Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird
will certainly be so in the future, but sadly not at present. The die will be cast, however, and Monsieur Reynaud will play his part, I am sure of it. Vidocq will get his just desserts.’
We were silent for a time as the train rumbled on. It was hot in the car, with no windows to relieve us. I wiped my sweating brow with my handkerchief, and it came away filthy.
‘There is something troubling me,’ said I. ‘Mycroft—’
Holmes sighed. ‘I intended to help the British government all along, Watson. Mycroft had been imploring me for some time. You saw that I had been studying the subject.’
‘But then why the little dance with your brother? Why refuse his advance?’
‘A useless gesture, Watson, I will admit. It is difficult to erase old patterns. You would not understand.’
‘Yes, well why let some ghost of your past—’
‘Watson! This from a man whose own ghosts wake him shouting in the night.’
‘Lingering effects from battle are well known, Holmes! You are squabbling with an older brother. Why? Did he steal your toast and marmalade as a child?’
I expected a sharp retort, but instead Holmes was silent for a moment. ‘You misjudge me, again,’ he said quietly. ‘Watson, there are those rare people who elicit behaviour from us that others may not. Let me suggest that you were one man on the battlefield, another with your patients, a third altogether with Mary and perhaps a fourth in my company, for example?’
‘No, Holmes. I am always myself. Well, perhaps I smoke less around Mary.’
He smiled at this.
‘But whatever the situation, I try always to be the best man I can be.’
He paused.
‘Of course you do, and how well you succeed. My apologies, Watson.’
As we spent an uncomfortable six hours on the train I ruminated that it would take effort to continue being the best man that I could. But I was determined to stay the course.
‘Whatever the task may be, Watson, we must stay on our guard. The McLarens are not yet entirely cleared of any connection to that bombing, and may in fact wish to draw us into their fold for their own reasons.’
‘Surely they can intend no violence at this dinner.’
‘Unlikely. But you have your Webley with you?’
I nodded.
The Grand Hôtel du Cap was a far cry from the Beau Soleil. Ensconced in a wooded hill overlooking a brilliant blue sea and a rocky beach, the building arose like a tiered pink bride’s cake from among the olive and cypress trees.
The lobby was gleaming marble, with velvet benches and liveried porters swarming around the richly attired guests. Everything and everyone conveyed a look of polished ease. The concierge waved a hand and a page ushered us down a long hallway past magnificent views of the ocean to gilded doors leading to a private dining room.
Seated there was our party, already assembled. There were five people: three gentlemen and two ladies, one with her back to the door. Expensive tailoring, tartan details in the waistcoats of the gentlemen, glittering gowns on the ladies, and an overall impression of immense wealth worn with casual ease made up my immediate impression.
At the head of the table, a large man in his fifties rose to greet us. ‘Welcome Mr Sherlock Holmes, and Dr John Watson,’ he boomed in a deep voice, with a strong Scots brogue. A mane of dark, greying curls surrounded a handsome face, now creased with a warm smile. ‘You are guests of the Clan McLaren, and I am Sir Robert McLaren, Laird of Braedern.’
Holmes nodded his head in acknowledgement.
‘Sir, we thank you,’ I said.
‘My sons, Charles and Alistair,’ said the laird, indicating the two younger men with a sweep of his hand.
The two arose and nodded a greeting. Both were tall and robust, wide-shouldered and dark-haired. The elder had bushy eyebrows which gave him an angry demeanour. The younger had a high forehead and a permanent look of arch incredulity.
‘My daughter-in-law, Catherine, wife of Charles.’ A blonde lady in a glittering pale blue gown looked up demurely at us over a glass of champagne. She nodded a wan greeting.
‘And my younger daughter-in-law—’
‘Mrs Isla McLaren,’ said Holmes in a flat voice. ‘Wife of Alistair.’
Something passed over the laird’s face but he recovered in an instant. ‘You have met then?’
Before Holmes could answer, Isla McLaren interjected. ‘As I said, Father, I chanced upon Dr Watson in Nice, and recognized him from a newspaper photograph. I failed to mention that we spoke briefly. I am sure he told Mr Holmes about it. Did you not, Dr Watson?’
I nodded. I was not accustomed to prevarication on short notice. I could feel Holmes’s eyes upon me.
Isla McLaren smiled warmly at us both. She was radiant in a deep purple beaded evening dress, and even with her small gold spectacles, stood out from the group as an early blooming iris might in a spring green garden. She coughed softly, while very subtly putting a finger to her lips. She wished us to be silent about our previous meeting.
Holmes exhaled.
‘Do come and sit down, gentlemen,’ said the laird. ‘It is our winter holiday and we are celebrating, as we do every year, this time at the Grand Hôtel du Cap. Your reputation is known, Mr Holmes. It was Isla who prevailed upon me to invite you tonight.’
He winked at her and I suddenly guessed that this canny gentleman might very well be aware of his daughter-in-law’s previous visit to us in Baker Street.
‘In any case, she suggested we would enjoy meeting you,’ said the laird.
He then indicated two empty seats at the table, next to one another at the far end, facing him and the rest of the group. I moved to my chair, but Holmes remained just inside the door.
I could sense my friend evaluating this and weighing his choices. ‘Is this a social occasion then?’ he asked. ‘I understood there was something you wished to discuss.’
The laird smiled. ‘In time. The first order of business is to join us in this wonderful place for dinner. The cuisine here is worth its fine reputation.’ His tone changed. ‘Do be seated.’ It was almost a command.
I was surprised to see Holmes acquiesce. Thirty minutes later we were well into a vast dinner with multiple courses of unusual fish, chicken, and beef dishes, seasoned with the bright flavours of the South, solicitous French waiters hovering at our elbows. Holmes said little but I conversed slightly with each person in turn and as the meal progressed, I took to examining them furtively, wondering what Holmes would deduce from each.
To the laird’s left, his elder daughter-in-law, Catherine, was an elegant woman of erect posture and initially rigid bearing, blonde-haired