The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Devil and the Four E-Book

Christopher Husberg

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Sherlock Holmes
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 482

Beschreibung

The brand new adventure from the author of The Moonstone's Curse, in which Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson travel to Paris to uncover a secret buried for over twenty yearsSECRETS AND LIESSherlock Holmes's latest case takes him to Paris in pursuit of Marguerite Hardy: a Frenchwoman who fled her London home in mysterious circumstances. Holmes discovers she left after receiving a mysterious letter, containing an obituary and the words "four for the devil". Holmes's investigations will take him and his cousin, Henry Vernier, into a world of seduction and betrayal – and lead them to uncover a secret buried for over twenty years.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Available Now from Titan Books: The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author Preface

Part One, Henry

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two, Michelle

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Three, Henry

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKSTHE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE STAR OF INDIA

Carole Buggé

THE WHITE WORM

Sam Siciliano

THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE WEB WEAVER

Sam Siciliano

THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA

Sam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACY

David Stuart Davies

THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

David Stuart Davies

THE VEILED DETECTIVE

David Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

Stuart Douglas

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE

Stuart Douglas

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONER

Stuart Douglas

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN

Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

Daniel Stashower

THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

Manly Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

THE SEVENTH BULLET

Daniel D. Victor

SAM SICILIANO

TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:THE DEVIL AND THE FOURPrint edition ISBN: 9781785657023E-book edition ISBN: 9781785657030

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: August 201810 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 Sam Siciliano

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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To all the folks at Titan Books, for resurrecting my writing career and supporting my vision of Sherlock Holmes.

Author preface

My source for many details of life in fin-de-siècle Paris and for the particulars of Satanism and the Black Mass was Joris-Karl Huysmans’s bizarre 1891 novel Là-bas, “Down there.” Most of the somewhat incoherent prayer to Satan near the end comes directly from Huysmans. Also, for those new to my Holmes series, I should perhaps warn that this novel contains major “spoilers” for the second book, The Web Weaver.

Part One,

Henry

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes and the lion stared at one another. The gray-white light from overhead glistened on Holmes’s long sloping forehead and his swept-back black hair, and brought out the blue in his mostly gray eyes. The lion had a bushy black mane and yellowish orbs with long black slits in them. I sensed an odd sort of bond between them, a shared consciousness, an intelligent awareness, a certain dignity, and something unpredictable as well.

The lion was the first to look away, or rather he raised his head slightly as his mouth opened up in a great yawn which revealed his enormous fangs and pink tongue. Perhaps I only imagined it, but I thought I could smell his fetid breath. He raised his tawny paw, some six inches across, and began to meticulously lick it. The action was exactly like that of my cat Victoria, only on a greatly amplified scale. This cat, however, crouched upon a concrete floor rather than a carpet, with thick steel bars and a restraining fence separating us. My wife Michelle and I occasionally speculated on whether Victoria would gobble us up if we somehow shrank in size so we were only a few inches tall. I supported the affirmative case, Michelle the negative one.

We sauntered on. In the next cage a tiger was sprawled across the concrete, eyes closed, his massive head resting on his paw. I stared at the elaborate pattern of black upon yellow-orange of his face, then at the long white whiskers, the ears with their spots of black and white. The long striped yellow and black tail was the pièce de résistance. I shook my head. “He is a beauty. It does seem a shame to keep such magnificent animals in small cages without any trees or greenery.”

Holmes nodded. His black overcoat and frock coat were both unbuttoned; he held in one hand his umbrella, his top hat and gloves in the other. Outside it might be a cold rainy November afternoon in London, but the lion house of the Regent’s Park zoo was heated, uncomfortably so. It accentuated the pungent animal smell in the heavy air all about us.

“A common enough reflection, Henry, one which I share.” He raised his umbrella and gestured at the bars. “All the same… a cage is a curious thing. Bars like those are certainly abundant in London.”

“What are you talking about?”

His mouth rose up slightly on one side, an ironic gleam showing in his eyes. “Do not the black wrought-iron variety stand before most of the stately townhouses of our great metropolis? And they line our many parks as well. But who is the true captive, I wonder? Are the wealthy keeping the riffraff out, or locking themselves in?”

“The wealthy can leave their houses whenever they feel like it.”

“True, but a native of the South Sea Islands or a visitor from another planet might appropriately assume that London was a vast collection of cages, of specimens kept in various dwellings.”

“Yes, but they would be wrong.”

He shrugged. “Would they? I wonder. Sometimes it seems to me… Bars are not necessary for a cage—the reptiles are behind glass. If the glass were thick enough, you could cage even a beast like our friend here. Such a cage would be almost invisible.”

I stared at him. “Your point being?”

“Must there be a point? Might we sit for a moment. I think I shall indulge myself in a cigarette—if you will allow it, Doctor.” His gray eyes again waxed ironic. I had been known to lecture him about his tobacco usage.

The cages were in a row all along one side of the lion house, while on the other, three concrete steps rose to a long platform with benches. Holmes and I went to the nearest bench. He set his hat, gloves and umbrella down on the wood, removed his overcoat, then withdrew his silver cigarette case from within his jacket pocket. He lit a cigarette, leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. His thin pale face seemed particularly angular, almost exaggerated, as if he had become a caricature of himself. As most people acknowledged when meeting him in the flesh, he was nowhere as handsome as Sidney Paget’s version illustrating Watson’s stories.

In summer the lion house could be a madhouse filled with running and shrieking children, but this Thursday in November was exceptionally quiet and peaceful, the vast hall nearly empty. The row of skylights cast gray light on the concrete. The soft murmur of a couple talking as they walked echoed off the high vaulted ceiling, their words indistinguishable. A lion gave a low, coughing sort of roar, more inquisitive than ferocious.

“Perhaps I have a point, after all, Henry. Perhaps London, like most cities, is one vast cage. Most of its inhabitants are trapped here, forced to labor in factories or offices and to daily breathe the noxious winter air heavy with coal smoke and soot. No fresh air or greenery for them. Perhaps we all dwell inside a variety of cages of the plate-glass variety, cages unseen, encasing us like the layers of an onion, each cage inhibiting us, enclosing us, in its own way. What, after all, could be more secure than invisible bars? None of us is truly free. No one. We are all imprisoned within ourselves.”

A soft laugh slipped from my lips. “What a cheery reflection! You have outdone yourself today.”

He shrugged. “It must be the beastly weather and the idea that it is just beginning, that weeks of gray cold rain or yellow fog lie before us.”

“I think it is time for you to take a winter holiday. Southern France, the Côte d’Azur, can be splendid this time of year. It may be cold, but never so dreary as London.”

He only shrugged. We stared at the sleeping tiger, who stirred and shifted onto its side, the big head rolling off its paw. We had walked a long while, and it was good to rest my legs. All the same, the hot stifling atmosphere with its rank animal smell was unpleasant. Holmes finished his cigarette, then dropped the butt and crushed it underfoot. “One cannot escape oneself on a holiday, not even at the south of France before the Mediterranean Sea.”

I stared closely at him. “What is wrong with you?”

He sighed and slapped his knees with his gloves. “Shall we walk? It is suffocating in here.”

“Yes, let’s walk. It is uncomfortable.”

On the way out we passed a handsome woman wearing a sable coat and a blue hat with blue plumes. She laughed at the small boy whose hand she held. Her perfume was overdone, but it did cut through the cat smell. The cool wet air and the steady drizzle outside were actually welcome. Holmes and I both paused under the eaves to button up our coats, put on our top hats, and open our umbrellas. He gave me a brief hard stare, appeared ready to speak, but then turned and strode away. We walked round the huge edifice of the lion house back toward Regent’s Park. Holmes looked briefly at me again.

“What is it?” I asked.

He lowered his eyes. “I know… that is to say… Michelle has heard nothing, has she? Nothing of Violet?—of Mrs. Wheelwright?”

I sighed wearily. Now I understood. Violet Wheelwright had been at the center of one of his most challenging cases, one which had ended in tragedy. I suspected she was also the only woman that Holmes had ever truly loved.

“You know I would tell you if she had. You will be the first to know if there is any word, I promise you.”

“Yes, yes.” He shook his head twice. “Of course I know that. I do know it. Only… Blast it all, Michelle is her friend! You would think she would have the common decency to…”

“Michelle worries about her too.”

His gait seemed to freeze for a second, his eyes shifting again to mine. “Does she now?”

“Yes.”

“It has been three years, and Michelle has not heard from her for two years.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“She need not send us cheerful monthly missives with all the quotidian details of her life, but she could at least let us know…” He seemed briefly to swallow his words, even as his eyes were fixed straight ahead. “She should let us know that she is alive.”

I nodded. “Yes, I agree with you. After all Michelle has done for her—and you as well—you both deserve that much, but it does little good to speculate about the worst. If anything had happened to her, I think we would have heard about it.”

“But how? She has willingly disappeared. It is all the same whether she be alive or dead. People disappear without a trace all the time.”

I drew in my breath, hesitating. “If she were going to harm herself, I think she would have let Michelle know.”

“Would she? Would that not be a worse betrayal? Would she not feel that it would be better that Michelle was deceived, that she still thought her alive? Would that not be better than the pain of knowing that she was truly dead?” His voice revealed something of his torment.

“I shall tell you what I tell Michelle. It is no use torturing yourself. You have done all that you could for her, and when I last saw her, she seemed much better. She had begun playing the violin again. Her disastrous marriage was finished, and—”

“At the cost of her husband’s life.”

“He would have killed her—he would have killed you.”

Holmes’s shoulders rose in a sort of half-shudder.

“But as I was saying, that was finished, and so were all her crimes. She was starting a new life, and she understood that she had done wrong. She was seeking redemption. That takes time, perhaps a lifetime. When she has found it at last, then she may come into our lives again.” Holmes stared ahead, his mouth fixed and tight. I grasped his arm lightly above the elbow. “We must hope for the best.”

“I am not good at… My profession deals in facts and certitude, not in hope.”

“All the same, there is the old saw, where there’s life, there’s hope.”

“If only I knew there was life—if I knew that, then I could hope.” He shook his head. The rain had begun in earnest, the falling drops a steady drone on the black fabric of our outstretched umbrellas. “Where is she, I wonder? She could be anywhere—a flat near Regent’s Park, or even somewhere close to Baker Street, or further still, outside of London. Greenwich, perhaps, or further yet, Manchester or Liverpool. No, not Liverpool. She may have parted from this sceptered isle. I can well imagine her on the Continent. Perhaps Vienna. With her natural elegance she would fit in well there. Or maybe Paris, Rome or Berlin. But enough of this—enough. I have trodden this particular path far too often, worn down a deep groove.

“I hope our meeting this afternoon with Mr. Hardy will lead to an interesting case. Idleness has always made me brood, and it grows worse with her long silence. I pray that Hardy tells us something of interest, something to divert my mind, to keep that savage beast ennui—far worse than any lion or tiger—at bay!”

I smiled. “If only you could lock up ennui in one of those invisible cages.”

“Yes, if only. Unfortunately, I always seem to end up sharing that innermost cage with Mr. Ennui.”

“Ah, so he is a gentleman, after all, and not a beast.”

“He is no gentleman.” We had reached a busy street at the edge of the park. “Let us hail a cab and get out of this rain. Unless the traffic is particularly wretched, we should be there slightly before our three o’clock appointment.”

* * *

Mr. Hardy’s butler must have been waiting for us, for he opened the door almost at once. A tall thin man of about fifty, he wore the customary black morning coat, waistcoat and cravat. Thick graying hair puffed out over his large outspread ears, and his broad smile was unrestrained and natural, rather than stiff and polite.

“Gentlemen, do come in! You must, of course, be Mr. Holmes, and this must be…”

“Vernier,” I said firmly. “The name is Vernier, Dr. Henry Vernier.”

The butler’s eyes were puzzled, even as his smile briefly faltered. “Indeed? A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Vernier. Let me take your umbrellas, your hats and overcoats. Beastly day, isn’t it? Feels more like December than November, but we have a jolly fire going and some excellent brandy. This way, please.”

We followed him up an ornate walnut staircase to the next floor, then down a hallway. He opened the door and waited for us to enter. Two tall windows stood on either side of a sturdy hearth constructed of red brick, and in the fireplace, yellow-orange flames flickered about a massive blackened log. A big man in a gray tweed suit quickly rose from a well-worn black leather sofa and smiled at us as he came forward. He appeared about the same age as his butler, but although his light-brown hair had no gray, most of it was missing on top. Perhaps by way of compensation, he had an enormous bushy reddish-brown mustache. His face was very full, his neck thick if not exactly flabby.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, so good of you to come! I’m John Hardy.” He clasped Holmes’s lean hand in his big one, then turned to me. “And this must be…”

My mouth stiffened, but the butler spoke first. “This is Dr. Henry Vernier.”

Hardy gave me a puzzled look, but Holmes spoke. “Henry is my cousin and my very good friend, Mr. Hardy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Hardy’s grip was as formidable as I expected. “Might I offer you something to drink, something to take the edge off, as they say?” He gestured in the direction of a sideboard of finely carved dark wood with its formidable array of decanters and bottles. “Good day for a brandy, I think, and I have quite an assortment. It’s my trade, after all—wine and spirits, that is: importing French wines and brandies, to be exact, and exporting our own whiskey in the other direction. The French invented brandy, you know—God bless them!”

Holmes spread his hands apart, his fingers opening up. “I shall trust your expertise, sir.”

I nodded. “So shall I.”

“Very good. I have just the thing. Saunders, would you pour us some Armagnac? The eighty-one Montesquiou.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You prefer Armagnac to cognac?” I asked.

He gave an emphatic nod. “No question there, no question at all. Brandy was born in Gascony in the eleventh-century. Their distillation process is superior, and they never cut the product with water. Cognac has the name and nowadays industrial production, but I could give you a dozen more reasons why… But I mustn’t start down that path, or I shall never stop! Brandies and clarets are my specialty, you know.” The butler hovered before us with a tray holding three snifters. “Help yourself, gentlemen.” After Holmes and I had our glasses, Hardy took the last one and raised it. “To your very good health!”

We raised our glasses as well, then I passed the rim under my nose. The amber liquid was marvelously fragrant. I took a slow sip. It was absolutely smooth-tasting and flavorful, far better than the brandy Michelle and I normally drank.

Holmes shook his head. “Remarkable, sir. My brother Mycroft is also a connoisseur of brandies, but I have never tasted anything to equal this.”

“A connoisseur, is he! We must have a contest sometime. He can bring two or three of his best, and I shall do the same.” Hardy took a big swallow, then gave a contented sigh. He gestured toward the fire. “You must be cold. The fire also takes off the edge.”

Holmes and I stepped nearer the fireplace. Hardy raised his glass, tilted it slightly, letting the red-orange firelight set the brown-gold Armagnac alight. “Nothing prettier than a good brandy, except perhaps a good red wine. One is the parent, the other its offspring. Spirits is an apt name for them: nothing better to lift human spirits.” He took a sip.

I had another swallow. What was true for Holmes was true for me: I had never tasted anything better. It did set my insides all aglow, and accompanied by the warmth of the fire, I felt truly content. We shared a companionable silence for a few minutes, which Holmes finally broke.

“This is indeed the ambrosial nectar of the gods, but I fear I must return us to earth. You asked me here on a matter of business, Mr. Hardy. Something of urgence, your note said.”

Hardy’s amiable countenance shifted, uneasiness clearly visible in his eyes. “So I did. So I did.” He sighed. “Why don’t we sit down? He took one end of the black leather sofa, Holmes the other, while I sat in a matching chair. It was very comfortable. The sitting room had a sparse masculine air, with no doilies, knickknacks or china figurines. Hardy sipped the brandy, put the glass on a tile coaster, then leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. He drew in his breath, as if readying himself to launch, then began.

“It concerns my wife, sir. I have the good fortune to have been married for thirteen years. I was forty when I married, a resigned bachelor of somewhat fixed and stodgy ways, but I have never had any regrets. To the contrary, I have been most happy. I wish I could say the same for my wife.” He drew in his breath. “So much of it comes down to temperament, in the end. I think that must be it. Some are simply born more high-strung, more finely tuned, than others. Nothing much troubles me. Oh, I can become impatient or irritated, but a certain sense of life’s basic absurdity soon makes me smile at circumstances. It does little good to fret and fume. That only makes matters worse.

“Marguerite, on the other hand—that is my wife’s name, Marguerite, and as you might suppose, she is French—she has never, I fear, been truly happy. I have tried my best. I have always treated her kindly, given her anything she might desire, but I sometimes think nothing has truly made a difference. Can someone be born sad, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes only shrugged, but I said, “I think not.”

“You might feel differently if you knew Marguerite, Dr. Vernier. There is perhaps an explanation, a partial one, anyway. She always wanted a child, and there was… hope on two occasions, but it was not meant to be.”

My brow furrowed. “Miscarriages?”

Hardy almost winced. “Exactly. She was in her thirties when we married. Yes, if we had a child, things might be different. Perhaps.”

Holmes stared closely at him. “But perhaps not?”

“As I said, it seems to me some people are born sad. That, and…” He hesitated. “It seems odd to me, odd that she should somehow conceive of it as a punishment.”

“A punishment?” I said.

“Yes. She is Roman Catholic, and she does have that Catholic sense of sin.”

“And you are not Catholic?” Holmes asked.

“No. Plain old Church of England, although we were married in the Catholic church. I had to take some instructions and promise to raise any children as Catholic. I was willing enough to do it, willing to do almost anything as a matter of fact.”

Holmes had begun to tap lightly at his knee with the outstretched fingers of his right hand. “If I could make sadness go away, Mr. Hardy, I could become a very rich man. It would also be far more rewarding than my current profession. You have still not said why you sent for me.”

Hardy leaned forward, staring at him intently. “Her sadness is a fact of life we had both become accustomed to, but fear is another matter entirely. She is frightened, Mr. Holmes, badly frightened. That is why I need your assistance.”

“Do you know what has frightened her?”

“Yes. I know what, but not why.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“I shall do better than that: I shall show you.” He leaned back in the sofa and took two papers from the end table, one a sheet of fine notepaper, the other a tan rectangle of newsprint. “Before I give you these, I should perhaps explain that they are not the originals. Those I managed to briefly see, but soon after, Marguerite cast them into the fire. They had come together in the afternoon post. The letter was striking and simple. My French is somewhat limited, but I comprehended the words and wrote them down soon after. I also managed to find a copy of the newspaper article later on. I have a friend who subscribes to Le Petit Parisien. He remembered reading the notice and helped me find it. Perhaps you should begin with the brief article. I could attempt to translate if…?”

Holmes gave his head a brusque shake. “That will not be necessary. I have spent some time in France and am fluent in the language. Henry was raised near Paris and speaks French like a native.” He leaned forward to take the clipping, stared at it for a couple minutes, then passed it to me.

A brief entry under “Paris” was circled in pencil. The well-known artist Gaston Lupin had died of heart failure. A lady friend had left him alive and in good spirits the night before, and his valet had found him dead the following morning. He left behind a collection of artworks worth a considerable fortune.

“Was the original also circled?”

“Yes. The clipping came with this letter. Let me read it aloud. Perhaps that might somehow help make sense of it.” He paused, raising and tipping his head slightly to see better. “Quatre pour le Diable.”

My breath came out in a confused laugh. He had a strong accent, but the words were clear enough. “Did you say ‘quatre pour le Diable’?”

“Yes.”

“‘Four for the Devil,’” Holmes murmured.

“Exactly. Then there are—and it should come as no surprise—four lines. ‘Le premier est Gaston. Le deuxième sera Angèle. Le troisième sera toi. Le quatrième sera moi.’”

Holmes’s forehead had creased. “‘The first is Gaston.’ Clear enough what that might suggest. ‘The second will be Angèle. The third will be you.’ The implied threat is obvious. ‘The fourth will be me.’ That is odd. Little wonder your wife is frightened. May I see the letter? Thank you. I assume it was written exactly like this, a line for each, five lines in all. And no signature?”

“None at all.”

“And the envelope? Did it have a return address?”

“Marguerite burned it before I could have a look, but I did recognize the stamp. It was a French one, as you might expect for a letter written in French.”

Holmes ran his fingertips along his right jawline, his eyes troubled. “‘Four for the Devil.’ You said your wife was Catholic? I suppose she must believe in the Devil.”

“Very much so, Mr. Holmes.”

“You mentioned that she has that Catholic sense of sin. Combine that with a belief in the Devil, and you have the makings of a considerable misery. Is she at home now? I must, of course, speak with her.”

Hardy shook his head quickly. “No, no—she is abroad, that is. In Paris.”

“When will she be back? There must be some connection between her and this murdered artist.”

Hardy’s cheeks rose slowly in a pained expression. “There is a problem, Mr. Holmes. It would be best, for now, if you could pursue the case on your own. Marguerite is… that is to say, when I told her I wanted to employ your services, she absolutely forbade it. This is a private matter, she said, not to be poked at by detectives. Besides, she could never discuss it with a man. But she knew of a woman, a woman who had acquired something of a reputation as an amateur detective, a woman who had helped one of her friends. She would go to Paris to meet this woman and see if she, too, might be helped.”

Holmes sighed softly. “So you are acting against her wishes?”

“I certainly am—can you blame me?”

I shook my head. “I cannot.”

Holmes rose to his feet, swung his left arm round back and clasped his wrist with his right hand, then took two steps toward the fireplace. He turned back toward Hardy and me. “Nor can I exactly blame you, but on the other hand, I fear I cannot take the case without her cooperation. Let this remarkable woman in Paris serve as her Sherlock Holmes.” His voice was ironical.

“Please, Mr. Holmes, I beg of you—you must help her. I shall pay whatever sum you demand. I know she is being unreasonable, but she is afraid and…”

Holmes stared closely at him. “And…?”

“She has never revealed much about her past. In fact before we were married, she told me she had not always led a virtuous life. She was ashamed of what she had done. But what was done was done, she said, and she had found consolation in her faith, as well as a sense of forgiveness. All the same, I promised never to question her about her earlier years. She wanted to forget them, to put them firmly behind her. I asked her if she could promise to be true to me and live up to the vows of matrimony, and she told me she could. ‘With all my heart,’ she said.” Hardy’s voice shook slightly. “That was all that mattered to me, and we have been happy together—I swear we have. But now…” He raised the letter in his big hand. “This is something from her past come back to haunt her, written by some person who bears her ill will.”

Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully, then his eyes shifted to the sideboard. “Would you mind if I had more of your excellent Armagnac?”

Hardy rose to his feet from the depths of the sofa, which appeared something of an effort for so large a man. “Not at all! I could use another spot myself. And you, Dr. Vernier?”

“Please.”

He poured some for Holmes, then came toward me with the ornate rounded bottle and added to my glass. After taking some for himself, he returned to the sofa. Holmes had already sat down and was staring thoughtfully at the brandy. The easy convivial air between us three was gone. We drank in silence. Hardy’s eyes were fixed on Holmes. At last he spoke.

“If I take this case, my path must eventually cross hers. You do not expect me to try to hide the fact I am working for you?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, I do not.” A mirthless smile pulled at his mouth. “I am not trying to swear you to secrecy, not at all. Eventually, too, I think she may see reason. There will come a time for a meeting. All I ask is that you delay it as long as possible. Perhaps, too, I may lay the groundwork for such a meeting. Besides, won’t it take some time to investigate this Gaston’s sudden death? That seems the logical starting point, or am I mistaken?”

Holmes shook his head. “No. That is where I must begin.”

“And you said you speak fluent French—that is excellent! I shall be happy to pay for one of the best hotels in Paris, and of course, I shall cover all your expenses.”

Holmes smiled briefly at me. “We have not been in Paris together, Henry, for a long while, not since that business of the Palais Garnier and its opera ghost.”

Hardy turned to me. “I shall gladly pay for your expenses as well, Dr. Vernier.”

“That is very generous of you.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes—let us take things a step at a time. Go to Paris, try to find out about this artist. See if you can discover any past link with Marguerite. Given your reputation, you must have contacts in the Paris police?” Holmes nodded. “Perfect! Please, I…”

Holmes raised his hand, his thin fingers outstretched. “Very well, Mr. Hardy—you win. We shall take it a step at a time. I shall go to Paris and see what I can discover. But you must at least answer a few questions. You said your wife is French. Did you meet her here in England or in France?”

“I met her in London thirteen years ago on a fine spring day upon Westminster Bridge. It was late Sunday morning, and I had begun a long stroll. I was halfway across the bridge when I saw her. I must confess that although I was a confirmed bachelor, I always had an eye for the ladies. She certainly stood out from the ordinary London women. I knew her nationality at once. She has the dark brown hair and eyes, almost black, so typical of French women. She is quite tall, and her bearing and elegant dress marked her as a lady. She was wearing a spectacular black and burgundy silk with a matching hat. Alongside her dark hair, her face was very pale, and her hands in their gloves gripped fiercely at the railing. She was staring out at the Thames, her eyes very far away, lost. I stopped, then went to the railing myself, and looked down at the gray-blue waters. I glanced at her twice, but she did not even see me. Her face, her hands, seemed frozen.

“At last I asked her if she was well. ‘What?’ she asked, and that single word revealed that I had been right. I asked her the same question in French. She seemed relieved to hear her native tongue. She told me she was feeling… un peu épuisée.” He gave us a questioning look.

“Worn out,” I said.

“Even so, or weary. I said that it must be difficult making her way in such a huge city when the language was new to her. She smiled at me, and that, gentlemen, was when I knew I was lost. She told me that was indeed the case. I suggested that perhaps she might wish to sit for a while and have a biscuit and coffee, something to revive her. We sat and chatted. She had been in London some two weeks and was completely overwhelmed by it all. She asked if she might practice her English with me. People had been brusque and unhelpful with her. I was happy to oblige. We spent the afternoon together, and I showed her some of the not quite so common sights. I suggested dinner, and then, well, you can gather where it went.”

Holmes had been regarding him closely. “Did she say why she was in London?”

“One of the first things I asked her was how long she planned to be here. ‘Indefinitely,’ she told me. She was weary of Paris and France. She wanted to begin a new life in London. By the end of that first day, I too thought about beginning a new life. We discovered a shared passion for music and the arts. We went to a performance of Gounod’s Faust at Covent Garden two weeks after we first met. It’s our favorite. We have seen every production of the opera done at Covent Garden or the Palais Garnier in the last dozen years.”

“You said she seemed sad,” Holmes said. “Was it always that way, even from the beginning?”

“Well, she certainly seemed… preoccupied. She would be happy and laughing, but then she would stare off into space and her eyes would go blank. There was less of that, however, as time went on, and more signs of happiness.” He smiled gently, then finished his brandy. “I had never believed in love at first sight, but she made a convert of me.”

“And did she ever speak of her life in France?”

“She told me she had lived in Paris, but little else. Her reticence became rather noticeable. I would ask her questions, and she would answer, but she never volunteered any information. It was also soon obvious that she was a wealthy woman. I could not ask specific questions—that just isn’t done, after all—but I would make vague inquiries, which received vague answers. After I had finally proposed to her and she had accepted, I…”

Holmes raised his hand. “Did she accept at once?”

“No. She told me she would have to think about it. I kept reminding her, but it was only after six months that she finally agreed, with some reluctance. I was—well, I was rather put out, or rather, my feelings were hurt. She realized that, and she touched my cheek and told me I was not to blame, that I was a generous and noble man, and that I mustn’t doubt myself. That was when she told me she wanted to forget her past, that I must not ask her about her earlier life.”

Holmes nodded. “And did you then discover the exact amount of her wealth?”

Hardy laughed once, then again. “I did indeed! I have done very well in my trade, Mr. Holmes. Even a dozen years ago, I could have lived in Grosvenor Square had I wished, although the peers and highbrows would still be unwilling to associate with a lowly chap like myself who dirties his hands in business. But Marguerite had ten times as much money as I did! She willingly gave it all over to me to invest, and I daresay I have doubled it within ten years.”

“Did she say where this fortune came from?”

“She did tell me that much. It was an inheritance. She had a wealthy uncle who died without children, and he left it to her.”

“And her mother, her parents, did she ever speak of them?”

Hardy’s forehead creased. “She never knew her father. Her mother… They are estranged. That was clear.”

“Was her mother a lady?”

“She was only a dressmaker, but she has her own shop in Paris now.”

“But despite her humble origins, your wife was clearly a lady?”

“Given Marguerite’s manners and elegance, there was never any doubt.”

Holmes stared at him. “No?”

Hardy stared back. “Mr. Holmes, you must understand, whatever her past, Marguerite has been a good wife to me. She has made me very happy. Our life together has been a good one.”

Holmes’s mouth remained tightly closed, but he eased his breath out through his nostrils. “So I see. And this letter—how long ago did she receive it?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“And were you with her when she opened it?”

Hardy’s face formed a characteristic expression, almost wincing.

He nodded.

“Tell me exactly what followed.”

He drew in his breath resolutely. “We were in our sitting room. I had a letter of my own which I read and set aside. I vaguely heard her opening the letter. It was quiet with only the tick of the clock and the snapping of the fire. I glanced at her, then looked again. She was sitting very stiffly on the sofa and staring off into the distance. The two papers and the envelope lay on the floor before her. I asked if she had dropped something, and she did not respond. Her face was deathly pale.

“I stood up. ‘Marguerite?’ I repeated her name. I had begun to worry. I stepped closer and touched her arm. She was quivering, and her teeth were clenched. I became alarmed and said her name again. She did not even hear me. I took her arms and raised her up. I was afraid she was having some kind of fit. I begged her to speak to me. I touched her face, and finally she seemed to see me.

“I brought her some brandy, helped her sit, and told her to drink it. I had to help her. When she was finished, she sank back into the sofa, closed her eyes, and clenched her fists tightly. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but she would not answer. I picked up the newspaper article, looked at it, then read the odd letter twice.

“‘What is this nonsense?’ I said.

“The pupils in her dark eyes were huge. She looked down at the papers sitting on my lap, then snatched them and balled them up in her fist. She put them in the fire before I could stop her. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I asked.

“She shook her head wildly. ‘Nothing. It is as you said—it is nonsense—only nonsense. Only a joke.’ She made a fierce horrible laughing sound which completely contradicted her words.

“I asked her repeatedly to tell me what was the matter, but she would say nothing. I daresay she slept not a wink that night, and I was wakeful myself. The next day she made an effort to pretend all was well, but I was not deceived. After a few days of her obvious misery, I asked again what had frightened her. She was evasive as ever.

“That was when I mentioned your name, Mr. Holmes. I knew you were the best, and that if anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was you. I’ve already told you how she responded. She had discussed the situation with her friend Mrs. Stanton who knew of a woman in Paris who had helped a mutual friend. I could not believe my ears, but there was no budging her. She said I must trust her, that I must leave this matter to her. My pleas for some explanation of what was wrong went unanswered.

“I became almost angry, and that was when she began to weep, in a silent desperate way even as her hands shook.” He shook his head. “What could I do? I did not want to cause her further pain. She left for Paris last week. Since then I have mulled things over, gone back and forth, but I finally wrote you yesterday, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes ran his slender fingers along his brow and into his black hair. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it briefly. “Mr. Hardy, I have no doubt whatsoever that this is a serious business. You wife’s reticence about her past raises obvious questions. Are you… are you absolutely certain you want me to pursue this? I may discover things which may make you regret involving me.”

Hardy stared resolutely at him. “I love my wife, Mr. Holmes. I cannot bear to see her suffer. I suspect this will not simply somehow resolve itself.”

Holmes laughed once, harshly. “No.”

“I told her before we were married that I didn’t care about her past—that what mattered was what sort of wife she would be. I have no complaints on that score—none. She has been a good wife, and we have been happy together. Whatever she has done in the past is past, irrelevant to me. Our thirteen years together are what matter. Nothing can change that.”

Holmes nodded, his expression wistful. “Very good. It is just as well. I suspect she is in danger.”

Hardy had raised his brandy glass, but he held it suspended in midair. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. This is most definitely not a joke. I shall look into the matter. I can leave for Paris the day after tomorrow.”

“Excellent, Mr. Holmes—excellent! I wish I could accompany you. Typically in the course of a year, I travel constantly back and forth between London and France on business. We have a townhouse in Paris off the Champs-Élysées. However, I have crucial business to attend to in Scotland—the whiskey trade, you know.”

“It is best I go alone.” Holmes glanced at me. “Or with my usual traveling companion, one whose French is superior to mine.”

I shrugged. “My practice is as anemic as ever. I can spare a few days.”

Hardy nodded eagerly. “It is settled then.”

“Oh, and could you provide me with the name and address of your wife’s mother’s shop?”

“I believe so. I shall also give you an address for myself in Scotland and that of our Paris townhouse.” He gave a great sigh. “I am relieved, gentlemen, greatly relieved!”

Holmes stared down at his glass, swirling it slightly, then his gray eyes returned to Hardy, the corners of his mouth rising grimly. “That may be premature, sir.” He tossed down the last of his brandy.

* * *

Being mid-November, the sun had set by around four PM. Twilight hung heavily over London, the atmosphere thick with mist, drizzle and coal smoke as we walked back toward Baker Street. Light came from the gas street lamps, the lamps of passing carriages, and the large rectangular windows of shop fronts. The cobblestones and walks were black with moisture, white highlights glistening. Cries, rumbles and clatterings formed a great din all around us: paper boys in cloth caps, street vendors of baked potatoes, emaciated girls with flowers—all hawked their goods; horses’ hooves with their iron shoes clopped on the street while the vehicles’ wheels groaned. Two massive draft horses pulled a two-story omnibus which went by. I felt sorry for the unlucky people seated up top exposed to the elements. An advertisement lettered on its side said something about a “scientific dress-cutting” establishment on Regency Street.

“What is scientific dress-cutting?” I mumbled.

My words seemed to take several seconds to register with Holmes. “What was that, Henry?”

“Nothing important. I suppose you must still be thinking about Mr. Hardy and his wife. A mysterious business, that.”

Holmes gave a sharp laugh and shook his head. “I fear it may not be so simple as it appears.”

“Simple? It hardly seemed simple to me.”

“Come now, is not the lady’s former profession obvious enough? She was probably a prostitute who left her trade.”

“But he said she was a lady.”

He laughed. “Oh, Henry! You truly are a hopeless romantic. She would not have been a common trollop, but one of the higher class, more expensive variety—a courtisane. Such women can make a considerable fortune and, if they have any business sense, retire early. They can then marry and lead a respectable life. However, they are an obvious target for blackmail. I have handled such cases before. The husbands, however, were hardly so understanding and sympathetic as Mr. Hardy.”

“She could simply tell him the truth. She practically seems to have done so. As you say, I think he would understand and forgive.”

“Yes. That is why I suspect something more serious, more complicated. Blackmailers do not generally drag the Devil into their dirty trade, and I am always suspicious when a death is attributed to ‘heart failure.’”

I shook my head. “Murder. Again.”

“Yes, Henry. That is my stock and trade after all.” He glanced about at the street crowded with traffic and the people surrounding us, the men in their dark coats and hats, the women in their bright garments dimmed by twilight and mist. “You were raised as a Catholic, were you not, Henry?”

“Yes, Michelle and I both were, but as I have told you before, in my case it did not exactly take.”

“And were you afraid of the Devil?”

An unwilled smile pulled at my mouth. “Terrified, actually. I was an agnostic at an early age, but my doubts didn’t seem to restrain my fear of the Devil. I was frightened of the dark, too. I thought Old Scratch might be lurking under my bed. The priests at school didn’t help matters. One told us that if you dug deep enough in the earth, ten feet or so, you would strike the fires of Hell.”

Holmes laughed. “That is taking literal-mindedness to an extreme! But then we live in an age of extremes. The marvels of science and new technologies overwhelm us, triggering a reaction. Some idealize the Middle Ages while others turn to devil worship. France and Italy, in particular, are hotbeds of Satanism.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh yes. It is the dark shadow of Catholicism; the two go hand in hand. Most of it is harmless mumbo-jumbo, a blend of superstitious nonsense and perverted rituals like the Black Mass. Sexual decadence and perversion are also characteristic. But that note… Gaston was one of the four, and Marguerite, obviously, but the other two… Somehow I think a woman wrote that note. Three women, then, and a man.”

Remembering exactly how frightened I had been as a boy made me uncomfortable, even after so many years. “And you, did you believe in the Devil?”

“I did, but I was not terribly afraid of him. The fear came later.”

“Fear of the Devil?”

“No. Fear of evil. I too have my doubts about Old Scratch, but evil is another matter. I have seen too much of it. Many strong-willed people have a great force or power about them. In some cases that strength of character becomes warped and dark. Simply being in the presence of such people is deeply disquieting. And when they torment others and actually take pleasure in human suffering…”

I shivered. “In other words, why blame the Devil? Certain people are capable of unspeakable crimes on their own.”

“Exactly, Henry. Exactly.”

“And you think that is what we may be up against?”

“I hope not, Henry. But we shall see. Perhaps this will turn out to be an uneventful trip to Paris during which we enjoy the fine cuisine and take in the opera.”

Another smile briefly pulled at my lips. “Somehow when we travel together it never seems to work out that way.”

Holmes gave a sudden sharp laugh. “By the time we arrive, perhaps my female counterpart will have neatly wrapped up the case for us!”

Chapter Two

“Tomorrow we shall have a petit déjeuner français, Henry, but today we must fortify ourselves with a hardy English breakfast to prepare ourselves for a busy day.”

The Meurice was one of those rare hotels in France which catered to the client’s every whim. Thus instead of bread, confiture, croissants and coffee, we ate bacon, sausages and fried eggs accompanied by buttered toast. Afterwards, we sipped our strong black coffee and regarded the ornate dining room with its high ceilings and a sparkling chandelier, its elegant table settings of white linen and silver, the men in black frock coats and their ladies in colorful silks, all quietly and decorously eating.

“Where are we going today?” I asked.

“First we will visit with Mrs. Hardy’s mother, Madame Delvaux.”

“Her mother? But I thought they were estranged.”

“Indeed, and finding out why should be most informative. Afterwards we shall meet with a genuine curiosity, one of those unique Englishmen who combines both eccentricity and genius, the Reverend Algernon Sumners.”

“The reverend? A priest, then. Anglican or Roman Catholic?”

“Things are a little vague in his case. He studied at Oxford, then preached briefly as a village curate, but something happened which made him return to London. He later converted to Roman Catholicism and now wears clerical garb, but I am not certain he has actually been ordained.”

“He dresses as a priest, but he may not be ordained? He does sound eccentric. And what exactly is his area of expertise?”

“The occult, Henry, and Satanism in particular. In the afternoon, I think we might go our separate ways. You can play the tourist while I visit some art galleries and see what I can discover about our friend, the late Monsieur Gaston Lupin.”

Soon we strode through the big lobby and out the revolving doors to the Rue de Rivoli. Holmes whistled some tune and swung his stick rhythmically. To our left, across the street, the Jardin des Tuileries was mostly deserted, cold and desolate-looking under the gray sky, its trees bare of the foliage. It was quite a contrast to summer when the park overflowed with people and greenery on the warm days. We turned right at the first corner, the Rue de Castiglione and headed in the direction of the Opéra. This was one of the typical Paris streets which changed its name every couple blocks, becoming Place Vendôme and then Rue de la Paix just before the Opéra. This last street was home to the House of Worth, the most chic and famous temple to fashion in Paris; empresses and princesses from all over Europe went there for dresses.

Ahead of us we could see the tall column of the Place Vendôme with the statue of Napoleon up on top. I recalled that it had been taken down after the uprising of the Paris Commune in 1871, but reconstructed three or four years later. Madame Delvaux’s small shop was down a side street off the Place Vendôme, not too far from the more elite Rue de la Paix. On a plate glass window was written in large letters, DELVAUX, and then smaller, Couturière Exclusive. Holmes opened the door, and I followed him in.

A woman seated at a large desk stared up at us from over the edge of the spectacles perched on her thin nose. Piles of magazines, obviously fashion ones, were stacked behind her on shelves, and two beautiful silk dresses were on display. Through an open doorway we could see young women in the back working with brightly colored material and paper patterns. Intermittently came the whirring sound of a sewing machine being operated by a treadle.

“Oui, messieurs?”

Holmes had removed his black silken top hat. “Madame Delvaux?” At her nod, he continued in French. “I wondered if you might be able to assist me. I am here on behalf of Mr. John Hardy.” He paused, but the name made no impression. “Your daughter Marguerite’s husband.”

At this, she eased her breath out in a weary sigh, then sat back in the chair and crossed her arms. Her forehead had deep creases that appeared permanently worn in. Her dark hair was parted in the middle, shot with gray, and her black eyes were faintly hostile. A beautiful navy silk dress, no doubt one of her creations, contrasted with the pallor of her skin. “Is she in trouble?”

“Perhaps,” Holmes said. “That is what I mean to find out.”

“I can tell you nothing—nothing at all. I know nothing.” With this last, she swung her arm and hand out from the elbow in a dismissive gesture.

“If you could only answer a few questions, that would be most helpful.”

Her lips pursed briefly. “Are you from the English police?”

Holmes shook his head. “No, no, she has done nothing wrong, nothing dishonest.”

“But you said she might be in trouble.”

“Not in trouble with the law. Someone has threatened her. She is afraid.”

Madame Delvaux shook her head emphatically. “I can’t help you with that. I have not seen her for a long time.”

“How long exactly?”

Forehead still creased, she reflected briefly. “Over a dozen years ago.”

“You are obviously not on good terms with your daughter, madame.”

She smiled bitterly. “Very perceptive, monsieur.”

“When did this estrangement begin?”

“And why precisely should I answer your questions?”

“You are, after all, her mother, and I wish to help her. Besides, it hardly seems a secret.”

She laughed. “No, I suppose not. When did it begin? Not exactly at birth, but it was never easy. When she was eighteen I broke with her, but the difficulties had begun a year or two earlier. I had scrimped and saved to send her to a proper school, one taught by the good sisters. I had no shop of my own then. I labored for hours a day cutting and sewing for a pittance. Even though she was poorer than the other students, you could never tell it from her clothes—I saw to that. But it was a mistake. She wanted to be rich and idle like the other girls. She was clever and intelligent, but she would not put her talents to good use. By the time she was eighteen, I was starting my shop. I wanted her to work here with me. I would have paid her well enough—far more than what I ever got!—but that was not good enough. Instead she must pretend to be a lady. She would flirt with men, and she would…” Her face had flushed, and she shook her head. “Never mind.”

Holmes glanced sideways at me. “How did she live?”

Madame Delvaux gave him a savage look. “Must I say it?”

“I suppose not.”

She stared down at the desk top and her hands. “She was not a cheap little… She did not have to register, thank God—no, she was better than that. She started with an infatuated young nobleman who gave her presents and money. She knew he would never marry her. She was not stupid. But she did not care. And after… I heard there were others.” She glared up at Holmes. “Now do you understand our estrangement? I am a decent woman, monsieur, I go to Mass every Sunday, while she…”

“She is about forty-eight now. That was a long time ago.”

She stared into the distance. “Some thirty years.”

“But you said you last saw her about a dozen years ago.”

“Thirteen—it was thirteen years ago.”

“What did she want?”

Again the bitter smile twisted her lips. “She offered me money. Imagine! She said I had been right, that her life had been wrong, but that she was a changed woman. She would give me money to show that she was different. I could retire. I asked her where the money came from, and she made up some ridiculous story. Long and short, she would not tell me, and I told her I did not want her filthy money. Unlike her, I was not made for a life of idleness. My store was flourishing by then, and I liked my work. She could keep her dishonest money and leave me in peace.”

Holmes hesitated. “She does not have a rich uncle?”

“She has no uncle at all! Only an aunt. Why do you ask?”

Holmes shrugged. “There was some mention of an uncle. I needn’t keep you, madame. I have two final questions. Have you ever heard of an artist named Gaston Lupin?”

“No. Never.” She had not hesitated and was obviously telling the truth.

“And did Marguerite ever have a friend named Angèle?”

“Angèle?” She laughed in earnest. “No, she would hardly be one to have a friend with such an angelic name.”

“Did she have any friend at school whom you can remember?”

“Yes, one. Her name was Anne, Anne Marie.”

“What was she like?”