George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

The detective inclined his head in reluctant apology.

“It is that obvious?” I inquired.

“A lady writes to a man with whom she has had no contact for over a decade. She offers to pay for his transport, insisting that he tells no one his destination. Then, when they finally meet, she spends the entire time playing with the wedding band on her finger.”

I glanced down to see that, as always, the man was correct. I clasped my hands together.

Holmes continued, reeling off his theories as if they should be obvious to all. “Her marriage is therefore very much at the forefront of her mind.”

“Could it be that she is in trouble herself?” I asked.

This he considered, before rejecting it completely. “Possibly, although if that was the case, why meet in public, choosing a table so near the window? No, she is not concerned for herself, but for the man she loves.”

The detective sat back, so confident in his own abilities that he had no need to inquire if his supposition was correct. I burned beneath his gaze, tears welling in my eyes.

“You are correct, of course,” I eventually conceded, the mere mention of my beloved’s name catching in my throat. “Robert has… not been himself of late.” I reached for my bag as the first tear fell. Dr Watson produced a handkerchief quicker than I could find my own. Of course he did.

Offering thanks, I dabbed at my face before continuing my tale.

“After leaving London, Robert and I travelled for a while, before settling here in Paris. Robert established a practice and we started making friends. Good friends. It was everything we’d always wanted.” My voice failed me again. “Almost.”

“Almost?” Watson echoed.

I offered the doctor’s handkerchief back to him, but he waved it away. I folded the cloth and placed it in my bag, knowing all too well that both men’s eyes were still on me.

“While Robert and I could build a home,” I continued softly, “it soon became obvious that we could not build a family.”

Watson’s mouth dropped open at my honesty.

“My dear, I’m so sorry…” he began, somewhat flustered that the conversation had taken such a personal turn.

“At first, Robert hid his disappointment, insisting that we had each other, which was all that mattered.

“And yet I know it burned away at him. Our friends would regale him with stories about their children and his face would darken, a shadow that came to consume him over time. He starting drinking heavily, staying out to all hours. He said it was on business, but a wife knows when she is hearing lies.” The words stung even as I spoke them. “It is all too easy to fall into the wrong crowd in Paris, gentlemen.”

“And, once you fall, all too difficult to claw yourself back out again, I would think,” Watson offered.

I nodded, giving the doctor a grateful smile. “He kept up appearances, of course. I was dressed in the latest fashions, we were seen at the right events, and yet…”

“Yes?”

“Things would disappear from the house. Trinkets at first, but then paintings, the miniatures he had begun to collect when the practice had started to do well. He claimed he was bored of them, and yet no replacements took their place. And then I realised that his mother’s jewels were missing.”

“He was gambling?” Watson asked, the look of compassion in his eyes almost too much to bear.

Again I nodded, the sounds of the café filling the silence around our table: the clatter of china, the buzz of mid-morning conversation.

Finally, Holmes delivered another painfully direct question.

“Where is your husband now?”

I swallowed, struggling to maintain my composure. “I do not know,” I told him, the merest shake of my head sending fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.

“A week ago, Robert went out to work and never returned. No one has seen him since. People have been very kind, but I know what they are thinking. You should have seen him, Mr Holmes, that morning. He wasn’t the man I married with you standing behind us, stinking of shag tobacco in your ridiculous disguise.”

A flicker of recollection crossed Holmes’s narrow features, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“He was as pale as I had ever seen him,” I continued, “his hands shaking as he picked up his case. He didn’t even say goodbye, but rushed out of the front door, slamming it behind him in his haste.”

“And when Mr Langtry failed to return home…” Watson began, obviously choosing his words carefully, so not to upset me further, “did you–”

“Did I find anything else missing?”

Watson nodded, looking embarrassed that he would even have to ask.

I sat up straight, determined not to play the helpless woman any more. “As you know, Doctor, I have lived an interesting life. I am not proud of everything I have done, but I stand by the decisions I have made.”

“Decisions that have made foes along the way,” Holmes reminded me. “Fortunately, you have taken out certain… insurances.”

“I have articles that assure my safety, yes. As long as they are in my possession, then the individuals I have wronged will leave me alone–”

“In fear of you going to the press.”

“Or going to other interested parties. You may not approve, but it has served me well. I have never demanded so much as a penny for my silence, never acting in spite or retaliation.”

“Very… honourable,” Watson muttered with little in the way of commitment, but I didn’t care a jot what he thought of me. It wasn’t as if the man hadn’t made his mind up about my “dubious and questionable memory” long ago.

“These articles,” Holmes inquired, “your husband was aware of them?”

I nodded. “Of course. I kept nothing from him.”

“Which must have been all the more galling when you discovered that he had absconded with them.”

It was not a question.

“My husband was… is a loyal and loving man, Mr Holmes. Whatever he has done, Robert would never knowingly place me at risk. Wherever he is, I am sure that he believes he is doing the right thing–”

“But has no idea what dangers await him.”

“The reason I approached Dr Watson rather than yourself is that I fear for my husband’s life.”

“My presence would have been more conspicuous.”

“Which is why I now regret my choice of this café for exactly the reasons you suggest. We can easily be seen from the street. Meeting Dr Watson in such a place is one thing…” I turned to the medical man. “Your appearance is somewhat nondescript, after all, Doctor.”

Watson did his best not to look insulted.

“Whereas Mr Holmes bears one of the most recognisable profiles in all of Europe, thanks to your stories.”

“You fear my presence can only spell more trouble for your husband, wherever he is.” The detective considered my words, before delivering his verdict. “Mrs Langtry, I apologise that I foisted myself on the good doctor. Tell me, have you any idea of the establishments that your husband frequented in the weeks leading up to his disappearance? You say he had been drinking and gambling.”

I nodded, opening my purse once again. “I found these,” I said, drawing out two dog-eared books of matches. Holmes reached for them, turning them over in his long fingers to read the garish legend emblazoned across the cover.

“ Le Cabaret de L’Enfer. ”

I let my distaste show on my face. “It is a nightclub on the Boulevard de Clichy.”

Holmes looked up from the matches. “Near Place Pigalle? The wrong crowd indeed.”

“Have you visited this… cabaret?” Watson chimed in. “To ask if anyone has seen him?”

“Watson, the cabarets of La Pigalle are not places for ladies of good character.” The doctor soon gathered Holmes’s meaning. “Nor could Mrs Langtry request that any of her husband’s friends or colleagues investigate on her behalf.”