States. There would be no need to follow his daughter to England, once she had successfully married an English earl.’

  ‘Two things, Watson: Lady Pellingham, as a child, was probably his first victim. Those with this deviant addiction often begin with a single incident, close to home. Their first is special. Strothers, though he later preferred small boys, maintained a sick passion for his own daughter.’

  I wondered at this insight. ‘But still—’

  ‘Posit for an instant that he travelled here simply because he could not stay away. Once here, a gold mine appeared. First, he had a tremendous opportunity for obtaining children through the factories on Lord Pellingham’s estate. The sadist Boden, who was at that time the foreman, became a natural ally. Their relationship was complex, and eventually Strothers bought him off with the magistrate’s position. This gave Boden unlimited powers to practise his particular brand of ‘justice’, and the privacy to do so.’

  My stomach turned at the evil behind this tale. It was hard to conceive of such depravity. ‘My God, Holmes—’

  ‘Meanwhile, as time passed, Strothers saw something in the glamour, wealth and position of the Earl that he wanted for himself.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that the usual reason those American robber barons marry their daughters to the English aristocracy?’ I asked. ‘For the patina of respectability, and position?’

  ‘Not all are robbers, Watson, but yes, partly,’ he replied. ‘And a chance to make money. Of course, American capital often goes a long way towards sustaining some of the failing great estates. Lord Pellingham’s father had made several disastrous business decisions during the current Earl’s childhood. The industry moved on, and silk fell out of favour among fashionable ladies. But father and son were stubbornly enamoured of the beauty of silk. Their fortunes plummeted.’

  ‘Enter Strothers and his lovely daughter to save the Pellingham estate,’ said I.

  ‘Yes, exactly. But poor, young Annabelle Strothers! At first she thought she would be thousands of miles away from her abusive father, and safe in England. Lord Pellingham, while weak and preoccupied, was not a terrible man.’

  ‘But surely he will be held accountable for all the murders surrounding the Marseilles Nike?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I’m afraid the Earl is guilty only of obliviousness and simple greed,’ said Holmes testily. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. I adjusted the pillows behind him.

  ‘But if the Earl truly loved his American wife, then why dally with Cherie Cerise?’

  ‘Probably a single transgression. Surely you have noted the lady’s charms.’

  ‘Well, hmm. But how could Lady Pellingham accept Emil as her own?’

  ‘Children of abuse go one of two ways, Watson. Either they perpetuate the abuse heaped upon themselves as children, or the opposite. They protect their young as a female bear will kill for her cub. Lady Pellingham had a great need to nurture a child in the way she herself had not been treated. And Emil never knew—’

  The train went over a tres
tle and swayed, jostling Holmes. He groaned in pain. I put a hand out to steady him.

  ‘Some morphine, Holmes?’

  ‘If you would be so kind.’

  I removed a syringe from my leather satchel and found the vial of morphine.

  ‘So she asked Pomeroy to hide the boy when Strothers began to show an interest.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What will happen to Pellingham now?’

  ‘Nothing dire, I expect. He will retain the Strothers’ money, I believe. As a peer, he will probably escape serious punishment as long as he returns the stolen artwork and makes some kind of public amends.’

  Cleansing a spot on Holmes’s arm, I injected the medication. ‘And Mademoiselle La Victoire?’

  ‘Do not worry about the lady. In any case, Emil will inherit as was planned before.’

  ‘Then all will be well, in the end,’ I said.

  There was a long pause. Holmes’s eyelids drooped.

  ‘Except for yourself, Holmes,’ I added. ‘This case has cost you dearly.’

  ‘I will be all right, Watson.’ His voice had become slurred. ‘I have, as you know … excellent … medical … care.’ As the morphine took effect, he smiled and closed his eyes. Reassured by his steady breathing, I fell into a fitful sleep at his side.

  CHAPTER 30

  Renewal

  t is said that doctors are their own worst patients. After settling Holmes in 221B with a specialist to attend to his leg, and a private nurse overseen by my colleague Dr Agar, I hurried to a friend on Harley Street to look after my wound. Upon returning home, I received the news that my dear Mary had taken ill.

  And so it happened that in attending her for ten dramatic days, I neglected my own condition. As a result, my wound became infected and I was hospitalized myself.

  Following this, my dear wife enjoined me with considerable emotion and a great deal of pressure to accompany her on a short holiday to Brighton where we might both regain full health.

  There we spent a belated New Year with friends, partaking of the brisk seaside air and many good meals. Although I wrote and telegraphed Holmes daily during this time, I received no reply. Dr Agar, however, reassured me via letter that Holmes was healing well, though he never responded directly to my questions about my friend’s spirits.

  It was a full five weeks later, and late January when I finally returned to Baker Street. I slowly mounted the steps to our old rooms, fearing to find my friend once again in the grip of his addiction. I entered our former shared quarters with a mixture of trepidation and guilt.

  But instead of the gloomy chaos I expected, the shades were thrown open and the room filled with light. A happy Mozart tune blared from a new gramophone, like the one in Lautrec’s Paris apartment. Holmes sat on the couch by a cheery fire, leg propped up, poring over the agony columns as of old.

  There were several other changes to the room. Crutches stood at one end of the couch. Over in one corner sat a curious mound of pillows and a candle placed on a thick rug. Above this, a colourful oil sketch hung on the wall, near the bullet holes spelling out ‘VR’ that he had once shot into the wall out of boredom. A Toulouse-Lautrec, if I was not mistaken.

  ‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘I am glad to see you looking so well!’

  ‘Quite so, Watson. Dr Agar has worked his magic, and my nurses have been, er, nothing if not effective. I see you’ve noticed the new painting. Magnificent, is it not? I predict it will receive wide acclaim in future.’

  He gestured to the framed work, which I now recognized as a picture of Mademoiselle La Victoire as Cherie Cerise, singing at the Chat Noir. Lautrec had captured both her beauty and something poignant in her expression – perhaps a reflection of her personal ghosts, like the ones he had observed in Holmes.

  ‘Beautiful,’ I said, though I could not say whether it was the painting or the subject which drew me most.

  ‘It was a gift from Lord Pellingham. The man, for all his weaknesses, knows his art. Alas, Monsieur Lautrec has left Paris and is now struggling with his addictions in the South of France.’ He regarded the painting for a thoughtful moment. ‘His emotional artist’s nature, I’m afraid, has overtaken his rational mind.’

  It was the very state that had threatened my friend in the past, and in which I had expected to find him now.

  ‘But the traces of Monsieur Lautrec, unlike our own footprints, Watson, will remain to please the ages. Though I doubt he is aware of it.’

  As I moved closer to the painting, he looked me over carefully. ‘I am glad to see you have recovered, Watson. I have heard of your setback from Dr Agar.’

  ‘I was negligent, I’m afraid. Foolish of me!’

  ‘Yes, foolish, and now sit!’ Holmes busied himself with pouring tea. He handed me a steaming cup.

  ‘Holmes, I am so sorry,’ I began.

  ‘No apology needed.’

  ‘But you are well? How is the leg? And your back?’

  He waved off my questions. ‘Healing proceeds apace; let us speak of other things.’

  ‘But I am your doctor as well as your friend.’

  He ignored me, and taking a sip from his cup, he leaned back and smiled. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that Emil is recovering, and divides his time between his mother in Paris, and the Earl. He has begun piano lessons, and has a gift, says Mademoiselle.’

  My heart rose. ‘He speaks, then?’

  ‘Quite a lot, apparently.’

  ‘Ah, that is good! Oh, but I have read that the Nike has been acquired by the Louvre. That scoundrel Vidocq takes all the credit for its recovery!’

  ‘I care nothing about credit, Watson. You know that.’

  ‘But you do care about justice. And the Earl has apparently once again evaded the law!’

  ‘Not everything reaches Fleet Street, my dear boy. My brother, has somehow convinced the Earl that the right thing is to donate the entirety of his collection to the British Museum. He is now in the process of transferring both the works, and his, er, affection. I know for a fact that he is buying a chateau and a vineyard near Tours, France.’

  ‘In France, you say! Near Mademoiselle La Victoire?’

  ‘Not so very far,’ said Holmes with a smile.

  We sat drinking our tea. I could have used something stronger.

  ‘Brandy. On the sideboard,’ he said. It is embarrassing to be so known.

  ‘The orphans and the mill?’ I wondered as I poured a glass. ‘Brandy, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘No, thank you, Watson.’

  ‘And Strothers?’

  ‘All has been set aright. The mill is being investigated from London, the orphans removed to a boarding school, their expenses borne by the Earl. Strothers is gaoled and will undoubtedly hang. I do wonder about little Freddie, the orphan, though,’ he said. ‘I have not yet heard what has become of him.’

  ‘Ah! There I have some news! I have received a letter from Dr and Mrs Philo. They have adopted Freddie. Oh, and they expect a child!’

  ‘That last I knew already.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The windowsill.’ At my puzzled look, he grinned in delight. ‘Oranges. Morning sickness.’

  ‘Of course!’ I said. ‘But there is one aspect to this case which troubles me, Holmes. It has to do with your brother, Mycroft.’

  Holmes’s face darkened. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He threatened you, Holmes. I don’t wish to intrude, but—’

  ‘Then don’t. Here, pour us more tea.’

  ‘But your own brother!’

  ‘It is complicated.’

  ‘That is an understatement!’

  Holmes paused. I stood up and refreshed our teacups. Noting my consternation, he continued: ‘Watson, I am always one step ahead of Mycroft, while he thinks the same of me. It has ever been so.’

  For all his brilliance, I believed Holmes to deceive himself upon occasion. But he read my face and snorted. ‘Let us change the subject to a more felicitous one. You are wondering how I mana
ged all this time without you?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘And without cocaine.’

  ‘It is only the lack of work which troubles me. I am fine alone. Better, possibly.’

  I did not believe it. ‘Yes, yes, of course you are. So, how have you managed?’

  ‘I have taken up a form of meditation which might best be described as “mindfulness”. It is widely practised in the Eastern countries.’

  ‘Meditation! But isn’t that a spiritual practice? A kind of religion?’ I could not fathom the rational thinking machine that was my friend being attracted to any kind of spirituality or mysticism – unless the horrors and suffering he had encountered during our last case had completely altered or unhinged him.

  ‘It can be. For myself, it is not about faith, but a further exploration of the powers of the mind.’ He smiled. ‘A favourite subject, as you know.’

  ‘What, or how do you do it?’

  ‘I sit over there, my back straight as a green blade of grass, and there I stay unmoving for long periods of time.’

  I followed his gaze to that strange mound of cushions. ‘Is that all? As you do with a pipe when solving a case?’

  ‘No,’ said he. ‘In meditation one directs the mind to narrow specifics. Not puzzles, as with a case, so much as minute observations – the breath, for example. It is a different kind of mind work.’

  He must have been joking. ‘You focus on your breath? Why not your big toe?’ I asked.

  ‘You fail to understand. By quieting and focusing the mind on minutiae, paradoxically grander schemes are revealed and a sense of equanimity created.’

  I snorted. ‘Preposterous!’

  Holmes laughed. ‘Dear Watson, you cannot know until you have tried it. Meditating in this way happens also to reduce pain – and hence my need for less, shall we say, external relief.’

  If that were true, it would be a medical miracle, and something my profession should embrace. I wondered whether only minds such as Holmes’s unique one could enjoy such benefits. Holmes seemed to read my thoughts.