Bonnie Macbird - Art in the Blood

‘A reply warned me to cease contact, or I would never see Emil again.’

‘A letter from the Earl?’

‘ Non . I have had no contact with the Earl – either in person or by letter – once our agreement had been made. The letter was from his man, Pomeroy.’

‘No further explanation or contact?’

‘I wrote and sent a third telegram but with no response.’

‘What kept you from travelling to the Earl’s estate to investigate?’ asked Holmes abruptly. ‘I will take that cigarette now.’

The lady offered him one from her case. He patted his pockets for matches. I retrieved one and lit it for him.

‘This is all very recent, Monsieur Holmes,’ she replied. ‘The original arrangement was that I make no other attempt to reach Emil except the Christmas visits. Those were the terms.’

‘And yet this arrangement has been breached by the other party,’ snapped Holmes. ‘Have you entertained the notion that your son may be dead?’

‘He is not dead!’ Mlle La Victoire stood up, eyes blazing. ‘I do not know how I know this, Monsieur Holmes, and you may analyse or sneer if you wish. But somehow, as a mother, I know that my son is alive. You must help me! I need you to act.’

‘Mademoiselle! We are not finished.’

‘Holmes,’ I said gently, ‘you are distressing this lady with your harsh questions. It seems we do not yet know the half of this story.’

‘Which is precisely the point. I cannot assist you, unless I know not only the half but the whole of it,’ said Holmes. ‘Sit down please, and let us continue.’

She sat, composing herself.

‘Who else at the Earl’s estate knows that Emil is your son?’

‘Lady Pellingham knows.’

Holmes leaned back, surprised. ‘The Earl’s wife, the American heiress! Does she know the full story? That the child is the Earl’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she has accepted her husband’s illegitimate offspring in her home?’

‘More than that. She is a mother to Emil. She loves him dearly and he returns the feelings. In fact, Emil thinks that she is his mother!’ Here she broke off, her voice catching in a sob.

‘That must be very difficult for you,’ I said.

‘Go on,’ said Holmes.

‘At first it did pain me,’ she admitted to me. ‘Greatly. But later I realized it is for the best. Lady Pellingham is a kind woman and lost a child at birth, close to the time Emil was born. My little Emil was substituted in secret for their dead child, and the rest of the world believes him to be theirs. Emil will inherit the estate and will be the next Earl of Pellingham. And so you see—’

‘I see,’ said Holmes, once again abrupt. ‘It is a fortunate arrangement in many ways.’

The lady stiffened. ‘You think me mercenary,’ she said.

‘No, no, he does not.’ I jumped in, but Holmes overrode me.

‘I think you practical.’

‘Practical, yes. At the time of the adoption I was but a poor artist, with no way to offer Emil an education or any advantages. And life with a performing artist would place a small child into a world full of dangers, bad influences. Imagine a baby backstage—’

‘Yes, yes of course. You wrote that you were attacked, Mademoiselle La Victoire,’ said Holmes, ‘which is the reason we are here. Elaborate, please.’

‘It was exactly one day after my last telegram to the Earl. A ruffian approached me in the street. He pushed me rudely and brandished a weapon, a strange kind of knife.’

‘Describe this knife.’

‘It was very odd. It resembled a ladle, but the end was very sharp, a kind of blade,’ said our client. ‘I pulled away and slipped in the ice, falling to the ground.’

‘Were you hurt?’

‘I was more frightened than hurt. I received only a small bruise from the fall. But there was something else—’

‘What? Be precise.’

‘After I fell, the man helped me up.’

Holmes’s leaned forward in excitement. ‘Ah! Did he speak to you? His exact words?’

‘After helping me up, he held this strange blade to my throat and said I had better watch out.’

‘His exact words? No mention of the Earl?’

‘No, nothing specific. He said, “Leave it alone. Or someone might die.”’

‘His accent. English? American? Greek?’

‘French,’ she said. ‘But hard to understand. A low voice.’

‘Did anything about this man, his clothing, his voice, the knife, seem familiar to you?’

‘Not at all. The man’s face was in shadow from a large hat. It was dusk and snowing heavily. I could not see him clearly.’

‘Do you know anyone who works as a tanner?’

‘A tanner? You mean he prepares leather? Er … non . No one. Why?’

‘The knife,’ said Holmes. ‘You described a tanner’s dry scraper. A tool particular to that trade.’

‘In any case, I do not take kindly to threats, Mr Holmes.’

‘No, you would not. However I believe this was not a threat, but a friendly warning.’

‘ Non! ’ she exclaimed.

‘ Attendez . I do believe there is danger. The danger may be to your son, rather than to yourself. However, it is possible that your very efforts to find him could put you both in peril.’

Mlle La Victoire sat frozen, listening.

‘In the interests of safety, I ask that you not venture out alone. Do nothing, but allow Dr Watson and myself to search for your son unimpeded. Now, one more question. Did you sense anything wrong before this? In previous visits to your son perhaps?’

‘You must understand me, Monsieur Holmes,’ said the singer. ‘I love my boy. I have observed over the years a healthy and happy child, well adjusted and thriving. I would never have let things proceed if not. It is my feeling that he has been treated kindly and generously by the Earl and his wife.’

Holmes remained impassive. From the doorway leading into the rest of the apartment came the sharp sound of a chair scraping. Holmes stood, immediately on the alert. I joined him.

‘Who is in the apartment with us?’ said he.

Mlle La Victoire rose. ‘No one. It is the maid with the groceries. Now if you will excuse me, please.’

‘Her name?’

‘Bernice. Why?’ But Holmes did not reply. Mlle La Victoire moved to the door, which she opened in a clear gesture of dismissal. ‘Now, gentlemen, I must rest and prepare for my performance tonight. Please join me at Le Chat Noir. I sing at eleven. We can meet afterwards and continue this interview.’

‘We will be happy to be there,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the coffee, and your kind hospitality.’ I approached and kissed her hand. Turning, I saw my companion already had his overcoat on and was reaching for his scarf.

Moments later we found ourselves in the street. It had begun to snow. ‘Come Watson. What do you make of our client?’

‘She is exceedingly beautiful.’

‘Guarded.’

‘Charming!’

‘Complex. Masking something.’

‘I was glad to hear the boy was treated well at the Earl’s.’ I said. ‘Don’t you trust her on that account?’

Holmes snorted and walked faster. ‘We cannot yet be sure of Emil’s treatment at home. Children often learn stoicism early.’

‘But surely Mademoiselle La Victoire would have noticed,’ I said.

‘Not necessarily. Even a mother can miss the signs.’

I was taken aback by this comment. As I had often in the past, I wondered again briefly about Holmes’s own story. Of his childhood, I knew nothing. Had his own mother missed signs? And of what?

A sturdy woman approached carrying an armful of groceries. Holmes called out to her in a cheery voice and perfect accent, ‘ Bonsoir, Bernice!’

‘ Bonsoir, monsieur ,’ she sang back, and then, seeing we were strangers, hurried on.