Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird
Sitting down in the armchair facing the couch, I vowed to wait this out. As the mantelpiece clock ticked and the minutes turned into an hour, my concern deepened.
Some time later Mrs Hudson entered with sandwiches, which he refused to acknowledge. As she puttered around mopping up the water left by the firemen he shouted at her to leave.
I stepped with her on to the landing and closed the door behind us. ‘Why was he in gaol?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, Doctor,’ said she. ‘Something to do with the Ripper case. He was accused of tampering with the evidence.’
‘Why did you not call upon me? Or upon his brother?’ I asked. At that time, I knew little of the considerable influence in government affairs that Holmes’s older brother Mycroft commanded, and yet my sense was that some help might have been offered.
‘Mr Holmes told no one, he simply vanished! I am not sure that his brother knew for a week. Of course he was released right after, but the damage was done.’
I learned much later the details of this horrific case and the ill-directed trials it put my friend through. However, I have been sworn to secrecy on this account, and it must remain a matter for the history books. Suffice it to say that my friend threw considerable light on the case, something that proved most unwelcome among certain individuals at the highest levels of government.
But that is another tale entirely. I returned to my vigil. Hours passed, and I could neither rouse him, engage him in conversation, nor get him to eat. He remained unmoving and in what I knew to be a dangerous depression.
The morning drew into afternoon. While placing a cup of tea near him, I happened to notice what appeared to be a crumpled personal letter lying on the side table. Unfolding the bottom half silently, I read the signature: ‘Mycroft Holmes’.
I opened it and read. ‘Come at once,’ it said, ‘the affair of E/P requires your immediate attention.’ I folded the note and put it into my pocket.
‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘I took the liberty of—’
‘Burn that note,’ came a shrill voice from beneath his cover.
‘Too wet in here,’ I said. ‘Who is this “E slash P”? Your brother writes—’
‘Burn it, I say!’
He would say nothing further but remained buried and unmoving. As the evening wore on, I decided to wait him out and remain there through the night. He would eat – or collapse – and I would be there, as his friend and his doctor, to pick up the pieces. Valiant thoughts indeed, but shortly after, I fell asleep.
Early the next morning, I awoke to find myself covered with that same red blanket I now recognized from my old rooms. Mrs Hudson stood over me with a tea tray and a new letter – oblong and rose-tinted – resting on the edge of the tray.
‘From Paris, Mr Holmes!’ said she, waving the letter at him. No response.
Glancing at Holmes, and the unfinished food from yesterday, she shook her head and threw me a worried look. ‘Four days now, Doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Do something!’ She placed the tray next to me.
From the rumpled figure on the couch the thin arm waved her away. ‘Leave us, Mrs Hudson!’ he cried. ‘Give me the letter, Watson.’
Mrs Hudson departed, throwing me an encouraging look.
I snatched the letter from the tray and held it away. ‘Eat first,’ I demanded.
With a murderous look, he emerged from his cocoon and slammed a biscuit into his mouth, glaring at me like an angry child.
I held the letter away and sniffed it. I was rewarded by an unusual and delicious perfume, vanilla, perhaps, and something else. ‘Ahh,’ I said in pleasure, but Holmes succeeded in snatching the letter from my hand, immediately spitting out the biscuit. He examined the envelope thoroughly, and then tore it open, extracting the letter and scanning it quickly.
‘Ha! What do you make of it, Watson?’ His keen grey eyes were shaded by exhaustion, but lit by curiosity. A good sign.
I took it from him. As I unfolded the letter I noticed that he was eyeing the teapot uncertainly. I poured him a cup, added a splash of brandy and handed it to him. ‘Drink,’ said I.
The letter bore a Paris postmark with yesterday’s date. It was written in bright pink ink and on fine stationery. I glanced at the delicate handwriting.
‘It’s in French,’ I stated, handing it back. ‘And hard to read even if not. Here.’
Impatient, he snatched the letter and announced, ‘Writing – most definitely female. Scent, ahh … floral, amber, a touch of vanilla. I believe this is a new scent of Guerlain, “Jicky”, in development but not yet released. The singer – for this is how she describes herself – must be successful or at least very much admired to have obtained a bottle in advance.’
Holmes moved to better light near the fire and began to read with the theatricality I have come to enjoy at times, and tolerate at others. His fluent French made translation simple for him.
‘“My dear Mr Holmes,” she says, “your reputation and recent recognition by my government has led me to make this unusual request. I seek your help in a highly personal matter. Although I am a concert singer in Paris, and as such may perhaps be considered by you to be of lower “caste” – caste, an odd choice of word for a chanteuse – “I beg you to consider helping me.” Ah, I cannot read this; the ink is so pale!’
Holmes held the letter to the gaslight over our fireplace. I noticed that his hand was shaking and he looked unsteady. I moved behind him to read over his shoulder.
‘She continues, “I write on a matter of the greatest urgency concerning an important man of your country, and the father of my son—” here the lady has crossed out the name – but I perceive it is— What the devil?’
Holding the letter up closer to the light, he frowned in puzzlement. As he did so, a curious thing began to happen. The ink on the letter began to fade so quickly that even I noticed it standing behind him.
Holmes cried out and immediately pushed the letter under the cushion on the couch. We waited a few seconds, then pulled it out to look at it again. It was completely blank.
‘Ah!’ said he.
‘It’s some kind of disappearing ink!’ I cried, silenced immediately by Holmes’s sidelong glance. ‘The father of her son?’ I asked. ‘Did you catch the name of this important personage?’
‘I did,’ said Holmes, standing quite still. ‘The Earl of Pellingham.’
I returned to the couch wondering. Pellingham was one of the wealthiest peers in all of England, a man whose generosity and immense power in the House of Lords – not to mention his virtuous reputation as a humanitarian and collector of fine art – made him nearly a household name.
And yet here was a French cabaret singer claiming ties to this well-known figure.
‘What are the chances, Holmes, of this lady’s claim being valid?’
‘It seems preposterous. But perhaps …’ He moved to a cluttered table and spread the letter out, under a bright light.
‘But why the disappearing ink?’
‘She did not want a letter with the gentleman’s name to fall into the wrong hands. The Earl is said to have a long reach. And yet she has not told us all, I think—’
He now aimed his magnifying glass at the letter. ‘How curious, these scratches!’ He sniffed the page. ‘This blasted perfume! Yet I detect the slightest odour of— wait!’ He began rummaging through a collection of glass bottles. With small dabs, he applied droplets to the page, muttering as he did so. ‘There must be more.’
I knew better than to disturb him at such work and turned back