Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird
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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.’
She paused, considering. I reluctantly rose to my feet. Holmes reached for his hat.
‘Sit, please,’ she said finally, doing so herself. ‘I will agree. The matter is urgent. But how did you know?’
I sat, but Holmes remained standing.
‘You have claimed to have a husband and his name is mentioned in several articles about you. And yet he is never seen, nor described. My inquiries have revealed no one has seen him. And now, in your apartment, I note many female, but no male, touches; your scarves left over the back of the one easy chair which would be his if he existed, the choice of books on your mantelpiece, the lack of smoking paraphernalia except for your own cigarette case here.’ He indicated a small delicately worked silver case on a side table.
‘Yes, it is mine. Would you care to smoke, Mr Holmes? It will not bother me.’
‘Ha! No, thank you. The details I mention are small indications, but the proof is the ring on your left hand. False, I perceive, and not only of poor design, but slightly too large for you. Given the careful attention to the colour and fit of your attire, and the decoration of this room, this oversight indicates that your marriage is a fiction which I must assume is to keep male admirers off balance as you require. It is helpful that you seem quite out of bounds.’
It all seemed so obvious, and yet I had noticed none of these facts.
Mlle La Victoire remained silent, but a slight smile played upon her face. ‘Well, all that is clear enough,’ she said. ‘But it merely shows you to be more observant than most.’
Holmes snorted. ‘I am not finished …’
‘Holmes—’ I warned.
‘My theory, and this is unproven, but I judge it likely from my first impressions upon meeting you, is that you trust no man.’
‘I am merely assessing your capabilities,’ said she.
‘No. You have already done so. The letter.’
‘Then how do you arrive at this intimate pronouncement, from five minutes of contact and a view of my salon?’
‘Holmes,’ I entreated again. We were headed into dangerous territory.
He ignored me, leaning forward, his grey eyes boring into hers. ‘You are an artist, a great one from your reputation, and therefore are tempestuous, changeable … and vulnerable to flights of fancy as well as fits of despair. Your talent in music, when added to the exquisite sense of colour and refined taste, shown both in your décor here and your personal attire, attest to the acutely sensitive nature of the fully developed artist. You mask your strongly emotional nature with a crisp and intelligent manner. But it is not simply a mask; your critical thinking has enabled you to create a successful career on your own, in spite of these personal weaknesses. Nonetheless, you deceive yourself; you are at heart and quite essentially – a creature driven by emotion.’
‘I am an artist; we are emotional. There is nothing new here,’ she said sharply.
‘Ah, but I have not got to my point,’ said Holmes.
I placed my cup back into its saucer with a clatter. ‘Coffee. This is quite delicious. Would it be possible to have another cup?’ I asked.
They both ignored me.
‘And what is your point?’ asked the lady.
‘You have an illegitimate son by the Earl. While I do not yet know the particulars, you must have been quite young. Most probably this was your first love. You were how old?’
Mlle La Victoire sat very still. I could not read her, but the temperature had dropped in the room. ‘Eighteen.’
‘Ah, I see that I am right.’
‘Peut-être. Go on.’
‘His betrayal, obvious as you are not married to the Earl, must have wounded a young person of your sensitivity quite deeply. It is my belief that since this time you have trusted no man and yet you long to with every part of your romantic soul.’
A small gasp came from our client.
Holmes’s words hung in the room like tiny icicles. He was occasionally unaware of how they might wound. However, Mlle La Victoire recovered immediately.
‘Bravo, Mr Holmes,’ she said with a smile. ‘It is as though you have personal knowledge of the subject.’
‘I had no prior information—’
‘Ah, non! I perceive that you speak from personal experience.’
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. ‘Hardly. But now, let us turn to the matter at hand and examine the facts of your case.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said the lady.
Both of them sat back, composing themselves and taking in the other with something akin to the guarded admiration of champion boxers before a match. I became aware that I was sitting nervously on the very edge of my chair. I cleared my throat and shifted, attempting to relax.
‘Cigarette, anyone?’ I ventured.
‘No,’ they said simultaneously.
Holmes began. ‘Your son. What, nine? Ten?
‘Ten.’
‘How did you discover he was missing? En français … plus facile pour vous?’ said Holmes, adopting a more gentle tone.
‘Ah, non. I prefer in English.’
‘As you wish.’
Mlle La Victoire drew a deep breath and pulled her green dressing gown around her. ‘It is every Christmas that I see mon petit Emil in London, at Brown’s Hotel. There is a man who brings him to meet me, a “go-between”. We have a luncheon together in their beautiful tea room, Emil and I,