Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares

by James Lovegrove

  Holmes was his usual inscrutable self, his face betraying little of the sentiments which I am sure he was feeling and which were doubtless akin to mine.

  “The list, shocking though it is,” he said, “was, of course, the reason we put ourselves through that. I was looking for the French nobleman whom you overheard Torrance mention in such an oblique and casual fashion.”

  “Ah yes, the ‘Froggy toff.’”

  “There were a number of Frenchmen named. However, the Abbess’s code identified this particular one as being fond of barely pubescent girls, and did you not tell me that Torrance said something about the nobleman liking girls who were ‘fresh, with the dew still on them’? Putting the two things together yielded only one possible candidate.”

  “And the Frenchman and Baron Cauchemar are connected somehow?”

  “What makes you say that, old chap?”

  “You seem mad-keen on pursuing Cauchemar, almost to the point where nothing else matters, not even the bombings. I can only assume this is another manifestation of that monomania.”

  “Monomania? I would not put it so strongly myself.”

  “That is how it might appear to a dispassionate observer.”

  Holmes chuckled wryly. “What would I do without you, Watson? You remind me constantly that the workings of a mind like mine must seem incomprehensible to a mind like yours. It is like a tortoise trying to fathom the speed of a cheetah.”

  “Oh,” I said, not flattered.

  “But you’re right all the same. About this being about Cauchemar. It is, to some extent. There is the Torrance link, of course. Hearsay but no less valuable for that. There is also the superficial-seeming fact that cauchemar is a French word.”

  “Meaning...?”

  “‘Nightmare’. Apt, n’est-ce pas? We must bear in mind, too, that the Abbess’s French client has a title, and our ironclad vigilante has bestowed the rank of baron upon himself. Each, individually, a slender association, but together, cumulatively, I find them persuasive. At the very least, they are enough to make me think that you and I should pay a house call on a certain French peer who currently resides in London: the Vicomte de Villegrand.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AT THE VILLA DE VILLEGRAND

  We journeyed by cab from Moorgate to a grand Gothic villa up in Hampstead, a stone’s throw from the Heath. The house was well-kept, the front garden tidy and orderly, the wisteria that overhung the porch trimmed.

  Even now, in the broad light of day, outside this fine and desirable residence, I could not wholly dismiss the events of the previous night from my thoughts. I was oppressed by the memory of our encounter with Baron Cauchemar and found it hard to shake the feeling that, in spite of Holmes’s insistence to the contrary, we had been in the presence of something not wholly of this earth.

  I had learned, with Sherlock Holmes, to be wary of expressing notions that were not entirely in keeping with his ultra-rational world view. Only the year before, during our hair-raising escapade at Baskerville Hall and on the surrounding moors, it had been amply demonstrated to me that something which seemed supernatural, even hellish, could be explained away as a product of human ingenuity combined with human suggestibility.

  And so now, while a part of me continued to maintain that Cauchemar was nightmarish in more than name alone, that he was at least in part paranormal, that he even carried a whiff of infernal brimstone about him, I knew better than to raise this possibility again with Holmes. He would have none of it. He would pooh-pooh the very idea and ridicule me, and I feared his scorn almost as much as I feared another meeting with the Bloody Black Baron.

  Holmes’s voice summoned me out of my brooding.

  “Watson,” he said as we strode up the front path, “whatever happens in the next few minutes, do not intervene and do not protest. Just follow my lead and trust my judgement. Is that understood?”

  I nodded assent.

  In answer to our knock, the door was opened by a manservant whose lugubrious demeanour belied his relative youthfulness. He enquired, in a thick French accent, who we were and what our business was.

  Holmes handed over his card, and the manservant invited us in to wait in the hallway while he went to see “whether monsieur le vicomte is receiving the visitors today”.

  The villa’s interior was decorated tastefully but expensively and exhibited a cleanliness that matched the neatness of its exterior. It was just the sort of house I would have loved to call my own, although at that time I never in my wildest dreams would have been able to afford it. A GP’s salary by itself, irregular and unreliable as it was, was far too meagre to cover the mortgage, and my accounts of my adventures with Holmes, though popular, had yet to make me my fortune.

  Yet somehow, for all the pleasantness of the surroundings, my unease would still not abate. Perhaps it was the fact of knowing that the master of this household frequented the Abbess’s brothel – and no doubt other places like it – where he took his delight with girls who were not even yet fully adult. Children of such a young age participating in the world’s oldest profession were not uncommon, but I myself could not fathom how any man could desire them as he might a grown woman. It seemed perversion of the rankest kind.

  The manservant returned and wordlessly ushered us through to a drawing room at the rear.

  Here sat a man in his mid-thirties, with hair artfully combed and curled and a moustache upon which great care and attention had been lavished, its tips teased into points with the aid of liberal quantities of beeswax pomade. A neat, straight scar traversed the left-hand side of his face, from cheekbone to jaw, but in spite of that, and a pendulous nose and somewhat too full lips, he was handsome, one might even say rakishly so.

  Giving a low, straight-backed bow, he introduced himself as Thibault, the Vicomte de Villegrand.

  “And,” said he, “I have the pleasure of meeting the incomparable Sherlock Holmes himself? In person? Why, this is an honour. Your renown has reached us even in France. Your methods, your prowess – formidable.” He turned to me. “You, of course, must be Dr Watson, his faithful chronicler. I salute you too, monsieur le docteur. Without you, the world would know nothing of this mighty Englishman and his achievements. You have done us all a tremendous service, sharing your accounts of Monsieur Holmes’s cases, and relating them with such skill too. Together, the pair of you represent all that is great about Great Britain. You are shining beacons of your nation.”

  It would be hard not to be unmoved by such praise. However, there was something a little unctuous about it. It was excessive and, I could not help but feel, insincere. And of course, knowing what I knew about him, I was hardly inclined to warm to the man.

  “Please, take a seat,” said de Villegrand. “Make yourselves at home. Benoît!”

  The gloomy-looking manservant stiffened. “À votre service.”

  “Tell Aurélie to bring us refreshments. Some sherry, I think. That is a very English aperitif to take of an afternoon, non?”

  While we waited for our drinks to arrive, de Villegrand regaled us with positive opinions of our country, of which he had many. He rhapsodised about Britain’s literary heritage from Shakespeare to Dickens, her empire (“on which ‘the sun never sets’, isn’t that what they say?”), her vitality, her prosperity, and last but not least her queen, whose long and exemplary reign, he said, almost made him regret that his own people had done away with their monarchy and embraced republicanism. When he began to wax lyrical about the British climate, that was when I began to think that, in some obscure Gallic manner, he was actually mocking us. I have never met a Frenchman, before or since, who had anything good to say about the weather in this island kingdom. I have never, for that matter, met a native Briton who did anything but moan about the rain, wind and fog that beset our homeland.

  Holmes must have felt likewise, for he said, “Surely you cannot be serious, your lordship, to suggest that a summer’s day in London could be the equal of a summer’s day in Paris?”
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  “Surely I can, Monsieur Holmes,” came the reply. “Have you ever been in Paris in August? It is unbearable. The heat makes one’s clothes stick to one’s skin in a most uncongenial manner, and it is so oppressive that one can barely walk down a street without feeling faint. And the stench. Mon Dieu! It is not as bad nowadays as it was in my youth, not since Haussmann set to work revitalising the city, but even so, sometimes on hot days the smell from the slums floats over the bourgeois areas and everywhere the air stinks like a farmyard. No, there is much to be said for a temperate climate. And good sewers.”

  Holmes pounced on the remark. “You admire our sewer system too?” The question, though casual-sounding, carried weight. He was probing for a reaction.

  Did Holmes think that de Villegrand and Baron Cauchemar were one and the same? It was hard to believe, yet that was the line of enquiry he appeared to be exploring. Accordingly, I took a closer look at the vicomte, reappraising him. He was tall, well built, and seemingly in excellent physical condition. For all that he dressed with a certain flamboyance and was clearly not immune to the sin of vanity, he was not someone, in my view, to be taken lightly or trifled with. There was a dark slyness in those eyes of his, and his forehead, though not a match for Holmes’s in size, was still broad and high, suggesting that behind the effusive bonhomie lay a considerable brain.

  “Paris, of course, had sewers long before London,” he said, “and they are extensive and supremely effective. Yours, though, are a marvel of modern sanitation all the same.”

  “How tactfully put,” said Holmes.

  “But of course. I am, after all, a diplomat. A cultural attaché, to be exact, affiliated with the French embassy. And what is a cultural attaché’s function but to appreciate the accomplishments of his host nation, while at the same time trumpeting the accomplishments of his own? Ah, here is Benoît again, with Aurélie.”

  The manservant had re-entered, accompanied by a maid carrying a salver on which sat a crystal decanter and glasses. The maid was young and exceedingly comely, and de Villegrand’s gaze did not stray from her once while she was in the room. Neither did Benoît’s, who followed her every movement closely. There was no need for Benoît to look on while she performed her duties of pouring out the sherry and distributing it to her master and his guests, but he watched her like a hawk anyway.

  Aurélie herself kept her eyes demurely lowered, scarcely glancing at anyone. Nor did she utter so much as a single syllable, even when, in a moment of inattention, she tipped my glass and poured a few drops of sherry onto my lap. Her reaction then was to blush profusely and bow her head in abject shame, much like a dog that knows it is in disgrace. I reassured her, in my rudimentary French, that she had done nothing wrong, accidents happened, it was pas de problème, mademoiselle, and I dabbed away the dampness with my handkerchief. Aurélie seemed little comforted, however, and left the room in distress, Benoît guiding her by the arm and speaking softly to her in their mother tongue.

  “I must apologise, Doctor,” de Villegrand said. “Aurélie is not normally so clumsy.”

  “It is quite all right. No harm done. Quiet girl, though.”

  “Yes. But do not be perturbed by her silence, nor for that matter Benoît’s protectiveness. He is her older brother, you see, and Aurélie is... How to put it? Simple. Painfully introverted. A congenital condition. She seldom speaks and is shy to a degree that would seem like rudeness to the uninitiated. Yet she does what she is told to do, that is her saving grace. Give Aurélie an instruction and she will perform it to the letter, usually without error. She is like an automaton in that way, her actions controllable and predictable. The corollary of that is to break from her routine or to err is a source of great distress, as you have seen.”

  I noted how he dehumanised the girl by comparing her to a machine. Perhaps that was how he felt about all women – indeed all people.

  “She and Benoît are the daughter and son of my father’s estate manager,” de Villegrand continued, “so I, one might say, inherited them and have assumed responsibility for them. My father did not leave me much else, beyond a title. He was, sad to relate, a man of many bad habits, principally drinking and gambling, and when he died, the land and château which should have been mine were instead sold to pay off his considerable debts to his many creditors. I grew up in expectation of a life of moneyed leisure, but hélas! It was not to be.” He shrugged his shoulders in that way unique to his race, an eloquent expression of regret and resignation. “I am, however, quite content in my role as a member of the corps diplomatique, representing France to her sister nation across the Channel. It is a worthy and dignified position. Now, esteemed guests, if you would kindly join me in a toast...”

  De Villegrand raised his glass, and Holmes and I reciprocated.

  “To the remarkable Monsieur Holmes and his companion the redoubtable Dr Watson, and to the good relations which I hope and pray will continue to prevail between our two great countries and their dependencies in perpetuity. Vive l’Entente Cordiale!”

  The sherry was a particularly good Amontillado, and I drained my ration of it in a few quick sips. Holmes, by contrast, barely touched his.

  “Tell me, Dr Watson,” the vicomte said, “are we to be treated to any more of your fine books soon? I enjoyed A Study In Scarlet and The Sign Of Four very much, and am most eager to read more of Monsieur Holmes’s exploits.”

  “I am preparing a dozen or so manuscripts even now,” I replied. “These will be in short-story form, not novel-length. That seems to suit the narratives better, on the whole. I am inclined to move on from Beeton’s and Lippincott’s. I have heard word that a new monthly magazine from George Newnes Limited, name of The Strand, is to begin publication in December. I plan to submit my latest efforts to the editor of that.”

  “I will be sure to purchase an edition if I see your name on the cover. It is fascinating to learn about Mr Holmes’s methods and powers of analysis, which surpass even those of the great Eugène Vidocq, founder of our own Sûreté.”

  “I am flattered to be mentioned in the same breath as one of the forefathers of modern criminology,” said Holmes. “However,” he added brusquely, his tone that of someone whose patience was fast dwindling, “forgive me, but we did not come here to make small talk.”

  De Villegrand gave no sign of offence at my friend’s peremptoriness. “No, I suspected this was not a purely social call, much though I would like it to have been. You are, it is obvious, engaged on a case. Perhaps you seek my help in some way. Or am I by some chance implicated in a crime? I sincerely hope not the latter. I am, believe me, an honourable man.”

  “Yes, honour matters to you. That much is evident from the scar on your cheek. Inflicted in a duel, if I’m not mistaken. It has the straightness of a sword cut. A sabre, to judge by the width and depth of the wound.”

  De Villegrand touched the scar reflexively, and his face coloured a little.

  “Someone had the temerity to accuse me, in front of witnesses, of a shameful deed. I do not take slurs on my name lightly. He lived to regret his mistake.”

  “Then I trust that I shall too,” Holmes said. “Live to regret mine, I mean.”

  The Frenchman’s face reddened further.

  “How so? Have you come to bandy about baseless accusations also?”

  “That would be unwise.”

  “It would.”

  “Were they baseless,” Holmes added. “This room is not a public forum. There is no one here but we three. An informal gathering. So it would not, technically, be a slur on your name if I mentioned that you have visited, on more than one occasion, a house of ill repute run by a woman widely known as the Abbess.”

  De Villegrand shot to his feet. “That is a lie. A most outrageous fabrication.”

  “You deny it?”

  “Vehemently. With every breath in my body.”

  “Then perhaps you deny, too, a predilection for the younger female – girls that are little more than children.”


  The vicomte’s head purpled from the neck up. It was difficult to tell if this was from indignation or embarrassment or both.

  “Monsieur, you provoke me,” he thundered. “You insult me in my own home. What you are saying is a gross calumny. I demand a retraction and an apology, or there will be consequences.”

  “You will have neither, my short-tempered friend,” said Holmes calmly.

  “Then I will have satisfaction some other way. Monsieur Holmes, do you fight?”

  “I am not unskilled in pugilism and other forms of hand-to-hand combat.”

  “Très bien! Then I challenge you, right now, to fight me. We shall step outside and settle this like men.” Already de Villegrand had whisked off his velvet smoking jacket and was rolling up his shirtsleeves; the matter, to him, a foregone conclusion. He had invited Holmes to engage in fisticuffs; so they would.

  Holmes rose, and I shot him a look, as if to say, “Are you mad? What are you doing?”

  He batted my concerns aside, saying to de Villegrand, “It’s good we have Watson to hand, his medical expertise will prove invaluable should one or other of us suffer injury.”

  “One of us will,” said the vicomte, throwing open the glass-panelled doors that gave on to a large, wrought-iron conservatory, which in turn gave on to the back garden. “And rest assured, Monsieur Holmes, it will not be moi”

  He exited. We followed. In the conservatory, he paused to pat the heads of a pair of stuffed animals which stood sentinel either side of the doorway. One was a grey wolf, the other a wild boar. “My trophies,” he told us. “I shot them myself in the Forest of Tronçais, when I was still in my teens. I take them with me wherever I go. They are my talismans.”