Bonnie Macbird - Art in the Blood

‘Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere.’

G. K. Chesterton

f she was beautiful this afternoon, she was now transformed into a goddess! Dressed entirely in red, Mademoiselle La Victoire as Cherie Cerise positively glowed, her tumbling curls of flaming red hair tied up loosely in the topknot so stylish here, her exquisite pale bosom promising a passionate heart just below. She moved across the stage as if floating on air, her mischievous smile tempting the imagination. All traces of her dire situation were concealed by the consummate performer that she was.

‘You are gaping, Watson,’ Holmes whispered. Perhaps I was. But save for Holmes, so was everyone else.

A unanimous shout, ‘Cherie!’ rose up from the room. Our client, Mlle Emmeline La Victoire, was unquestionably a star.

In retrospect, I realized that what I had anticipated was a bawdy, music-hall-style performance with half-shouted melody and swishing skirts. But as the music started up and she began to sing, what came from the lovely creature was the voice of an angel, soaring and clear. She conveyed a sweet melancholy that ripped at one’s heart.

For nearly an hour I sat transported.

As she finished a song about a rare tropical bird which flew many leagues to be with its lover (or perhaps it was a dog, I cannot be sure), I turned to my friend – only to discover that the space where Holmes had been sitting a moment ago was now filled by a rude-looking peasant, red nose aglow with drink.

Where the devil had he gone? Scanning the room, I observed that the Frenchman he had pointed out earlier was missing and the black-clad men as well. I grew uneasy and stood up. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Damn his secrecy!

Just then, a series of shouts burst from backstage, followed by a loud crash. Our client froze, and the music ground to a halt. What happened next was so fast I can barely recount it.

There, against the backlit, glowing screen of the Théâtre d’Ombres , the small puppets were overshadowed by the distorted silhouettes of two men locked in mortal combat. The struggling figures bashed against the oiled canvas.

A spray of some dark liquid spattered in a wide arc across it. The crowd gasped.

A rending tear sounded as a knife split the fabric. The torn screen peeled forward revealing the splatter as bright red blood!

I was up and pushing through the crowd towards Mlle La Victoire when a man hurtled through the tear, landing on the stage at her feet. An arterial wound in his chest shot a fountain of crimson several feet into the air. Mademoiselle screamed.

The crowd leapt as one and clambered to get away from the stage. I lost sight of our client through the churning mass of bodies. Using every ounce of strength, I shoved my way towards the stage against the tide of the mob.

I reached the stagehand on the floor and saw instantly that the wound was fatal. I looked up and Mlle La Victoire was gone. Leaving the dying man in the arms of a colleague, I ran backstage.

Chaos! In a dark room lit by a piercing ray of white light aimed at the back of the screen, struggling figures bashed into large wooden frames on wheels.

The spotlight was blinding. I tried to shield my eyes. ‘Mademoiselle!’ I cried.

I heard nothing but the shouts of men. I dodged as the highly flammable light crashed to the floor next to me. There was a small explosion. The room went black and flame erupted near my feet. There was more shouting as several stagehands rushed towards it to put it out.

Mlle La Victoire’s voice rang out. ‘Jean!’

Two large stage doors swung open to a nearby courtyard dimly lit by a single street lamp. The fight spilled into it. The cobblestones gleamed with black ice and the struggling men slid and tumbled on its slick surface, falling with sharp cries of pain.

I recognized the mysterious Frenchman of Holmes’s acquaintance, and two of the black-clad men I’d observed earlier. I drew my revolver and followed.

Mlle La Victoire dashed out from backstage into a circle of light. Brandishing a large vase, she brought it down on one of the black-clad men. The vase glanced off his shoulder. He grunted, whirling to grab her wrist. She screamed.

The thug, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight, pointed a knife under her ribs and backed her towards the wall of the adjacent building, as the tall Frenchman continued to battle one of the others.

‘Bitch!’ snarled the bald villain, raising the knife to her face. ‘I’ll cut you good for that.’

American? I aimed but had no clear shot. Pocketing my gun, I dashed forward at the exact moment the Frenchman downed his red-haired attacker and did the same. Both of us leapt towards the man with the knife, and as if we were choreographed, the Frenchman knocked the weapon from the man’s hand, as I threw a punch straight at the kidneys. The bald man in black dropped to the ground, his knife flying into the darkness.

Two were down. But there had been four at the table.

‘Jean!’ cried Mlle La Victoire, flinging herself into the Frenchman’s arms.

‘ Allez-y! ’ he said, pushing her away. Run!

She hesitated. In that instant, her bald assailant rose from the ground like Lazarus, and in a flash knocked me into the wall. We struggled as the second attacked the Frenchman with renewed vigour.

The four of us slid and tumbled on the ice like drunks. My revolver fell from my pocket. It skittered away into the darkness.

As I struggled with my attacker, a third man grabbed Mlle La Victoire and slapped her, hard.

Furious, I tried to wrench free, but at my momentary distraction, my attacker took his chance. I felt myself choked from behind, and gasping for air.

It was then that the fourth man in black, the small man whom I had spotted as the leader, moved into the light. The odds had worsened. He ran towards me, butting me hard in the stomach. My knees buckled.

He pulled out a long stiletto which glittered like a deadly icicle in the pale light. The man choking me altered his grip and grabbed me by the hair, forcing my head back. The small man now slowly raised the stiletto to my throat, and began caressing it with the flat of the knife.

It was a strange gesture, like a surgeon cleansing the skin with carbolic before his incision. Time slowed.

His pale face and beady eyes were strangely rat-like. ‘The dangerous one dies first,’ he said. The sharp side of the blade pricked my skin. I felt a warm trickle of blood down my neck and it seemed the end. I closed my eyes.

But the Frenchman had prevailed and suddenly the Rat was knocked aside!

Seizing the moment, I yanked the man who was choking me off balance. Dimly I was aware of the Frenchman struggling in the corner of my vision but I could not dislodge my assailant and his chokehold tightened. I dropped to my knees, growing faint.

We were outmatched.

The Rat regained his footing, and charged. But a sharp crack of something hard on bone caused the small man to tumble before me with a high-pitched cry of rage. Somersaulting skilfully out of his fall like a circus acrobat, he leaped to his feet and turned to face a new attacker.

Backlit by the streetlamp was a tall, cloaked figure brandishing a stick. It was Sherlock Holmes!

The odds were looking up.

I slammed an elbow into the gut of my assailant. He loosened his grip and staggered back. I turned and we grappled, slipping in the ice and landing on the ground.

Holmes’s voice pierced through the sounds of the mêlée. ‘Your pistol, Watson!’