Unquiet Spirits
A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADVENTURE
BONNIE MACBIRD

Copyright

This book is a new and original work of fiction featuring Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, and other fictional characters that were first introduced to the world in 1887 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, all of which are now in the public domain. The characters are used by the author solely for the purpose of story-telling and not as trademarks. This book is independently authored and published, and is not sponsored or endorsed by, or associated in any way with, Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd. or any other party claiming trademark rights in any of the characters in the Sherlock Holmes canon.

An imprint of HarperColl‌insPublishers

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Copyright © Bonnie MacBird 2017

All rights reserved.

Drop Cap design © Mark Mázers 2017

Bonnie MacBird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008129743

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008129736

Version: 2018-10-26

Praise for Unquiet Spirits

‘Brilliant, beguiling … delights both Sherlock Holmes aficionados and new fans of the genre.’

Huffington Post

‘Haunting, vivid and beautifully plotted, Unquiet Spirits is both an elegant tribute and a cunning update of everything we love about Sherlock Holmes and his world. Bonnie MacBird has done it again!’

Daniel Stashower, Edgar, Agatha, and Anthony award winning author of Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle

‘If the original 60 Holmes stories aren’t enough for you, read Bonnie MacBird’s Unquiet Spirits for another dram of the Great Detective. MacBird deftly blends a series of grisly murders and dark secrets from Holmes’s past into a strong brew!’

Leslie S. Klinger, editor of The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes

‘A superb Sherlockian adventure. Bonnie MacBird’s take on Holmes and Watson is inventive and true to the canon, a splendid blend of fast-paced action and detection in a deliciously gothic Highland setting. I can’t wait for her next book.’

Dana Cameron, BSI, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award winning author of the Emma Fielding Mysteries

‘Pour yourself a wee dram, toss another peat on the fire, and prepare to be swept up in the great detective’s Highland fling. MacBird’s spooky, scholarly, thoroughly “spirited” follow up to Art in the Blood is a triumph of voice, place, and plotting. Highly recommended for fans of Sherlock, Scotland, and whisky lovers everywhere.’

Catriona McPherson, bestselling author of the multi-award-winning Dandy Gilver series

‘MacBird’s outstanding sequel to 2015’s Art in the Blood melds a twisty, multilayered plot with a plausible exploration of Sherlock Holmes’s life before Watson … Will make Sherlockians eager for more from her.’

Publishers Weekly Starred Review

‘MacBird could possibly be Conan Doyle reincarnated. I hope this is a lengthy series. A perfect read as the nights draw in.’

CrimeSquad.com

‘Ms MacBird does a fine job of re-creating the familiar Holmesian universe.’

Wall Street Journal

‘A stylish, spirited Sherlock Holmes mystery-thriller, Bonnie MacBird has hit a home run (a “boundary six,” cricket fans). Having established herself as one of the genre’s premier practitioners with her debut Art in the Blood, MacBird infuses this classic Victorian tale of spirits – both liquid and ethereal – with a unique blend of Victorian steam-driven science, Highland scenery, deadly family secrets, and a glimpse into Holmes’ surprising past.’

Craig Faustus Buck, award-winning author of Go Down Hard

‘Bonnie MacBird’s Unquiet Spirits fulfils all Sherlockian desires: the pitch perfect tone evocative of Conan Doyle, the inimitable Holmes & Watson friendship, and brilliant pacing, plotting, deduction, and wit. But wait! There’s more: a road trip from London to the French Riviera to Scotland, a gothic and gloriously gory castle, and in the eleventh hour, a touching origin story shedding light on Sherlock and his attitude toward … women. More, Ms MacBird, more!’

Harley Jane Kozak, Agatha, Anthony and Macavity winning author of Dating Dead Men

‘A splendid read in the finest tradition of Conan Doyle.’

Paul Annett, director of Granada Television’s Sherlock Holmes

‘Unquiet Spirits is an elaborately plotted melodrama set in the Scottish whisky trade, nice to read along with a wee dram or two.’

Martin Edwards, author of the prize-winning The Golden Age of Murder

‘Just start reading and you’ll be hooked … Suspense, excitement, intellectual stimulation – and humour: it’s all here.’

Roger Johnson, Sherlock Holmes Journal

‘In her second Sherlock Holmes novel, Bonnie MacBird gives us a rollicking tale worthy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself.’

Historical Novel Society

‘A tour de force.’

Mystery Scene

Dedication

For Rosemary and Mac

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Unquiet Spirits

Dedication

Preface

Part One: A Spirited Lass

Chapter 1: Stillness

Chapter 2: Isla

Chapter 3: Rejection

Chapter 4: Brothers

Chapter 5: Nice

Chapter 6: Docteur Janvier

Part Two: Getting Ahead

Chapter 7: Vidocq

Chapter 8: Ahead of the Game

Chapter 9: The Staff of Death

Chapter 10: Unwelcome Help

Chapter 11: A Fleeting Pleasure

Part Three: Northern Mists

Chapter 12: Arthur

Chapter 13: Braedern

Chapter 14: The Highland Magic

Chapter 15: Cameron Coupe

Chapter 16: The Groundsman’s Sons

Chapter 17: Catherine

Chapter 18: Charles

Chapter 19: The Laird’s Sanctum

Chapter 20: Reviewing the Situation

Part Four: A Chill Descends

Chapter 21: Dinner

Chapter 22: Ghost!

Chapter 23: Alistair

Chapter 24: Obfuscation

Chapter 25: Where There Is Smoke

Part Five: The Distillation

Chapter 26: The Whisky Thief

Chapter 27: Divide and Conquer

Chapter 28: Fettes

Chapter 29: Thin Ice

Chapter 30: Romeo and Juliet

Chapter 31: Getting Warmer

Part Six: Maturation

Chapter 32 : The Angel’s Share

Chapter 33: Circles of Hell

Chapter 34: The Missing Man

Chapter 35: You Must Change Your Thoughts

Chapter 36: The Ghost of Atholmere

Chapter 37: Charlotte

Chapter 38: Golden Bear and Silver Tongue

Part Seven: The Pour

Chapter 39: The Lady

Chapter 40: A Wash

Chapter 41: 221b

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Bonnie MacBird

About the Publisher

Preface

Several years ago, while researching at the Wellcome Library, I chanced upon something extraordinary – an antique handwritten manuscript tied to the back of a yellowed 1880s treatise on cocaine. It was an undiscovered manuscript by Dr John H. Watson, featuring his friend, Sherlock Holmes, published in 2015 as Art in the Blood.

But what happened last year exceeded even this remarkable occurrence. An employee at the British Library whom I shall call Lidia (not her real name) found Art in the Blood in her local bookshop, and upon reading it was struck by the poignancy of Watson’s manuscript surfacing so long after the fact.

It triggered something in her mind and shortly afterwards, I received a phone call in my newly rented flat in Marylebone. This was curious, as our number there is unlisted. She identified herself as ‘someone who works at the British Library’ but would not give her name, and wanted to meet me at Notes, a small café next door to the London Coliseum. She refused to give me any information about the purpose of this meeting, saying only that it would be of great interest to me.

I could not resist the mystery. I showed up early and took comfort in a cappuccino, watching the pouring rain outside. Eventually a woman arrived, dressed as she had told me she would be with a silk gardenia pinned on the lapel of a long, black military-style coat. A pair of very dark sunglasses and a black wig added to her somewhat theatrical demeanour.

She carried a large nylon satchel, zipped at the top. It was heavy, and the sharp outlines of something rectangular were visible within. ‘Lidia’ then sat down, and in deference to her privacy I will not reveal all she told me. But inside her bag was a battered metal container that had come from the British Library’s older location in the Rotunda of the British Museum many years ago. It had somehow been neglected in the transfer to the new building and had languished within a stained cardboard box in a basement corner for some years.

It was an old, beaten up thing made of tin and was stuck shut. She pried it open gently with the help of a nail file.

Certainly you are ahead of me now.

Within that metal box was a treasure trove of notebooks and loose pages in the careful hand of Dr John H. Watson. You can well imagine my shock and joy. Setting my cappuccino safely to the side, I pulled out a thick, loosely tied bundle from the top. It had been alternatively titled ‘The Ghost of Atholmere’, ‘Still Waters’ and ‘The Spirit that Moved Us’ but all of these had been crossed out, leaving the title of Unquiet Spirits.

Like the previous manuscript, this, too, had faded with time, and a number of pages were so smeared from moisture and mildew that I could make out only partial sentences. In bringing this tale to light, I would have to make educated guesses on those pages. I hope then, that the reader will pardon me for any errors.

She left the box in its satchel in my care, wishing me to bring the contents to publication as I had my previous find. As she stood to go, I wanted to thank her. But she held up a black-gloved hand. ‘Consider it a gift to those celebrants of rational thinking, the Sherlock Holmes admirers of the world,’ said she. She never did give me her name, and while I could have ferreted it out in the manner of a certain gentleman, I decided best to let it lie.

I later wondered if she had actually read the entire story that was the first to emerge from that treasured box. But let me not spoil it for you.

And so, courtesy of the mysterious ‘Lidia’, and in memory of the two men I admire most, I turn you over to Dr John Watson for – Unquiet Spirits.

—Bonnie MacBird

London, December 2016

PART ONE
A SPIRITED LASS

‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave … when first we practise to deceive’

—Sir Walter Scott

CHAPTER 1
Stillness

s a doctor, I have never believed in ghosts, at least not the visible kind. I will admit I have even mocked those who were taken in by vaporous apparitions impersonating the dead, conjured by ‘mediums’ and designed to titillate the gullible.

My friend Sherlock Holmes stood even firmer on the topic. As a man who relied on solid evidence and scientific reasoning, he saw no proof of their existence. And to speak frankly, to a detective, ghosts fulfil no purpose. Without a corporeal perpetrator, justice cannot be served.

But hard on the heels of the diabolical and terrifying affair of ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ which I recount elsewhere, our disbelief in the supernatural was put to a terrifying test. One might always expect my friend’s rational and scientific approach to triumph, yet some aspects of the strange and weird tale I call Unquiet Spirits defy explanation, and there are pieces of this puzzle that trouble me to this day.

Holmes forbade publication of these events until fifty years after his death, and I believe his reasons were due less to any momentary lapse on the subject of ghosts than they were to the revelation of facts concerning Holmes’s last days at university. Thus I defer to my friend’s wishes, and hope those who are reading this account at some unknown future date will understand and grant us both the benefit of a kindly regard on the actions we took – and did not take – in Scotland, in the winter of 1889.

It had been a year filled with remarkable adventures for us, culminating in the recent terrifying encounter with the Baskervilles and the aforementioned spectral hound. Back in London afterwards, with the great metropolis bustling about us in the noisy pursuit of commerce, progress, science, and industry, the dark occurrences of Dartmoor seemed a distant nightmare.

It was a late afternoon in December, and the coldest winter of recent memory was full upon us. A dense white fog and the promise of snow had settled over the streets of London, the chill penetrating to the bone.

Mary had been called away once again to a friend’s sickbed, and without her wifely comforts, I did not hesitate to return to visit my singular friend in our old haunts at 221B Baker Street, now occupied by him alone.

My overcoat hung dripping in its usual place, and as I stood in our formerly shared quarters awaiting the appearance of Holmes, I thought fondly of my first days in this room. Just prior to first encountering Holmes, I had been in a sorry state. Discharged from the army, alone in London and short of funds, my nerves and health had been shattered by my recent service in Afghanistan. Of that ghastly campaign and its consequences, I have written elsewhere.

The lingering effects of my wartime experiences had been threatening to get the better of me. But my new life with Holmes had sent those demons hurtling back into darkness.

I stood, taking in the familiar sights – the homely clutter, Holmes’s Stradivarius carelessly deposited in a corner, the alphabetised notebooks and files cramming the bookshelves – and found myself wondering about Holmes’s own past. Despite our friendship, he had shared little of his early life with me.

Yet I was certain Holmes had ghosts of his own.

In Paris the previous year the remarkable French artist Lautrec had called my friend ‘a haunted man.’ But then, artists see things that others do not. The rest of us require more time.

A loud, clanking noise drew me from my reverie. Off to one side, on Holmes’s chemistry table, a complex apparatus of tubes and flasks steamed and bubbled, shuddering in some kind of effort. I approached to examine it.

‘Watson! How good of you to stop in!’ exclaimed the familiar voice, and I turned to see the thin figure of my friend bounding into the room in a burst of energy. He clapped me on the back with enthusiasm, drawing me away from the equipment and towards my old chair.

‘Sit, Watson! Give me a moment.’ He moved to the chemistry equipment and tightened a small clamp. The rattling subsided. Gratified by the result, he favoured me with a smile, then dropped into his usual chair opposite mine. Despite his typical pallor, he seemed unusually happy and relaxed, his tousled hair and purple dressing gown giving him a distinctly Bohemian look.

Holmes rooted for his pipe on a cluttered table nearby, stuck it in his mouth and lit it, tossing the match aside. It landed, still smouldering, on a stack of newspapers.

‘Are you well past our ghostly adventure, Watson?’ he asked with a grin. ‘Not still suffering from nightmares?’ A tiny thread of smoke arose from the newspapers.

‘Holmes—’

‘Admit it, Watson, you thought briefly that the Hound was of a supernatural sort, did you not?’ he chided.

‘You know that as a man of science, I do not believe in ghosts.’ I paused. ‘But I do believe in hauntings.’ A wisp of pale smoke rose from the floor next to his chair. ‘Look to your right, Holmes.’

‘Is there a dastardly memory in corporeal form there, Watson, waiting to attack?’

‘No but there is a stack of newspapers about to give you a bit of trouble.’

He turned to look, and in a quick move, snatched up the smouldering papers and flicked them into the grate. He turned to me with a smile. ‘Hauntings? Then you do believe!’

‘You misunderstand me. I am speaking of ghosts from our past, memories that will not let us go.’

‘Come, come, Watson!’

‘Surely you understand. I refer to things not said or left undone, of accidents, violence, deaths, people we might have helped, those we have lost. Vivid images of such things can flash before us, and these unbidden images act upon our nervous systems as though they were real.’

Holmes snorted. ‘Watson, I disagree. We are the masters of our own minds, or can be so with effort.’

‘If only that were true,’ said I, thinking not only of my wartime memories but of Holmes’s own frequent descents into depression.

The clanking from his chemistry table resumed, loudly.

‘What the devil is that?’ I demanded.

He did not answer but instead jumped, gazelle-like, over a stack of books to the chemistry apparatus where he tightened another small clamp. The clatter lessened and he looked up with a smile, before once again sinking back into the chair opposite mine.

‘Holmes, you are leaping about the room as though nothing had happened a year ago. Only last month you were still limping. How on earth did you manage such a full recovery?’

The grievous injuries he had suffered in Lancashire the previous December in the adventure I had named Art in the Blood had plagued him throughout 1889, and even in Dartmoor only weeks earlier. But he had forbidden me to mention his infirmity in my later recounting of the next several cases. Had I described him as ‘limping about with a cane’ (as in fact he was, at least part of the time) his reputation would have clearly suffered.

But now any trace of such an impediment was gone.

He leaned back in his chair, lighting his pipe anew. ‘Work! Work is the best tonic for a man such as myself. And we have been blessed with some pretty little problems of late.’ He flung the match carefully into the fire.

‘Yes, but in the last month?’

‘I employed a certain amount of mind over matter,’ said he. ‘But ultimately, it was physical training. Boxing, my boy, is one of the most strenuous forms of exercise, for the lower as well as upper extremities. Only a dancer uses the legs with more intensity than a boxer.’

‘Perhaps joining the corps de ballet at Covent Garden was out of the question, then?’ I offered, amused at the mental image of Holmes gliding smoothly among dozens of lovely ballerinas.

Holmes laughed as he drew his dressing gown closer around his thin frame. Despite the blaze, a deep chill crept in from outside. A sudden sharp draught from behind the drawn curtains made me shiver. The window must have been left open, and I got up to close it.

‘Do not trouble yourself, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘It is just a small break in the pane. Leave it.’

Ignoring him, I crumpled a newspaper to stuff into the gap and drawing back the curtain I saw to my surprise – a bullet hole!

‘Good God, Holmes, someone has taken a shot at you!’

‘Or Mrs Hudson.’

‘Ridiculous! What are you doing about it?’

‘The situation is in hand. Look down at the street. It is entirely safe, I assure you. What do you see across and two doorways to the right?’

I pulled back the curtain and peered down into the growing darkness. There, blurred by the snowfall, two doors down and receding, spectre-like into the recesses of an unlit doorway, stood a large, hulking figure.

‘That is a rather dangerous looking fellow,’ I commented.

‘Yes. What can you deduce by looking at him?’

The details were hard to make out. The man was wide and muscular, wrapped up in a long, somewhat frayed black greatcoat, a battered blue cap pulled low over his face. A strong, bare chin protruded, his mouth twisted in what looked like a permanent sneer.

‘Bad sort of fellow, perhaps of the criminal class. His hands are in his pockets, possibly concealing something,’ Here I broke off, moving back from the window. ‘Might he not shoot again?’

‘Ah, Watson. You score on several counts. His name is Butterby. He is indeed carrying a gun, although something more important is concealed. He is dressed to hide the fact that he is a policeman.’

‘A policeman!’

‘Yes, and, in a sense, he is rather “bad”. That is to say, he is among the worst policemen in an unremarkable lot. Even Lestrade thinks him stupid. Imagine.’

I laughed.

‘But he is enough to frighten away my would-be murderer, who is himself a rank amateur. So bravo, Watson, you improve.’

I cleared my throat. ‘A rank amateur, you say? Yet with excellent aim. Who, then?’

‘An old acquaintance with a grudge, but I tell you, the situation is handled,’ he said. Then noticing my worried face, he chuckled. ‘Really, Watson. Your concern is touching, but misplaced. The mere presence of our friend below will end the matter.’

I was not convinced and would try again on this subject later. ‘Where is the brandy?’ I said, moving to the sideboard looking for the familiar crystal decanter.

I found the vessel behind a stack of books. It was empty.

‘I am sorry, Watson, there is no brandy to be had,’ said he. ‘The shops are barren except for a few outside my budget. You have heard of the problems with the vineyards in France? I have been studying the subject. But I can offer you this.’

From next to him on a side table, he lifted a beaker of clear liquid. He poured a very small amount into each of two glasses. ‘Try it,’ he said, with a smile.

I took the glass and sniffed. I felt a sudden clearing of my sinus cavities and a burning in the back of my head.

‘Good God, Holmes, this smells lethal!’

‘I assure you it is not. Give it a try. Here, I will drink with you.’ He raised his glass for a toast. ‘Count of three. One. Two—’

On three we both gulped the liquid down. I erupted into such a fit of coughing and tearing of the eyes that I did not notice whether my companion did or not. When it subsided, I looked up to find he had tears streaming down his reddened face and was laughing and coughing in equal measure.

‘What is this stuff?’ I sputtered, wiping myself with a handkerchief.

‘Raw spirits. Distilled pure whisky, but before the ageing which renders it mellow. I diluted it with water, but clearly not enough.’

He held up a small booklet, entitled The Complete Practical Distiller.

‘That was a rather mean trick.’

‘Forgive me, my dear fellow. All in the name of science.’

A sharp pop and a sudden loud hiss emanated from the chemistry table. I glanced back at the complex system of flasks, copper containers and tubing.

Holmes normally employed a small spirit lamp to heat his chemicals, but I now noticed a very bright flame arising from a Bunsen burner which was connected by a length of rubber tubing to the wall. Over this was suspended a small, riveted copper kettle in a strange teardrop shape, one end drooping into a line which proceeded through valves and tubes into various looped and coiled copper configurations, complex and confusing, and—

‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘That is a miniature still!’

‘Ah, Watson, you improve. Decidedly.’

‘But you have tapped into the gas line! Why? Is that not dangerous?’

‘I needed a higher temperature. And, no, it is not dangerous when you take the precaution of—’

The noise had increased. The entire apparatus began to vibrate. The copper kettle and odd configuration of tubes and beakers rattled and shook. One clamp came loose and clattered off the table to the floor. A tube shook free and several drops of liquid arced into the air.

‘Holmes—!’ I began, but he was up and out of his chair, bounding across the room when a sudden small explosion blew the lid off the copper vessel, broke three glass tubes and an adjacent beaker, and sent a spray of foul smelling liquid up the nearby wall and across a row of books. A flame erupted underneath it.

We shouted simultaneously and in a flash he was upon the equipment, dousing the fire with a large, wet blanket pulled from a bucket he had evidently placed nearby in anticipation of such a possibility. The blanket slid down among the broken pieces. The flame went out and there was silence except for a low sizzle.

The room now reeked of raw alcohol, and a dark, burnt smell. A slow drip fell from the table to the carpet.

Mrs Hudson’s familiar sharp knock sounded at the door. ‘Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?’ she called out. ‘A young lady is here to see you.’

Holmes and I looked at each other like two schoolboys caught smoking. As one, we leapt to tidy the room. Holmes flung a second wet cloth sloppily over the steaming mess in the corner while I used a newspaper to whisk some broken glass and other bits under an adjacent desk.

I threw open the window to let out the hideous odour and in a moment we were back in our chairs, another log tossed onto the fire.

‘Show her in, by all means, Mrs Hudson,’ shouted Holmes.

He picked up his cold pipe and assumed an insouciant air. I was less quick to compose myself and was still sitting on the edge of my chair when the door opened.

CHAPTER 2
Isla

‘rs Isla McLaren of Braedern,’ announced Mrs Hudson.

Into the room stepped a vibrant young woman of about twenty-eight, exquisitely poised, small and delicate in stature. I was struck immediately by her beauty and graceful deportment but equally by the keen intelligence radiating from her regard. She was elegantly clothed in a deep purple travelling costume of rich wool, trimmed with small touches of tartan, gold and lace about the throat.

Her luxurious hair was brown with glints of copper, and her eyes a startling blue-green behind small gold spectacles. She removed these, took in the room, the mess, the smell and the two of us in one penetrating and amused glance. I immediately thought of a barrister assessing an opponent.

‘Oh, my,’ she said, sniffing the air.

A strong, rank odour emanated from the contraption, the newspapers and wet cloth on the chemistry table. This mess continued to hiss and clank intermittently.

I rose quickly to greet her. Holmes remained seated, staring at her in a curious manner.

‘Madam, welcome. Let me close the window. It is so cold,’ I offered, moving towards it.

‘Leave it,’ commanded Holmes, stopping me in my tracks. ‘Do come in, Mrs McLaren, and be seated.’

The lady hesitated and suppressed a cough. ‘Some air is welcome. Well, Mr Holmes, how clearly you have been described in the newspapers. And you must be Dr Watson.’ Her accent carried a hint of the soft lilt of the Highlands, but modified by a fine education. I liked her immediately.

Holmes appraised her coolly. ‘Do sit down, Mrs McLaren, and state your case. And please, be succinct. I am very busy at the moment.’ He waved a hand, indicating the settee before us. I knew for a fact that Holmes had no case at present.

The lady smiled. ‘Yes, I see that you are very busy.’

‘Welcome, madam,’ I repeated, mystified by my friend’s unaccountable rudeness and attempting to mitigate it. ‘We are at your service.’

‘Let me come straight to the point,’ said she, now seated before us. ‘I live in Scotland, in the Highlands to be more precise, at Braedern Castle, residence of Sir Robert McLaren, the laird of Braedern.’

‘McLaren of Braedern. Yes, I know that name,’ said Holmes arising languidly with a slow stretch and then in a sudden movement vaulting over the back of his low chair as if on springs. Arriving at the bookcase, he ran his finger along several volumes of his filed notes, pulled down one and rifled through it.

‘Ah, McLaren. Whisky baron. Member of Parliament. Working at the time of this article to establish business in London. Effectively, it appears. A Tory. Unusual for a Scot. Widower. Late wife very wealthy. And, ah, yes. Go on.’

He returned with the file and draped himself once more in the chair.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is my father-in-law.’

‘Obviously. It says here a daughter who did not survive infancy, and three sons.’

‘You are not au courant. Two sons survive. The eldest, Donal, died three years ago, killed during the siege of Khartoum.’

‘You are married to one of the remaining sons. Not Charles, the current eldest, but Alistair, the younger.’

Mrs McLaren smiled. ‘That is correct, Mr Holmes. And how did you deduce this?’

I did not like Holmes’s regard. ‘Madam, how can we help you?’ I said.

But the lady persisted. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she wondered.

‘It is obvious. Your ring. Lady McLaren’s famous amethyst and emerald engagement ring – I have a clipping here on its history – matches your dress perfectly and would surely be on your hand if you had married the elder son. The rest of your jewellery is quite modest. Therefore the younger son.’

The lady put a hand to her small gold brooch from which dangled a charm. Along with a simple wedding band and gold earrings this was the sum total of her jewellery. She smiled.

‘Regarding my jewellery, perhaps I am simply not in the habit of overt display, Mr Holmes. Rather like yourself.’ Her eyes flicked to his dressing gown.

‘Nevertheless?’ Holmes said. She remained silent. Her silence was a tacit acknowledgment. He smiled to himself, then he got up and moved back to the fireplace, making rather a fuss over his pipe. It struck me that she simultaneously disturbed him in some way, and at the same time incited those tendencies which I can only describe as showing off.

‘I have come to London to attend the opera, see my dressmaker, and to do a little Christmas shopping,’ she began. ‘While I was here, I thought—’

‘On second thought, I have heard enough, Mrs McLaren.’

‘Good grief, Holmes! Madam, I beg your forgiveness,’ said I. ‘Please do relate your concerns. We are all ears.’

Before she could answer, Holmes barked out, ‘Your husband either is, or you imagine he is, having an affair. I do not deal in marital squabbles. Kindly close the door behind you.’ He moved sharply away to a bookcase and stood there, his back to her.

She remained seated.

Holmes paused and turned around. ‘Really, madam, I beg you. What would your family think of this visit?’

‘It matters little what my family might think of my visit. I am quite on my own in this matter. Your opinions, while incorrect, are of moderate interest. Do enlighten me as to your train of thought.’

She had opened Pandora’s box. ‘Madam, mine are not opinions, but facts,’ he began in his didactic manner.

‘Go on,’ said she.

‘Holmes!’

‘If you insist. You have recently lost weight. For you, this may be considered beneficial. I observe that your dress has been taken in by a less than professional hand. However, something has changed. You have had your hair elaborately done and now are buying new clothes. The latest fashions are little valued in the Highlands, rather the opposite, and it is too cold for most of them. You are either having an affair here – but not likely as you are wearing your wedding ring – or trying to remake yourself to be more attractive to your husband. The jewellery I have explained. Now please, go away.’

‘You are wrong on several counts, Mr Holmes, but right on two,’ said she. ‘I do wish to make myself as attractive as possible. For women, it is sadly our main, although transient, source of power. Perhaps that may change some day. And yes, Alistair is my husband.’

Holmes sighed. ‘Of course.’

‘However I have not lost weight, this dress has always been too large, and I have fashioned my hair myself. I shall take both errors as compliments.’

Holmes nodded curtly.

‘Why, Mr Holmes, do you have such disdain for women? And what is that smell? Never mind. I wish to get to business. I am here to consult you on a case. I see that you are a bit low on funds, so perhaps you had better hear me out.’

Holmes exhaled sharply. ‘Pray be brief, then, madam. What exactly is puzzling you?’

‘One moment, Mrs McLaren,’ said I. ‘What makes you think Mr Holmes is in need of funds? Surely you are aware of several of our recent cases which have reached the news.’

‘Yes, and I do look forward to your full accounts of them, Dr Watson.’

Just then a sharp noise came from under the wet cloth and it suddenly slid off Holmes’s chemistry table. Holmes leapt to replace the blanket over the crude homemade still but not before the lady had a clear look.

‘An experiment,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘Will you not tell us your problem?’

She appraised him with cool eyes. ‘In a moment, sir. First I will answer Dr Watson. I see clearly that Mr Holmes requires cash. He has recently had his boots resoled instead of buying new. His hair is badly in need of a barber’s attentions. And his waistcoat, trousers, and dressing gown should be laundered, and soon. This does not fit with your description of Mr Holmes. He is either despondent or conserving money. His spirit bottles on the sideboard are empty, and he is rather ridiculously attempting to refill them with homemade spirits. Therefore the latter, most likely.’

‘It is a chemical experiment,’ snapped Holmes. ‘If you require my assistance, please state your case now.’

Isla McLaren reclined in her chair and flashed a small smile at me.

‘There have been a series of strange incidents in and around Braedern Castle,’ said she. ‘I cannot connect them and yet I feel somehow they are linked. I also sense a growing danger. Braedern Castle, as you may know if it appears in your files Mr Holmes, is reputed to be haunted.’

‘Every castle in Scotland is said to be haunted. You Scots are very fond of your ghosts and your faeries.’

‘I did not say that I thought that ghosts were at work. Quite a few of my fellow Scots demonstrate the capacity for rational thought, Mr Holmes. For instance, James Clerk Maxwell, James Watt, Mary Somerville …’

‘Yes, yes, the namesake of your college at Oxford. I see the charm dangling from your brooch, Mrs McLaren.’

Oxford! Isla McLaren grew in stature before my eyes. Somerville College for women was highly regarded, and the young ladies who attended were thought to be among the brightest in the Empire.

‘As I was saying, our small country has contributed a disproportionate number of geniuses in mathematics, medicine and engineering.’

Holmes at last took a seat and faced her, his aspect suddenly altered. ‘I cannot contradict you, Mrs McLaren,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. Let us address your problem.’

Mrs McLaren took a deep breath and regarded my friend for a moment, as if trying to decide something. ‘There have been a series of curious events at Braedern. Perhaps the strangest is this. Not long ago, a young parlour maid disappeared from the estate under unusual circumstances.’

‘Go on,’ said Holmes, as he opened and once again began to flip through the file.

‘Fiona Paisley is her name. She was a very visible member of staff, quite beautiful, with flame red hair nearly to her waist.’

‘Is? Was? Be clear, Mrs McLaren. Where is she now?’

‘Back at work, but—’

‘Continue. An attractive servant disappeared briefly but has returned. What is the mystery?’

‘She did not simply return. She arrived in a basket, bound, drugged, and with her beautiful hair cut off down to the scalp.’

This had at last piqued Holmes’s interest.

‘Start from the beginning. Tell me of the girl, and the dates of these events.’

‘Fiona disappeared last Friday. She returned two days later, three days ago.’

‘Why did you wait to consult me?’

‘Allow me to tell you this in my own way, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes sighed, and waved her to continue.

‘Fiona was flirtatious and forward, quite charming in her way. She had many admirers. Every man in the estate remarked upon her. We thought at first she had run off with someone until the servants appealed to the laird en masse, insisting that she had been kidnapped.’

‘Why?’

‘No one else was missing. She would not have run off alone. And then her shoe was found near the garden behind the kitchen. A search party was sent out, but discovered nothing else.’

‘But she has returned. What was her story? Did she not see her attacker?’

‘No. She could offer no clues.’

Holmes sighed and rose to find another cigarette on the mantle. He lit the cigarette casually. ‘Very well. Every man in the estate noticed her. Might your husband have done so?’

‘“Every” means “every”.’

‘Then you suspect an affair? Perhaps retribution? Is it possible that you or another woman in the house felt threatened by the girl?’

‘Why would I have come to you if I were the perpetrator?’

‘Mrs McLaren, believe me, it has been tried. Let us be frank. There is a certain degree of conceit in your self-presentation.’

‘I would describe it as confidence, not conceit. Will you hear me out, or is your need to put me in my place so much greater than your professional courtesy? Or, perhaps more apropos to you, your curiosity?’

To his credit, my friend received the reprimand with grace. ‘Forgive me. Pray continue, Mrs McLaren. The shoe that was found near the garden. Was there no sign of a struggle, nothing beyond the one object?’

‘None. I made enquiries and undertook a physical search of my own, but her room yielded nothing and the area where the shoe was found was by then so trampled that it was impossible to learn anything.’

‘Do you mean you played at detective work yourself, Mrs McLaren? Would not a call to the police have been in order?’

‘I think not, Mr Holmes. Dr Watson has made clear in his narrative your opinion of most police detective work. Our local constable is derelict in his duty. He is, quite frankly, a drunk. The laird refused to call him in.’

‘Yet I hardly think an untrained amateur such as yourself would be—’

I shot a warning glance at my friend. He was, I felt being unduly harsh. This woman had set something off in him I did not understand.

Isla McLaren was unfazed. ‘It is Fiona’s own story that concerns me. She was frightened beyond words. She was taken at night and there was a heavy mist. She saw nothing.’

‘Yes, well, what then?’

‘She awoke in a cold damp place, on what felt like a stone floor with some straw laid atop, apparently for meagre comfort. She was bound tightly but with padded ropes, and with her eyes covered. She had a terrible headache.’

Holmes had returned to his chair, and was now listening eagerly. ‘Chloroform, then. Easily obtained. Effective, if crude. Next?’

‘Someone who never spoke a word to her stole in and proceeded to cut off her hair with what felt like a very sharp knife. It was done carefully and she had the impression that the person was arranging the locks of hair beside her in some way. Possibly to keep it.’

Holmes exhaled and leaned back. ‘But not harmed otherwise?’

‘Not a bruise upon her. However, for a woman, her hair—’

‘Yes, yes, of course. It does grow back. Who discovered the basket?’

‘The second footman who was leaving to post some letters.’

‘Is that all? Where is the girl now?’

‘At home, but unable to work. She is beside herself. Fiona was superstitious before, and her friends have tried to convince her the kidnapping was the work of something supernatural.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘The attack was so silent. She neither saw nor heard anyone approach.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He did not move for several seconds.

‘Mrs McLaren, tell me more of the girl, her character, her reputation.’

‘Fiona has, or had before her abduction, a sparkling demeanour, flirtatious and flighty. She is no scholar, though canny. She has been unable to learn to read, but enjoys attention and is straightforward about it. I really do not dislike the girl at all, in fact I quite like her. She is, without the slightest effort, a magnet for male attention. I have not bothered to track her own affections or actions, but I wager that there could be any number of men or women who might be jealous of the attention she receives.’

‘You imply much, but can you confirm any specific affairs? A husband’s attraction to a pretty servant would certainly trouble most women, Mrs McLaren. Even you.’

‘I am not most women, Mr Holmes. But I think Fiona’s attractions may be beside the point. I think her desecration is the beginning of a larger threat, as described in the note.’

‘You have a note? Why withhold it? Let me see it!’ Holmes was irritated.

She withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from her handbag. He squinted at it, then thrust it at me. ‘Here, read this, Watson.’

I did so, aloud.

‘The crowning glory sever’d from the rest.

But only hair and n’er a foot nor toe

The victim or her kin ha’e fouled the nest

And ’tis likely best that she should go

If you heed not this warning and persist

In bedding sichan beauties as yon lass

You may lose something which will be more miss’d

And what you feart the most will come to pass

So at your peril gae about your lives

But notice what and whom you haud most dear

And mind your interests, no less your wives

For if unguarded, may soon disappear

You hae been warned and this should not deny

If tragedies befall you, blame not I.

—A true friend to the McLarens’

‘Hmmm’ said Holmes. ‘This ghost is an amateur poet. A schoolboy Shakespearean sonnet, if not a particularly brilliant one. Scots dialect. Paper common in Scotland and all through the north, calligraphic nib on the pen. Letters formed precisely as if copied from a manual, therefore the writer – who is energetic, note the upstrokes – was disguising his or her handwriting, which is only prudent. While this is marginally interesting, Mrs McLaren, I still believe this to be a domestic issue. Look to whoever was ‘bedding’ the lass, and whoever may be discomfited by this.’

Mrs McLaren drew herself up. ‘I consider what happened an act of violence, Mr Holmes. And the note indicates trouble to come. But I sense that you—’

‘Mrs McLaren. I do not take on cases before there is an actual reason. While the events are somewhat unusual, and certainly cruel, I do not share your degree of alarm. Unless of course, you feel personally threatened in some way? Do you?’

‘I do not.’

‘Madam, then this case is not within my purview. It appears to be a common domestic intrigue, although with outré elements. Good day.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette. But Isla McLaren was not to be put off so easily. She took a deep breath and pressed on. ‘Mr Holmes, I have come to you for help,’ she said. ‘Braedern is said to be haunted. There have been unexplained deaths. I have a growing sense of unease which I cannot dispel.’

‘Ghosts again! All right, what unexplained deaths?’

‘Ten years ago, the Lady McLaren, mother of the three sons we discussed, went out in a wild, stormy night to supervise the delivery of a foal which proved to be a false alarm. When she tried to return to the castle, she was locked out and could not enter. She froze to death.’

‘Was there an official investigation? Or did you, Mrs McLaren, play detective?’

‘Mr Holmes, you mock me. Obviously this was before my time, and yes, the police investigated. When Lady McLaren died, some of the servants first saw tracks in the snow indicating someone had tried to enter on the ground floor in several places, broke one window, but could not breach the shutters. Her frozen body was found later, and the laird was inconsolable.’

‘No bell was rung? How was it that no one inside was alerted?’ asked Holmes.

‘The bell apparently malfunctioned. I know no more.’

‘A very cold case, and likely an accident. Why bring this up now?’

‘Since that time her spirit is said to haunt the East Tower – a malevolent spirit that causes harm,’ said the lady.

Holmes sighed.

‘What kind of harm, Mrs McLaren?’ I asked.

‘A servant fell down the stairs to his death last year – pushed, it is said, by this ghost. A child, you see, disappeared from that hall years earlier.’

‘Hmmm, that would be … the laird’s only daughter, Anne. Aged two years and nine months,’ murmured Holmes.

‘None of the servants will enter after dark, now, and I fear—’

‘You do not seem the type to believe in ghosts. What precisely do you want of me, Mrs McLaren?’

‘Perhaps you could investigate and prove that there is nothing—’

Holmes waved this thought away. Mrs McLaren steeled herself and changed course. It would be hard to dissuade this woman, and I admired her fortitude, though I wondered at her persistence. The lady was intriguing.

‘Mr Holmes, ours is a complex family. McLaren whisky is renowned but within the family there is dissension over control. Rivalries.’

‘I have heard of your whisky,’ said I, warmly. ‘“McLaren Top” is quite good, I am told.’

‘Yes. Just last year it was adopted as “the whisky of choice” by the Langham Hotel, among others. There is a great deal of money at stake. We could be considered for a Royal Warrant, but plagued as we are by these legends and fears …’

Holmes sighed. He opened his eyes and gazed fixedly upon the lady.

‘A missing girl who is no longer missing. A note in rhyme with the vaguest of threats. Accidental deaths. Ghosts. And now rivalry among brothers. You are scraping an empty barrel, I sense. Madam, there is nothing for me here. Please close the door as you depart.’

But Mrs McLaren was not finished. ‘Mr Holmes, yesterday I found this in the garden shed.’ She reached into her handbag and withdrew a stick of dynamite and a long fuse.

We froze and I heard a sharp intake of air from my friend.

‘Careful with that, Mrs McLaren!’ said Holmes. ‘Hand it to me, please.’

She made no move to do so, but placing it in her lap, instead withdrew a cigarette from her reticule, and before we could stop her, extracted a vesta from a silver case and lit it.

We both shouted and leapt from our chairs, and Holmes managed to snatch the dynamite away. He pulled back from her and stood a moment, holding it stiffly in the air, uncertain, as any step away from her and her lit match would draw him nearer the fire, or nearer the chemistry table which still sizzled quietly under its moist covering.

‘Relax, gentlemen. It is a dummy. I checked. There is no nitroglycerin in this room – unless it is your own.’ The lady smiled sweetly at us.

Holmes glowered at her.

‘You must admit, it captured your attention,’ said she, lighting her cigarette. She inhaled and blew several small circles towards the ceiling, peering upward through them to view my companion with laughing eyes. ‘As it did mine.’

CHAPTER 3
Rejection

olmes sighed, sniffed, then examined the dynamite stick. Satisfied, he flung it on a side table.

‘Mrs McLaren, you have made your point, albeit more theatrically than necessary. What is so funny, Doctor?’

I shrugged and he continued.

‘Dynamite is the classic tool of the railway builder, the miner, and the anarchist. These appear to be Nobel’s latest type, made in their Scottish factory. What do you think these were doing in this form, wrapped as though filled, and yet not? Dummies, you say. And where exactly did you find them?’

Mrs McLaren smiled. ‘I have no idea. I found these two dummies, and a cache of what I believe were filled sticks in a tool shed in the back of the kitchen garden. And as to your other question, I have only to guess.’

‘Please do not. Guessing is for amateurs. Is there anyone in your family connected to the Scots Separatist movement? To the Russian Revolution? To French anarchists?’ He paused. ‘To the women’s suffrage movement?’

‘You have covered a great deal of territory, Mr Holmes. I myself support women’s right to vote as any clear thinker must. But I am not a radical. As to the rest, I could not be certain. Politics are not the primary subject at our family gatherings.’

‘What is, then?’

‘Money, Mr Holmes. The whisky business. Techniques of distillation, ponies, hunting, local gossip – and ghosts.’

Holmes sighed. ‘Dynamite is used in clearing lands for new buildings, is it not? And has your distillery been recently enlarged? Is there not a logical reason for dynamite to be present for these uses?’

‘Well, yes,’ said the lady. ‘But I wonder about the dummies.’

Silence. Small sounds came from the chemistry table. Holmes’s knee vibrated in impatience.

‘Madam,’ he said after a moment. ‘There are many hints of mystery in your various stories, and yet I am afraid I do not see a case for me. Dr Watson will show you out.’

I will admit my astonishment at this. I thought there was quite enough intrigue presented for several cases! But even more puzzling was Holmes’s rudeness to the lady. While he could on occasion display insensitivity, he was usually the soul of courtesy, especially where women were concerned.

Mrs McLaren stood abruptly and I rose with her. ‘I can find my way out, Dr Watson,’ she said. She then turned to my companion.

‘I am afraid I have wasted your time,’ said the lady. ‘And my own.’

Mrs McLaren took her leave, and as soon as the front door closed behind her downstairs, I could not contain myself. ‘Holmes! Why do you hesitate? There is so much of interest here! And Mrs McLaren—’

‘What? A servant girl has her hair shorn, servants fear ghosts, and some empty dynamite sticks may or may not have been found in a garden shed? By the way, those were not created as dummies. Someone had removed the cordite, for whatever reason. I suspect the lady herself did so, then brought these along to bring out if her other stories failed to get my attention.’

‘Holmes, that is an outrageous notion!’

He shrugged. ‘Do you not think her capable?’

‘That is beside the point! She seems far too intelligent and level-headed to resort to such trickery. Did you not find her story, indeed the lady herself, intriguing?’

‘No, you found her intriguing. I find her—’

‘Utterly fascinating.’

‘—provocative. Really, Watson, you must raise your sights.’

‘Provocative is not a bad beginning for a case, Holmes.’

‘I have decided and that is that. Besides, Mycroft has something for me and I am to meet him in the morning. Would you care to join us? It will most certainly be more interesting than the McLaren imbroglio.’

‘Yes, I will come, Holmes. Though I do not understand this decision. Ah, it is freezing in here now.’

As I moved to close the damaged window, I stole a glance outside. The snow was coming down hard now and the air was growing opaque. But across the way, I saw something that made me stop short.

‘Hullo! Your man is in trouble down there!’

In the deepening shadows, the hulking Butterby was struggling with a tall, well-dressed stranger, who wielded his walking stick like a club. The attacker was clearly at an advantage, and suddenly struck the larger man in the face. Butterby fell back into the shadows.

Holmes bounded to the window, took one glance and ran for the door shouting, ‘Stay here! On no account come down. Do as I say!’

In a moment I saw him dash into the snow sans overcoat and dodge the traffic, across Baker Street to where Butterby had arisen and was now locked in combat with his attacker. From the distance I could only discern a gentleman of about our own age, who was fighting with a particularly vicious energy. Butterby was taking a beating as Holmes ran towards them.

But the attacker sensed his approach, broke free from Butterby and whirling at the last instant aimed a fierce blow at Holmes with his walking stick, striking his shin with a crack I could hear from across the street. Holmes shouted and went down. Two pedestrians nearby fled.

I was down the stairs and into the street without a thought.

By the time I reached the trio, Holmes had regained his footing, and the three were struggling on the slippery pavement, the snow swirling wildly about them. Butterby fell and the attacker turned his attention full on Holmes.

But perceiving my approach and sensing the odds were no longer in his favour, the assailant broke free and started to flee, his camel hair coat billowing behind him. Fate, however, intervened and he suddenly slipped on the icy pavement and fell, striking his head against the base of a lamp post as he went down.

He lay still. We stood gasping, Butterby still splayed on the curb next to us, holding his head.

‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I shouted over the rising wind.

‘Yes, see to that man, Watson,’ Holmes replied, helping Butterby up.

I turned to the downed attacker. His was a handsome face, chiselled and refined. The eyes remained closed and he was still. I knelt, checking his pulse and his pupils. They were not dilated, a good sign. The wind continued to whip snow around us in a flurry. Holmes and I were without our coats.

‘Get him inside,’ I shouted. Holmes hesitated for only a moment, but then nodded.

With Butterby’s clumsy help, the three of us managed to transport the fellow up to our sitting room, and minutes later, the mysterious attacker was stretched out unconscious on our settee, his hands secured behind him with Butterby’s handcuffs. Holmes grabbed a second pair of cuffs from the mantle and secured his feet to one leg of the settee. I was shivering from my brief exposure to the elements but applied myself to examine the man further. I placed a pillow to raise his head where it had tilted back over the edge of the settee.

My patient was a tall, well-built fellow. His coat was of the finest Savile Row tailoring, now dirtied and torn from the fight. He had suffered a nasty cut on the forehead, and remained unconscious, but his pulse was strong and regular, his breathing normal. I called down to Mrs Hudson for hot water and towels and blotted the wound with a clean handkerchief and some of Holmes’s clear spirits.

A silent and glowering Butterby stood like a plinth in the corner of the room. Melting snow dripped from him, splashing lightly onto the rug. He held a dirty handkerchief to a bleeding cut on his cheek and grimaced. I handed him a clean one. Holmes looked up and, finally noticing him, suggested he fetch Lestrade and be quick about it.

‘Right-o, then,’ Butterby grunted, and lumbered off. Holmes shook his head in annoyance.

Our man on the sofa was struggling to regain consciousness. He groaned and his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, closed, and opened again. I turned to my friend.

Holmes was pale with exertion and cold, snow still visible on his hair and the shoulders of his dressing gown. He rubbed his shin and grimaced.

‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I asked again.

‘It is just a bruise. Our man here has been in training since last we met. I underestimated him. What is the damage?’

‘You know him, then?’

‘The damage, Watson?’

‘He will live. I would ask for brandy, but—’

‘Here, give him some of this. My best whisky, though he hardly merits it.’ He handed over a bottle. McLaren Top!

I held the drink to the assailant’s lips, supporting his head. He squinted and took in his surroundings and then suddenly jerked his limbs only to discover his restraints. With a splutter he pulled away from the drink, but clipped it with his chin and several drops spilled over his damaged coat.

He shook his head to focus and suddenly noticed Holmes standing above him. He emitted a deep-throated cry and jolted violently towards me. Struggling against his bonds he began making a series of strange, garbled sounds.

‘Now that is a waste of perfectly good Scotch, St John,’ said Holmes. ‘Not to mention you have further stained your rather fine coat. I see you have retained your excellent taste in tailoring.’

‘How do you know this man?’ I asked.

‘It is a very long story,’ said my friend, his voice strained.

Another set of unintelligible sounds emerged from the fellow. Turning to stare at him, I discovered why. As he continued to make noises, I remarked in horror that the man had lost his tongue! The wound was not recent. There was not a trace of blood, just a dark space where a tongue would rest.

St John glowered.

Holmes turned to me. ‘This is Mr Orville St John. A distinguished member of the St Johns of Northumberland, titled landowners, enormously wealthy from their logging endeavours. We were undergraduates together at Camford. Shall I tell Dr Watson what happened there, St John?’

The man said nothing.

‘I shall presume that was a yes. Mr St John and an equally well-placed friend, both of whom enjoyed great prestige at Camford, took top honors in mathematics and chemistry, until I arrived upon the scene and began to prevail. A prize or two, the favour of a famous professor, and suddenly I was, to them, some kind of nemesis, an object of both envy and derision.’

I noticed St John staring with vehement anger at my friend.

‘They began a campaign to drive me from the University.’ Holmes’s tone was matter of fact, even light, but the tension in his face spoke of more behind the words. ‘He attempted to persuade students and faculty alike that I had harmed his dog, and had blown up a laboratory deliberately. My position was precarious. Not only did I lose the few friends I had – well, not that popularity was ever my goal—’

On the couch, St John snorted.

‘I very much doubt they got the better of you,’ said I.

St John grunted loudly.

‘You would be wrong, Watson. Of course he could speak then. In fact, St John was President of the Union and a champion debater. His nickname was “The Silver Tongue” and he managed by dint of his extraordinary powers of persuasion to turn an entire college and most of the dons against me.’

Holmes paused, remembering. ‘Eventually I was sent down. Although at that point I had lost the will for … other reasons. In any case, Watson, there is my reason for leaving the University, sitting before you in all his glory.’

I was sure that there was much more to this story. St John stared at Holmes, unblinking and cold. Holmes turned to face him, all pretence of humour gone. The hatred between the two was palpable, an electric current travelling through the air.

‘You were very persuasive, St John,’ said he.

I had long wondered about the reason that Holmes had left university without taking his degree. This seemed an incomplete explanation. I pulled him aside, behind St John, where our captive could not see us. I indicated the tongue, with a gesture demanding an explanation. Holmes just shook his head, ‘Later,’ he mouthed.

There was a noise on the stairs and Mrs Hudson showed in Lestrade and two deputies. The wiry little inspector was as usual, full of energy. ‘Mr Holmes!’ he cried.

‘Ah, Lestrade, I see Butterby has succeeded in something at last,’ said Holmes. ‘He has delivered you in a timely fashion. In a moment I would like you to remove this man, Mr Orville St John.’

‘Ah, a gentleman, he appears, but without manners. To gaol then, Mr Holmes? Butterby claims assault and battery. Him as well as you, and the good doctor,’ said Lestrade, with relish.

‘One moment if you please, Inspector.’

Turning to St John, Holmes said the following slowly and carefully. ‘St John, you are now known in these parts and have tried to kill me three times in the last six days.’

Holmes leaned in and removed a revolver from St John’s outer coat pocket. The man inhaled sharply as Holmes opened it, checking the bullets. He handed it to Lestrade. ‘Recently fired, and the calibre and make will match, no doubt, this bullet found in my wall over there.’

He pointed and I discerned a new bullet hole in the wall, just under my picture of General Gordon.

‘Attempted murder, then, as well!’ said the policeman.

‘Patience,’ said Holmes, and turned again to the man restrained before us. ‘I am going to make you an offer for your freedom, St John. If you agree to my terms, I will not press charges. And Lestrade, I ask that you convince Butterby to drop his charges as well. Release this gentleman’s ankles, would you please, Doctor.’ He handed me the keys to his cuffs. ‘And you his hands, Butterby.’

As he was freed from his restraints, St John looked pointedly away, rubbing his wrists. I was unable to read his reaction to these last words. Holmes continued.

‘What is so completely odd, St John, is why now? What has sent you here?’ He leaned forward.

St John turned away again coldly. Holmes sighed. ‘You must let this vendetta go. You know that I am not guilty of that which you accuse me. In your heart of hearts, you know this.’

St John remained inscrutable. I scanned his motionless face but read no sign of the man relenting.

‘Once again, in front of witnesses, can you let this vendetta go? If so, then you walk away a free man. If not, it will be to gaol with you, where I will ensure you stay a very long time.’ Holmes then made several strange gestures in the air with his hands. I recognized the motions as French sign language used by the deaf or mute, but had no clue to the meaning.

St John hesitated, and a torrent of emotions passed over his face as he clearly fought to regain control. He made a brief reply in sign language.

‘Fine then, St John, but consider this. If you do not desist, although I am not a vindictive man, you will leave me no choice. I will investigate your personal business, and create as much difficulty as I can for your family. You will bring trouble down on all you love. Do you agree to let this go once and for all?’

St John closed his eyes for a moment, then opening them, he stared fiercely at my friend, then nodded in assent.

‘I need your word.’

‘Let him say it, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade.

Holmes shot a glance at Lestrade. ‘He is mute.’ He turned to glare at St John. The man hesitated, then finally, an affirmative ‘Uh huh’ came from him.

‘That will suffice. Gentlemen. I now formally drop my charges against Mr St John for his attempts on my life. For the time being.’ Turning back to St John he said, ‘Take care that you keep your vow. Do you understand me?’

St John slowly raised his eyes to meet Holmes’s. There was a cold rage, now, in that look. The man was ready to kill Holmes, of that I was sure. And yet my friend seemed eager to let him go.

St John nodded one more time.

‘Escort Mr St John back to the Langham Hotel, please.’

St John started at this.

‘Yes, I know your hotel, and a great deal more,’ Holmes said. Then, to Lestrade, ‘It is a lodging well suited to this gentleman’s means and style. He lives on a grand estate just outside Edinburgh, and he is the respected owner and editor of St John and Wilkins, a major publishing house. He has three small children, a growing business, a loving wife, and a brother in delicate health. He has much to lose.’

St John stood, and as he did, one of Lestrade’s deputies approached and took him by the arm, and they moved to the door. As he stood in the doorframe, St John turned to Holmes and elaborated some complex thought with sign language, ending with an aggressive gesture.

Holmes clearly received the message. He sighed and shook his head.

The men departed, Butterby with them.

Lestrade shook his head. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, I have seen some strange things in these rooms, but that gentleman is surely one of the strangest. I do not have a good feeling about your letting him go like that.’

‘Nor do I, Holmes,’ said I. ‘I think you are making a mistake.’

My friend stood peering into the fire. ‘Gentlemen. I am very tired suddenly and need to rest. If you will excuse me, please. Good evening, Lestrade. Watson, would you be so good as to meet me at the Diogenes Club at 9.30 tomorrow morning.’ He shrugged. ‘Or stay, if you like. Your old room is probably habitable.’

Without a further word, he retired to his bedroom and shut the door. As soon as he did so, I realized that I had meant to have a look at the leg where St John had struck him. But he would not be disturbed now. I turned to Lestrade, who was now staring curiously at the still gurgling chemistry mess in the corner.

‘What on earth is that, if you do not mind my asking?’ he said.

‘I promise you I have not the faintest notion, Inspector.’

‘You must have a very forgiving landlady,’ observed the little man tartly. On cue, the saintly Mrs Hudson appeared with his hat, coat and umbrella.

‘Good evening, Inspector Lestrade,’ I said.

As he left, Mrs Hudson sniffed the foetid air and took in the chemistry disaster. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she enquired.

‘He is resting,’ said I.

‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘I shall bring you both some warm soup. Will you be staying, Doctor?’

‘My room—’

‘It has been made up fresh as Mr Holmes requested.’

I smiled. Had Holmes known that Mary was not home and would not miss me? It should not have surprised me. But meanwhile, the weather had grown increasingly inclement.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I will stay.’ In truth, I felt uneasy at the recent events. Until I was sure that this St John had been dissuaded from his mission, Holmes might well make use of my help.

Thus I decided to stay the night and accompany my friend in the morning to see his brother, Mycroft Holmes. As it turned out, it was lucky that I did.

CHAPTER 4
Brothers

n route through snowy Regent Street to Mycroft the following morning, I found myself puzzling over both Holmes’s rejection of Isla McLaren’s case and his handling of the treacherous Orville St John incident. But my friend was in an impatient mood, his black kid-gloved fingers drumming restlessly upon his knee. He refused to be drawn into a discussion of either. I persisted on the St John issue and at last he said, ‘Mr St John will not trouble me again. He is particularly protective of his family and my bluff will suffice. He – why do you look at me that way? Surely, Watson, you cannot imagine that I would forcibly cut a man’s tongue from his head for any reason on earth!’

The thought had in fact occurred to me. ‘Well, not a live one, at any rate. But how did it happen?’

‘It was the act of a madman, a mutual acquaintance, Watson, who has since passed on to meet his Maker.’

‘Strange. But why does this St John think you were responsible? And why attack you now?’

‘Certainly some recent event has served to reanimate his rage. Perhaps a letter. I intend to find out. In any case, it is complicated, and long past. Leave it, I say.’ His tone brooked no argument and I knew it was useless to pursue for the moment. We soon pulled up in front of the Diogenes Club.

‘I shall pay,’ I offered, in an attempt at détente. Perhaps Mrs McLaren had been right and he was in need of cash. I fished in my own pocket.

‘I have it, Watson. You are a bit short of funds yourself.’

It was regrettably true! My practice had suffered recently when a doctor of considerable charm and a decade more experience had hung his brass plate two doors down from my own. But how could he know?

‘What herculean efforts you make to keep track of my personal affairs!’ I exclaimed as we entered the august precincts of the Diogenes. ‘Perhaps better spent elsewhere!’

‘Very little effort at all,’ said he, ‘Watson, you are an open book.’

‘Well, you are wrong about that,’ I insisted.

Soon afterwards we were seated in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes, awaiting Mycroft Holmes.

The antique globes in their familiar place, the bookshelves filled with leatherbound volumes, the large window onto Pall Mall – all was as it had been before. While the club’s peculiar regulars must have chosen it for its rules of silence, I found the place oppressive.

The Stranger’s Room was the only place in this eccentric institution where one was allowed to speak. Eventually Mycroft Holmes sailed in as a stately battleship through calm waters to sit before us. Mycroft was over six feet tall, and unlike his brother, very wide in girth. He carried a leather dossier in one enormous hand. He smiled in his particular mirthless way, and then he and my friend exchanged the usual pleasantries characteristic of the Holmes brothers, that is to say, none at all.

Coffee was served. The clink of china and silver was hushed in the room.

‘How is England doing?’ asked Holmes finally.

‘We are well,’ said Mycroft. ‘Considering.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair, a twitching knee giving away his impatience. Mycroft eyed his younger brother with a kind of concerned disapproval. ‘But you, Sherlock, must watch your finances. I have mentioned this before.’

‘Mycroft!’ exclaimed Holmes.

‘Little brother, you are an open book.’

I cleared my throat to cover a laugh, and Holmes shot me a look. ‘What is it you want, Mycroft? Trouble in France I hear?’

‘Precipitous. The threat of war. You have heard of the phylloxera epidemic? It is not a virus, but a little parasite, it seems, and it is destroying the vineyards of France. Their wine production is down some seventy-five per cent in recent years. Dead brown vines everywhere. A good, cheap table wine is impossible to come by, and the better brandies, too. An absolute disaster for the French, and keenly felt.’

‘Come now, Mycroft … war?’ said Holmes.

‘There are those highly placed in France who feel the debacle was deliberately engineered. And by Perfidious Albion, no less.’

‘Blaming the epidemic on Britain!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Is such a thing possible?’ He smiled. ‘Or is this merely a question of French sour grapes?’

‘Who knows?’ said Mycroft. ‘But, a highly placed gentleman, one Philippe Reynaud is leading the charge. He is Le Sous Secrétaire d’État à l’Agriculture. Reynaud thinks the Scots are behind it. Or at the very least, prolonging it.’

‘The Scots!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why, they have long been allies of the French.’

Mycroft gave me a withering glance.

‘Which Scots? And why particularly?’ asked Holmes, then had a sudden thought. ‘Oh. Whisky, of course.’

‘Three Scottish families are singled out and under suspicion. One may interest you particularly, the McLarens. It is in the report,’ said Mycroft, indicating a dossier which he had tossed on the table between them. The name struck me but Holmes gave nothing away. Mycroft turned to me. ‘Numerous entrepreneurial types including the McLarens, James Buchanan, and others have been laying siege to London clubs and restaurants, aggressively promoting their ‘uisge beatha’ or ‘water of life’ – that is the Scots’ Gaelic term – as the new social drink to be enjoyed in finer society. The fact that spirits, such as brandy, cognac and wine have grown costly and scarce has helped them tremendously.’

‘Oh yes! I particularly like Buchanan’s new Black and White—’ I began.

‘The fortunes of these companies are rising,’ interrupted Mycroft. ‘Not just in London but internationally. The French are talking of trade sanctions, and a couple of militant specimens, including this Reynaud, have pushed for a more aggressive response.’

‘War over drinks?’ I exclaimed. ‘Ludicrous.’

‘It is an entire industry, and war has been declared for less, Watson. The French vineyards are closely tied to French identity,’ said Holmes.

‘Yes, they are quite heated on the subject,’ said Mycroft. ‘Cigarette?’

Holmes took a cigarette from Mycroft’s case and lit it.

Mycroft sighed. ‘These ideas have been gaining purchase, and that is why I have called you in, Sherlock.’

‘What of research?’ asked Holmes. ‘Is there no potential remedy in sight for the scourge?’

‘The leading viticultural researcher is in Montpellier, Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. He is said to be close to a solution. But, and here is where you come in, dear brother, he has been receiving death threats, and this Reynaud insists they come from Scotland.’

‘What has been done so far?’

‘France has put its “best man” on the case to protect Dr Janvier and discover the source of the threats, but Dr Janvier has taken a dislike to the gentleman in question and I can’t say I blame him. I know the man; he is an irritant, and, based on his past history, I would not put it past him to exacerbate the situation.’

Holmes was smiling at this. ‘France’s “best man” you say? An irritant? This sounds like someone we know.’

‘Yes.’

The brothers exchanged a look of amusement.

‘Who is—wait!’ I suddenly guessed the identity of this unnamed man. ‘Can it be Jean Vidocq?’ I blurted out. Their silence was confirmation.

The scoundrel! We had had some unfortunate dealings with the famous French detective last year. Vidocq was a dangerous charmer who saw himself as Holmes’s rival. The man had not only attacked me physically but had complicated our case involving a certain French singer and her missing child. This same man claimed to be a descendant of the famous Eugène François Vidocq who founded the Sûreté nearly eighty years ago. But the connection was spurious – the real Vidocq had no known descendants. Despite his questionable character, Jean Vidocq was not without considerable skills, and was frequently consulted by the French government.

‘What exactly do you wish me to do?’ asked Holmes.

‘Three things. First, meet Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier, and let me know the status of his research. How close is he to a cure for the mite? The second is to discover and neutralise whoever is threatening the man and his work – if these threats are indeed genuine.’

‘Why would they not be genuine?’ asked Holmes.

Mycroft shrugged. ‘Attention. Sympathy. Who knows? But if the threats to Dr Janvier are real, and they have been perpetrated by a Briton, then detain that gentleman with the utmost discretion and notify me. The Foreign Office and I shall handle it from there.’

‘And if there is a villain, and he or she is not British?’ asked Holmes.

‘Well, then best to leave it. I shall pass on the information.’

Holmes stopped smiling and sat back in his chair.

‘Protect Britain, that is your only interest? Not this man, or the crisis itself? No, Mycroft,’ he said. ‘I will not undertake this.’

Mycroft seemed not to have heard. ‘And the third task: extricate Jean Vidocq from this situation, the sooner the better. This man Janvier, who is something of a genius, may well be in danger. Vidocq only complicates things and is unlikely to be protecting him.’

Holmes said nothing.

‘As for the three Scottish families I mentioned, at the top of the list are the McLarens. You improve at concealment, Sherlock. I mentioned them before, and you revealed nothing, but in fact, you had a visit from the younger daughter-in-law yesterday. Most convenient.’

Holmes set his coffee cup in its saucer abruptly, ‘Stop having me watched, Mycroft.’

‘You may one day be thankful.’

‘Yet you missed the recent attempts on my life.’

‘Not very effective, was he? Need I say more?’

Holmes said nothing.

‘The McLaren family is or will be en route shortly to the South of France where they winter each year in the vicinity of Nice. This year it is the new Grand Hôtel du Cap Eden Roc in Antibes. Did your client fail to mention this? I wonder why she came to see you? It is a curious coincidence.’

‘She came on another matter. a domestic intrigue. And she is not my client, as I turned down the case.’

‘Dear me! If you are declining cases left and right, how wrong I was to imagine you in straitened circumstances, dear brother.’

Holmes actually turned scarlet at this jab.

‘In any case, you are free to travel,’ Mycroft said.

‘No, Mycroft. Watson, call for our coats, please.’

I stood.

‘Our Monsieur Reynaud fears that an attack on Dr Janvier is imminent. It seems precisely your kind of case, Sherlock. Protect an innocent who advances science.’ Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette and sipped his coffee. He smiled kindly at his brother. I immediately thought of a mongoose.

‘I said no.’ Holmes leaned forward, stubbing his own cigarette into the ashtray in the centre of the table. Without shifting position, and with a dexterity I could scarcely credit, Mycroft suddenly thrust his arm forward and clapped his large hand over Holmes’s long thin one, slamming it into the ashtray and onto the still smouldering cigarette. And there he held it. I could not believe what I was seeing.

His hand unmoving, Mycroft’s voice remained warm and friendly. ‘Consider the plight of this man, Dr Janvier, Sherlock. He is brilliant, a genius with few friends. A naïf in a certain way. But his work is vital, with economic and political repercussions. I assure you, no British official wishes him dead.’

He continued to hold his hand clamped over Holmes’s. My friend indicated nothing, but I could see the sweat beading on his brow. With a sudden move, I took up the coffee pot and poured a small splash of hot coffee on Mycroft’s hand. With a cry he released Holmes and the two sprung back from the table, each cradling an injured hand.

‘So sorry, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘As long as we are discussing saving wine and Western civilization, might we not be a little more civilized ourselves?’ I said.

‘And there is my point, Sherlock. Paul-Édouard Janvier has no Watson. Do this for me, will you not, little brother? You are uniquely suited. England will thank you. I will thank you, and a certain august personage at Windsor will certainly be grateful.’

From his pocket Mycroft now withdrew a large, thick envelope and placed it on the table. ‘You will be needing an advance, of course. Report to me daily on your progress.’

Holmes stared at the envelope in disdain. But he then looked away thoughtfully, and to my surprise, reconsidered.

‘I will do it, Mycroft, for this man Dr Janvier. But not for you,’ said Holmes. He reached down and flicked the envelope back across the table to Mycroft. ‘Keep your advance. Pay me when the case is closed.’

Mycroft smiled and sat down, delicately wiping the coffee from his hand with a white linen napkin. ‘Dr Watson, you have been little challenged of late. Might you break free from the marital bonds to accompany my brother on a trip to the Riviera?’

Little challenged! Had I been watched as well? Holmes glanced my way with a nod of encouragement. ‘This can be arranged,’ said I. ‘My dear Mary has some obligations herself, you see, as she has to—’

‘Capital! The 4.15 from Waterloo, the day after tomorrow,’ said Mycroft. ‘Tickets, and a packet of information will be at Baker Street within the hour. You may change your mind later about the advance, Sherlock. Meanwhile, enjoy the South of France. The sunshine will do you both good.’

He glanced in my direction. ‘But do stay away from the casino, Dr Watson.’

I could feel my cheeks colouring at this comment. ‘I have given up gambling,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ said both brothers simultaneously.

‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Mycroft.

I will admit to a curious, if not longing glance at that thick envelope as we departed.

Back on the street my friend was in a dark humour. The snow was coming down in a fury now, and I looked about for a cab.

‘Your brother is mad,’ I remarked. ‘And you are not far behind.’

‘No, Watson. He is just a type you have not encountered. He is … effective. But I am generally ahead of him, and will be quicker next time.’

Quicker? What kind of family spawned these two?

‘Why did you not take the money?’ I asked.

‘I dislike taking payment in advance,’ said he. ‘It changes the equation.’

But in this he was inconsistent, as in so many things. At last I spotted a free cab. I would use my last coins if need be to get out of this weather. Holmes preferred to walk, and as the cab departed I looked back to see his thin, lone figure vanish in the swirling snow. Whatever awaited us in the South of France, it would include sunshine. Of that, and only that, I was certain.

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 shall come straight to the point,’ said the lady. ‘When I returned to Scotland from London, I found that Fiona had disappeared again and no one knew where she had gone. The laird hesitated to leave for France yesterday with mystery hanging in the air, but then a note was found. She seems to have eloped with the groundsman’s son.’

Eloped. ‘Well that is certainly good news,’ I said.

‘The family is greatly relieved. Fiona had been so upset by what had happened to her that she could not function. Though we may never know what precisely did happen.’

‘Well, then, it was certainly a domestic intrigue, as Holmes surmised. What brings you to Nice?’

‘I told you, Dr Watson. We winter here in the South of France.’

‘Yes, but I mean specifically here, in Nice, today. The Grand Hôtel du Cap is more than an hour from here.’

She stopped walking and just stared at me. Her voice turned icy. ‘Then Mr Holmes is tracking the family. How do you know we are staying at the Grand Hôtel du Cap?’

‘Well, the Grand Hôtel du Cap … I just presumed you would be in the best hotel in the area,’ said I, realising my gaffe.

She looked unconvinced. I knew I was in trouble and went on the offensive. ‘Well, I might then ask you how you managed to discover me here, on the Promenade? That is certainly serendipitous.’

‘In fact, it was exactly that, Dr Watson. I came in for some shopping. You see?’ She opened a large canvas bag she had been carrying which contained some brightly embroidered linens, and then tapped her new hat. ‘We have only just arrived and it is always how I spend my first day.’

As Holmes had said, of course. ‘Forgive me,’ I said.

‘Forgiven,’ she said with a smile, taking my arm. We resumed our walk. ‘Though I do not give up easily, Dr Watson. I know full well that the McLarens are under a cloud of suspicion of having to do with the phylloxera epidemic and some vague threats to the research. I do not see it myself. The laird is not the warmest of men but he is not an evil man. His elder son, Charles, has not the courage or brains to have engineered such a thing, which began some years ago, anyway, and my Alistair thinks the notion of the epidemic being man-made is foolish and impossible. Nevertheless we have been questioned and I would not be surprised if your Mr Holmes was sent to investigate us.’

This young woman was making me nervous, and I am not a nervous man. The McLarens were most certainly on Holmes’s agenda.

‘No, he has been sent on another matter,’ I said, thinking that investigating Vidocq made this at least partly true. ‘Would you care for a fruit ice?’

‘Dr Watson, you are a very poor liar.’

I said nothing.

‘I noticed a book on phylloxera on his table in Baker Street. The research on this pest is centred in Montpellier. When do you plan to visit?’ The lady stood looking at me, her blue and white dress now billowing in the sea breeze. She held on to her feathered hat with one hand and smiled at me.

‘The wind is coming up, madam, perhaps it would be best if—’

‘That is all right. Let me help you. Dr Watson. I would wager my last shilling that you are here on the business of the French wine industry. What you fail to understand is that I am on your side. I brought the dynamite to you, did I not? If there is something amiss in my family, I am as interested as you or Mr Holmes to discover it.’

‘I really do not know what to say, Mrs McLaren.’

‘I will make sure you and Mr Holmes are invited to dine with us at the Grand Hôtel du Cap. It is a stunning hotel, and as you said, the best in the area. You will at least be certain of a wonderful dinner.’

My luck was changing. ‘Well, perhaps—’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Beau Soleil, here in Nice.’

‘Hmm, I have not heard of it. Dr Watson, will you hail me a cab, please? It is growing chilly and I should like to return to my hotel. You can expect an invitation soon.’ Stepping into the street, I easily procured a cab for her, and as she mounted it, she turned and gave me a small wave.

How very curious, I thought. If it were not so illogical, I might entertain the thought that she was pursuing us, or Holmes, for some unfathomable reason. But the wind had picked up, and I was dressed lightly. I shivered and turned back to the Beau Soleil.

Some hours later, after a fitful nap and dinner in the modest hotel restaurant, I returned to the room to find Holmes stretched out, catlike on one of the wretched beds.

‘Ah, Watson. I see from your expression that you have been successful,’ he cried. ‘And so have I. Your news first!’

‘Yes, I found the lady almost immediately, or rather she found me,’ I said. ‘She had her shopping with her. But she seemed to suspect that we are on the trail of her family regarding this vineyard problem! Why she could possibly—’

‘Watson, Mrs McLaren is observant. Remember that she espied the miniature still on my table in Baker Street and likely the phylloxera materials as well. It is not a very far leap to infer my involvement.’

‘I suppose. Holmes, let us leave this room and take some air.’

In a few moments we were on a rooftop terrace with glasses of Pernod. There was almost a view of the ocean, if somewhat marred by intervening buildings in various stages of disrepair. Ours was not precisely a first-class hotel.

‘If only I had known of the suspicions surrounding the McLarens, I might have taken Isla McLaren’s case then,’ said Holmes. ‘No matter, I shall take her case now.’

‘Too late. The maid Fiona seems to have eloped with the groundsman’s son. There was a note.’

‘A shame. I could have used that as our entry point—’

‘In any case, Holmes, Mrs McLaren said we would be invited to dinner. Just as you had hoped.’

Holmes reacted strangely to this. ‘This is rather more convenient than it should be. And yet I do not believe in coincidences. I wonder about her agenda.’

‘She did know that her family is suspected of interference in the phylloxera research.’

Holmes started at this. ‘Interesting. I am surprised she did not mention it in Baker Street.’

‘But what of your detour in Tours? Did you accomplish what you hoped?’

Holmes’s meeting, as it turned out, had been with a man we knew from an earlier case. This supremely wealthy and powerful gentleman had, since our dealings with him, bought a château and vineyard in the Loire Valley, in order to be nearer a certain French singer of our acquaintance with whom he was most painfully in love. Her name was Cherie Cerise, or Mademoiselle Emmeline La Victoire, as we had known her.

‘This man happens to be a close friend of Philippe Reynaud. They were old Etonians together. Alas he could offer no insight into Reynaud’s suspicion of the British but something else of use came of the meeting!’

‘What was that?’

‘He was absolutely shocked when I told him that Jean Vidocq had been hired by his friend Reynaud to protect the French researcher.’

‘Why would he care about this?’

‘Because this same Vidocq has developed into a nemesis. Do you remember the friction between them on our case last year? They continue to be rivals in love for the French chanteuse.’

This fit exactly with my impression of Jean Vidocq. ‘I see,’ said I. ‘But … how do you intend to use this?’ I wondered. ‘I mean, given that “domestics” as you call them do not fall in your purview.’

‘Ah, Watson, you chastise. Vidocq’s role in this phylloxera scandal is precipitously attached now to his private romantic life.’ Holmes laughed. ‘I can ensure his dismissal from that post if I can prove the affair.’

The winter sun had dropped low in the sky and dark gold bands of light played across the table and the nearby patrons.

‘Did this man you refuse to name know that his friend Reynaud had hired Vidocq?’

Holmes smiled impishly. ‘Now he does.’

Holmes was ever a master of the long game. But the short-term concerns fell to me. ‘Order some food, Holmes. The omelette is quite good I am told.’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

‘Well I see you have leverage now over Vidocq, if indeed he is romancing Mlle La Victoire.’

‘It is as likely as the sun rising tomorrow.’

‘But is there any chance that Vidocq is actually fulfilling his role? That he is actually protecting Dr Janvier from a very real threat?’

‘That is the far more important question, Watson, and takes precedence.’

He looked out at the sliver of ocean thoughtfully. The slanted rays of the setting sun highlighted his London pallor and he looked rather more like a figure at Madame Tussaud’s than was healthy. As usual while on a case, he had eaten nothing.

‘Shall we take a stroll?’ I offered. ‘Perhaps some dinner?’

‘Not for me, Watson. Go ahead. I have more reading to do before meeting with Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. We leave tomorrow on a very early train for Montpellier.’

CHAPTER 6
Docteur Janvier

omorrow came after what seemed only minutes of rest in our ghastly room, I was rudely awakened by Holmes shaking my shoulder.

‘Come Watson, we must be on the 4.30 train.’

I stumbled groggily into my clothes, and we set out in the predawn hours for the station. Hurriedly gulping down a hot coffee before boarding, I then tried to read a small Montpellier guidebook but soon dozed. Once again, I felt Holmes’s hand on my shoulder, jostling me awake. We had arrived in Montpellier, a small medieval city renowned for its scientific research. I yawned in anticipation of a long day discussing the vineyard scourge. But fate held something quite different in store.

We disembarked just before noon at the Gare de Montpellier and made our way north through the dusty streets to the Place de la Comédie. The weather had warmed since the day before, and the bright Mediterranean sun glowed on the golden brown sides of the crumbling and picturesque ruins that formed the Citadel, once an 11th-century fort. Despite its look of antiquity, this city had developed over the years into a kind of Mecca for scientists.

We were to meet Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier at La Coloumbe, a café on the main square, and we immediately spotted our quarry from a photograph provided by Mycroft Holmes. Seated at an outdoor table, the renowned horticultural scientist and leading investigator in the vineyard scourge, Dr Janvier was younger than I had anticipated, in his mid-thirties. Black-haired and intense, he sported an impressive, curled moustache and a lightweight suit of linen, appropriate here even in December.

Janvier gazed out at the passers-by, drumming his long thin fingers in a manner not unlike Holmes. He seemed lost in thought.

‘Docteur Janvier?’ said Holmes, approaching the man. ‘Je suis Sherlock Holmes, et voici Docteur Watson, mon collègue.’

Rising to shake our hands, the gentleman replied in perfect, mildly accented English, ‘Gentlemen, welcome. I have received a letter of introduction and know why you are here. But I have not much time. Please let us order our lunch and we shall discuss what you will.’ We took our places. Holmes positioned himself to look out at the square.

‘I prefer to speak English, if you do not mind,’ said Janvier. ‘I have recently been abroad in America, where few speak my language.’

I squinted in the bright sun at the menu as Holmes entered straight into the subject at hand. ‘Dr Janvier, as my speciality is crime, and not viticulture, I shall begin with the question of your security. I understand you have received threatening letters?’

‘I received a letter that you would come. Are you a threat?’

Holmes laughed. I was less sure of the joke.

‘Perhaps you are not aware of Mr Holmes’s successes in criminal investigations?’ I said. ‘He is a well-respected—’

‘Humour, Dr Watson. Of course, I am well aware,’ the scientist remarked.

‘The letters, then?’ asked Holmes. ‘How many?’

‘Two. No, three.’

‘Might I see them?’

‘I have thrown them away.’ At Holmes’s surprise, he continued. ‘I consider them irrelevant. Gentlemen, try our version of Salade Niçoise. Here, let us order our lunch.’ He signalled a waiter.

‘Dr Janvier, your government feels you have been legitimately threatened and, through an intermediary, has asked me to offer my services. I presume you showed the letters to someone.’

‘I did.’

‘And then you destroyed them?’

‘The entire matter has served only to waste my time. The only outcome of this threat is that I have been distracted and delayed by the man sent to protect me. Really, sir, I do not take them at face value. It is my choice to ignore the matter.’

As did Holmes with Orville St John, I thought.

‘Perhaps that is best decided by a detective, Dr Janvier. Can you tell me more of these letters? Were they all written by the same hand? In English, by chance?’ asked Holmes.

‘In English, yes. But first things first, Mr Holmes, let us order our food. We are in France, after all. Ah, here is the waiter!’ Janvier, in the manner of many of his countrymen, would not be rushed. He ordered our lunch and, of course, some wine.

‘A good Château Des Flaugergues, from very nearby. Since the 17th century! The one I have ordered comes from before the phylloxera.’

‘What did the letters say?’ persisted Holmes. ‘Certainly enough to have the government wish to send someone to investigate?’

‘Mr Holmes, have you never been frustrated by those who claim to share your goals and yet impede your work? That is how I feel about my government. Everyone is concerned about my safety, and yet so slow to understand the results of my research. They are impatient for completion. They do not understand how research works!’

‘Yes, yes, I sympathize,’ said Holmes.

‘I imagine you can. I have read Dr Watson’s account.’

The wine arrived and now Janvier busied himself with tasting and approving the precious liquid. It was clear he did not wish to discuss the letters. I took a sip of the wine. Even to my relatively untutored palate, it was truly delicious. Holmes’s glass remained untouched, and I could sense his growing impatience.

But at Janvier’s urging, he took a sip. ‘Yes, a splendid vintage,’ my friend conceded. ‘We shall return to these letters. Regarding your research, Dr Janvier, how close are you to a cure?’

Janvier immediately warmed to this question. ‘Ah! To understand this,’ said the scientist, ‘you must understand the phylloxera itself. Let me give you some background.’

Dr Janvier then proceeded to regale us with far more than I ever wanted to know on the subject of the phylloxera plague that was destroying the vineyards, how it affected the roots, how American wine varieties seemed immune, and how a search for resistant rootstock version that would thrive in the limestone of French soils was being sought.

Meanwhile our rather large and complicated salads arrived, filled with a variety of olives, seafood, and vegetables. Mounds of vegetation are generally not my choice of a meal, but this was surprisingly good, and some minutes later I was fishing for any stray olives that might have escaped my fork, when Janvier’s description became particularly detailed about the tiny worm-like parasites and their effects on the roots of the vines. His words were so graphic that I could suddenly stomach no more of the leafy greens I faced.

Holmes ate and drank very little but as the meal progressed remained on alert, glancing frequently at our fellow diners, and those passing through the square. This had not escaped Janvier.

‘Mr Holmes,’ said he, pushing away his empty plate, ‘you may relax your hawk-like vigilance. I do not believe these threats, and even if I did, I would certainly feel safe in public nevertheless.’ He took a sip of wine.

The waiter cleared our plates, including Holmes’s full one.

‘Dr Janvier, please allow me to decide whether or not there is a threat. I am perhaps more accustomed to these things.’ Holmes looked to his salad but the plate was gone. He threw down his napkin in annoyance. ‘What is the status of your research currently?’ he asked.

‘The vintners distrust science, and gaining their cooperation has been challenging.’

‘That is a shame,’ said I. ‘Surely you can educate them to—’

‘No, they are a superstitious lot. Many persist in their magical thinking.’ The scientist offered a hint of a smile from underneath his enormous moustache.

‘What do you mean by that curious term?’ asked Holmes.

‘Well, some believe that burying poisonous toads near the roots of the afflicted vines will scare away the evil spirits! Others imagine that the measurements of their casks must match the golden mean, or that magnetic forces under the ground should dictate the layout of their plantings. Ludicrous!’ He looked around for the waiter. ‘Garçon! Du café, s’il vous plaît!’

‘Frustrating, I am sure. Dr Janvier, are you aware that the French government suspects intentional sabotage?’ asked Holmes.

‘Pah!’ exclaimed the scientist. ‘They are idiots.’ Janvier sounded more and more like Holmes in one of his disputatious moods.

‘A certain Monsieur Reynaud of your government thinks one of my countrymen was at fault,’ said the detective.

‘Well, that is so.’

Holmes looked up in surprise. ‘What?’

‘I am fairly certain that a British horticulturalist brought it in on a cutting from America.’

‘Indeed!’ said Holmes. ‘Whom do you suspect?’

‘I know the man and he is innocent. It was accidental, a mistake anyone could make. Well, I would not. But it is remarkably easy to do, and probably would have happened sooner or later.’

Holmes pressed Janvier on this topic, but he would say no more.

Over coffee moments later, the scientist lit up a cigarette. ‘Mr Holmes, if it were sabotage, what motive would the British have for this? You are one of the largest importers of our wines, cognac and brandy. Britain would suffer from the loss.’

‘Yes, but our whisky business is profiting wildly just now,’ I said. ‘Some say—’

‘Watson!’

‘I have heard,’ said Janvier. ‘They suspect the Scots. Or some particular Scots, I do not know. I have seen no evidence. But Mr Holmes, consider the mechanics of such a plot. It is impractical, uncontrollable. Only a madman or anarchist would attempt to make such an obtuse statement in this way.’

‘But to stop your work? That might be useful. Let us return to those letters,’ said Holmes.

Janvier shrugged. ‘Mr Holmes, let me ask you this. Have you ever received vague threats from someone who seems, well, deranged? And did you alter your course because of it?’

I cleared my throat.

Holmes shook his head in irritation. ‘I take your point. But crime is my business and I am accustomed to receiving threats. Please tell me everything you remember about the letters.’

‘I can tell you only this,’ said the scientist, ‘All three were in English, anonymous, and all three on the kind of cheap paper that is available in hundreds of places all over France. The first was written in ordinary black ink, with an aged but costly pen with a flexible nib, the other in a slightly more expensive blue ink but a similar pen. And the third, in black ink like the first, on the back of a postcard with a cheap pen.’

I began to realize the remarkable similarity of the two men sitting at the table with me.

‘Was the handwriting male or female?’ asked Holmes.

‘Male, for all three, I would say. Educated. There were, however two curious things.’

‘What were those?’

‘Well, I noted that while my initial impression was that the hands were different, upon a closer look, it became apparent that they were actually written by the same person.’

‘And how did you—’

‘The looped “t”s,’ said Janvier.

‘Of course. That must have been a relief,’ remarked Holmes with a smile.

‘Just so.’

Both men sipped their coffee in contemplation of the brief exchange.

‘Wait?’ I asked. ‘Why did that relieve you, sir?’ I wondered.

‘The single writer clearly wanted Dr Janvier to think that the opposition to his work was more widespread, Watson. But it was only one person,’ said Holmes.

Janvier nodded. Of course, now it was obvious.

‘Dr Janvier, the question of the hour. What did the letters say?’ asked Holmes.

‘That I must stop my work or suffer dire consequences. The exact threat was vague. Flowery. The phylloxera was God-sent, or something, and that evil would befall me if I interfered with God’s will. Both me and also my family. But of course, I am unmarried and have no children. They also mentioned that objections to my work were rampant and in persisting, I risked awakening “a sleeping giant”, and my work would go “up in smoke”.’

‘A sleeping giant? Up in smoke?’

‘The exact words. And that is all. Would you care for some dessert?’ asked Janvier. He indicated a nearby cart on which were arrayed a tempting selection of tartes.

‘No, but a visit to your laboratory would be in order. I am still concerned for your security,’ said Holmes.

‘My pleasure, Mr Holmes.’

After a brief walk through the narrow streets of this hilly town, during which I had difficulty keeping up with my long-legged companions in the hot afternoon sun, and directly after eating a full meal, we arrived at l’École Nationale d’Agriculture de Montpellier.

We passed several low buildings in a compound with numerous garden plots, all planted with vines, which were carefully labelled and divided by string. A collection of broad, straw sun hats rested on poles throughout, evidently abandoned there by the workers at lunchtime.

We entered one of the buildings and made our way down a long hallway. The building was strangely deserted. ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked Holmes in a low voice.

‘We are in France, Watson.’ he whispered. ‘Lunch!’

But Janvier apparently possessed similarly acute hearing. He laughed. ‘Yes! Meals happen, as you say, like clockwork. In our country, we are quite sensible about refreshing mind and body. We lunched intentionally early as I wished to keep your laboratory visit private.’

‘I see no security measures here, Dr Janvier. Anyone could enter, and tamper with your work,’ said Holmes.

‘They would have to understand it to do so. Everything is done in duplicate, or triplicate, and meticulously recorded,’ Janvier smiled. ‘I am not concerned,’ said he, waving a hand.

‘What of this man they have sent to look after you – Jean Vidocq, what has he done?’

‘Yes. Ah, you know him, do you? At least Dr Watson does. Your face tells me all, Doctor. Mr Holmes, you have the gift of obfuscation but your friend here is an open book.’

I began to think I should place obfuscation on my list of attributes to cultivate.

‘This Vidocq, then—’

‘Irritating man. He does nothing but fan the flames of fear among my researchers. He comes and goes. I should like to be rid of him.’

‘I can well imagine,’ I said.

‘Whenever he is here, he attempts to worry me and my researchers with concocted scenarios. I regret burning the letters, Mr Holmes. But that man Vidocq is such a pest. He exaggerates the danger. I wanted him gone and so I scorned the entire idea of any threat and burned them in front of him. He was as angry as you are!’

‘Indeed. How close are you to a solution to the phylloxera epidemic, Dr Janvier?’

‘Very close.’

‘Is that so? Who knows this?’ asked Holmes.

‘Any number of people, in the government and elsewhere.’

‘What is it?’

‘Grafts and hybridization show promise. But at present, we have taken several batches to maturity, and they adversely affect the flavour.’

‘Then you have not found the solution. Although as you near it, you may be in more danger.’

We had rounded a corner and now progressed down another long corridor, this with doors open to reveal laboratories, their rich wood cabinets and slate-topped counters gleaming from the afternoon sun slanting in the windows.

‘We may have been looking at the wrong question’ said Holmes. ‘Might there be a more personal motive to stop your work? Have you any rivals who wish to take credit? Anyone you have specifically angered? Anyone who comes to mind that would profit directly and personally from your cure not being advanced?’

Janvier paused midstride and turned to us. We stopped.

‘And there you have me, Mr Holmes. No. My first thought was that someone deeply invested in wines that rival the French might profit. The Americans. The Germans, perhaps the Italians. But I think not. The Americans have been helpful, and the Germans and Italians now face the same plague, though to a lesser degree. Regarding jealous colleagues, I think not. This particular problem has united the larger research community to a remarkable degree.’

‘And still Britain may be suspect,’ said Holmes. ‘As Watson mentioned, our whisky business is said to be growing in leaps and bounds.’

‘I think as a scientist does. Instinct is perhaps as important in my work as observation and logic. And my instinct tells me this disaster is an accident and nothing more.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I wonder, could this divisive theory then originate from someone who profits from a deterioration of Franco-British relations?’

‘There you exceed my expertise, Mr Holmes,’ said Janvier. He turned and placed a hand on a single, closed door at the end of the hall. It was locked and he felt in his pocket for the keys.

‘Back to the letters, Dr Janvier,’ said Holmes. ‘You mentioned there were two curious things. What was the second?’

Finding the key, Janvier unlocked the door. It swung open with a bang and both Holmes and I jumped, primed for what, I am not sure. What we saw was a complete surprise.

The room stood vast and empty, a laboratory like the others, but this one was not only devoid of people but of equipment as well. Bright sunshine flooded in from an expanse of windows, and dust motes floated over barren zinc lab tables. Along one end of the room were a row of cardboard boxes, from which protruded various pieces of equipment.

‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ said Janvier with an embarrassed laugh. ‘How could I have forgotten! We moved our laboratory to larger quarters in another building only yesterday. I was so engrossed in my story that it completely escaped my mind. We must go to another building!’ He strode through the laboratory to the other end. ‘Follow me, please. It is a shorter way out.’

‘You were about to mention the second curious thing, Dr Janvier?’ said Holmes.

Janvier unlocked a door at the other end of the deserted lab and we entered a small decoratively tiled antechamber where a set of double doors led outside. They, too, were locked. He withdrew another set of keys from his pocket and began to unlock them. As he flung the double doors open wide the brilliant sunlight blinded us momentarily. He turned, silhouetted in the bright rectangle.

‘Ah, yes. The last one was in rhyme,’ said he.

But before this fact could yield further thought, there was a sudden deafening roar and the sound of splintering glass. The entryway in which we were standing blew outwards into rubble. In a kind of slow motion the air turned a solid white and I felt myself propelled forwards through the air like a rag doll.

We were buried in an avalanche of bricks, mortar, plaster and dust. I was conscious only of white everywhere and a single thought: Janvier was wrong. And then blackness.

PART TWO
GETTING AHEAD

‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs …’

—Rudyard Kipling

CHAPTER 7
Vidocq

must have lain there a moment or two, perhaps even a minute, as the roar echoed in my head, a temporary deafness and blindness robbing me of action. The sounds of gunfire and shouts resounded and echoed through my brain, and then receded into silence. The battlefield.

Was I dead?

Wiping my eyes, I blinked out the dust, and rolled over onto my side. I opened my eyes to see the octagonal red tiles of the hallway in which I lay. Not Afghanistan. Not the battlefield. Montpellier.

I felt a sudden stab in my bicep, and sitting up, I noticed a long shard of glass was embedded in my sleeve. Light streamed in from above and I looked up, noticing a shattered clerestory window.

France. Janvier’s lab. An explosion.

I lurched to my feet, head clearing.

Janvier, who had been before us, had received a small cut over his eye. But he now stood, apparently otherwise unharmed, though a bit stunned. He vigorously brushed the dust from his own clothing.

‘Your forehead,’ I said. ‘It is bleeding.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said he. He drew out a handkerchief and pressed it to his cut forehead. ‘I am all right,’ he said. ‘And you, Dr Watson? You look as though you had seen a ghost.’

I gently extracted the piece of glass. No large patch of blood; it was merely a scratch. ‘I am fine.’ I turned to look for Holmes. I could not see him, but nearby a wall had collapsed. My heart began to race. He had been right behind me. Had he made it through the door?

‘Holmes?’ I cried moving towards a mound of rubble, terrified at what I might find there.

‘Look!’ shouted Janvier. ‘He has gone back inside!’ The Frenchman pointed behind us into the damaged laboratory, where in the heavy layer of dust I saw a disturbed area where Holmes had fallen, and then footprints heading directly back inside towards the site of the explosion.

‘Holmes!’ I shouted again, peering into the room. I started after him.

‘Careful!’ Janvier cried. ‘There could be a second bomb!’

But I was already halfway across the room. Nearer the site of the explosion white dust filled the air.

I paused, now enveloped in a miasma of white and having lost view of the footprints, which vanished below me into the floating cloud. I squinted and bent down, trying to locate them. After some moments, I finally found them and proceeded slowly forward into the impenetrable whiteness.

A ghostly apparition, covered from head to foot in plaster, emerged from the fog. It was Holmes. In his hand he held something wrapped in a handkerchief. I heaved a sigh of relief.

‘All is well, Watson,’ said he.

‘Thank God. Did you find anything?’ I asked.

He nodded as Janvier came up behind me. The Frenchman fanned the air and coughed. ‘Outside, gentlemen, please!’

We made our way out of the building, and across a courtyard I could see a crowd of people gathering and pointing. I heard whistles and shouts and the clanging bells of the French police growing nearer.

‘Tell me what you found, Mr Holmes?’ urged Janvier.

‘Whoever did this has made his escape,’ said the detective. ‘However the explosion is a large one at the back of that room near the sinks. Dynamite. A second stick had been lit but I found it and managed to stop it before it ignited.’ He held up the offending item, and then placed it in his pocket.

‘You are mad, Holmes,’ said I. ‘You could have been blown to pieces.’

He smiled and shrugged.

I looked back at the swirling dust. ‘We should check for injured people!’

‘I did. There was no one.’

Janvier placed a hand on my arm. ‘No one was there. As I said, our work was transferred yesterday to a larger building. And everyone is eating their lunch.’

‘But you are different, Dr Janvier. Do you not occasionally work during lunch?’ asked Holmes.

‘True. Perhaps it is the American influence.’

‘But to the point. The timing of this – might you have been the direct target?’ asked Holmes.

Janvier paused. He and Holmes stared at each other intently for a moment. I had the impression that both were sifting the information and perhaps coming to some kind of joint conclusion.

‘Not likely,’ said Janvier. ‘The mistaken laboratory. The timing of the detonation.’

‘I concur. A message. Not intended to kill,’ agreed Holmes. ‘But dangerous nonetheless.’ He withdrew the stick of dynamite from his pocket, using his handkerchief to do so. It was a few inches long, wrapped in brown paper with a label. The fuse was blackened. ‘Made by Nobel, in Scotland. The best for the task that can be found anywhere. You are very lucky, even so.’

It was exactly like the dynamite that Isla McLaren had so casually displayed at 221B.

‘Holmes! That is the same—’

‘I know,’ said Holmes. He turned to Janvier. ‘The letters threatened you to stop or your work would “go up in smoke”, I believe you said.’

The scientist looked down at the ground ‘But they will have to kill me first.’

‘Do not tempt fate, Docteur. I suggest you post a guard at all times.’

A police commissionaire rushed up to us, bristling with urgency. His blond hair was clipped short, and he was bronzed so deeply from the Mediterranean sun that he appeared almost metallic. Holmes and Janvier answered a few quick questions in French, and after a few minutes the man retreated and headed back to the site of the explosion. His accent was indecipherable and I had understood nothing.

‘Might you translate, for my colleague?’ said Holmes.

Janvier laughed, with a tinge of bitterness. ‘He attempted to apologize to me. When the letters first arrived, the director of the lab showed them to the police. They dismissed the threats as I did, but for a different reason. They thought I was simply trying to draw attention to myself!’

Holmes snorted. Janvier continued. ‘Idiots. But it alerted someone in the Chamber of Deputies, and their response was to send that horrible … et voici … here he is now. Excuse me for a moment.’ He moved quickly away to speak to two worried assistants.

A dark figure slowly approached us from the other side of the courtyard, emerging from behind the building which had suffered the blast. He was silhouetted against the bright sunlight and at first I could not make out who it was. The swagger, however, was striking.

‘Sherlock Holmes!’ exclaimed the familiar, French-accented voice. He passed out of the bright light, and into view. It was the disreputable Jean Vidocq himself.

In contrast to our dishevelled and whitened state, the tall, handsome Frenchman was the picture of elegance. He strode forward with a smile, impeccable as always in a well-tailored frock coat and jaunty cravat.

The man was a rakish charmer, to whom women seemed drawn as by a magnetic force. He was insufferable. In fact, I still felt the occasional pain in my back directly due to our contretemps at the Louvre last year. The man had knocked me down a flight of steps.

‘You!’ I said.

Vidocq responded with a cocky grin. But as he approached, Sherlock Holmes surprised me in the extreme. He rushed to embrace this rogue.

‘Jean Vidocq! Bienvenue! I am so happy to see you here!’ he gushed, clasping the Frenchman to his bosom, kissing him on both cheeks in the French manner of greeting.

Vidocq, equally surprised, recoiled and backed away in disgust, frantically brushing at the white plaster dust, which Holmes with his embrace had deposited on his pristine frock coat. Holmes hid a quick smile.

‘Mon Dieu! What the hell is the matter with you, Holmes? Is it the cocaine?’ exclaimed Vidocq.

‘Ah, non, non!’ said Holmes. ‘C’est trop de soleil!’

Too much sun? Holmes was inventive today. Janvier looked on in confusion.

‘Ah, so sorry,’ said Holmes, apparently recovering. ‘It is the shock also. Vidocq, my old friend!’

Turning from Holmes with a look of doubt, Vidocq focused on his fellow Frenchman. ‘Dr Janvier? Ça va?’ he asked. What followed was a rapid exchange in French, of which I only understood that he was ascertaining that the famous scientist was unharmed. Satisfied, he turned to us.

‘Well, Monsieur Holmes, what an interesting coincidence. And Doctor Wilson, I believe it is.’

‘You know my name, Monsieur Verdun!’ said I.

Vidocq was taken aback. ‘Ah, yes, Dr Watson, forgive me. It slipped my mind. How very strange to find you both here at this precise moment. Where were you exactly when the bomb went off?’

Holmes smiled. With a grand gesture he indicated our plaster-covered selves. In fact, we were so whitened by the dust as to look like madcap bakers in a comedy turn at the Gaieties.

Vidocq eyed us with derision. ‘A little close for comfort, n’est-ce pas? But again, why are you here, in the laboratoire? It is lunchtime.’

‘Indeed. One might ask the same of you, Vidocq,’ said Holmes brushing the white powder and bits of plaster from his own coat.

‘Police business.’

‘Excellent timing! Or are you simply prescient?’ asked Holmes.

‘Dr Janvier has received death threats. I have been sent by the government to investigate and protect. Your presence here is suspicious.’

Holmes laughed. ‘You will get nowhere with this line of thinking, Vidocq,’ said Holmes.

Dr Janvier now returned and Vidocq turned to the scientist with an expansive smile. ‘Ah, Dr Janvier. So very happy that you are unharmed!’ he gushed, grasping Janvier’s arm in what I thought was an overly familiar gesture. ‘It was thanks to God that—’

‘It was luck or miscalculation on the part of the bomber, M. Vidocq, nothing more. If you will excuse me,’ the scientist said, breaking free and turning pointedly to us. ‘Gentlemen, my staff return from lunch and I must reassure my colleagues. I believe you have learned all I can tell you now. I will see that you receive a copy of my paper on the phylloxera on your way out.’ He started to leave but turned back. ‘And I shall take your advice, Mr Holmes. We will take more care.’

He strode off, brushing at his clothes. We stood facing Vidocq.

The Frenchman’s pretence at charm dropped like a curtain. He advanced on us with a frown. ‘Holmes, I will not have you meddling in this affair. I am hired by the French government to protect this man. In fact, we have every reason to suspect British hands in these threats and … well, here you are. I should have you arrested.’

‘You are joking!’ I said.

Holmes shot me a warning look. ‘Vidocq, I do not know what your game is here, but assuredly it is financially driven. Your altruism is never what it seems.’

‘Speaking of finances, my dear friend, I understand you are currently lodging at the laughable Hôtel Du Beau Soleil. How difficult it must be to attempt to command the world stage from such undignified surroundings.’

Somehow he seemed to know of our hotel misadventures in Nice. My surprise at this must have shown on my face. Vidocq laughed.

‘Not only M. Holmes keep the track of his special friends, Doctor.’

‘Vidocq, I suggest that you stay out of our way on this and on all matters,’ said Holmes.

‘Or what?’ replied Vidocq with a sneer.

‘Or I shall make your latest indiscretion known.’

‘And what indiscretion is that?’

‘Ah, then you admit to more than one.’ Holmes smiled as he reached into his pocket and removed a train ticket which he held aloft. The Frenchman gasped and patted his waistcoat, discovering he had been neatly pick-pocketed. Furious, he snatched at it, but Holmes pulled the ticket away and waved it in the air. ‘Paris–Nice, only yesterday,’ said my companion.

I could not help but laugh. Holmes enjoyed my amusement and Vidocq’s discomfort perhaps more than was polite. ‘Ah, Paris, the city of light. And of love,’ said he. ‘You have no doubt enjoyed yourself there, Vidocq, in a particularly close encounter.’

‘Ce n’est rien!’ snarled the Frenchman. ‘I have been in Paris. The rest is wild conjecture, Holmes.’

Holmes paused. He sniffed the air pointedly.

A maelstrom of expressions crossed Vidocq’s face. And then he understood.

‘Ah, Mon Dieu. Remind me to keep my distance.’

I was still in the dark. Holmes turned to me. ‘Our friend’s frock coat collar is quite redolent of a certain perfume. Jicky, you remember, Watson?’

‘That proves nothing,’ said Vidocq. ‘That scent has taken Paris by storm. Many men and many women wear it.’

‘Really. And am I to conclude from your collar that you have been embracing many men and many women all over the City of Light? Random individuals, no doubt, and at considerable length?’

Vidocq shrugged.

‘No, the evidence, while circumstantial, I agree, is suggestive. We both know that Jicky is the signature scent of a certain Mademoiselle Emmeline La Victoire.’

Vidocq smirked. ‘In France this is hardly a scandal.’

‘Perhaps you do not know that the lady is engaged. Her fiancé is as well connected in France as he is in England. The gentleman is a schoolboy friend of M. Reynaud, who is, I believe, your current employer.’

Vidocq’s smile fell away and he stepped back in surprise.

‘A word to this fine man and your lucrative connections will vanish,’ said Holmes. ‘May I suggest you drop both your affair, and the dangerous game you are playing here, lest I find it necessary to intrude on your own personal liberties?’

Vidocq’s retort was interrupted by the bronzed French policeman, who cut through a gathering crowd to stand with us. He spoke sharply in French, but Vidocq held up a hand.

Holmes smiled and leaned forward. ‘Oh, and you are careless, Vidocq,’ he whispered. ‘Your coat pocket? The right one. Here, let me.’

His arm flashed forward and he pulled a stick of dynamite from Vidocq’s pocket. The policeman started, and turned to Vidocq, grasped him suddenly by the arm, and called out for reinforcements.

As several gendarmes ran forward to assist, Vidocq shook his head in annoyance.

Holmes smiled, turned on his heel, and despite his ludicrous white countenance managed a dignified exit. I paused only a moment longer to enjoy Vidocq’s discomfiture, gave him a small salute, and followed my friend.

The level of Holmes’s research never failed to surprise me. But then, it has always been a hallmark of his methods.

Our return train to Nice that afternoon was less than pleasant. Unable to fully remove the dust from our clothing, we were forced to travel in the baggage car, seated on boxes covered with sheets and warned severely not to get our dusty selves on anything else.

As the purser slammed the door shut behind us Holmes looked at me and burst out laughing. ‘Watson, you look like a man who has been frustrated by an encounter with the pastry dough.’

‘Holmes, this trip has been something of a disappointment. As despicable as Jean Vidocq is, I am appalled that you would stoop to planting evidence on him. It strikes me as beneath you.’

Holmes looked at me strangely. ‘How could you think so, Watson?’ He took his handkerchief, and reached into his pocket and withdrew the stick of dynamite. ‘Notice this was lit, and put out. That one had not been. Had we not been here, he would have set off a third. Really, Watson, you must sharpen your skills.’

‘But why would Vidocq himself set off the explosions?’

‘Many reasons. Primarily it ensures his job, and probably raises his fee.’

‘But might he not continue with this plan?’

‘He would not dare to do so right at present. We are not finished on this count, however.’

‘He exceeds even my low opinion of him. I apologize, Holmes.’ I eyed the stick of dynamite. ‘Is that safe?’

‘Reasonably so. It takes a detonator to set these off. That is Nobel’s contribution to the art of explosives. There is a binding agent with the nitroglycerin which—’

‘Really, I do not care to know. But why is it here? Why did you not hand it over to the police?’

‘I will test it myself for fingerprints. The bronzed fellow we met in Montpellier is in Vidocq’s pocket.’

‘I thought he was arresting Vidocq!’

‘They wished it to appear so. The fellow did not know I speak fluent French. Even their fast-paced argot.’

‘Argot?’

‘Slang.’

‘And if the fingerprints are Vidocq’s …’

‘I am certain they will prove to be so. This will show he is behind, or at least complicit with the threats to Docteur Janvier. Mycroft will have what he needs, and Monsieur Reynaud, through our old friend in Tours, will most certainly relieve Vidocq of his exalted position. The universe will align, Watson, providing science prevails. Those fingerprints will be key.’

‘Are they admissible in court?’

‘They 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.

CHAPTER 8
Ahead of the Game

n the following day, the expected dinner invitation arrived, not from Isla McLaren, but from Laird Robert McLaren himself, and at five minutes past seven our carriage, fees charged to our hotel, pulled up at the Grand Hôtel du Cap in nearby Antibes. I was never particularly comfortable in my formal attire, though Holmes seemed quite at ease. The letter was flattering and had indicated that the laird wished to make use of Holmes’s ‘renowned skills’. It would be a case, we presumed.

‘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 and beautiful, if slightly vacant. She struck me as a person who was holding something back, and I noted that as the dinner progressed, she ate but little, yet consumed glass after glass of wine. Every so often a tiny grimace passed over her, as if she were in pain. As the evening wore on, she grew ever more limp and unfocused.

Between Catherine and myself sat the younger son, Alistair, husband of our would-be client. I would not have put this man as Isla McLaren’s husband. Alistair resembled his father and brother physically, tall and muscular, but his sharp features and sarcastic wit, tinged with a combative tone, made me uneasy. Holmes sat beside me, the two of us opposite the laird.

Next to Holmes sat the largest man in the room, elder son Charles, red of cheek and athletic but with beetle brows overhanging strangely watery eyes and a nervous habit of glancing furtively around the table when he felt no one was looking. He was immense, and I could picture him hurtling cabers at a Scottish festival. He and his brother Alistair never addressed nor looked at each other. Their mutual dislike was clear.

Between Charles and the laird sat the intriguing Isla McLaren. A serene presence, she was careful not to regard Holmes or myself with anything resembling familiarity. Intelligence radiated from her, not in words, which were few, but in her subtly amused reactions to the conversation around her, which ranged in topics from the Universal Exposition in Paris, which the family had visited earlier, to the opening of the Moulin Rouge, and Nelly Bly’s attempt to duplicate Jules Verne’s round the world trip in eighty days.

Just prior to dessert, more champagne was brought in and placed in iced silver urns at intervals around the table. The laird held his hand over his flute, however, as he evidently had a different idea and whispered something to the server. In a moment a cart was wheeled in containing several hand-labelled bottles. The laird had brought with him several choice examples of McLaren whisky, of varying vintages and finishes.

He passed small glasses around, leaving the expensive champagne untouched. With each sample he held forth on the warm smokiness of one, and the toffee and chocolate notes of another.

I tried each, and rolling the amber liquid around my tongue, was able to discern something of what he described. They were stronger than my usual Black and White, and yet delicious in an aggressive, though very seductive fashion. I felt warmed and strangely relaxed.

I could well understand the developing preference for whisky. And I was surprised to learn that it was as nuanced and different as the much-vaunted French brandies.

Holmes did not partake, despite the laird’s urging. This might have been taken as an insult, I decided, and gave him an encouraging look. He remained inscrutable, but did ask one or two questions about the production and sales. Charles, the eldest son, answered with considerable pride.

A final sample was poured, darker, with a reddish tone. It had been retained for last. It had a strange, musky taste but was rich and complex. Not smoky, the laird explained, although some whiskies tasted of the peat burned in their making. But this was different. Whether it was the Highland waters, the particular old oak casks in which the spirit had been matured, or simply a bit of magic, this ‘edition’ was clearly the whisky on which the family would base their fortune. The laird and his sons savoured the few drops as if it were liquid gold. Not only was this the ‘Special Edition’ but it was from the laird’s favourite cask, number 59.

‘Each whisky has its own personality,’ said the laird. ‘This special is the one that will put Braedern permanently on the map. None can surpass it.’

‘We will aim for a very select market,’ said Charles.

‘An exclusive one,’ said the laird. ‘But business later, Charles. And now are we ready, ladies and gentlemen, for the evening amusement?’

‘Pray, not a singer,’ whispered Holmes to me, while pretending to pick up his napkin.

Coffee was served, and the laird requested that dessert be held for a few minutes. This rather ebullient gentleman clearly had something on his mind. He struck his glass with his spoon and the table hushed.

‘As you may have guessed, Mr Holmes, you have been invited here for a reason. Isla has spoken to me of your many accomplishments, and has made me aware of your powers.’ He held up a copy of Beeton’s Christmas Annual from two years before. The preparation inherent in this startled me, as my first writings of Holmes first appeared there.

‘When she mentioned you were here, nearby in Nice, the idea came to mind.’

‘Sir, I am at your service,’ said Holmes. ‘But I am not usually consulted in such a public forum. May I suggest we withdraw somewhere more discreet to discuss whatever case you may wish to lay before me?’

The laird burst out in a huge booming laugh, and was joined by the other men at the table. Catherine McLaren yawned. Isla McLaren, oddly, was staring down at her plate in embarrassment.

‘Case, Mr Holmes? There is no case. But, I have been impressed in reading of your uncanny ability to discern facts about those you meet, by observing how they part their hair, the trim of their moustaches, and the like. It is almost supernatural, I am told. And as you know, we Scots enjoy the supernatural. Or some of us do.’

Holmes stiffened. A tiny blossom of worry appeared in my mind.

‘My skills are quite of the natural type,’ said he. ‘There is nothing supernatural about them. If there is no case, perhaps there is a mystery of sorts. Some problem that may be troubling you or your family?’

There was an awkward pause.

‘Mr Holmes, on our last trip to the South of France, we had a different entertainment for each night of our stay. A lovely violinist. A singer. A fortune teller. And a sleight-of-hand artist. Three were excellent, though the singer was a bit of a novice.’

There was a rather fawning murmur of agreement from the group. Isla McLaren would not meet my eyes. The laird continued. ‘Although we live far from London, we are yet a family of sophisticated tastes. We have exhausted the entertainment in the immediate vicinity. This year I have decided to be more selective. It is my view that your analysis of each person at this table could be both illuminating and entertaining. I challenge you to give me some secret about each person here. And it will probably be the best amusement we have ever had in the South of France.’

I felt my face colour. Sherlock Holmes was being asked to be the evening’s entertainment. I cringed, thinking of my role in setting up this fiasco.

I could sense Holmes had gone very still beside me.

‘It cannot be done, Father,’ said Charles, the eldest, sourly. ‘He has only just met us.’

‘What is the point?’ asked his blonde wife, a small bead of sweat appearing on her brow. She dabbed at it with a napkin.

‘A jolly idea,’ said Alistair, with a touch of belligerence. ‘I like it.’

Holmes turned to me and smiled like a friendly executioner. ‘What an interesting notion, Watson!’ He then turned to the laird. ‘Sir, you compliment me greatly. But I must decline this kind offer as, frankly, it would be nothing short of embarrassing to your family. If you will excuse us, please.’ He rose to go. I rose with him.

‘But, Mr Holmes, do stay. Consider it not the price of your dinner, I would never be so bold, but merely the polite request of one who admires you.’ The laird could not have been more charming. Yet somehow I knew that underneath he was well aware of his insult. There appeared to be a double meaning in everything the man said. The evening grew more curious.

Isla McLaren burst out ‘Sir Robert! I would never have recommended Mr Holmes for anything like this. He is a professional, not a travelling player. Really, sir, you insult our guests.’

‘No insult at all. Sit down, Mr Holmes. And Dr Watson. I have something which may attract your interest.’ He snapped his fingers.

Charles McLaren at once stood up and took from his pocket a small leather bag held closed by two drawstrings. He loosened the top and poured out a small pile of what looked like at least fifty gold sovereigns on the table before Holmes. They glittered in the candlelight, a tempting mound of freedom and luxury. But at such a cost to Holmes’s pride. I glanced at him.

Holmes, whom I thought to know so well, was ever a surprise. A slow smile spread across his face. I had seen it before, after solving a crime and just before confronting the perpetrator. It did not bode well for this overbearing laird. I felt a prickle of incipient amusement.

‘Ah, the laird is most convincing,’ said he. He turned to Charles who loomed next to him. Despite his very fine clothes the man had an aura of violence. ‘Sit down, Chimney, for I perceive that is your nickname. Before your bad back has you limping from the room, exchange seats with your brother and take the hand of your wife, who may very well learn to love you again. Although some effort will be necessary to forgive your philandering.’

There was an audible gasp from those around the table. Isla McLaren coughed to stifle a laugh. The laird stared at Holmes in some confusion.

‘Well, your method bears some explanation,’ said the laird. ‘But you may very well have hit the nail on the head. Has he, Charles?’ Charles said nothing but reddened. Poor Catherine looked down at her lap and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. Alistair offered Charles his seat with a flourish and the elder brother duly changed places and sat, glowering.

The laird laughed, although with some discomfort. ‘Well, then, you have just given us confirmation, son. You must learn discretion.’ He turned to Holmes. ‘And how did you come to this theory? Pardon us, Catherine.’

‘They are not theories,’ began Holmes. ‘They are—’

‘I am no philanderer!’ exclaimed ‘Chimney’. He turned to Holmes in a fury, and pounded his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. ‘Be damned man, I will not have my name besmirched.’

‘I am merely acting at your father’s behest,’ said Holmes quietly.

‘Hmph. I see that you are right,’ said the laird. ‘Charles, you reveal yourself piteously. Get control. Mr Holmes, I demand to know your reasoning. What are the clues?’

‘Perhaps it would be best—’

‘Sir, I insist.’

Holmes shrugged, and then turned on his considerable charm. The malice beneath it was obvious to me but masked, I hoped, to others. I glanced at Isla McLaren. Her look of alarm told me I was mistaken. At least one other saw what was ahead.

‘It was quite simple. Obvious, really,’ said Holmes. He turned back to Charles. ‘Your wife called you by your nickname earlier when you arose to speak to that waiter. Softly, but I heard it. Your shifting in your chair, obvious discomfort, and the placement of a small pillow to support your lumbar region – none of the rest of the chairs has one – and your particular manner of eyeing the flaxen-haired young woman pouring coffee, and your wife’s observation of this tells me what I need to know. Perhaps your back condition is not due to riding horses, but some other strain. You must take care. And then, the gambling—’

His furious wife stifled a gasp. Holmes turned to her. ‘By the way, you, my dear lady, must see a doctor and soon. The slight palsy in your hand and your pale face indicate lead poisoning. It could be the use of an inauspicious cosmetic, and made all the worse by drink. Perhaps Doctor Watson could be of service.’

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