Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird

       CHAPTER 5

       Nice

      s Mycroft had decreed, Holmes and I began our journey two days later. Passing through Dover, we traversed the channel and our train wended its way south through France. Holmes buried himself obsessively in notes and newspaper clippings on the phylloxera epidemic, and the Scottish families named as suspects in the threats to Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. I, on the other hand, could not help but wonder about Mrs Isla McLaren, and her curious tale. That the McLarens featured in two cases presented to Holmes within twenty-four hours intrigued me. But Holmes was not willing to converse, and so I passed the time buried in Mary Shelley’s intriguing novel inspired by Galvani’s electrical experimentation. We thus passed the journey in companionable silence.

      Our route took us through the Loire valley where Holmes disembarked unexpectedly at the city of Tours. ‘I have arranged to meet with someone who may assist us in this case,’ he explained ‘Would you be so good, Watson, as to carry on to Nice and attempt to make contact with Isla McLaren?’

      ‘Certainly, Holmes. But why?’

      ‘In light of the suspicions about the McLarens and the threats to Dr Janvier, the coincidence of her recent visit grows even more curious.’

      ‘What do you want me to do?’

      ‘If she still wishes to engage me, perhaps you might get her to invite us to dine with her family. If not, I will think of something.’

      I still did not fully understand his motive but I will admit that the prospect of seeing this fascinating young woman as a client was intriguing. ‘Shall I wander, then, by the Grand Hôtel du Cap?’ I asked.

      ‘No. It is in a secluded location, and our contact must appear to be serendipitous. I have it from a reliable source that the lady walks daily along the Promenade des Anglais and enjoys shopping in Nice. I suggest you frequent the Promenade and keep an eye peeled. I will follow later and will step in if needed.’ He smiled at me. ‘Though with your wide-ranging experience with the fair sex, I hardly doubt you will be successful.’

      ‘I am married now, Holmes,’ I said with a bit of pique.

      ‘You needn’t remind me.’

      There were worse assignments, certainly, and I carried on with enthusiasm, despite Holmes’s curt refusal to elaborate further on his own immediate plans. He did, however, specify a hotel in Nice where we would be lodged for free, he said, due to his special relationship with the hotel detective. That was a relief as I had little money with me.

      Arriving in the bright sunshine of Nice, my spirits lifted. It was a welcome change from the relentless grey and dismal snow of London. During my short ride from the station, I was struck by the difference in the air – the tang of fresh ocean breezes blended with warm smells of garlic, flowers and baking bread.

      I soon arrived at the Hôtel Du Beau Soleil. The ivory stone façade, which sparkled in the sun, promised glamour, but inside, the dim and faded lobby with its scuffed marble floors and drooping ferns spoke of better days. My hopes plummeted further when I opened the door to the one room allotted to us both. It was a cramped, dingy space with two single beds, hard and uninviting. To make matters worse, the single window opened over the rubbish bins, their ripe odour quite pungent. I slammed it shut.

      This was not quite the holiday glamour I had anticipated.

      Holmes had said the hotel detective might consult him on one or two issues in exchange for free lodging. He should only get half an issue for this sorry room, I thought. However I had a mission to accomplish, and soon wandered several blocks down towards the seaside, and the famous Promenade des Anglais.

      What a sight! A vivid azure sky topped a deep turquoise ocean. Palm trees and bright flowers competed with the equally colourful frocks of a number of very attractive ladies. Below me, extending out at the end of a long pier stood one of Nice’s famed casinos, its exotic Byzantine architecture evoking something between a Russian Orthodox church and a carnival.

      Nearby, children devoured fruit ices, and the rich scent of coffee enticed me to purchase a hot cup from a small stand. The air was cooler than I had thought, but the sun warmed the skin. It was an instant balm to my spirits, and I felt myself begin to relax.

      I had a twinge of regret that Mary was not with me here to enjoy this beautiful city. She had loved Brighton and longed for another restorative, peaceful sojourn together. The seaside was her preference, calm and soothing. But my gaze returned to the casino, and I could not help but feel a small thrill of anticipation. Perhaps I might have time to slip away and try my hand at baccarat, if a few extra francs came my way.

      But finding Isla McLaren was my goal, and I spent the next hour or two walking, wondering where might be the best place to spot my quarry. Eventually I grew discouraged and stopped at another stand, considering a second coffee.

      I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder. I turned and there stood the lady herself! She was attired for a holiday in a fetching navy and white striped dress with a matching parasol and hat. Her skin and hair were glowing in the slanted sunlight of late afternoon.

      ‘Dr Watson, what a pleasant surprise!’ she exclaimed, examining me with her forthright and penetrating gaze. ‘I hardly expected to find you in Nice.’

      ‘Nor I you,’ I lied. ‘How lovely to see you here, Mrs McLaren. Are you wintering here by chance? It is wonderful to escape the snow, is it not?’

      ‘We are, and yes, it is, Dr Watson, though I doubt you are here for a holiday. Mr Holmes seems hardly the type.’ She looked around me. ‘He is here with you, is he not?’

      ‘Er, yes, in Nice.’

      ‘Are you following us?’

      ‘Why do you think that? You did not tell us you would be here.’

      ‘Do not be coy, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes has his methods, you write about them. If he wished to know where I had gone, he would easily find out. Let me see. If you are not following us, you two must be on a case. No doubt something more compelling than my own sad story of the sheared little parlour maid?’

      ‘You look quite lovely, by the way. Your hat—’

      ‘All right, then, Doctor.’ She fingered her velvet hat with its jaunty white ostrich feather, and smiled, coquettishly. ‘Thank you, kind sir. My hat is French, bought only this morning. They do these chapeaux only too well.’

      She dropped the act and took my arm. ‘Now, do you mind? There is news about Fiona. I should like to bring you up to date. Shall we stroll?’

      ‘Why, yes,’ said I. ‘If Mr McLaren would not object.’

      ‘He is not the jealous type.’

      She took my arm and we sauntered along the Promenade. The sun gave Mrs McLaren’s chestnut hair bright copper highlights, and the frames of her small gold spectacles glinted as she spoke. I wondered anew why Holmes had turned her away so abruptly.

      ‘I