Associates of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “It’s only a matter of time,” I replied, taking the lead and walking towards a door at the end of the uncanny passage. The music that spilled through the gaudily painted wood was unmistakable: the second act of Berlioz’s La damnation de Faust. Robert and I had seen it performed at the Opéra de Monte-Carlo in ’93 and I was glad that I could blame the smoke for the tears that once again troubled my eyes.

  A narrow window slid open in the door, a ghastly face appearing in the gap. Spotting us, this keeper of the inner sanctum let out a howl of pleasure and, throwing open the door, beckoned us in.

  “More fuel for the fire – welcome, welcome.”

  If Watson had balked at his first sight of the club, one glance at this fellow almost had him running for the hills. Unlike the imp on the street outside, the master of ceremonies wore no cloak. In fact, he wore little at all, his corpulent frame naked, save for a loincloth to protect what little was left of his dignity. Every inch of his flesh was daubed red, although rivulets of sweat had carved obscene paths through the greasepaint. Beady bloodshot eyes were caked in thickly applied mascara that ran down prodigious jowls, while his hairless mound of a head was adorned by a pair of wooden antlers, around which some creative soul had twisted velvet snakes of multiple colours.

  On seeing Watson’s obvious discomfort, the grotesque slapped his immense belly and squealed with shrill laughter, beckoning us towards a table in the corner of the stifling room. He was still giggling inanely as he pranced away, leaving Watson gazing around in horror and bewilderment. The low ceiling was covered in a mass of writhing wax bodies, tormented by demonic effigies that seemed almost alive in the flickering light of the torches that smouldered on the walls. Vapours rose from the floor, bringing with them the unsettling odour of brimstone and sulphur, while, suspended in an oversized cauldron at the far end of the room, five wailing musicians launched into a raucous rendition of Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre. The audience whooped and applauded, as photographers in scarlet dinner jackets and carnival masks chronicled the chthonian gaiety, their flash powder only adding to the disorientating atmosphere.

  Watson produced another handkerchief, but this time employed it by dabbing the sweat from his brow. Conspiratorially, he leant forward to make himself heard over the infernal strings and braying laughter of our fellow patrons. Any bravado the doctor had displayed at the gates of hell was now gone, replaced by the near panic of a man who finds himself severely out of his depth.

  “My dear,” he stammered, his breath warm against my cheek. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea. Such a place…”

  “Mere histrionics, nothing more,” I replied, turning so his face was inches from my own. “But, you can see why I would worry that Robert would choose to come here.”

  His eyes swept across the bawdy tableau, the revellers throwing caution and decency to the wind, urged on by scantily-clad waitresses who supplied tray after tray of potent libations in phosphorescent glasses.

  Such a nymph soon approached our table, wickedly offering to deliver any pleasure from the nine circles of hell. Watson looked as if he was about to fall from his chair until I advised the poor doctor that she meant drinks, nothing more.

  “Oh, t-that’s all right then,” he spluttered in English, before reverting to French to order two coffees.

  “Coffees?” our serving girl parroted, with a look that suggested that she was about to mercilessly mock the doctor to an inch of his life, or have him ejected on the spot for wanton conventionality.

  I jumped in, winking at the young nymph. “And make sure there’s a shot of cognac in both of those, eh?”

  The waitress smiled in return. “Two seething bumpers of molten sin with a dash of brimstone intensifier coming right up.”

  As she turned to leave, Watson called after her.

  “Is there anything else I can get you, sinner?” she asked, with a look that could instantly condemn any man’s soul to eternal damnation.

  “We’re looking for a friend of ours, who came here.”

  For the first time since her arrival, the imp’s outrageous act faltered, her large eyes darting between us. “Hell asks no questions,” she replied, with just enough steel in her sing-song voice to warn that the conversation was at an end. Watson was having none of it however, and pushed home his point. “His name is Robert Langtry. We know he came here. We just wish to know that he is safe.”

  The waitress shot a look over at the portly master of ceremonies, who stomped over, his earlier jocularity a mere memory. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, glaring at us both.

  Watson raised a placating hand. “We were merely asking after a friend of ours who we know frequented your… charming establishment a number of times.”

  The man’s glower intensified. “Demons tell no tales. I suggest that you take the hint, sir. Otherwise, you could find yourself burned for re–”

  A crash from a nearby table cut the obvious threat short. One of our neighbours, a tall man in fine evening dress, but more than a little worse for wear, had tumbled from his stool, taking a tray of lightly glowing glasses with him.

  “Excuse me,” the drunk slurred in broken French, his thick beard matted with wine and God knows what else. “Here, I’ll help.”

  “No need,” the master of ceremonies insisted, helping the inebriated idiot to his feet as an army of nymphs appeared from nowhere to sweep up the broken glass. “Perhaps you have had enough hellfire for one night, proud sinner.”

  The drunkard laughed off the suggestion. “Nonsense,” he drawled, producing a wallet stuffed with banknotes. “I’m happy to pay for my transgressions.” He threw his arms out in an expansive gesture that would have struck me in the face if I hadn’t ducked at the last moment. “For everyone’s transgressions!”

  His greedy eyes spying the small fortune in the man’s wallet, the master of ceremonies guided the poor fellow back onto his stool. “Then your sins are forgiven, monsieur. May I suggest you commit some new ones!”

  He clicked his podgy fingers, calling for a waitress to take more of the inebriate’s money, before departing, firing a warning glance at Watson as he passed.

  I put my hand on Watson’s arm. “That was close. I thought we were done for.”

  The doctor nodded. “Maybe we should tread more carefully, if you’re sure you want to stay?”

  I had no chance to answer before our waitress returned, carrying two steaming cups. She stepped between us, leaning across to place them on the table in front of Watson. As the doctor went to pay, she hissed in his ear.

  “I’ve seen your friend.”

  He shot me a look before replying. “You have?”

  The girl nodded, proceeding to describe Robert to perfection, from his neatly parted auburn hair to eyes the colour of sapphires. Watson glanced in my direction once again, and I nodded sharply, confirming that the description matched that of my husband.

  The girl hovered at Watson’s elbow, checking that the master of ceremonies wasn’t watching, before continuing. “He came in last week, in a worse state than ever, demanding to use some of the cabaret’s, well, more… esoteric services.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

  She replied with a question of her own. “Have you heard of the Devil’s Closet?”

  I shook my head.

  “You see that curtain?” she said, indicating a heavy maroon cloth that hung at the back of the room. “Beyond that is a pit covered by a heavy wooden trapdoor. Customers pay to be locked inside, as if they are being buried alive.”

  “Why on Earth would they do such a thing?” Watson asked in wonderment.

  “Hell asks no questions,” I reminded him.

  The waitress shrugged. “Sometimes they are alone–”

  “But not always?” I enquired. “What about Robert?”

  “He was alone. I didn’t see him go into the pit myself, but passed his request onto the master of ceremonies.”

  “Our delightful friend with an aversion to c
lothing?” Watson inquired.

  The girl gave another nervous glance in the man’s direction. “He only allows customers to be locked in for short periods of time.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. A danger of suffocation, maybe?”

  My stomach churned as I watched Watson’s face. The man was forming a plan even as the girl spoke. “All part of the deprived thrill, I suppose,” he commented, rubbing his chin as he came to a decision. “Could you get us into the pit?”

  The girl looked uncertain and so Watson added the clincher: “We’ll pay, of course!”

  “I can ask, if you promise not to make any more trouble.”

  “You have my word.”

  She nodded and left our table, distracted on her way to the master of ceremonies by the drunk who, incredibly, was already ordering another round of drinks.

  “What are you thinking?” I whispered, as soon as she was out of earshot.

  He pulled me closer. “If your husband was here, and paid to enter that pit, then perhaps there will be something that will give us a clue to his whereabouts.”

  “You’re joking?” I gasped. “You want us to actually get into the thing?”

  “If there’s something there, no matter how small, it might be just what Holmes needs. While I would never pretend to share his talents, I can describe a scene as well as the next man, maybe even better.”

  “Even if the next man is a woman?” I joked, trying to alleviate my own misgivings.

  “We must record everything we see, no matter how insignificant. Holmes can see things that others–”

  He broke off as the waitress returned to our table. “Two hundred francs,” she reported flatly. Beside me Watson swallowed and reluctantly drew out his wallet.

  * * *

  The moment came just twenty minutes later. The master of ceremonies danced to the front of the stage and made a great show of poking the musicians with a pitchfork before addressing the crowd.

  “Prostrate yourself, sinners,” he squealed, “before the angel of the bottomless pit, the father of lies and the King of Tyre. Behold, our Lord Satan!”

  With a crash of symbols, and a puff of billowing smoke, a mountain of a man strode onto the stage, resplendent in a swirling blood red robe and brandishing a wicked-looking sword. His moustache was waxed into rakish points, while pointed teeth gleamed in a wolfish smile.

  “Who summons me?” Satan demanded, the master of ceremonies prostrating himself. “Who invites judgement for all eternity?”

  All the time, the photographers’ cameras flashed, dazzling us all, as our waitress returned, indicating that it was time. As the pantomime played out in front of the corybantic assembly, we were led to the back of the room, narrowly missing a collision with the bearded drunk who once again fought to stay on his stool.

  The serving girl held aside the curtain and we entered a gloomy antechamber, packed full of crates and bottles. The place was filthy, from grime-covered floors to the cracked window-panes of a side door that led to who knew where. I brought my hand to my nose, the fetid stink of stale beer and rat droppings threatening to overwhelm me.

  “Good lord,” Watson exclaimed, sharing my disgust. “Two hundred francs for this?”

  “No,” the girl said, walking towards a trapdoor in the floor, and struggling with its large iron ring. “Two hundred francs for this!”

  “Allow me,” Watson said, springing forward. The girl protested, but soon stepped back to allow the doctor to haul the trapdoor open.

  To the sound of the performance in the next room, we peered down into the abyss beneath our feet. Watson found an old lantern on a nearby shelf and lit it, swinging the light over the pit to reveal a short ladder, rough brick walls and a grime-covered floor at the bottom.

  “And people find this pleasurable?”

  “You saw the scum this place attracts, Doctor,” I replied, the waitress stiffening beside me. “No offence meant.”

  “None taken,” she insisted, “but now I must ask you to descend into the pit, and I will close you in.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Watson said hurriedly. “You can go about your business, my dear, and leave us to ours.”

  The serving girl looked unsure. “But I am supposed to seal you in myself–”

  I reached into my jacket pocket to retrieve my wallet, producing a generous note, which I pushed into the girl’s hand. “We won’t be, if you keep watch.”

  She looked back at Watson, lowering the lantern down into the darkness, and nervously made her decision. “Very well – but you only have ten minutes, while the show is underway. After it is finished, someone is bound to check.”

  “Then we’d better hurry,” Watson prompted and, giving him one last worried glance, the girl slipped back into the drinking hall.

  I turned and crouched beside the pit. “So, what are we looking for?”

  “We’re not looking for anything,” Watson said, passing me the lantern. “I’m not about to allow a lady to put herself through such an ordeal, no matter how she’s dressed.”

  I argued, but the doctor was having nothing of it. He stood, removing his jacket and placing it on a pile of crates. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he made his way around to the ladder.

  “I shall enter the pit, while you hold the light over my head. There looks to be rubbish on the floor down there. If your husband were here, he might have dropped something – a ticket or some such. If there’s something that can help Holmes I’ll find it.” He paused, steeling himself. “Right, let’s get this over with.”

  Carefully, Watson swung himself onto the ladder and climbed down into the pit. Beyond the curtain, the crowd cheered – Satan’s act reaching its climax.

  “A little more light, if you please,” Watson called up, choking on the dust that had been disturbed by his descent.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Never better,” he said, as if this was an everyday occurrence. “That’s it. Keep the lantern steady.”

  “Can you see anything?”

  Watson crouched on his haunches, running his hand over the grime-covered floor.

  “Nothing yet, which in itself is curious. If someone had recently been down here, you would expect this grime to have been disturbed.”

  I pointed down at the far corner of the pit. “What about that?”

  “What?”

  “I saw something glint in the light.”

  “Really?” Watson exclaimed, turning in the tight space. As soon as his back was towards me, I placed the lantern on the edge of the pit, leaning down to grab the ladder. As smoothly as I could, I pulled it up from the hole in the ground.

  Feeling movement behind him, Watson turned, staring up in confusion.

  “What are you doing?”

  My only reply was to place the ladder against the wall and retrieve the doctor’s jacket. I tossed the garment down into the pit and crossed to the trapdoor, heaving it shut with all my might.

  “Mrs Langtry!”

  The trapdoor was heavier than it looked. No wonder the waitress had struggled, but I had come too far to be confounded now.

  Grunting with the exertion, I slammed the door shut, sealing Watson inside. I froze for a moment, convinced that the crash would have been heard in the drinking hall, but the music from the band blared on, and no one rushed to see what had occurred.

  Of the doctor, there was barely a sound, the thick trapdoor muffling his cries for help. No one would find him here, not until I was long gone.

  Stepping over the wooden lid, I put the lantern back where he had found it and extinguished the flame. The room was plunged into blackness, but I had already committed the route to memory. I was out of the side door and into the service corridor beyond within seconds, hurrying towards the back entrance that I had arranged to remain unlocked. I stepped out into a moonlit alley and was away, leaving John Watson to pay for his sins once and for all.

  * * *

  Back at my lodgings, time wa
s of the essence. The train was leaving within the hour, but that would be ample time. It wasn’t as if I had much to take with me, not any more. I had packed, ready to leave, long before meeting Holmes and Watson that morning. All that remained was for me to cast off my disguise.

  I made for the dressing table, intending to remove the damned wig that threatened to itch my scalp red raw, when there came a knock at the door, two sharp raps.

  “Who is it?” I asked. There was no answer, save for another dreadful knock.

  “Give me a minute!”

  There was nowhere to run. The room’s small window led only to a three-storey drop, and certain injury. Out of options, I pulled open the front door.

  The drunk from Le Cabaret de L’Enfer stood in the corridor outside, his face no longer merry, his eyes focused and cold.

  Behind him, glaring over the fellow’s narrow shoulder, stood the Banquo at my feast – John Watson.

  “May we come in?” said Sherlock Holmes, not waiting for an invitation. He stepped over the threshold, already removing his false beard, which he discarded on the bed.

  I wanted to slump to the floor, but forced myself to stand, tight-lipped. Holmes would have to break the silence; he would have to speak, not I.

  Watson followed the detective into my room, and closed the door behind them.

  When Holmes finally spoke there was no kindness in that strident voice of his, no pity. He laid out the facts as if giving evidence at a trial.

  “Your husband is dead,” he began, his words like barbs. “That much was easy enough to ascertain from a simple visit to his practice. Robert Langtry’s name has already been painted from the sign. But how did he die? A visit to the local newspaper revealed that, according to the public record, Mr Langtry had been murdered three months ago during a burglary at his home, along with his maid and footman. As for his grieving widow, well, she is still missing, presumed dead.”

  I sank on to the edge of the bed, the weight of the last three months too much to bear.

  “Dead, or in fear of her life? Which is it?”

  There was no point lying, not any more. Not to him.

  “They were agents of the Tsar, sent to retrieve the… evidence I held concerning his family.”