ll eyes were on the detective as he approached the platter. He removed his magnifying glass and with the detachment so characteristic of him in such moments, began to inspect the frozen monstrosity close up, moving in to get a better look. The room was silent except for stifled murmurs of panic. Charles stood, his hand covering his mouth to suppress vomiting. Alistair gently helped Catherine to sit up in her chair, his own face a mask of revulsion.
‘Holmes,’ I said.
He glanced up at me and I gestured to the waiting group. An overturned water glass dripped onto the floor in a steady rhythm. A clock over the fireplace ticked loudly. Every face was ashen and tinged with revulsion. Charles McLaren gagged and turned away. The laird was vibrating with shock. Holmes shrugged and looked back down at the hideous apparition.
‘Laird McLaren,’ said Holmes. ‘Please send the ladies to their rooms.’
The laird seized control of himself and he and Alistair gently guided the two women towards the exit. His younger daughter-in-law paused at the door. ‘I should like to remain,’ said she.
‘I know, my dear,’ said the laird, and seemed to consider this briefly. ‘But no, Isla,’ he said. ‘Help Catherine, if you would. Waiter!’ He signalled to a waiter hovering in the hallway. ‘Escort the ladies to their rooms, please.’ He closed the door behind them. Only the men remained. I studied each in turn. Charles coughed, fighting the urge to vomit. Alistair was grim, shaking his head slowly back and forth as if in denial. Holmes continued to examine the frozen object, now picking up a large serving fork and moving it gently. It rolled nauseatingly on the platter. ‘Doctor?’ he said. I joined him. He handed me the glass.
Despite my years on the battlefield, I shivered in revulsion. Close up, the ghastly white globe with its lifeless eyes and melting frost was unworldly, unreal, and utterly terrifying. Death in itself is only natural, but this death was anything but.
Strangely, there were burn marks on the severed edges of the neck. From heat or cold I could not tell. I turned the head over. It appeared to be frozen solid. I pressed the skin on the face, directly under the left eye. It was just beginning to defrost and gave to my pressure only slightly, but felt deeply frozen just below the surface.
The room remained silent. Time stood still. Bile rose in my gorge. I called upon my training and steeled myself to examine it further. But in its present state, and disembodied, there was little I could tell.
The lips were parted and I attempted to view the tongue. Holmes stared at me, waiting. So did everyone at the table. I shook my head, not wanting to say more in company.
As I continued my careful examination of the head, Holmes asked of the laird, ‘You can confirm the identity of this unfortunate young person?’
‘It is Fiona Paisley. A young servant at our estate,’ said the laird in a strangled voice. ‘Isla was correct.’
‘You are certain?’ asked Holmes. I glanced up and he was taking in the group with that particular piercing regard. He was searching for a reaction, of that I was certain.
‘Of course it is she. It could be no other! We all know her!’ cried Charles.
‘Mr Holmes! I wish you to investigate this matter,’ said the laird. He paused, struggling to control his emotions, and clearly unused to the need to apologize. ‘I did not mean to make light of your gifts. Sir, will you take this case?’
Holmes waivered. But, to give him credit, for only an instant. ‘I will investigate the delivery of the remains here tonight. It will have to be done in concert with the local police. As to the rest, I will give you my answer in the morning.’
The laird nodded. ‘Gentlemen, give Mr Holmes your full cooperation.’
‘I do not wish to remain in the room with that gruesome relic,’ said Alistair. ‘The head was brought here while we were all at table. It was not one of us, clearly!’
‘It is true,’ said the laird in a choked voice. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we all returned to our rooms. The shock—’
Holmes abruptly pocketed his glass. ‘Gentlemen, no. I will follow up in the kitchen while the trail may still be warm. But I ask you to wait here while I do so.’
The laird began to object but Holmes silenced him with a finger to his lips. ‘Sit,’ he commanded. ‘All of you. And do not leave this room. That is, if you would like this case solved.’
‘I will not remain in the room with … with—!’ cried Charles, looking at his father.
But just then the doors burst open and four French policemen ran into the room, led by a tall and moustachioed officer. Isla McLaren stood behind them in the hall.
‘Ah, Inspector Grégoire!’ exclaimed Holmes, recognising the man in charge. ‘How quick you are!’
Holmes moved to block the view of the grisly platter from the inspector.
‘Monsieur Sherlock Holmes! I remember you well, sir. The contretemps with the Venetian and his lapdog!’
‘A trifle, Grégoire, and some time ago,’ said Holmes, modestly.
‘I have not forgotten and must thank you again.’ The Frenchman clicked his heels and bowed.
‘It was nothing. But how is it that you are here, just now?’ Holmes eyed the row of policemen, the three underlings now lined up behind Grégoire.
‘We are summoned for a theft in the kitchen. But this lady, she says there is something, a murder—’ He indicated Isla McLaren, still lingering in the hall, her keen interest evident.
Holmes sighed. I am sure he had hoped for a little more time before the police arrived. ‘Here is the problem,’ said he, stepping aside to provide a clear view of the head on its silver platter.
‘Ah, alors!’ said Grégoire. He stepped over to regard the head, removed a monocle from his waistcoat pocket and leaned in for a closer look. He grew pale.
The laird, seeing his daughter-in-law hovering in the doorway, ushered her out with a whispered remonstrance and closed it after her.
Grégoire touched the poor victim’s face gently. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘Elle est gelée!’
‘Frozen, yes, Inspector Grégoire,’ said Holmes.
Recovering, the policeman smiled up at Holmes. ‘Monsieur, how is it that you are so often at the scene of the most interesting, well, events? Please, if you will excuse us.’
Grégoire waved his hand and barked a command. Two underlings seized the platter, and carried it off, both holding the grim artefact at arms’ length, and in doing so, nearly allowing it to roll off onto the floor. ‘Attention!’ he cried.
There was a murmur of revulsion in the room.
All this might have been comic had it not been so tragically bizarre. Grégoire reiterated Holmes’s request for them all to remain and the third policeman was posted at the door.
Holmes and Grégoire next slipped out and I glimpsed them through the doorway having an intense interchange. Whatever was said, Holmes seemed to have prevailed, for in a moment he returned to the doorway and waved for me to follow him.
Once beyond the McLarens’ earshot, Holmes explained. ‘Vidocq is not the only one with friends in the South. I have been given unofficial leave to conduct our own inquiry. To the kitchen, quickly! I would like to stay ahead of the police. Grégoire is to retain everyone at the table until our return. I have given instructions to them to keep the head frozen.’
‘It is remarkable that they are here, now.’ I said.
‘Yes, that theft in the kitchen! It must relate.’
‘But four of them?’
‘Watson, use your imagination. What policeman would not like to visit the kitchen of the Grand Hôtel du Cap? It is surprising that the entire department did not heed the call.’
As we hurried down the corridor towards the kitchen, we came upon Isla McLaren heading back in our direction.
‘Where are you going, Mrs McLaren?’
‘Back to the dining room.’
‘You cannot be helpful there,’ said Holmes.
‘Then where can I be? To you, perhaps? I will do anything to help you discover who killed Fiona.’
Holmes sighed with impatience.
‘Seriously, I implore you, sir. A murder has been committed.’
‘Are you quite sure, Mrs McLaren? Despite the grisly and theatrical presentation, do you know it was murder?’
‘Are you joking, Mr Holmes?’
‘No. Consider suicide. She was an emotional young woman, recently shamed and terrified. Might she have killed herself?’
‘And then cut off her own head?’
‘Of course not. Perhaps some enterprising villain found the body and decided to use it for his own purposes. Many things are possible.’
‘Mr Holmes, you insult me.’
‘All that I say is possible. If you will excuse us—’
‘Fiona would never have killed herself!’
‘People may surprise one on that account,’ said Holmes.
I remember at the time thinking this was a peculiar theory and I wondered why it had arisen at that moment. The lady said nothing, but stared at Holmes with intensity.
Holmes shrugged. ‘All right, unlikely then. Do you know who the culprit is?’
‘If I knew I would surely say it. Again, sir, can I help?’
Holmes considered a moment. ‘Stay here, in the hall. The police are questioning the men. If, afterwards, you can discourage any of them who may attempt to leave the room—’
‘I can have no effect if they choose to leave.’
‘Understood. Then follow them and determine where they go if not straight to their rooms.’
‘If I may split myself into three, I suppose that might be possible.’
Holmes smiled. ‘You will think of something,’ said he. ‘Faint, perhaps?’
I thought I saw the glimmer of a smile from Isla McLaren. An unusual girl, I thought. On this note we left her and proceeded to the kitchen.
Over the next hour, Holmes quickly interviewed every member of the staff in the chain of the receipt, transport and delivery of the head to the dining room. Working backwards from the moment the head was served, Holmes discovered the young waiter had touched the platter only briefly, and had it directly from the chef.
Entering the kitchen, we found it buzzing with whispered gossip and excited theories. Holmes approached the chef, Gaston Peringes, a rotund Frenchman of about forty-five, who was perspiring madly as he tried to rein in the chaos around him.
‘Is there somewhere more private to talk?’ asked Holmes.
In a moment we were inside a small pantry next to the kitchen, the door closed behind us. It was dusty and close, and I began to perspire immediately. Holmes had begun without preamble, placing the man in a defensive position.
‘No, it was not normal, not normal at all,’ cried Peringes in a theatrical whisper. ‘I am not in the habit of serving food that did not come from my own kitchen.’
‘Of course not,’ said Holmes reasonably. ‘Then why this time?’
The chef shrugged and cleared his throat, tossing his head in a gesture that flung droplets of sweat nearby. I felt a sudden lurch at the thought of the meal I had just eaten. He was now in a frenzy of explanation. ‘I take great pride in my desserts,’ he continued. ‘For example my meringue with the cherries, and the cream, with vanille, just a touch of vanille, the special one, you see—’
‘M. Peringes! Please! What happened?’ said Holmes.
The door clicked open and a tall, cadaverous Spaniard poked his head inside. ‘You received a note,’ he stated. ‘I believe it was thrown away. Minot is looking for it now.’
Were we being overheard? The chef barked out a furious barrage of French and the taller man retreated with a sour look.
Recovering, Peringes attempted a smile. ‘All of this, so extraordinary! Vraiment! But due to a stupid error on the part of my sous chef, the soufflé that I had planned, for which I am justly famous, had collapsed just prior to the dessert’s arrival. This gift and its timing were fortuitous in the extreme. And so I sent out this dessert—’
The tall Spaniard poked his head in again. ‘The soufflé, she was good. You threw away—’
The chef screamed at him a rapid invective that I could not understand. The Spaniard retreated and the chef slammed the door, pushing it a second time to make sure it was closed. ‘Mon Dieu, one has the privacy of the marketplace here!’
‘Yes, well,’ said Holmes. ‘May I compliment you on your English. Where is this sous chef now?’
Chef Peringes looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Who knows? I fired him when the dessert, she is ruined.’
Holmes stared at the man with his penetrating gaze.
‘His name?’
‘Er, Bernard.’
Holmes paused. ‘There is no Bernard,’ he said. ‘Your staff will agree, no?’ Holmes opened the door but the chef quickly pulled it shut.
Holmes continued. ‘You responded to a note, anonymous, yes?’ The chef was the picture of guilt. ‘Ah yes, then you threw out your failed soufflé, and sent out this gift, without checking it.’
A small rivulet of sweat now dripped down the chef’s face and he mopped at it with a towel hanging from his waist.
‘The presentation, the bow, was clearly professional,’ snorted Peringes. ‘And time was of the essence. The soufflé was not one of my best. But I added the flowers to the gift.’
‘What was the content of the note that accompanied this gift? Let me see it.’
The chef turned a slow, dark red. ‘A little … a little money was there.’
‘How much?’
Peringes shrugged as if it hardly mattered.
‘How much?’
‘I do not remember.’
A small boy appeared at the door. It was apparently Minot, with a grease-stained note, picked from the trash. ‘Sixty francs,’ said the boy handing over the note. ‘You were angry because it said sixty but there was only fifty.’
Holmes snatched the note and examined it.
The chef was mortified.
‘You called the police,’ said Minot helpfully.
The chef began to shout at the boy in rapid, colloquial French. Minot backed away in fear as the man picked up a rolling pin and advanced on him. Holmes stopped the man with a hand to the arm.
‘Who delivered this note?’
‘How do I know?’ shouted the chef. ‘Probably it came to the concierge.’
The Spaniard, who had stepped in front of Minot to protect him, nodded at us. ‘Pierre Mathurin. In the lobby.’
Holmes released the chef, handed me the note, and took off at a run. We left the kitchen in chaos.
By contrast, the lobby was a calm oasis, bathed as it was in fresh sea breezes and lit by generous electric lights. There we found the concierge Mathurin, a handsome man with a smile that could melt the frown from the most travel-weary guest. While strained, he was yet the picture of grace under pressure.
The French police ran past us like ants to and from an anthill, and two of them slowly conveyed the horrific platter towards the entrance, its ghoulish contents now covered with a white tablecloth. Mathurin smoothly guided two nervous guests standing in the lobby away from the policemen, indicating the bar just beyond.
On spying us, he attempted to usher us there as well, but at Holmes’s brief explanation, he invited us instead into a small adjacent office, and closed the door.
‘Mr Holmes, we are lucky for your presence. Inspector Grégoire has told me of your reputation,’ he said. ‘We must keep as much from the guests as we can. Quelle horreur! Some of them are rather elderly. And all of them très, très respectable, you understand.’ Beneath his practiced manners Mathurin struck me as not only a kind man, but an honest one.
His story matched that of the chef. The covered platter was delivered in exactly the state in which it had been presented, beribboned and resting in a box, by a cab driver named Jean-Jacques whom he knew well. There had been a sizable tip for the concierge and the simple instructions to deliver the note and platter to the chef. There was a second envelope for the chef.
‘And you did not think to examine this gift?’ asked Holmes.
‘Alas, I did not. If only. But Monsieur, many guests here receive gifts – food, flowers, theatre tickets. Not usually a head. It would be indiscreet to examine each item that arrives.’
‘This cab driver; can you summon him, please?’
‘Sir, I have done so already. He should be here in a moment. I presume you wish to speak to him before the police do?’
If a talent for anticipating needs is the hallmark of a good hotel man, Mathurin was a genius at his profession.
Minutes later a man of forty, sleepy and dishevelled, arrived. Mathurin clapped him on the back and drew him forward to meet us. He evidently had been roused from his bed, and apologized to the concierge.
‘This is Jean-Jacques. He is an honest man. I know him well,’ said Mathurin. There was an easy familiarity between them.
Holmes asked him how the ‘gift’ had arrived in his possession, where and from whom.
‘The train station! I came directly!’ the man called Jean-Jacques exclaimed. ‘It was a gift of food, no? It had not been ruined by delay, surely? It was cold, very cold! I received it less than twenty minutes before I deliver! I came directly! Rapidement!’
Mathurin patted the cabbie’s arm. ‘Peace, Jean-Jacques,’ said he. Then, to Holmes, ‘If I may?’
Holmes nodded his assent and under the gentle questioning of the concierge, we learned that Jean-Jacques had been hired at the railway station by a stranger wearing what seemed to him to be an obvious disguise.
‘Details, man. And tell me your words and his, exactly as you remember them,’ said Holmes.
‘This man ask me do I speak the English,’ replied Jean-Jacques. ‘I reply that yes, I do. He then say he has job for me.’
‘Strange, no?’ said Holmes.
‘At this point I am suspicion!’
‘Suspicious. Hmm. But not reluctant?’ said Holmes.
The cabdriver shrugged. ‘I ask him “what kind of job?” I am no criminal. Once, you see, someone ask me to take a very young girl—’
‘Yes. But never mind this. What was the reply?’
‘He say, I have a gift that must be delivered toute de suite to the Grand Hôtel du Cap. It is food and will be ruined if not … if not to remain very cold, but … what an idiot, I am thinking. “I have no cold box,” I tell this man. He annoy me. He look very strange.’
‘Strange, how?’ asked Holmes.
‘Comme dans une pièce de théâtre!’
‘What do you mean “like in a play”?’
‘Stupid, I think. So then I ask, “Why you wear this false beard and glasses?” And a wig, he wear a long, dark wig.’
‘You actually said this?’ I exclaimed.
‘Jean-Jacques has always spoken his mind,’ said Mathurin.
‘Your brother is in the wrong business,’ said Holmes with a smile to the concierge. He turned back to the cabbie. ‘Consider applying to the Sûreté.’
Mathurin was startled. ‘How do you know he is my brother?’
‘Family resemblance. The nose. Continue, please.’
‘This man he laugh. “It is the special surprise,” he say,’ said Jean-Jacques.
‘His accent? Foreign?’
‘He is from your island. I do not know. English? Scottish? He give me a great deal of money. And three envelopes. One for Pierre, here. One for the chef and one for the man to get this gift. A Sir Robert McLaren who is having the dinner party at that very moment, he say. “Time is very important. Hurry!”’
And it was there the trail ran cold. The box had been cardboard, and ruined by the dampness of condensation. The note from the kitchen was written in block printing and revealed nothing of use to Holmes, although he kept it. There was no more information to be gleaned and it appeared to both Holmes and myself that it was a simple matter of the hotel staff being bought that enabled the passage of the heinous gift to our table.
As we made our way back from the lobby to the dining room I asked Holmes his thoughts. He paused before two large windows looking out towards the moonlit ocean below us. It was a magnificent view, an expensive one, and yet it offered little comfort at the moment.
‘We have made only limited progress,’ he said. ‘The head came down on a later train than the family. It is likely that it was severed and frozen elsewhere. This was a well-planned and effective gesture, but to what purpose, I cannot say.’
‘But where is the rest of the body, Holmes?’
‘Indeed that is the question, Watson. Most likely it is still in Scotland. Consider how much simpler it would be to transport only the head.’
‘Then you think she was killed near home and the head brought down on the train?’
‘We have not enough data to theorize, but that seems the most likely scenario. Come, my dear fellow, back to the McLarens.’