t was a full week after our return to London that I managed a visit to 221B. The snow in London had persisted and the Christmas season with its attendant noise and jollity was hard upon us, turning every shop window and street corner into a postcard illustration. I found it a welcome antidote to the darkness and drama we had faced in Scotland, yet I knew it was a season that little comforted my friend.
It would be another two weeks before the case involving a goose and a stolen jewel would distract his feverish mind, and I had heard from Mrs Hudson that aside from a small mystery involving a pickled brain stolen from Bart’s collection, a matter he solved in three hours, Holmes had had little to occupy him.
As I ascended the stairs at 221B, I felt a prickle of concern. I could never be precisely sure which version of Holmes would greet me when I arrived at our former shared lodgings. But a lively Paganini violin piece floated down from his rooms, giving me hope.
He must have noted my approach, for Holmes stopped playing and threw open the door. ‘Watson!’ he cried. ‘You have come at the perfect moment!’ To my surprise, he was well rested and sleek, wearing his finest waistcoat, though topped with his blue dressing gown.
Setting down his violin, he embraced me in an unusual display of warmth. Behind him a crackling fire burned cheerily and some pine boughs and candles on the mantle had displaced the usual clutter. On the dining table, a generous display of cakes and sandwiches had been laid out by Mrs Hudson. I felt suddenly that I had wandered into some alternate 221B.
‘Holmes,’ I said. ‘I am delighted to see you thus. What is your news?’
He had barely recounted his small triumph with the stolen brain when, to my complete surprise, Mrs Hudson announced that Mrs Isla McLaren had arrived for a visit. She swept into the room, festively attired in a gown of pine green and Christmas red with her usual touches of tartan trim. Taking in the newly cosy ambience with a smile, she greeted Holmes warmly. Pretending polite indifference which fooled no one, he invited her to sit and take tea.
For the next hour, this fine lady sat before the fire with us, during which time the three of us cleared up most, if not all of the remaining mysteries of the dramatic events at Braedern.
Cameron Coupe, she related, had survived his terrible injury and to our great surprise, was being looked after by the laird, who saw past the man’s more bizarre actions to the loyalty beneath the surface. Puzzling to me, but perhaps Coupe was the son the laird deserved, I thought. I wondered what their future held.
The eldest son, Charles, had been charged with arranging the bombing down in Montpellier but somehow had escaped on a technicality, and while free of gaol, was so disrespected in his field that he would never be allowed near a distillery again. Catherine had left him and returned to her family. The McLaren plant was closed, presumably for ever, and the castle had been put up for sale.
‘What of the ghost of the Lady Elizabeth McLaren?’ I asked.
Isla looked uncomfortable. To my surprise, so did Holmes.
‘I think I saw her,’ I admitted. ‘The first night we were there. And then again.’
Holmes would not meet my eyes.
‘Mr Holmes did as well,’ said Mrs McLaren. ‘Did you not, Mr Holmes? You were shouting at something the night Dr Watson was gone.’
‘A trick of the light, that is all.’
Isla held his gaze then shrugged. ‘How curious. Well in any case, you should know that Anne’s remains were found, exactly where one might expect, and have been given a proper burial, Mr Holmes. The apparition of Mrs McLaren has not been seen since.’
Holmes murmured his approval, then handed Mrs McLaren a small volume of Scottish poetry. ‘From Hatchards, in return for the Goethe,’ said he. ‘Note the inner rhyme schemes in these early Scottish sonnets. You may wish to challenge yourself further.’
‘Thank you, but …’ She looked puzzled.
‘Really, Mrs McLaren. Your secret was out when I noticed the collection of poetry in your room, the inks and pens on your desk, and the fact that no one else saw the sonnet you described having arrived in the basket upon Fiona’s return.’
But of course! The sonnet sent back with Fiona had been penned by Isla, no doubt to attract Holmes with the puzzle! It had almost worked.
‘Nicely done, Mr Holmes,’ said the lady.
‘Frankly, no one else seemed capable. What I wonder about, however, is the one you wrote to Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier in Montpellier.’
I had completely forgotten. Janvier had told us the last of the three threatening notes he received was in rhyme!
‘That was yours as well, was it not?’
Isla flushed and nodded. ‘I regret writing that.’
‘What was your motive?’
‘Charles asked me for the favour. It was a distracting challenge. I never thought for a moment he would make good on the threat.’
A woman bored is a danger, her own husband had said. All too true, in Isla McLaren’s case.
‘You should apply your gifts with more discretion in the future,’ said Holmes.
‘I shall keep that in mind,’ said she. ‘But I have come for more than a social visit, Mr Holmes. I have something I know will interest you.’
The lady took from her handbag a large brown envelope, and from it withdrew a series of grotesque, fading photographs. Moving the refreshments aside, she spread them out on our dining table. Against the background of holiday cheer and domestic comforts, we found ourselves drawn in a tight circle, peering at the sordid tableau.
For there were the police photographs of the scene of the late Charlotte Simpson’s death. Strangely, in that room, they had the effect of a death mask thrust into the centre of a child’s party.
Holmes studied them. ‘The pillows,’ he said, finally. ‘They are not as you described.’
‘True,’ said Isla.
There was a sofa in the picture, near where the body of a young woman hung from a ceiling light. Every pillow was in its proper place. But, as Isla pointed out, these pillows had not been so when she had arrived on the scene. Instead, they had been spread around as if from a struggle.
‘Had I seen these photographs, I would have deduced the obvious,’ she said.
Holmes stared at the photos, a grave expression on his pale face. ‘Yes, as would I. August Bell Clarion was wise to stage the scene to eliminate any sign of the struggle which you did not register at the time. It is no wonder that everyone from the police to the family accepted the theory that the poor girl …’ his voice trailed off.
‘That she killed herself, yes,’ said Isla McLaren.
‘She was capable of it,’ said Holmes. ‘I knew it. And I believe you knew it as well. It was what drove you to rush to her on that day.’
The lady was silent.
‘I am afraid I rebuffed you unkindly, madam,’ said Holmes. ‘For that I apologize. Your resemblance to Charlotte was, well, somehow I must have seen …
But not observed, I thought.
‘You need not apologize,’ said she. ‘I, on the other hand saw a decent, if somewhat rude young man, with perhaps too much conceit about his own intellectual gifts. That fit exactly with the Sherlock Holmes my cousin described so long ago.’
‘She thought me rude and conceited?’
Mrs McLaren just stared at him. ‘And loved you in spite of it.’
Holmes cleared his throat and pointedly returned to studying the photographs.
‘You did not notice the pillows awry when you first got there?’ he queried.
‘I did not. Remember that I was but twelve years old and had walked in on the scene of my dear cousin’s death. My only thought was to try to save her, because to my self-obsessed child’s eyes, she could not possibly have thought to leave me in this way.’
‘And she did not,’ I said. ‘I doubt she would have left either of you in this way.’
For several long minutes Holmes flipped through the other photographs, studying them with care, and then finally set them down. Mrs McLaren gathered them up and replaced them in the brown envelope, which she tucked inside her handbag.
For a full minute the three of us sat there in silence. Holmes closed his eyes, and was lost in his thoughts. I saw through his stoicism to his deep pain.
Isla McLaren regarded my friend. A look of concern passed over her and she glanced at me.
‘Holmes,’ I said gently. ‘It is time to release this ghost.’
His eyes sprang open and he rose to his feet. ‘Mrs McLaren. It is good to see you looking so seasonal! And I note that you have a business engagement here in London. I have no doubt that it will go well for you.’
She rose. ‘But how did you—never mind. It is true. Alistair and I are being courted by both Dewar and Buchanan. They both wish us to manage one or more distilleries in the Highlands and it is up to us to choose. Our talents, apparently, fit well with their needs.’
‘That is excellent news,’ I exclaimed, happy that Isla and Alistair McLaren, at least, had survived the debacle of Braedern.
Holmes abruptly turned to the door. He had heard something that Mrs McLaren and I had not.
‘Ah, another old friend arrives, Watson! It is an embarrassment of riches,’ he said with that sardonic humour of old.
‘Then I shall leave you, sir,’ said the lady. She began to gather her things.
At that moment Mrs Hudson knocked and entered. ‘Monsieur Jean Vidocq to see you, Mr Holmes. Shall I send him—’
‘No need, Mrs Hudson,’ said Holmes. ‘He already arrives.’
Behind our landlady, a tall, top-hatted figure was just visible bounding up the stairs. ‘Bonjour mes amis!’ boomed the handsome Frenchman, appearing over Mrs Hudson’s shoulder.
The good woman cocked an eyebrow at his presumption but let him pass.
He strode into the room, took in Isla McLaren with a frankly admiring glance, walked right up to her, and reached for her hand. She extended it coolly and he kissed it with the flourish of the born courtier.
‘Enchanté, Madame,’ said he. ‘You are Scottish, I perceive.’
‘Ça, c’est bien évident.’ she replied in perfect French. That is perfectly clear. Even I understood her jibe. ‘Excuse me.’
She withdrew her hand and with a small wave and an amused smile to Holmes and me, took her leave. A faint whiff of perfume lingered in the air behind her.
‘Ah, the Scottish heather,’ said Jean Vidocq, savouring it. ‘And a touch of lavender. Mmmm. Douce. Très douce.’
‘What do you want, Vidocq?’ said Holmes.
Vidocq took in the room, the refreshments, the decorations, and Holmes’s perfect grooming. ‘I see you are at last developing the taste for the finer things in life,’ said he, with a pointed glance at the doorway through which Mrs McLaren had just passed.
‘Unlike yourself, I do not consider the conquest of married ladies to be an appropriate use of my skills,’ said Holmes.
‘Alors, it is a skill which it is doubtful you possess, cher ami!’ smiled Vidocq. ‘Will you offer me a libation? I have travelled far. And I bear news for you.’
Holmes sat down in the large basket chair and steepled his hands. He yawned. ‘Enlighten me on this one point, Vidocq. How is it that you are not in prison?’
This question intrigued me as well, and I was eager to hear the response. I went to the sideboard and offered him a whisky.
‘A good French brandy for me, please,’ said Vidocq. ‘If you have any. But none of your vile English pastries.’
I poured him one, and a whisky each for Holmes and me. I happily took a piece of one of Mrs Hudson’s delicious fruitcakes. What do the French know of cake?
‘The news, Vidocq, the news,’ prompted Holmes. ‘Oh, and by the way, my brother Mycroft expressed a certain satisfaction with my uncovering of Charles McLaren’s involvement, and your, shall we say, help with the little matter of the bomb at Dr Janvier’s laboratory. Although I understand a Monsieur Reynaud of the French government was less than pleased with your adventurous ways.’
‘Ah, it is nothing. Thanks to you I have had some little problem in extricating myself from this small bombing incident – you know perfectly well I would not harm a soul – but at last, it was done,’ said the Frenchman. He took a sip from his drink and savoured it. ‘And very good, oui, because yet another misfortune was directed to Dr Janvier which I was able to prevent.’
‘Another commission, or a real threat, this time?’ asked Holmes.
‘Oh, very real! A consortium of Germans and Belgians. But easily handled,’ he waived away an imaginary swarm of flies. ‘I am well paid for this. A medal will be forthcoming, next month, I believe.’
Holmes barked out a laugh. ‘You should consider a career as a bareback rider in the circus, Vidocq,’ he said. ‘Charles McLaren is facing a stiff penalty, if not gaol, for his part in the planning. Although “intention” is all that can be proved. And his father, although ruined, retains enough assets to buy his freedom.’
‘It is ever so. A rather weak link, that blustering idiot Charles,’ said Vidocq. ‘A beautiful wife, however.’
‘Women will be your undoing, Vidocq.’
‘Yes, it is probably true. But not yours, Holmes. Have you never reconsidered your position in that respect? Think of all that you are missing.’
‘Oh, I have most definitely given the matter all the attention it deserves,’ said Holmes. I glanced at him but he refused to meet my gaze, instead staring intently into his whisky glass.
I believe it was on that very day, and perhaps at that very moment that Sherlock Holmes truly did put his ghosts to rest, for I never heard mention of Charlotte or the troubles at Camford again. Perhaps he vanquished these memories to some locked and remote place in what he called his brain-attic where they would never again see the light of day.
I on the other hand, have not those powers of will. To this day, I wonder about the pale figure I saw not once but twice in the hallway of the East Tower. And the strange knife which fulfilled its promise of protection. I would not go so far to say I believe in the supernatural, but I might, after this singular adventure, be somewhat less eager to ridicule those who do.
‘Watson!’ Holmes interrupted my ruminations. A smile spread slowly across his face, and he raised his glass. ‘It has been a remarkable journey! Let us toast to whatever spirits continue to move us to our higher selves,’ said he, eyes shining.
I raised my glass to join him in a toast to that fine sentiment, and so did Jean Vidocq. ‘To whatever spirits!’ I said.