by Anna Lord
“You need to see a specialist as soon as we return to London.”
He nodded as he handed her up to the landau. “Yes, I know just the chap – Dr Lun. He was a godsend during Mary’s last days.”
“Why don’t you go to London at once,” she suggested, picking up on the reference to Mary. It made her think he was more worried than he sounded. She tried to put a positive spin on her next statement. “I can handle things here in Paris on my own. Besides, nothing will happen until the eighth of December and it might be all over by then anyway.”
“Saint Pierre de Montmartre,” he directed to the coachman before clambering in, glancing back at the curious little shop as he slammed the carriage door. Monsieur Grimaldi was taking down the little cardboard sign hanging on a nail inside the door, probably for the last time. It said OPEN on one side and CLOSED on the other. “It was that poor sickly shop-keeper that finally decided it for me. Going back to a pipe, I mean. His skin looked grey and I don’t think it was due to the bad light.”
She noticed he didn’t reply to her London suggestion and decided not to pursue it. He would only get his back up. “What sort of pipe did you buy?”
He pulled his purchase out of his pocket and showed it off. “A calabash.”
She studied the sharp downward curve of the shaft and the upward curve of the large bowl. “I don’t believe Sherlock ever smoked a calabash.”
“That’s precisely why I chose it. He preferred a briar pipe, and sometimes he smoked a clay one. Most calabashes are made from gourds but this one is mahogany. It’s more difficult to clean but easier to pack. The tobacco is drier, the smoke cooler, and it sits very comfortably in the mouth and hand. I bought some aromatic tobacco from Syria.”
“Latakia?”
“Yes, that’s the one. An interesting blend of spices which I was assured by the tobacconist did not include opium. I shall try it out tonight after dinner. Did you buy any marionettes?”
She tried not to smile at his naivety. “All of them except Little Mary. Fedir will pick them up and pay for them tomorrow. First, he will buy an old leather travel trunk from a pawnbroker to put them in.”
“Good grief! You really felt sorry for that poor old man. What are you going to do? Store them in the attic of the pied-a-terre?”
“I plan to gift them to Monsieur Crespingy. I will send his gift to him at le Cirque du Grand Guignol. I will time the gift to arrive for when everyone is present, perhaps just before the curtain rises, perhaps on the night of the eighth of December.”
“Good God! That will stir the hornet’s nest!”
“I want to throw a fire-cracker back-stage and then watch how everyone jumps.”
“You think a trunk full of marionettes will do the trick?”
“I’m banking on it.”
Saint Denis lost his head on the topmost point of Paris, the hill of Montmartre, in the year 250 AD. Undeterred, he picked it up and walked six miles preaching to the unconverted until he finally dropped dead. A shrine was erected on the site. It was still drawing pilgrims to this day.
Père Denys did not look like the sort of man who would ever lose his head, not that he wasn’t a martyr to the Christian church, but he was too amiable to ever put anyone off-side, including Roman imperators, invading Visigoths, angry Vandals, hordes of American tourists and Countess Volodymyrovna. He was about to lock the heavy doors to Saint Pierre de Montmartre when two people pushed against him.
“I wish to make confession,” announced the Countess urgently, placing a substantial donation in the poor box just inside the door that convinced Père Denys to hear her sins.
“So much for never locking doors,” muttered the doctor as she disappeared into a confessional.
Her litany of sinfulness ran to twenty minutes. She emerged looking quite cleansed. The same could not be said for Père Denys. A decapitation was probably foremost on his mind. Dr Watson had strolled around the little church several times and was now sitting in the front pew.
“You cannot smoke in here,” said Père Denys amiably, noting the pipe.
“Oh, no, no, I wasn’t smoking. Indeed not. I was just resting my new calabash in the palm of my hand to get a feel for it.”
Père Denys smiled indulgently, the way a Sunday school teacher might smile at a young altar boy who has just forgotten a catechism. Gently, he began ushering his visitors to the door.
“Is the Cimetiere de Montmartre next door?” asked the Countess eagerly. She knew very well it wasn’t. “We have just visited Père Lachaise to pay our respects to Balzac, Bizet and Bellini. And I cannot possibly leave Paris without paying homage to Dumas and Gautier.”
“The Cimetiere de Montmartre is further to the north. If you hurry you will be there in no time. Next door we have the Cimetiere du Calvaire, the smallest cemetery in Paris.”
“The name seems familiar. Is someone famous buried there? Descartes? Voltaire? Zola?”
“Zola is not yet dead.”
“Really? Are you sure? I’m certain I read in Le Temps that Zola died on the twenty-fourth of November. Or was that Dreyfus and Le Libre Parole?”
Père Denys drew a weighty breath. “I think you might be confused about the date. A murder took place on that date in the cemetery but it was not anyone famous.”
“A murder in the Cimetiere de Montmartre?”
“No, no, in the Cimetiere du Calvaire next door.”
“Oh, how dreadful! Did the murderer seek sanctuary in your church? I know murderers can do that because I read it in that book by Diderot.”
“I think you might mean Hugo.”
“Not Denis Diderot?”
“Trust me. I am a priest – The Hunchback of Notre Dame was written by Victor Hugo. And no, the murderer did not seek sanctuary because the door was locked.” He looked longingly at the large brass key in his hand. “Go back to rue des Abbesses and follow it west. That is the best way. If you hurry you will be there before they lock the gate.”
The Countess thanked him, turned to go then whirled back. “I wonder if the victim would still be alive if he had found sanctuary inside your church.”
Père Denys sighed heavily. “The victim was killed elsewhere and transported to the cemetery sometime during the night. He was not running for his life, banging on the doors of the church, crying out for help.”
“How thoughtful.”
“What?”
“The murderer transported his victim directly to a cemetery.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. The victim will not be buried next door. He was Lutheran.”
“Transported how?”
“I have no idea. The police said the victim had been killed elsewhere. They seem to know about these things. The body was merely posed -” He stopped suddenly; as if he’d just realised he’d said too much already.
Once again the Countess thanked him and turned to go then dropped her reticule. Unfortunately, or perhaps otherwise, the clasp was undone. Feminine contents spilled on the doorstep of the church. The priest immediately volunteered to retrieve them, possibly to save time and embarrassment.
“Was it you who found the body, Père Denys?”
He watched her stuff more money into the poor box, and nodded slowly.
“I was woken by an unpleasant dream, a recurring dream. I couldn’t sleep. I pulled on a coat and decided to take a walk in the little cemetery. It is a peaceful place. It helps to calms me. I was walking between the graves when I saw…saw the body. I went quickly to find a policeman. Fortunately, there was a patrolman at the Place du Tertre.”
“I also have a recurring dream. It concerns a marionette. What is your recurring dream?”
Père Denys looked slightly abashed; he dropped his gaze for the first time since meeting them. “It concerns a rag and bone man.”
“What are you thinking?” said Dr Watson as they rumbled back to rue Bonaparte and darkness dropped its dirty cloak over the lovely city. Lamp-lighters were out in force lighting the gas lamps. Fog from the
Seine was swaddling the Pont Neuf as they crossed to the other side of the river. She hadn’t spoken since entering the landau.
“I am thinking that Père Denys has a recurring dream about a rag and bone man because he hears the cart in the night. I once had a recurring dream about spiders. I was staying in a house in Florence. One night I realized the canopy above the bed was embroidered in the style of a cobweb. The canopy was removed and the dream stopped.
I am thinking that familia herlequin, a group of demons who gave harlequin his name, may have been a group of five. The prefix quin- refers to five. The acting troupe at le Cirque du Grand Guignol is coincidentally made up of five characters.
I am thinking that the man in the black cloak on Quai de Valmy may have been wearing a black mask. Did the man you saw last night have a black mask?”
“It cannot say for sure but now that you mention it, his face did seem unnaturally dark.”
“I am thinking that the man who followed our coach last night might be the same man. I am wondering if he wore a black mask.”
“I can ask the coachman when I question him.”
“Be subtle. Don’t plant the idea in his head. Finally, I am thinking about Diderot.”
“The French philosopher?”
“Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.”
Chapter 9 - Vive la France
Mahmoud was waiting for them in the entry hall. “You have a visitor, la comtesse. He is in the kitchen.”
The fact that Mahmoud had ushered her visitor into the kitchen told her everything she needed to know. “Does he have a work of art with him?”
“He has a canvas with paint on it.”
Dr Watson smiled wryly as he mounted the stairs. “Don’t hang it anywhere where I will be forced to look at it!” He was off to check his bedroom for death adders. And it was no laughing matter when he found the door unlocked and the window closed. He donned a pair of leather gloves and began the search in earnest.
The Countess, who was on her way to collect some money from her boudoir, heard the kerfuffle. “What happened to your room? Why are you wearing gloves?”
“Nothing’s happened to my room and my hands are cold.”
She didn’t have time to deal with his strange ways and left him to it.
“Where would you like me to hang the canvas, la comtesse?” asked Mahmoud after Salvador the Splattereur had skipped off wearing a broad grin, having confirmed that Madame Hertzinger never went to the theatre. She considered the Grand Guignol immoral and repulsive.
“Leave it in the hall and let me think about it,” she said. “Serve dinner in half an hour. I will inform Dr Watson myself. Is my manservant about?”
“No, la comtesse, he is out. He has been coming and going all day.”
“Good. I mean fine. Where is my maid?”
“She is laundering the lace petticoats. She does not trust the laundress hired by the novaire.”
“Thank you, Mahmoud. That is all. Oh, wait, just one thing. You went out last night?”
He appeared to stiffen. “If la comtesse would prefer that I not go out…”
“No, no, of course not, you may come and go as you are accustomed to doing. I was merely curious. Think nothing of it.”
Dr Watson’s room was in total disarray. The blankets and bed sheets were on the floor. The drawers were turned out. The wardrobes flung open and the contents strewn across every available surface. He was standing on a silk bergère checking the curtain pelmet.
“Dinner in half an hour,” she said without batting an eyelash. “Don’t forget your calabash and Latakia.
Curiouser and curiouser.
The ghost of Zoya Volodymyrovna was everywhere in the pied-a-terre on rue Bonaparte but especially in the dressing room where the unsigned portrait painted by one of her many lovers hung above the dressing table set between the two windows that overlooked the courtyard garden. The artist had captured her in that perfect moment when one is young and happy and in love, that fleeting moment when the past is golden and the future rosy.
Zoya looked nothing like the Countess. She was blonde, blue-eyed, luminous and beautiful. It’s no wonder men fell in love with her. But she had brains too. Men loved that most of all. They loved her wit and vivacity, her ability to make them laugh, to forget the things they needed to forget, and to live in the moment as though it would last forever.
Could anyone really be that happy?
Was Life really so wonderful?
Did we become what we believed we were?
Were we always true to ourselves?
Or were we all playing a part, living a lie, deceiving ourselves, deceiving others; pretending to be happy when we were miserable inside, full of bitterness and self-loathing and despair, damning ourselves to hell without the help of demons?
The Countess peered at the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. There was a tiny mark. Not a signature. A single letter. She brought her candle closer.
M.
Dr Watson sat back in the fauteuil by the fire and savoured the first puff of his calabash. He had carefully packed it with Latakia and it was drawing brilliantly.
“I say! That quote from Diderot was a bit harsh. You were harsh on Père Denys as well. How he didn’t lose his temper with you says a lot about the character of the man. He deserves a sainthood. I don’t like to be blunt, but you were exasperating in the extreme.”
“Mea culpa. I was being deliberately provoking. But people are more likely to blurt out things when they are provoked and exasperated. When they are calm they retain self-control, they refuse to drop the mask of self-respectability; they rarely say what they really think and never what they shouldn’t.”
“What did you learn?” he challenged. “That Montmartre Cemetery is nearby? We already knew that. That the victim was killed elsewhere? We already knew that too. That churches are sometimes locked? That priests can dream? That…”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Inspector de Guise. He was looking even more bleary-eyed than last time.
“What’s that thing in the hall?” he said after the usual polite preamble was out of the way and coffee was dispensed.
They told him about Galerie soixante-six and the marionettes.
“Interesting,” he said, rubbing the stubble defining his jaw. “But the Splattereurs are harmless. A bunch of cloud thinkers. Where are you going to hang the, er, painting?”
“I’ve decided to donate it to Salpetriere,” said the Countess. “The bright colours might cheer the patients up.”
Dr Watson guffawed. “The lunatics will appreciate it! They can hang it in the asylum section of the hospital! They won’t want to make the other patients any sicker than they are!”
Inspector de Guise smiled for the first time in a month. “You are not an art lover, Doctor?”
“You are not suggesting that thing in the hall is art?”
The two men laughed like naughty boys who had said something rude in front of an adult and expected to get away with it.
“Not all modern art is bad,” ventured the inspector, glad to talk about something other than murder and his present predicament. “The work they are calling Impressionism, for instance, has depth and the colours are pleasing to the eye, but I admit it takes more than colour to make a Caravaggio. A Caravaggio will take your breath away whether it is hanging in the Louvre or in a cowshed.”
“Precisely,” said the doctor, happy to have someone agree with him for a change.
“You are quite right, inspector,” said the Countess, agreeing with him too. “Some paintings will only be appreciated because they are hanging in the drawing-room of a rich patron. Put them in a cowshed and their true worth stands out.”
“People have lost the ability to appreciate true artistry,” lamented the doctor.
“I go by the rule that if I could have painted it then it isn’t art,” added the inspector. “It is merely self-expression.”
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br /> The Countess thought back to the portrait of her step-aunt – how perfectly the artist had expressed his love of his subject. What love had Salvador expressed for Madame Hertzinger in his painting? It wasn’t the lack of realism, it was in the execution. “All art is self-expression but not all self-expression is art.”
Dr Watson was finally enjoying an agreeable conversation. The Latakia was like inhaling mouthfuls of heaven. “People never seem to have the same problem with writing or music as they do with fine art. Random words on a page may be defined as writing but it will never be mistaken for literature. Placing quavers and semi-quavers ad hoc on a sheet of music will never be the equal of an opera. And yet any application of colour to a canvas passes as art. The next century will define human stupidity.” His brain seemed to leap from one thing straight to another without effort. “There hasn’t been another murder has there?”
Inspector de Guise stiffened his shoulders. “No, no, not yet, I came to let you know I have been removed from the case. The Director General of the Sûreté Nationale took the decision this afternoon. He let me know personally. I will be taking time off without pay starting tomorrow.”
“Why?” said the doctor.
“What has happened?” said the Countess.
Inspector de Guise pushed to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. “I prefer not to discuss it. I apologise for dragging you into this matter. Please don’t remain in Paris on my account. I can see myself out. Au revoir, my friends.”
The Countess was having none of it. She walked with him to the door. There, she pressed him further, to no avail. He took her hand and kissed it.
“Adieu,” he said solemnly, employing the French word that signalled a final parting of the way: To God, rather than tomorrow.
Dr Watson appeared to be drifting off. She blew out the candles and went to bed to read about Dreyfus.
Come morning, after the Countess instructed Fedir about the marionettes he was to collect from Monsieur Grimaldi, she discovered something interesting from her manservant. News of the five murders had leaked out to the press and Inspector de Guise had borne the brunt of the Sûreté’s failure in apprehending the killer. He had become the butt of ridicule. Satirical articles had appeared in Le Libre Parole and the latest pamphlet of the Brotherhood of the Boldt. Even Le Temps was scathing. Posters depicting unflattering caricatures covered Café Bistro from floor to ceiling. The Humboldts were having a field day. The place was jam-packed. It was standing room only. The regulars weren’t complaining. They were having the time of their lives too, spreading their anarchist views, fomenting revolution and the overthrow of the government. It was no wonder the inspector did not wish to discuss his unpaid vacation.