George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

On seeing Watson’s obvious discomfort, the grotesque slapped his immense belly and squealed with shrill laughter, beckoning us towards a table in the corner of the stifling room. He was still giggling inanely as he pranced away, leaving Watson gazing around in horror and bewilderment. The low ceiling was covered in a mass of writhing wax bodies, tormented by demonic effigies that seemed almost alive in the flickering light of the torches that smouldered on the walls. Vapours rose from the floor, bringing with them the unsettling odour of brimstone and sulphur, while, suspended in an oversized cauldron at the far end of the room, five wailing musicians launched into a raucous rendition of Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre. The audience whooped and applauded, as photographers in scarlet dinner jackets and carnival masks chronicled the chthonian gaiety, their flash powder only adding to the disorientating atmosphere.

Watson produced another handkerchief, but this time employed it by dabbing the sweat from his brow. Conspiratorially, he leant forward to make himself heard over the infernal strings and braying laughter of our fellow patrons. Any bravado the doctor had displayed at the gates of hell was now gone, replaced by the near panic of a man who finds himself severely out of his depth.

“My dear,” he stammered, his breath warm against my cheek. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea. Such a place…”

“Mere histrionics, nothing more,” I replied, turning so his face was inches from my own. “But, you can see why I would worry that Robert would choose to come here.”

His eyes swept across the bawdy tableau, the revellers throwing caution and decency to the wind, urged on by scantily-clad waitresses who supplied tray after tray of potent libations in phosphorescent glasses.

Such a nymph soon approached our table, wickedly offering to deliver any pleasure from the nine circles of hell. Watson looked as if he was about to fall from his chair until I advised the poor doctor that she meant drinks, nothing more.

“Oh, t-that’s all right then,” he spluttered in English, before reverting to French to order two coffees.

“Coffees?” our serving girl parroted, with a look that suggested that she was about to mercilessly mock the doctor to an inch of his life, or have him ejected on the spot for wanton conventionality.

I jumped in, winking at the young nymph. “And make sure there’s a shot of cognac in both of those, eh?”

The waitress smiled in return. “Two seething bumpers of molten sin with a dash of brimstone intensifier coming right up.”

As she turned to leave, Watson called after her.

“Is there anything else I can get you, sinner?” she asked, with a look that could instantly condemn any man’s soul to eternal damnation.

“We’re looking for a friend of ours, who came here.”

For the first time since her arrival, the imp’s outrageous act faltered, her large eyes darting between us. “Hell asks no questions,” she replied, with just enough steel in her sing-song voice to warn that the conversation was at an end. Watson was having none of it however, and pushed home his point. “His name is Robert Langtry. We know he came here. We just wish to know that he is safe.”

The waitress shot a look over at the portly master of ceremonies, who stomped over, his earlier jocularity a mere memory. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, glaring at us both.

Watson raised a placating hand. “We were merely asking after a friend of ours who we know frequented your… charming establishment a number of times.”

The man’s glower intensified. “Demons tell no tales. I suggest that you take the hint, sir . Otherwise, you could find yourself burned for re–”

A crash from a nearby table cut the obvious threat short. One of our neighbours, a tall man in fine evening dress, but more than a little worse for wear, had tumbled from his stool, taking a tray of lightly glowing glasses with him.

“ Excuse me ,” the drunk slurred in broken French, his thick beard matted with wine and God knows what else. “Here, I’ll help.”

“No need,” the master of ceremonies insisted, helping the inebriated idiot to his feet as an army of nymphs appeared from nowhere to sweep up the broken glass. “Perhaps you have had enough hellfire for one night, proud sinner.”

The drunkard laughed off the suggestion. “Nonsense,” he drawled, producing a wallet stuffed with banknotes. “I’m happy to pay for my transgressions.” He threw his arms out in an expansive gesture that would have struck me in the face if I hadn’t ducked at the last moment. “For everyone’s transgressions!”

His greedy eyes spying the small fortune in the man’s wallet, the master of ceremonies guided the poor fellow back onto his stool. “Then your sins are forgiven, monsieur. May I suggest you commit some new ones!”

He clicked his podgy fingers, calling for a waitress to take more of the inebriate’s money, before departing, firing a warning glance at Watson as he passed.

I put my hand on Watson’s arm. “That was close. I thought we were done for.”

The doctor nodded. “Maybe we should tread more carefully, if you’re sure you want to stay?”

I had no chance to answer before our waitress returned, carrying two steaming cups. She stepped between us, leaning across to place them on the table in front of Watson. As the doctor went to pay, she hissed in his ear.

“I’ve seen your friend.”

He shot me a look before replying. “You have?”

The girl nodded, proceeding to describe Robert to perfection, from his neatly parted auburn hair to eyes the colour of sapphires. Watson glanced in my direction once again, and I nodded sharply, confirming that the description matched that of my husband.

The girl hovered at Watson’s elbow, checking that the master of ceremonies wasn’t watching, before continuing. “He came in last week, in a worse state than ever, demanding to use some of the cabaret’s, well, more… esoteric services.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

She replied with a question of her own. “Have you heard of the Devil’s Closet?”

I shook my head.

“You see that curtain?” she said, indicating a heavy maroon cloth that hung at the back of the room. “Beyond that is a pit covered by a heavy wooden trapdoor. Customers pay to be locked inside, as if they are being buried alive.”

“Why on Earth would they do such a thing?” Watson asked in wonderment.

“Hell asks no questions,” I reminded him.

The waitress shrugged. “Sometimes they are alone–”

“But not always?” I enquired. “What about Robert?”

“He was alone. I didn’t see him go into the pit myself, but passed his request onto the master of ceremonies.”

“Our delightful friend with an aversion to clothing?” Watson inquired.

The girl gave another nervous glance in the man’s direction. “He only allows customers to be locked in for short periods of time.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. A danger of suffocation, maybe?”

My stomach churned as I watched Watson’s face. The man was forming a plan even as the girl spoke. “All part of the deprived thrill, I suppose,” he commented, rubbing his chin as he came to a decision. “Could you get us into the pit?”

The girl looked uncertain and so Watson added the clincher: “We’ll pay, of course!”

“I can ask, if you promise not to make any more trouble.”

“You have my word.”

She nodded and left our table, distracted on her way to the master of ceremonies by the drunk who, incredibly, was already ordering another round of drinks.

“What are you thinking ?” I whispered, as soon as she was out of earshot.