Chapter twenty-one: The last sitting
22nd May 1887 "By heaven, but this child is fair!
I've never seen her equal anywhere!" Goethe's Faust
A friendly little sun peeped through in between the curtains, transforming the fine dust particles into gleaming rays of gold grains, dancing in the light and becoming invisible when the light wandered on through the room. A cup with liverleaves meanwhile adorned the bedside table, the musty fragrance reminiscent of rainy woods and damp mists rising from the humid earth.
Onto the vase, there leaned the get-well-card I had designed, out of sheer boredom to be sure. It showed the genteel, but sinister visage of Count Sylvius Negretto, by now a household name in society. I had drawn the face from off the front page of a gossip journal, and framed it in a wreath of amiably smiling skulls, assuming it would do better in raising my patient's spirits than hearts or four-leaved clover.
The scent of the wild flowers mixed with that of camphor, lingering and subsistent, from the use of bandages. They had worked well against the cold, it must be said, the sufferer was almost rid of his affliction and snored only moderately when I slipped into the chamber quietly, but not quietly enough. The faint rustle of the stack of newspapers I deposited on an empty chair alerted him, he gave a start and threw himself around in his bed violently.
"….! Kitty", he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest and inhaling deeply before he gave a brief laugh. "You did startle me. I was dreaming…"
"I know", I smiled, "I've been sitting by your bedside durin' the last hour or so. You must 'ave had very upsetting dreams, you even talked in yer sleep!" Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I gently opened a couple of buttons on his shirt to take the temperature.
"Talked in my sleep? Nonsense, I never did such a thing in my life!"
"I assure you that ya did. I could understand nothing, 'owever, you spoke in a foreign language. French, I believe."
"Indeed!" He looked mildly intrigued. "What did I say, then?"
"Are you not at all interested in the degree of your body temperature?"
"Well, it decreased quite noticeably, thirty-eight degrees I perceive."
"Thirty-eight and a half."
"Really. Just a trifle less, I should have thought. What did I communicate, then, in my sleep?"
"Ter me, it sounded like: Ley pettyts announces debdomidary. But don't hold me to it."
"Les petites annonces d'hebdomadaire?" he asked amusedly.
"Yes, ya repeated that several times."
"And a very good idea, too!" He was about to get up from the bed. "Now I know what I wanted to do all along. I shall go out and purchase…"
"Ya shan't go anywhere", I determined, shoving him back between his sheets. "What's it ya needs, anyways?"
"The Weekly Sun", he sulked, "and all the other journals that feature a page for agony columns. I explained their immeasurable value to you before. It is just possible that Negretto and his prospective buyer use them for communication, it is a common practice when hot merchandise is on offer."
I shook my head with a smile. "But I have long brought ya yer papers. Ya sent me out ter do so an hour ago, remember? Have a butcher's!" I indicated the bundle of journals on the chair. "They's yer beans on toast."
"And what kind of expression is that again, pray?"
I rolled my eyes. "It means the evening edition o' a paper, Mr. 'olmes."
"Does it? London slang is certainly very cryptic. After all, you too are fluent in a language that eludes my comprehension." He motioned me to hand him the papers, rustling through them with a speed afforded by practice, and tossing the dismissed ones wildly about the room.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Hmm?" He went through the pages swiftly, never looking up.
"Why is it yer talking in French in yer sleep?"
"Oh, I have lived in France a couple of years as a boy. Memories wear off, you know, but habits are persistent. Even today, some words are presenting themselves more readily in French than in English."
"I 'ave long observed you 'ave a habit o' using a French word where an English one might serve."
"Quite so. Old customs die hard. The same could be said of Count Negretto and his ilk. Wretched clever rascal!" He threw the last paper on his blanket with exasperation.
"Nothing?" I enquired cautiously.
"Nothing at all. Well, perhaps the trick has outlived itself, and the criminal intelligentsia is taking resort to more discreet means of communication." He sat in silence for some time, biting his nails.
"At any rate, we do not wanna lose sight of our principal aim, do we?" I said teasingly. "Wait, I shall give ya a nice spoonful o' cough syrup, an' it shall relent jus' loike yer snuffles…"
"Oh please, do not vex me with these silly health concerns!" He groaned peevishly. "I must have partaken of a shoe box full of pills and a champagne bottle of cough syrup! I'm weary of it! I want my pipe and my tobacco pouch!"
"You shall 'ave both", I returned swiftly, "when yer better. Meanwhile, I suggest you 'ave another li'le nap, I roused you, after all. Close yer eyes, an' I shall read you a li'le more from Sense and Sensibility…."
"For the mercy of God, don't!" He buried his face in his pillow. "One more page of this sickening, predictable rubbish, and I shall fall asleep!"
"Whereby my purpose would be sufficiently served", I lilted, taking up the novel from the floor where he had hurled it the day before.
"Please Kitty, I am quite serious. Consider I have no means of defence, or flight. I shall be terribly, terribly bored if you continue the ghastly story, and you know what that does to my psyche."
"Yes, I do know that. What sort o' activity would be acceptable t'ya, then?"
"Anything sensible and useful. Perhaps it is the right moment to anticipate any blows the Count may by now have decided to attempt on our lives."
"Any – what?" I shrieked.
"It is but an eventuality", he replied, "but we better had be prepared for everything. Many people have as yet tried to attack me personally, and some have employed cunning, so I'm amply familiar with their means and ways. The most common device in such a case is to avail oneself of a friend, or acquaintance. For my own part, I am unlikely to see anybody before the week is out, but how is it with you?"
"I did not intend to meet anyone during the upcoming days", I replied hesitantly, "only on Friday night I will attend a reading with a friend."
"A friend – an Italian, no doubt", he quickly said.
"Yes!" I was surprised. "How did you…?"
"It is a small matter. I sent you to the library on some errand yesterday, and on your return, you had brought Dante's Commedia Divina with you. You do not understand Italian yourself, but recently read the play in English, which suggests that you wanted to share the pleasure of reading with someone who was more likely to enjoy it in its original language. The nature of your envisaged evening entertainment indicated interest in literature, so I presumed your friend would be the person the book was intended for."
"You are quite right! Lorenzo is a painter from Lombardy, he lives in the Italian quarter. But there is nothing to worry about, he would never allow anyone to use him for the sake of doing me harm."
"Hum…but he will also have an eye on you, won't he? Danger may very well come from out of the blue in the nightly London streets, you know that."
I smiled, touched by his anxiety. "We are going to take a cab, an' we'll watch out fer buck cabbies. Besides, Lorenzo would give 'is life ter save mine. He always feels 'e 'as ter make up fer…" I paused and bit my lip. "He still feels guilty because…"
"Because he suggested you as an artist's model to Baron Gruner?" he surmised calmly.
I raised my head and met his gaze. It was steady and direct. I nodded slightly. "That day…that cursed day….if only it had ne'er come to that."
"Do you blame him?" he wanted to know.
"I don't…I'm telling him so all the time. He did not know Gruner, had no way of knowing what would come o' it. Still – one always wonders what would 'ave been if things had worked out differently."
I experienced the shock of my lifetime when I realized he had taken my hand, giving it a light squeeze before he let it go. His eyes still rested on me, they did not waver. I would have given much to know what was on his mind.
Flashback…
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes", the solemn elderly butler announced him, stepping aside to allow him access. He entered what he thought had to be the most beautiful room he had ever seen. It was large and airy, wide windows overlooking extensive parklands that were still veiled in the fine haze of early morning.
The furniture was select and costly, it distinctly showed signs of being influenced by far-eastern culture, but in a way that was not the least bit tawdry or romanticized. Everything breathed an exquisite, a true elegance of style, the carved room partition, the red leather club seats, the hand-made escritoire in front of the window. To the left of it, a medium seized acrylic sketch embellished the wall. It was not a portrait, the young woman in it was too obviously impersonating some legendary figure, a nymph or dryad probably.
She was handsome, but that was not the first thing that came to the mind of the contemplator. Her looks were somewhat – unusual, somewhat – unsettling, he could sense the living correspondent was fiery and excitable, despite the calm, overtly seductive expression of the face. Surely, the artist had told her to assume that pose, it was clearly not natural to her rather more subliminal eroticism.
She was lounging on her back, with shoulders supported on a large cushion, head on some bench or low wall, her dark red hair waving over her right shoulder. Someone had artistically wrapped her in some drapery of mermaid green, but it provocatively slipped down on one side, revealing a round, soft white breast. Perhaps the artist had brightened the quality of her skin, but it seemed to be of a very regular milky whiteness, without flaw, perfect.
In a direct line, his eyes switched from the painting to the man standing behind the escritoire, and he was struck by the dichotomies of youth and age, beauty and ugliness, attraction and repulsion. Baron Gruner was an unsightly man of approximately fifty years, with a reclining hairline and unpleasant features. What was it about him that interested, yes, fascinated young and very young women like Miss Violet Merville? He had never understood the working of the human heart, and certainly not of the female human heart, but this was too absurd. How the deuce - ?
"I was aware I would see you – sooner or later – Mr. Holmes", a deep rasping voice professed with just the hint of a German accent. Now, he was getting to the core of the matter. The Baron's rich, manly timbre obviously was enough to evoke not only a woman's unconditional trust, but also her admiration, her affection. Well, at least it might be a contributing factor. His being in possession of an apparently inexhaustible fortune was doing the rest, presumably.
He cleared his throat, gently asking: "Did you become his mistress immediately – if the question is not too forward?"
"Not until after the las' sitting", I whispered, "but I could see all the time he was interested…he'd come in while…Lorenzo painted me…adjust me posture of 'ead…make suggestions to improve my pose…and all the time, I was – at least partially – "
"Yes", he said quickly. "But why did you get involved with him, Kitty? I do not understand. He was – he is very much older than you – might have been your father…"
I shrugged my shoulder. "I cannot give a satisfactory explanation. 'e left an impression. I was in love before the picture was completed. Age has ne'er mattered that much ter me. On the last day 'e sent away Lorenzo, but he invited me to stay, said 'e'd like ter show me 'is china collection. It was late awready, but he promised me he would 'ave 'is carriage ready if I wanted ter leave." I sighed and flashed a quick smile at my husband. "I never left that evening. We listened to 'is records, had a glass of wine or two…and so one thing led to the other…."
"I see." He did not look at me, did not want to perhaps, but it was entirely thinkable he could not. "Your parents should have watched over you better."
"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" I laughed, amused by his curious naiveté. "Where I come from, it is the custom that a lass looks after 'erself once she's older'n twenty, an' I 'ad been on my own for a long time awready."
"Well, I think it wrong", he said curtly. "My experience tells me this age is the most dangerous of all."
I did not know what to reply, and again shrugged my shoulders with a little laugh.
He had fallen into a brooding reverie, and I busied myself by tidying up the room and fluffing up the pillows.
"Of course!" Holmes suddenly cried out, and I made a little jump, dropping a cushion. "He'll try it by post!"
"Who?" I asked confusedly, inwardly still occupied with my past and Baron Gruner.
"Why, Count Negretto of course. He'll send something by post to achieve my removal! It has been tried a hundred times before – I have received infested tobacco, a knife on a spring and even a living bird spider. It'll be quite superfluous to mention I never taste the quite plentiful pieces of wedding cake I'm being sent by happy young couples."
"Good heavens!" I shuddered. "What a relief I 'ave not as yet opened anything terday!"
"From now on, you will lay everything that goes through our mailbox before me first", he ordered briskly. "What are you waiting for? Bring up everything! We will submit it to a most careful examination."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, of course, Mrs. Holmes", I stammered, quite unable to cope with his sudden change. He really was the most curious person. One moment, he talked to me with so much forbearance and concern as though I were his pampered, somewhat temerarious ward, the next he bossed me around as though I were one of the house maids at best.
Grudgingly, I made my way out of the sick room and over to the staircase, when suddenly my feet stopped. I blinked in amazement. There was that metallic gleam again, in the window of the opposite house! How strange that it should come and go like that. I shook my head and went down the stairs, collecting all or mail from the doormat, several envelopes, a small parcel and a postcard from Mrs. Hudson's sister, who apparently was on holiday at the Loch Lomond.
The latter I regarded as unsuspicious, but for the sake of completeness, I took it as well. Bearing the whole stuff in my arms, I re-ascended the stair and halted again in front of his bedroom door to glance back at the window. The gleam was still there, in exactly the same spot. I advanced a little to get a better view.
"What's the matter?" Holmes called impatiently. "Why don't you come in?"
"It's strange…" With a shrug of my shoulder, I moved the curtain a little out of the way. "Tha' gleam o' the sun…"
"There has never been, and will never be, something remotely interesting about a gleam of the sun. Come here at once!" he snapped inside.
"Wait…" I was now fully standing in the window. "Now I see….there is somebody…there, in the window of the opposite house…but where does that gleam stem from? It's funny, but surely the sun could not reflect on 'is face?" I chuckled at the idea. Then many things happened simultaneously.
I only heard the noise behind my back and turned around in time to see the invalid emerge from his room, to my complete surprise not with the feeble gait that would have become him, but with something rather more of a tiger's leap.
"Mr. - !" I squeaked, as he collided with me, seized and pulled me to the floor, the same time that a terribly loud bang resounded in my ears. Our window pane burst into a billion splinters, it rained glass and the envelopes fluttered all over the place. One of the chemical test tubes cracked and with an acrid sizzle poured its contents down on the carpet, luckily some feet away from where Holmes pinned me to the floor.
Cockney: Buck cabbie – dishonest driver
Wheew, Kitty has yet to get used to the dangers of her new life!
I am quite astonished myself that she felt comfortable enough with Holmes to tell him her sad tale – and even more that he heard her out, heh! How much cannot be effected by spending a couple of days together in one room…or did he only think anything would be better than a Jane Austen reading? ;-)
Love, Mrs.F