Bonnie Macbird - Art in the Blood

‘All three countries? Why would so many lay claim to this Nike?’

‘The discoverer – one of the four murdered men – was a titled Englishman, working on a French-funded dig in Greece.’

‘Ah, I see. And so you were asked—’

‘Mycroft did request that I look into it, and the French government as well, but I have hitherto declined.’

‘Why?’

Holmes sighed. ‘An acquisitive nobleman and a bungled art theft are not of sufficient interest to me, until the moment I received Mlle La Victoire’s note. It seems that Pellingham may have wider interests. Mycroft has been investigating rumours of business and personal transgressions in and around his estate that bear a closer look. And while Mycroft has been keeping an eye on the Earl, even he must tread carefully because of Pellingham’s immense power. He needs more data to go on.’

‘More?’

‘The mackintosh, Watson, the mackintosh. Mycroft needs to justify an investigation, and Mademoiselle Emmeline La Victoire may very well provide us with an entrée into the Earl’s world.’

We paused briefly and I stared out the window at the passing countryside growing dim in the fading light. Above were darkening, clouded skies. In the distance, lightning flashed. It did not bode well for our crossing. I turned back to Holmes.

‘And there is the matter of the child. And the attack upon the lady herself.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Well, she is certainly frightened, judging from her letter.’

‘Indeed. Her request to disguise my response indicates she is being watched. It is my opinion that we cannot reach her too quickly.’

‘But exactly who is this Emmeline La Victoire?’

‘You have not heard of the singer “Cherie Cerise”, Watson?’

‘I confess that I have not. My taste for recreation runs to bridge, and a quiet book by the fire, as you well know, Holmes.’

‘Ha! A polite fiction! You are a crack shot, with a gambling habit, a passion for the yellow-backed novel, and a penchant—’

‘Holmes!’

But my friend knew me only too well. ‘Cherie Cerise is currently the toast of Paris. She is a chanteuse extraordinaire , if one is to believe her publicity, and alternates between the Chat Noir and the Moulin de la Galette, packing that large establishment to near riot every evening she appears.’

‘The Chat Noir? The Black Chair?’

‘Cat, Watson, the Black Cat, an intimate venue of great cachet. I visited it twice last year during my work for the French. It is remarkable for the music, the clientele, and even the artwork which adorns the walls.’

‘But I still do not understand the connection.’

‘Peace, my good doctor, all will be made clear. And now rest, for there is work ahead of us. We will be hearing the lady sing, possibly this very night.’

I sighed. ‘Is she at least beautiful?’ I wondered.

Holmes smiled. ‘Ah, and this from a married man! You are not likely to be disappointed, Watson. When a Frenchwoman is not a beauty, she is yet a work of art. And when she is beautiful, there are none of her sex to surpass her.’ With that he pulled his hat low over his eyes, leaned back and was promptly asleep.

‘Art is born of the observation and investigation of nature.’

Cicero

s it turned out, we were forced to spend the night in Dover, sharing a cramped room in a hotel crammed with stranded travellers, all delayed by the rising storms. Holmes had briefly slipped out into the sleet and had sent several telegrams, including one to Mlle La Victoire. Our client was now expecting us at eleven that morning at her apartment.

Leaving the Gare du Nord, we made our way through snow-fogged streets, past rows of trees garlanded with crystal icicles, gradually moving towards the hills of Montmartre. There Holmes had a favourite bistro, the Franc Buveur, where we could pass the hour before we were to meet our client. It was still early, and I longed for a coffee and perhaps a roll, but Holmes ordered us both a bouillabaisse provençal . This proved to be a hearty and flavourful fish stew from Marseilles, apparently available all hours at this establishment. It was perhaps somewhat extreme for my taste, but I was relieved to note he consumed his with gusto.

I made a mental note to return with my friend to Paris any time I noticed his thin frame becoming dangerously gaunt. I have never been plagued with this problem, but at thirty-five I knew that, for myself, precautions in the other direction might be wise.

We made our way through curving, tree-lined streets to Mlle La Victoire’s address. This part of Montmartre had an almost rural tranquillity that belied its proximity to the area’s renowned nightlife. The occasional empty plot and cottage garden, now blanketed by snow, stood tucked in between the old houses. Windmills poked through from behind, just beyond the nearby streets.

Approaching an elegant three-storey building with delicate grillwork at the windows, we rang and were shortly standing on the third floor, facing a door painted an unusual shade of dark green. An ornate brass knocker invited use. We knocked.

The door was opened by one of the most beautiful women I have seen. Cherie Cerise, née Emmeline La Victoire, stood before us in a velvet dressing gown of the same deep green, perfectly accentuating her startling green eyes and auburn hair. It was not merely her physical beauty that struck me, but a rare quality which emanated from the lady – a sparkle of intelligence coupled with a womanly allure that nearly took my breath away.

However, deep shadows under her bright eyes and a distinct pallor spoke of grief and worry. Her glance swept us both, taking in every detail in an instant.

‘Ah, Monsieur Holmes,’ she said with a smile to my companion. ‘I am so relieved.’ She turned to face me with radiant warmth. I flushed for no reason at all. ‘And you must be Mr Holmes’s most wonderful of friends, Dr Watson, I believe?’ I held out my hand to shake hers, but instead she leaned in to kiss me, and then Holmes, on both cheeks in the French manner.

She smelled of the same delicious scent as her letter – Jicky perfume, Holmes had called it – and it took considerable self-control not to grin from ear to ear. But we were there on serious business. ‘Mademoiselle, we are at your service,’ I offered.

‘Madame,’ she corrected. ‘ Merci . Thank you for coming, and so quickly.’ Her charming French accent only added to her allure.

Soon we were seated in front of a small, cheery fireplace in the salon of her sumptuous apartment, decorated in the French style in shades of tan and cream, with high ceilings, a light-coloured oriental carpet and silk-upholstered furniture in subtle stripes. Bright against this neutral background were several bouquets of fresh flowers, expensive at this time of year, and a rainbow array of silk scarves strewn about. Our client was a woman of sophisticated tastes.

With apologies for the absence of servants, the lady herself brought us hot cups of coffee.

‘My husband will return soon,’ she said. ‘And the maid, with groceries.’

Holmes sighed.

Mademoiselle La Victoire studied him. ‘It is true; I did not mention a husband.’

‘You are not married,’ stated Holmes.

‘Ah, but I am,’ began the lady.

Holmes grunted and stood up abruptly. ‘Watson, come. I fear our journey has been a waste of time.’

The lady leaped to her feet. ‘Monsieur Holmes, non! I beg of you!’

‘Mademoiselle, you are not married. If you desire my assistance, I require nothing less than complete frankness. Do not waste my time.’