Bonnie Macbird - Unquiet Spirits - Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

‘I said no.’ Holmes leaned forward, stubbing his own cigarette into the ashtray in the centre of the table. Without shifting position, and with a dexterity I could scarcely credit, Mycroft suddenly thrust his arm forward and clapped his large hand over Holmes’s long thin one, slamming it into the ashtray and onto the still smouldering cigarette. And there he held it. I could not believe what I was seeing.

His hand unmoving, Mycroft’s voice remained warm and friendly. ‘Consider the plight of this man, Dr Janvier, Sherlock. He is brilliant, a genius with few friends. A naïf in a certain way. But his work is vital, with economic and political repercussions. I assure you, no British official wishes him dead.’

He continued to hold his hand clamped over Holmes’s. My friend indicated nothing, but I could see the sweat beading on his brow. With a sudden move, I took up the coffee pot and poured a small splash of hot coffee on Mycroft’s hand. With a cry he released Holmes and the two sprung back from the table, each cradling an injured hand.

‘So sorry, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘As long as we are discussing saving wine and Western civilization, might we not be a little more civilized ourselves?’ I said.

‘And there is my point, Sherlock. Paul-Édouard Janvier has no Watson. Do this for me, will you not, little brother? You are uniquely suited. England will thank you. I will thank you, and a certain august personage at Windsor will certainly be grateful.’

From his pocket Mycroft now withdrew a large, thick envelope and placed it on the table. ‘You will be needing an advance, of course. Report to me daily on your progress.’

Holmes stared at the envelope in disdain. But he then looked away thoughtfully, and to my surprise, reconsidered.

‘I will do it, Mycroft, for this man Dr Janvier. But not for you,’ said Holmes. He reached down and flicked the envelope back across the table to Mycroft. ‘Keep your advance. Pay me when the case is closed.’

Mycroft smiled and sat down, delicately wiping the coffee from his hand with a white linen napkin. ‘Dr Watson, you have been little challenged of late. Might you break free from the marital bonds to accompany my brother on a trip to the Riviera?’

Little challenged! Had I been watched as well? Holmes glanced my way with a nod of encouragement. ‘This can be arranged,’ said I. ‘My dear Mary has some obligations herself, you see, as she has to—’

‘Capital! The 4.15 from Waterloo, the day after tomorrow,’ said Mycroft. ‘Tickets, and a packet of information will be at Baker Street within the hour. You may change your mind later about the advance, Sherlock. Meanwhile, enjoy the South of France. The sunshine will do you both good.’

He glanced in my direction. ‘But do stay away from the casino, Dr Watson.’

I could feel my cheeks colouring at this comment. ‘I have given up gambling,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ said both brothers simultaneously.

‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Mycroft.

I will admit to a curious, if not longing glance at that thick envelope as we departed.

Back on the street my friend was in a dark humour. The snow was coming down in a fury now, and I looked about for a cab.

‘Your brother is mad,’ I remarked. ‘And you are not far behind.’

‘No, Watson. He is just a type you have not encountered. He is … effective. But I am generally ahead of him, and will be quicker next time.’

Quicker? What kind of family spawned these two?

‘Why did you not take the money?’ I asked.

‘I dislike taking payment in advance,’ said he. ‘It changes the equation.’

But in this he was inconsistent, as in so many things. At last I spotted a free cab. I would use my last coins if need be to get out of this weather. Holmes preferred to walk, and as the cab departed I looked back to see his thin, lone figure vanish in the swirling snow. Whatever awaited us in the South of France, it would include sunshine. Of that, and only that, I was certain.

s Mycroft had decreed, Holmes and I began our journey two days later. Passing through Dover, we traversed the channel and our train wended its way south through France. Holmes buried himself obsessively in notes and newspaper clippings on the phylloxera epidemic, and the Scottish families named as suspects in the threats to Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. I, on the other hand, could not help but wonder about Mrs Isla McLaren, and her curious tale. That the McLarens featured in two cases presented to Holmes within twenty-four hours intrigued me. But Holmes was not willing to converse, and so I passed the time buried in Mary Shelley’s intriguing novel inspired by Galvani’s electrical experimentation. We thus passed the journey in companionable silence.

Our route took us through the Loire valley where Holmes disembarked unexpectedly at the city of Tours. ‘I have arranged to meet with someone who may assist us in this case,’ he explained ‘Would you be so good, Watson, as to carry on to Nice and attempt to make contact with Isla McLaren?’

‘Certainly, Holmes. But why?’

‘In light of the suspicions about the McLarens and the threats to Dr Janvier, the coincidence of her recent visit grows even more curious.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘If she still wishes to engage me, perhaps you might get her to invite us to dine with her family. If not, I will think of something.’

I still did not fully understand his motive but I will admit that the prospect of seeing this fascinating young woman as a client was intriguing. ‘Shall I wander, then, by the Grand Hôtel du Cap?’ I asked.

‘No. It is in a secluded location, and our contact must appear to be serendipitous. I have it from a reliable source that the lady walks daily along the Promenade des Anglais and enjoys shopping in Nice. I suggest you frequent the Promenade and keep an eye peeled. I will follow later and will step in if needed.’ He smiled at me. ‘Though with your wide-ranging experience with the fair sex, I hardly doubt you will be successful.’

‘I am married now, Holmes,’ I said with a bit of pique.

‘You needn’t remind me.’

There were worse assignments, certainly, and I carried on with enthusiasm, despite Holmes’s curt refusal to elaborate further on his own immediate plans. He did, however, specify a hotel in Nice where we would be lodged for free, he said, due to his special relationship with the hotel detective. That was a relief as I had little money with me.

Arriving in the bright sunshine of Nice, my spirits lifted. It was a welcome change from the relentless grey and dismal snow of London. During my short ride from the station, I was struck by the difference in the air – the tang of fresh ocean breezes blended with warm smells of garlic, flowers and baking bread.

I soon arrived at the Hôtel Du Beau Soleil. The ivory stone façade, which sparkled in the sun, promised glamour, but inside, the dim and faded lobby with its scuffed marble floors and drooping ferns spoke of better days. My hopes plummeted further when I opened the door to the one room allotted to us both. It was a cramped, dingy space with two single beds, hard and uninviting. To make matters worse, the single window opened over the rubbish bins, their ripe odour quite pungent. I slammed it shut.

This was not quite the holiday glamour I had anticipated.

Holmes had said the hotel detective might consult him on one or two issues in exchange for free lodging. He should only get half an issue for this sorry room, I thought. However I had a mission to accomplish, and soon wandered several blocks down towards the seaside, and the famous Promenade des Anglais.