George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

I shook my head. “For its bohemian splendour, Paris is more conservative than Monsieur du Maurier would have you believe. Having survived one scandal in Bohemia, I am eager to avoid another.”

Holmes rewarded me with another tight smile. “Watson, you will go to Le Cabaret de L’Enfer ,” he commanded.

“Of course,” the doctor agreed, ever the faithful bloodhound. “I’ll make enquiries, see when your husband was last seen, that kind of thing.”

“If you are sure,” I said. “ Le Cabaret is rather… theatrical.”

“Watson’s a man of the world,” Holmes insisted. “Not much shocks him, isn’t that right?”

The doctor chuckled, although I could see the trepidation in his eyes.

“And what of you, Mr Holmes?” I inquired.

“I shall return to our hotel,” he replied, drawing a look of dismay from Watson. “As you quite correctly surmise, my presence would draw too much attention. As always, I can rely on Watson to be my eyes and ears.”

Holmes rose to his feet, reaching for my hand. I had thought that he was a man who balked from human contact – and yet, he bowed and kissed my hand, with such gentleness that I almost caught my breath.

“Au revoir, dear lady. Please be assured that we will do everything within our power to reunite you with your husband.”

With that, my saviours departed, leaving me alone at my table. The door to the café closed, and I released the breath I had barely been aware I was holding.

Perhaps everything would be as it should be, after all.

That evening, the streets of Montmartre were heaving from the moment the sun dipped below the horizon. You could almost taste the anticipation in the air. The brave and foolish descended onto the narrow roads, wondering what adventures the night would bring.

No one gave me a second look, sitting outside a pleasantly shabby bistro, smoking a cigarette, a newspaper laid in front of me as I waited, just another soul wiling away the hours until the revels began.

I saw him at once, parading down the road, back ramrod straight, looking neither left nor right, no doubt in case he caught the eye of devils proffering temptations of both body and soul. I couldn’t help but laugh. John Watson, the Englishman abroad, desperately trying to look as though he owned the place, even though he was so very far from home. I extinguished my cigarette and rose as he approached.

“Dr Watson?”

He started, caught between stopping to see who had called his name and fleeing in panic.

“I’m sorry, I…”

His voice trailed off as realisation dawned, his eyes growing wide as they took me in from head to foot. “Good lord!”

The doctor took a step closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear. “Mrs Langtry?”

I thrust out my hand, only increasing his bewilderment. Out of habit, he took it, and I shook his sweating hand vigorously.

“That’s it,” said I, my voice a good octave lower than normal. “Just two old friends meeting in the street. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I– I wouldn’t say that,” he stammered, struggling to find the words.

I released his hand, and brushed an imaginary piece of fluff from my sleeve. “I must admit that I’m out of practice, but it’s gratifying to know that I can still fool you as I did Mr Holmes on the steps of Baker Street.”

Watson was still staring open-mouthed at my attire, from the top hat perched atop a masculine wig to my sharply pressed trousers. “As Mr Holmes suggested, ladies of good character would never frequent Le Cabaret de L’Enfer , but as for gentlemen? Well, the same standards never apply, do they not?”

“Surely you don’t intend to come in with me?”

“I certainly do. I admit, I wouldn’t venture through the gates of hell on my own, but by your side, I fear no ill.”

“Shall we then?” the good Doctor asked, wisely deciding that the argument was lost.

I took one last sip from the cup of coffee I had been nursing and, leaving my paper on the table, led Watson down the street. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Dr Watson’s expression on finally seeing our destination was a delight to behold. If the sight of a woman in man’s clothing had been enough to rock his world to its very foundations, nothing could prepare him from the entrance of Le Cabaret de L’Enfer. The exterior been fashioned to resemble molten lava, the upper reaches of the building adorned by hideous statues of naked men and women writhing in agony and ecstasy. The door to the nightclub was surrounded by a gigantic carved face of Lucifer himself, crimson eyes blazing with hellfire. You entered by means of a gaping, fanged maw, the doorman dressed as a horned imp, complete with cape and pitchfork.

“Dear God,” Watson muttered, appalled at the sight.

“There is little of the Almighty beyond those doors, Doctor,” I promised. “At least, that’s what the customers hope and pray.”

“And your husband came here , to such a den of iniquity?” he marvelled, staring at me with judgement in his eyes.

I let my pain show in my face. “Yes,” I said quietly.

Realising his insensitivity, the doctor placed a comforting hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I realise this must be difficult. If you wouldn’t rather–”

“No,” I said abruptly, before he could send me home. “I’ve come this far and need to know if Robert was here.”

The doctor took a deep breath, and looking as if he was about to offer me his arm, thankfully stopping himself at the last moment.

“Shall we?” he said, covering his embarrassment.

I punched him manfully in the arm. “Whatever you say, old man .”

Watson laughed, playing along at last, and we approached the astonishing facade. All at once, the impish doorman danced a jig and hooted in merriment. “A-ha,” he shouted out to us in his native French, “still they come, the lost and bedevilled. Oh, how they shall roast.”

To his credit, Watson didn’t hesitate. He marched up to the red-faced fellow and, with surprising mastery of the imp’s own tongue, demanded entrance. The doorman bowed dramatically. “Of course, foolish mortal, we welcome all sinners here.” With a flourish, the gaudy fellow opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped aside. “Enter and be damned. The Evil One awaits.”

Showing more humour than I expected, Watson rubbed his hands together as he crossed the threshold. “Well, I hope he’s stoked the fire. It’s been positively freezing all day.” The doorman brayed a peel of frenzied laughter, slamming the door behind us.

We found ourselves in a sloping corridor, decorated to resemble the Devil’s gullet and lined by glowing grates that belched thick smoke.

“Charming,” Watson commented, coughing into his gloved hand. “I’m surprised they don’t open a concern in the West End.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” I replied, taking the lead and walking towards a door at the end of the uncanny passage. The music that spilled through the gaudily painted wood was unmistakable: the second act of Berlioz’s La damnation de Faust . Robert and I had seen it performed at the Opéra de Monte-Carlo in ’93 and I was glad that I could blame the smoke for the tears that once again troubled my eyes.

A narrow window slid open in the door, a ghastly face appearing in the gap. Spotting us, this keeper of the inner sanctum let out a howl of pleasure and, throwing open the door, beckoned us in.

“More fuel for the fire – welcome, welcome.”

If Watson had balked at his first sight of the club, one glance at this fellow almost had him running for the hills. Unlike the imp on the street outside, the master of ceremonies wore no cloak. In fact, he wore little at all, his corpulent frame naked, save for a loincloth to protect what little was left of his dignity. Every inch of his flesh was daubed red, although rivulets of sweat had carved obscene paths through the greasepaint. Beady bloodshot eyes were caked in thickly applied mascara that ran down prodigious jowls, while his hairless mound of a head was adorned by a pair of wooden antlers, around which some creative soul had twisted velvet snakes of multiple colours.