George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

“Good lord!”

“Fortunately Baynes had taken the syringes and vials of sedative from The Briars to have them analysed. He was obliged to use one on you.”

“I think I felt it.” I pushed up my sleeve and saw a yellowing bruise on my arm. “His technique left something to be desired, but at least he got the job done. What happened to you?”

“The same, but considerably less dramatic. It appears I had already been subject to ergot poisoning but in a much milder form. Hence my recent, foul disposition. When Mrs Hudson had the chimney swept in my room, it must have dislodged the brick the flute was hidden behind and released a few particles into the atmosphere. By some good fortune, I did not inhale a great deal of the particulate matter from the flute either. I had enough time to research our condition before I began to feel the effects myself.”

“We should have both been in hospital!” I exclaimed.

“There was no need. The hospital came to us,” Holmes replied. “Baynes contacted Mycroft who sent the best doctors and nurses the British government can call upon. They have been ministering to us for the past three days. In fact, they left only a few hours ago.”

“The same must have happened to Professor Shawcross and Peter Allenby,” I noted. “Except they received significantly stronger doses.”

“Potent enough to break Shawcross’s mind and send Allenby, pursued by phantasms, to his doom in the marsh. It is no wonder that in the Middle Ages those afflicted were thought bewitched or possessed by demons.”

“And what of Baynes?” I asked.

Holmes grinned. “Come with me.”

Holmes helped me out of bed and, like a pair of geriatrics, we made our way into the next room. There, asleep on the settee and snoring like a freight train, was Inspector Baynes.

“Mycroft said he refused to leave. He wished to stand watch until we were well. He is an extraordinary individual, don’t you think?” said Holmes.

“It takes one to know one,” I replied.

“With a singular exception,” added Holmes.

“What’s that?”

“He does not have the benefit of a noble Boswell, as I do.”

Irene Adleris an enigma. Like Moriarty, she makes only one appearance in the canon, but her impact in the Sherlockian universe is incalculable – mainly due to the title that she is granted by the Detective himself. To Holmes, we learn, she is always the woman. Holmes feels no passion for the former opera singer, only professional respect. She is wily and shrewd, more than capable of protecting herself. Holmes’s biographer rather unfairly declares that Adler is of “dubious and questionable memory”, even though she does little to deserve such a slur. Yes, she has in her possession a compromising photograph of the King of Bohemia, which she intends to use to ruin the indiscrete royal. But do we hear this from her own lips? No, the allegation comes from the king, and only after he has ransacked her house and attempted to steal her luggage! Holmes’s own investigations only bring to light that Adler lives a quiet life, is never out late and has but one gentleman caller, whom she proceeds to marry. If anything, it is the King who behaves in a dubious manner, not to mention a certain detective who employs a series of disguises to entrap the lady.

Perhaps this is the real reason that Sherlock Holmes requests a photo of Adler as his reward at the end of the sorry affair. It is a reminder that not all of the detective’s quarries are as guilty as charged…

The last person I wanted to see was Sherlock Holmes. I had made it perfectly clear in my letter to John Watson. Come alone, and tell no one the reason for your visit to Paris. Especially not him. Not Holmes.

And yet here he was, strolling through the door of the Café Verlet. I should have left there and then, head held high – but Watson would have simply come after me, the quintessential gentleman, so gallant, so brave, always ready to leap to the aid of a damsel in distress.

It was what had brought him here, after all. Racing to my aid across the Channel, with Holmes by his side.

Why was I surprised?

I rose, extending a hand that Watson took gladly, his lips brushing against my fingers.

“Mrs Langtry.”

“Dr Watson,” I responded, attempting to keep the tremor from my voice as I turned to acknowledge his constant companion. “Mr Holmes.”

Holmes returned the greeting with a curt bow. How little the man had changed in the years since we’d last laid eyes on each other. As tall and gaunt as ever, his hair resolutely dark, although a few flecks of grey dotted those monumental eyebrows. It was curious that the brows never made their way into Mr Paget’s illustrations. Perhaps the editor of The Strand had insisted on a more noble aspect for his hero. Give the people what they want, and all that.

I sat, indicating for Holmes and Watson to do likewise. Within seconds, a waiter had appeared at our table and orders were taken, delaying Watson’s inevitable apology.

“Mrs Langtry, I realise that you specifically asked for me to come alone–”

“And yet you have brought company,” I interrupted, turning to regard the great detective of Baker Street.

Holmes smiled sincerely. “You must not blame the doctor.”

“Is that so?”

“Watson is incapable of keeping a secret, especially from me. From the moment he opened the letter, I realised that something was afoot. First, there was the look of surprise on his face, and then the ridiculous attempt to appear nonchalant as he continued to read.”

“Really, Holmes,” the affronted doctor complained.

“Well, if you will leave the envelope on the arm of your chair, where I could easily make out the handwriting…” Holmes returned his gaze to me. “Naturally, when Watson announced that he was leaving for the continent–”

“You insisted on accompanying him.”

Holmes nodded, a genuine smile on those thin lips.

I sat back, regarding them both.

“Mrs Langtry.” I laughed, as if rolling my own name around my mouth. “I half expected you to address me as Mrs Norton, or Miss Adler, for that matter.”

Watson granted himself a chuckle, although I couldn’t tell if it was formed of amusement, or acute embarrassment. “You read my account, then.”

“Of course. It’s not every day a girl finds herself immortalised, even under an alias.”

“One has to protect the innocent.”

“And the guilty?”

Holmes laughed heartily, as colour rushed to his Boswell’s already ruddy cheeks.

“Mrs Langtry,” said the detective, “tempting though it is, I’m sure you didn’t summon us all this way to taunt Watson over his literary foibles.”

“I didn’t summon you at all.”

“Touché.”

Our verbal sparring was interrupted by the waiter as he delivered the gentlemen’s orders. Holmes’s eyes never left me as the over-attentive Frenchman fussed at our table. Sweat prickled on my neck.

After what seemed like an eternity, we were again left to our own devices. Holmes waited expectantly as I turned to his biographer.

“I am grateful that you would come all this way, Doctor. I admit I had little idea who else to turn to. My letter must have come as something of a surprise.”

“I cannot pretend that it did not.”

I nodded. “I am a proud woman, and not accustomed to asking for help, from anyone.”

Before I could utter another word, Holmes took control of the conversation once again.

“It concerns your husband, Robert Langtry,” Holmes interjected, drawing a rebuke from his companion.

“Holmes, really. Let the lady speak.”