by David Marcum
“A few days after that the review, I received a letter. Monsieur Javet took great offence on my behalf for the review. He ranted about how terrible they were for saying such harsh things, and that the paper should know the error of their ways. I replied saying it was no issue and that we must move forward in our art. He replied with a single letter, ‘Our art will be beautiful. I will make sure no one speaks of you and our art that way again.’
“I was slightly haunted by this response. What he meant I did not know, at the time. A few days later the paper that published the review was set on fire and burnt down! There was no evidence, no clues at all as to who started it or how it happened. It was passed off as an accident. Javet wrote me again, this time he said, ‘Our art is saved’. I knew what he meant. I knew he was responsible, but I did not know if I should turn the letter over to the authorities. Would they believe me?
“I waited, foolishly. Mr. Holmes, I waited! That very night after my performance, I was the last to leave the theatre. When I left, Javet was outside the stage door. He rushed me and took me in his arms. He raved about our art and love. I pleaded with him to let me go. He continued to speak of our love and what love does to art. He said he loved me and forced a kiss on me. I was confused, frightened, and alone. I said I had no feelings for him.
“This angered him. He pushed me against the wall. My breath was taken from me. I tried to regain composure, but he held me gently and caressed my hair saying, ‘No, no, you do love me, you do. I know it. We are both artists, and we’ll make beautiful art.’ I dug my nails into his face and tore his skin. He fell back holding his face, which began to drip with blood. I ran, he chased. Thankfully, a policeman was nearby and heard my cries. He stopped Javet and arrested him. He was tried and sentenced to jail for the fire and assault. That was three years ago this last July.”
She paused a moment. “This brings me to now. At the end of the first week’s performance here in London, I received a letter.” The ballerina took out a piece of paper and handed it to Holmes. He took it and quickly read it before handing it over to me. It read thus:
My beautiful Mademoiselle, How I’ve missed your art. How I’ve missed your movements. How I’ve missed your touch. I am excited to see you on stage in London very soon. Keep a watchful eye, I will be there.
J
“I have been frightened terribly by this. I did not keep this letter a secret, but I was assured measures would be taken to ensure my, and the entire cast’s, safety. During my second week’s performance I got another letter. It was from Javet. He said how wonderful the show was and how I am the light of London. He promised he’d see more performances, and that I’d never be out of his sight again.” Her eyes began to well and her lower lip quivered. But she remained strong. She straightened herself and fought back the tears.
“Two nights ago, I believe I saw him in the audience. He was not seated. He was standing in a doorway. He made a nod and hand gesture at me, like an American salute. It was the only time during a performance that I have ever stumbled! The next day he wrote again, saying how pleased he was to get that reaction. Then, last night on my way home, I was followed. A man, of similar stature to Javet, followed me from the theatre, through Leicester Square. It was heavily crowded and I took the opportunity to hurry my pace and get away. I made haste to Soho where I have lodging while I am here in London. Before I entered, I looked and took no notice of anyone else. I sat at my table and looked at the newspaper. An article in it spoke of you and your assistance to the Yard. I looked you up and thought if anyone could help me, it would be you!”
Holmes looked at the woman a few moments. “Well, well. You fear, then, that this Javet has escaped or been set loose from his cell in France and is here in London to watch you perform, and possibly more. Have you made enquiries with the France police to see if he is still there?”
“I have not, no,” she admitted. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“No need to blush. These are enquires I will make on your behalf. If this man is in London, and intends to cause you torment, I assure you he will be found and his deeds exposed.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried. “So you will help me?”
“I will.” Holmes handed the woman a slip of paper. “Please write your address on here. Continue life as usual. Please know I might call upon you at various times and places if need be.” She nodded excitedly as she scribbled down her address and handed it back to him. “Tell me, the letters you received here in London, have you kept them?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Good. Then I will send Watson here to fetch them and bring them back to me,” Holmes looked at me. “That is, if you have nothing else pressing, my good fellow.”
“Indeed, I do not! I would be happy to get them.” I passed a friendly smile at the ballerina. She smiled. The out-of-breath and frightened creature was gone. The woman who sat before us now was different, more confident, more enticing. It was no wonder she had driven a man to lunacy.
“And you won’t mind if I keep this letter until the others arrive?” Holmes asked, holding up the document which she had presented to us.
“It is yours. I never wish to see it again.”
“The last thing I would like to know, what does Javet look like?”
The woman swallowed and jutted her chin slightly. “He is Lucifer,” she said.
“Ah, but my dear woman, Lucifer, according to the holy text, is a beautiful being,” interjected Holmes.
“Then Javet is a troll who belongs under a bridge,” she returned.
“Let us not get carried away with bitterness. I want straight facts.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes.” My friend nodded and motioned for her to continue. “He is about your height, but stalky. Broad chest and thick skinned. He is not a fat man, though. He, last I saw, had thick whiskers on his cheeks, but his chin and upper lip were clean. He will now have the scars from three scratch marks on his left cheek from me. His hair is dark, black or dark brown. I’ve only seen it from under his hat and at night. I do remember him having a thin upper lip and a dot in the centre of his chin. He is a very strongly built man, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle.” Holmes turned to me.
“Shall I retrieve those letters?” I asked.
“Yes, we can take a cab,” replied our guest.
“If you will bind the letters with a thread and set it just outside your door, Watson will wait in in the cab collect them once you have set them out, I don’t want anyone to see him go inside,” said Holmes.
We were off in a hurry. I sat next to our alluring client. The crisp autumn air filled the cab as we bounced down the streets. I peered, causally, out the window to see if we had been followed. Nothing out of the ordinary caught my attention. Mademoiselle Dipin sat calm and quiet, keeping her face away from the windows. I would ask her questions about the show, but her responses reminded me of Holmes when he was busy with thought. Short and vague. We passed through Soho Square before coming to a stop a few yards behind the ballerina’s door. I watched as she darted out, looking back and forth, before vanishing into her building. I stepped out of the cab just as the door opened enough for me to catch a glimpse of her dainty hand leaving a bundle of letters bound together. Putting them safely into my pocket, I returned to my cab and ordered the driver to return to Baker Street. When I did, Holmes was nowhere to be found. A note had been left which said he had gone to enquire about Javet and would return later. I did not see Holmes the remainder of the day. What exploits he had engaged himself with were not learned until I woke the next morning.
I found my friend lying on the floor on our bear rug. He gazed intensely at the ceiling. At his feet lay scraps of paper, and to one side lay the letters I had retrieved. I bade him good morning. He was, as on several occasions, unresponsive. I glanced the room for any sign of his cocaine usage, which h
ad, at times, been the cause for his silence.
“Fret not, good fellow,” he said. I turned to look at him. He remained unmoved except one hand extended into the air. Grasped between his index finger and thumb hung one of the letters. “I have been in engaged with this. I seek solace in cocaine when there is nothing to stimulate my mind.” I rose an eyebrow at him. He finally turned his head slightly to look at me.
“What have you done?” I asked.
“Look at the floor and make a deduction,” he encouraged.
“It seems like you’ve created a mess,” I said sarcastically.
“Beyond the most obvious, Watson,” his tone became stern, which I found surprising.
“It looks like you have been comparing papers to the letters, given the different makes you’ve laid out.»
“Well done!“ He said cheerfully. “After I sent a message to the Continent to learn the whereabouts of Javet, I came back to find these letters. I immediately rushed back out, after having thoroughly examined then. The letters are all written in the same hand, of that I have no doubt, even the ink is the same, as was the pen that was used. The paper, dear Watson, on which our man scribbled, is not all the same. So I scoured the city to see where these types of papers are relatively found.”
“What was your conclusion?” I pressed.
“The paper is off poor quality. Sold primarily through street vendors. Most vendors won’t give you what you pay for and you run out of your sheets soon.”
“So our culprit is new to town and grabbed cheap paper, which is why you know this man used it so quickly?”
“The ink, Watson, is a fine ink. Expensive to obtain. He is buying cheap paper from street vendors in order to avoid being recognised in more well established retailers. How I know he’s using it quickly: On two of these letters there are three droplets of ink that correspond when the pages are placed together. The man dipped his pen in the ink and it splatted and stained both pages. What I do believe is that our man has set himself up in Islington, somewhere near Angel.”
“How did you come to this?”
“Street vendors!” He exclaimed and shot up from the bear rug. He rifled through the paper and the letters. He matched the letters to the blank sheets of paper. I stood over him and looked down. Written on the new sheets at the top left corner was the name of the vendor and a street where they were sold. “It took me most of the day and into the evening but I found them all. There are three vendors who sell these papers in the Angel area. I took their information, and once I learn about Javet from the French authorities, I will go retrace that avenue if need be.”
“When do you expect to hear back?”
“I sent a message to Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris police,” Holmes was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“A message for you,” said Mrs. Hudson, poking her head around the door. Taking it from her, I handed it to Holmes. In a single thrust he leapt to his feet from the floor.
“Come, Watson! The game is afoot!”
Silently we sat in the cab. My heart raced with excitement and curiosity. Mademoiselle’s apartment had been ransacked during the late morning, between nine and eleven a.m., and Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police had called for our assistance. When we arrived, two police officers stood outside. They waved Holmes and me through.
The apartment was a devastating mess. Cabinets where toppled over, clothing was scattered and torn, pillows were thrown here and there. Shreds of paper were under every step. Inspector Lestrade stood in the middle of a small lounge near Mademoiselle Dipin. Her face was buried in her hands for a moment before running them through her extraordinary hair, pulling it back away from her beautiful face. When she saw Holmes and me, she stood up and approached.
“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she said.
“Yes, good of you to come in such a hurry,” said Lestrade.
“What do you know?” Holmes asked making no time for pleasantries. Lestrade nodded at the lady.
“Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I did not notice myself being followed or feel that someone was watching me. I’ve been about my daily business. I spent most of the morning at the theatre. I came home to relax for a few hours and freshen up before I returned this evening. When I got home, I found the place like this!”
“The lady here has told us about this Javet character. He seems a good suspect,” said Lestrade.
“Yes, but we are not certain where he is at present,” returned Holmes.
“He’s certainly in London!” Lestrade said with a chuckle. “The girl told me about the letters and everything.”
There was a commotion outside; officers were shouting. We could hear the sound of several feet thumping up the stairs.
“Where is she? Where is my daughter?” echoed the voice of a strong woman. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, majestic, towering some six feet tall. Glowing golden hair was fashionably tied up and styled on top of her head. She was certainly a woman who, in her prime, would have been stolen the hearts of every man. While still very handsome, she was the type of woman who now preferred softly lit rooms. Tucked under her arm was small box which she clung to tightly.
“Mere!” cried Mademoiselle Dipin. Her expression was of utter horror. “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to speak with you, and when I do, I find you caught up in a mess!” the matriarch returned. “Tell me what has happened!”
“It seems your daughter has caught some unwelcome attention by an enthusiast for her art,” said Lestrade. Her mother scoffed. “We believe he’s the one behind it all.”
“It’s Javet, Mere.”
“That man?” she roared. “This is why I come here, to beg your return to Paris at once.”
“I won’t leave, Mere!»
“But can’t you see, this is punishment? Holy judgement for pursuing such an unholy profession!”
“You’re wrong!” Mademoiselle Dipin yelled.
“Come now, ladies,” Inspector Lestrade chimed in. “Let’s just calm down.” The tension between the two women slowly eased.
“What are you doing here?” Holmes asked our new arrival.
“I am here to see my daughter,” she replied.
“Yes, but why?” he pressed.
“To beg my daughter’s return. Are you deaf, sir?” She rolled her eyes. “I would do anything to get her to come home where it is safe!” The ballerina’s cheeks began to turn red.
“Do you know about Javet?” Holmes asked. The woman shook her head.
“Why do you have such a fervent aversion to her performing?” I asked.
“Look at it, already! She was stalked and attacked in Paris, now her home has been vandalised.” She turned towards Lestrade. “And what you are doing to keep my girl safe? Scribbling in your notebook! “
“Mere, please. I beg you, stop!” asked Mademoiselle Dipin.
“Ladies, calm down, shall we?” said Lestrade. “I assure you, Madam, that we will do our best to find the one responsible,” assured Lestrade. Holmes let out a sigh.
“Have you questioned any of the corps de ballet?” the girl’s mother asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time an up-and-coming tried to push the Prima out!” Lestrade turned back towards the ballerina.
“I... I don’t know.”
“Have you noted any peculiar behaviour?” Lestrade asked.
“I have not, well... no. It was nothing.” Mademoiselle Dipin trailed off, her face blank as if she recalled something.
“Very well, then,” said Lestrade. “We will get to work on this Javet character. Mr. Holmes, a word outside, please.”
We left the mother and daughter in the apartment and stood outside in the cool air. The mother had made the room warm with unease. I found the brisk air refreshing.
Le
strade stated, “What do you make of it?”
Holmes replied, “The mother is an odd character.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was her who has done all this,” said Lestrade. “What with coming here like this all the sudden, wanting her daughter to leave. She’s probably organised it all.”
“Javet is very much a possibility,” said I.
“We won’t know until later,” said Holmes.
“The young girl said you were currently looking for this Javet. Any leads?” Lestrade asked.
“Nothing that I can reveal.”
“Holmes! You aren’t you’re own authority,” snuffed Lestrade.
“Do remember, I am not employed by the Yard. It was the girl who hired me. My duty is to her and her safety. If there is any information that is beneficial to both parties, I will share. Presently there is not. I will keep you updated, Lestrade.” Just then the girl’s mother rushed out the front door and jumped into a cab. Her elegant face was distorted by a horrid expression of anger and grief. Her daughter followed, holding the box which her mother had held earlier. She only saw the back of the cab pull away. “Your mother has quite the temper, dear girl.”
“She does. She hates my work, my art,” she returned.
“Has she always hated it?” I asked. She nodded.
“She has, yes.”
“What did she give you?” I pressed, looking at the box. She opened it to show us two ballet shoes tucked inside.
“For someone who hates your art, I’m a little surprised by her choice of gift,” said I.
“She said she picked them up from the theatre. A gift.” I nodded.
“Might I have a solitary word?” asked Holmes to the ballerina. The two walked off a moment. I stood there, Holmes’s back to me, watching our client answer whatever mysterious questions he posed to her.
“He’s bloody brilliant, but he boils my blood sometimes,” scoffed Lestrade. Holmes and the girl turned and came back towards us.
“For now, Watson and I must go. We have other business to attend.” I gave Holmes an inquisitive look. Without so much as a nod or wink he took off in a fast walk. I jogged behind a moment to catch up, leaving Lestrade and Mademoiselle Dipin behind.