Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (16 page)

The door was opened by a man dressed in black, who might quite easily have taken the role of a mute at a funeral. M Daudet, which I assumed was his identity, was a tall, heavy-shouldered man, bent forward at the hips as if he found his height a handicap – a posture that thrust his face towards us and made us too conscious of his features: the long nose, the pendulous cheeks and the thick black eyebrows that jutted out like thatching and below which his eyes peered out warily like those of an animal trapped in a thorn bush. He seemed to know the inspector, presumably from that earlier occasion when Lestrade had first called at the house following the arrival of the letter, for he acknowledged him with a nod and, opening the door wider, ushered us into the hall.

Curious though I was to see the interior of the house, there was little time to look about me and, apart from
registering a general impression of dark wallpaper hung with even darker oil paintings, and a staircase that ascended on the right to an upper landing totally lost in shadows, there was no opportunity to examine it any further before we fell in behind M Daudet and followed him down the passage to a door on which he knocked.

Having received the order ‘
Entrez!
’, he opened the door and, announcing our names in a strong French accent – ‘
Inspecteur Lestrade, Monsieur ’Olmes, Docteur Watson, madame!
’ – he stood aside to let us enter.

The room beyond was large but, like the hall, was full of shadows and oddly muffled, as if the air had been sucked out of it by the thick velvet drapes at the windows and the crowded furniture that stood cheek by jowl in every available space. There was not a surface that was not packed with objects, from pictures on the walls to vases on the tables and knick-knacks on the shelves, all in sombre shades. The only colourful feature was the fire that burnt red and gold in a large black marble fireplace, beside which sat the small figure of an elderly lady in an invalid chair, Mme Montpensier, I assumed, dressed in widow’s weeds and muffled up like the room in rugs and shawls, despite the heat from the flames. Ramrod stiff, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, she wore an expression of extreme distaste at the invasion of her drawing-room by three total strangers.

Behind her stood another younger figure, also in
black, whom I took to be her lady-companion, Mlle Benoit, and who, with her severe air and bunch of keys hanging at her belt, gave the impression of a female gaoler.

Lestrade stepped forward and embarrassed us all with a faltering attempt to explain in French the reason for the presence of the three us in her drawing-room that might, under other circumstances, have been amusing but which Mme Montpensier listened to with tightlipped disapproval.

As soon as Lestrade had stumbled to a halt, Holmes advanced, cool and urbane, and addressed her in what I assumed was fluent French, judging by the expressions of relief and admiration that lit up the faces of Mme Montpensier and Mlle Benoit.

When Holmes had finished his soliloquy, Mme Montpensier gave some instruction to her companion, who hurriedly drew up chairs for the three of us into a semicircle by the fire and, with a gracious ‘
Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît, messieurs
’, invited us to sit down.

There followed a rapid dialogue between Holmes and Mme Montpensier in French that I, with only my schoolboy knowledge of the language, was not able to follow apart from the gist of it. In this manner, I gathered that Mme Montpensier gave Holmes permission to investigate the case. Once that formality had been decided, there followed a question-and-answer session from which I deduced that Holmes had managed to
establish a great deal of information, judging by the number of times the name of Mlle Carère occurred. At one point, I heard the word ‘
photographe
’ and guessed that my old friend had asked to see a likeness of Mlle Carère for, at Mme Montpensier’s instruction, her lady-companion rose to her feet and left the room, returning shortly afterwards with a black leather-bound volume with gilt-edged pages that Mme Montpensier opened at a particular section.

Lestrade and I crowded behind Holmes’ chair and were able to see the page in question over his shoulder. It contained a sepia photograph in an oval frame of a handsome, dark-haired young woman with a resolute chin and very straight, determined brows, who gazed back at us with calm self-confidence. Seeing this image of her was a strange experience, for I could not associate her direct gaze and firmly modelled lips with the soil-encrusted skull I had seen in the grave with its empty eye sockets and gaping jaws.

After he had closed the album and returned it to Mlle Benoit, there followed a discussion between Mme Montpensier and my old friend that I deduced concerned the locket found with the body for, addressing her directly, he sketched a heart-shaped object in the air with his index finger that was apparently an adequate enough description for her to identify the piece of jewellery for she inclined her head in agreement. As she did so, I noticed that, for the first time, she showed signs of
distress. Her lips trembled and her eyes became moist with what looked suspiciously like tears.

As this was taking place, it crossed my mind to wonder why Holmes should go to such lengths when he could quite easily have produced the locket in question from the little envelope he was carrying in his pocketbook, but ascribed this evasion to his innate secrecy.

Meanwhile, Mme Montpensier had recovered from her brief moment of distress and had resumed her usual dignified manner that she maintained during the rest of the interview. It concluded, it seemed, with a request from Holmes for permission to examine Mlle Carère’s room. This she granted with no obvious reluctance and Mlle Benoit was despatched once more to fetch the housekeeper, Mme Daudet, returning with her shortly afterwards and resuming her place behind Mme Montpensier’s chair. Meanwhile, Mme Daudet remained standing just inside the door.

It was difficult to form any opinion of the housekeeper. Like the other two women of the household she was dressed in black, but was so insignificant that the moment after I took my eyes off her features I would not have been able to describe them except with only the minimum of detail. She was middle-aged, of medium height and build; in fact, everything about her was so middle and medium and ordinary that she seemed to possess nothing outstanding or individual about her appearance, the only exception being her eyes, which
were very dark and had a wary, watchful quality about them, but even this characteristic had been subdued by the years of training in controlling all emotions or reactions. With her flat, round cheeks and little beak of a nose, she put me in mind of a caged owl I had once seen. It had sat silent and motionless on its perch and its eyes had that same guarded intensity, revealing nothing, neither fear, nor submission, nor even hatred of its captors.

She listened impassively to Mme Montpensier’s instructions before leading us in silence from the room and up the stairs to the shadowy landing, where she opened a door, standing aside to let us enter.

Like the rest of the house it was overfurnished but, even so, it had a freshness and air of virginity about it which was appealing. The bed with its elaborately carved mahogany headboard was lightened by a simple, white crocheted cover and the pictures on the walls in narrow gilt frames were watercolours of flowers or scenery. Although the curtains at the windows were of the same dark velvet and heavy lace of those downstairs, these were looped back to reveal a view of the trees in the garden, but not of the grave, and I was absurdly pleased by this, thinking that the handsome young woman with the firm chin and direct gaze whose photograph I had seen only a short time before had been spared the prospect during her life of looking out over her final resting place, even though she would not have been aware of this.

With a quick glance at Mme Daudet for her nod
of permission, Holmes crossed to the large mahogany wardrobe which occupied almost the whole wall and, opening it, disclosed its empty interior. The drawers of the chest and dressing table revealed the same absence of any contents. Not even a handkerchief nor a hair ribbon remained to show that Mlle Carère had once occupied the chamber and I felt a sudden sense of overwhelming grief for the young woman whose life had ended so meanly in that shallow grave under the trees.

Holmes meanwhile, untouched by any such emotion, had paused to glance at one of the watercolour paintings hanging on the wall beside the bed and, turning to Mme Daudet, asked a question in French which I took to be ‘Who painted this?’

Her answer was comprehensible even to me.

Lifting her shoulders, she said dismissively, ‘
Je ne sais pas
.’

Holmes made no response. He appeared to have become, like her, quite indifferent to the matter and, with that, we returned downstairs to take our leave of Mme Montpensier.

Once outside the house, Lestrade set off again for the garden, announcing that he wanted to make a last examination of the grave and its surroundings before arranging for the skeleton to be taken to the mortuary at St Clement’s, adding that he would call on us later in the evening. Holmes nodded in agreement and together he and I made our way to Finchley Road,
where we took a cab back to our lodgings.

The conversation during this journey was desultory. I could understand Holmes’ reluctance to give me a report on the interview with Mme Montpensier in advance of his meeting later that evening with Lestrade, when he would have to repeat the same information. But I sensed that, in addition to this restraint, my old friend was deeply troubled by some aspects of the case and that he preferred to be silent while he turned these over in his mind.

I, too, mulled over the inquiry. What relevance, if any, I asked myself, was the absence of any shoes in the grave? And why was he interested in the identity of the person who had painted the watercolour hanging by Mlle Carère’s bed? For despite his apparent indifference to the matter, I knew him well enough to realise he would not have asked the question unless it had some bearing on the investigation.

As we rattled our way down Finchley Road, I tried to remember what had been the subject of the painting but could recall nothing more than a bridge crossing a river and, in the background, a cityscape of tall, many-windowed buildings.

However, uppermost in my mind was Holmes’
twic-erepeated
reference to the importance of the names. That, I felt, had great relevance but, despite racking my brains, the answer to that particular riddle continued to evade me.

As soon as we returned to Baker Street and installed ourselves in the sitting-room, Holmes set about examining the locket and chain with great assiduity, sending the boy in buttons to fetch a whole collection of articles for this purpose, including a clean towel which he spread over his workbench, a bowl of warm water and some cotton swabs. To these, he added from his own stock of equipment a small, soft-bristled brush, a scalpel, two Petri dishes and his jeweller’s eyeglass.

Once these were laid out in readiness, he produced the little envelope from his pocketbook and carefully emptied the locket and chain on to the towel.

I quietly moved my chair closer to his so that I could observe his actions, for I found this aspect of his work particularly fascinating – comparable, in my opinion at least, to the meticulous precision of a surgeon preparing to operate on a patient.

First, the locket and chain were brushed over to remove any remaining fragments of dry soil clinging to the metal before both were carefully swabbed with a piece of the cotton cloth, wrung out in the warm water. That done, the chain was set aside while Holmes, using his jeweller’s eyeglass, examined the back and front surfaces of the locket. Whatever he found seemed to afford him great satisfaction, for I heard him give a little grunt, partly of gratification and partly of amusement – quite why I had no idea, for I could not imagine what he had found humorous in the reverse side of the little silver object.
But he said nothing and I did not like to ask.

Next, he picked up the scalpel and, with great delicacy, slipped the blade between the two halves of the locket, sliding it to and fro until at last the tiny hinge gave way and, opening the sections back, Holmes revealed its interior.

‘Come here, Watson,’ said he, ‘and tell me what you make of this.’

Leaning forward, I peered into the two segments but could see nothing of any significance, apart from some tiny shards of thin glass, some scraps of discoloured paper and a pair of thin silver frames, heart-shaped like the locket that I assumed had once held two photographs in place, the remnants of which were presumably the fragments of paper.

I described all of this to Holmes who listened gravely and nodded his head in agreement as I itemised each component of my observations.

‘Well done, my dear fellow!’ he exclaimed when I had finished, much to my secret pleasure. ‘In my opinion, your deduction is quite correct. The locket did indeed contain two photographs. But see if you can take your analysis a step further.’

‘In what direction, Holmes?’ I inquired. I could see no other feature of the object that needed any further explanation.

‘Well, to begin with, the broken glass and the mutilated photographs. How did that damage occur?’

‘But there’s nothing unusual in either of them, is there? After all, the locket has been lying in the ground for over a year. It was bound to be affected by the damp and the weight of the soil.’

‘My dear Watson, reasonable though your argument is, it still does not explain how the glass came to be broken into such small pieces and the photographs reduced almost to pulp.’

‘I do not follow you,’ I began, bewildered by his reply.

‘Then allow me to assist you. Look at the glass. How has it been broken?’

‘It has been smashed, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘What more can I say?’

‘Oh, a great deal more. Exactly how was it smashed?’

‘How?’ I cried. ‘Well, something may have fallen on it and fractured it.’

‘Such as?’

‘For goodness’ sake, Holmes!’ I protested, beginning to feel more and more harassed by this catechism. ‘A stone, perhaps, or someone could have trodden on it.’