Chapter 23

Author's Notes: I had a lot of anxiety about the last chapter, and that's mainly because while you guys are reading it and practising willing suspension of disbelief, I am making difficult choices about where this story will go. So I think a little explanation is in order, even though real authors don't have author's notes in which they can write such apologetics. Yes, Haley is quite right, that was stupidity on Holmes' part; however, (and this is where mierin-lanfear's comment about historical facts comes in) he absolutely has to fail in this mission. If Holmes really was spying during his hiatus (and given the real-life situations on each of the locales he says he visited, he more or less had to have been engaging in work for the government, not just in Khartoum), he had the potential to change history, and we can't have that. The cardinal rule of fiction: It isn't non-fiction! Plus, if he had a stellar career as a spy, there wouldn't have been any reason for him to return to London and continue his detective work. He would have had bigger fish to fry. But he failed, and was sent back to London with his tail between his legs. And I think that this is the reason he's so bitter about his work after his return. And L'Wren, he absolutely deserved it. I think that while Holmes can be very charismatic and charming, and even a consummate gentleman, once his pride is wounded, he becomes very cold indeed. Besides which, I don't think he has many social skills, which is why he and Miss Bassano are so eminently well-matched. If she was a Mary Morstan, conventional type of woman, we would have none of the fireworks that we do. Miss B. calls him on his B.S., and god knows, sometimes he needs it!

You can see the majority of the Saint-Guilhelm Cloister in New York. The Metropolitan Museum of Art acquired the fragments for its Cloisters branch on Fort Tryon Park in 1925, something the French are still bitter about. This chapter is slightly AU in the sense that it's a bit of a crossover with the Detective Murdoch Mysteries, which I highly recommend, and not just because I'm Canadian and a fan of Victorian melodrama. His appearance is pure indulgence on my part, but since there is not yet a Detective Murdoch fanfiction category, he will have to play here. The lyrics at the end are my personal translation of Ochi Chernye; one of the few things I share with Miss Bassano is fluency in Russian.

The journey from Marseilles to Montpellier was pleasant, and soon, thanks to Holmes' fluent French and considerable charm, Mr and Mrs Altamont were installed in a small corner house on a quiet street. Their abode was comfortable, despite its having been built in the late Middle Ages, and their housekeeper was efficient, though her wizened face suggested a similar vintage. By Christmas, Holmes was happily developing new uses for coal-tar and its derivatives at the small laboratory attached to Montpellier's medieval university.

Miss Bassano's days were not wasted, either. She put her considerable energy into exploring the countryside, departing often on short day-trips to visit nearby Roman and Gothic ruins. Though she frequently joked that she had seen more Romanesque architecture than Charlemagne himself, she continued her journeys with enthusiasm. She seemed happiest when given her independence, and though it may not have been conventional in frigid England, her solitary adventures seemed quite natural in the relative warmth of the South of France.

Sometime in late March, when the trees were once again clothed in green, and the sun gave a golden glow to the countryside, Miss Bassano suggested a joint excursion in Holmes' company. The latest round of tests at the lab had gone well, and Holmes' spirits were high. He thus happily agreed to accompany her to the abbey shrine of Saint-Guilhelm-le-Desert, some hours north of Montpellier, and one of the major pilgrimage sites on the road to Santiago de Compostela.

Sparsely vegetated cliffs cradled this small community, whose streets seemed unchanged since the twelfth century. The limestone walls of the abbey, glinting alternatively white, grey, and rose in the sunlight had the simplicity of decoration which appealed to Holmes' ascetic soul. The high, narrow nave of the church, with simple brickwork truly aided contemplation, and the sparse interiors of the rounded chapels seemed marvels of ancient building. While he admired the dark inner spaces, Miss Bassano ventured outside, and perched on the ruins of a marble fountain in the cloister. Squinting into the sunlight, she admired the variegated pairs of columns, of different shapes and stones, but all topped with lavish acanthus leaves. The early spring herbs and flowers waved softly in the breeze.

Her solitude was interrupted, however, by the entrance of a man dressed in black. He had a broad forehead, fair hair, and striking eyes of a pure sky-blue. His brow was well-formed and gave him the appearance of a thoughtful and sympathetic individual. He tipped his hat to Miss Bassano, and she nodded, giving him a small wave of her hand. He continued walking, but as he passed her on the narrow path in the small garden, he stumbled and nearly knocked Miss Bassano off her seat.

"Excuse me," he stammered, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"That's quite alright," Miss Bassano said graciously, hardly believing her ears.

"You're English?" the man questioned, shocked.

"Indeed," Miss Bassano replied. "And you?" she asked, as his accent was not quite like anything she had ever heard.

"I am from Canada," he replied, and in his accent she heard the slight lilt of an Irishman. He lifted his hat again and extended his hand. "Detective William Murdoch of Toronto, ma'am."

"It is rather far away to be investigating crime, isn't it?" she asked, smiling.

The young detective looked down uncomfortably. "No ma'am. I mean, yes, it is far away, but I am not here on an investigation."

"I see," Miss Bassano said gently, aware that she had touched a nerve.

"My fiancee died recently," Murdoch confessed quietly, still looking down at the ground in front of him, "and my priest thought it would be helpful if I were to go away, on a pilgrimage."

"And has it been helpful?" Miss Bassano inquired.

Murdoch looked at her, his blue eyes filled with grief. "Not very, ma'am."

"My husband," Miss Bassano stated confidently, "is of the opinion that work is the best antidote for painful emotions." She looked past Murdoch and saw the advancing figure of the man in question. "Here he comes now," she said, standing up. In a few long strides, Holmes reached the pair, and appraised Murdoch with a single critical glance.

"This is Detective Murdoch from Canada," Miss Bassano told Holmes. "Mr Murdoch, this is my husband, George Altamont. He is an amateur detective himself."

"Really?" Murdoch looked at him with interest. "Have you ever met Sherlock Holmes?"

The question was naive, but Holmes positively glowed with pride. "I have had that honour," he answered.

"Tell me, is it true that Scotland Yard relies on his methods for some of their difficult cases?" Murdoch asked eagerly.

Holmes' reply was measured. "I believe they rely more on him than on his methods," he said.

"Yes," the younger man nodded. "The police force is certainly very conservative. It is at once painful and a relief to hear that it is not just my superiors who are dubious of the new sciences of deduction."

Miss Bassano looked on in amusement as Holmes' demeanour changed instantly. "Which of the sciences interest you most?" he asked keenly.

"The science of fingerprinting," Murdoch answered without hesitation. "I am also glad of the support of the coroner's office, which often provide me with invaluable advice on the nature of the crimes committed."

Holmes nodded. "It is important to have access to any useful information in such cases, as often the evidence is so small as to be considered insignificant by others." He looked up at the sky, where rain clouds were gathering and suddenly collected himself. "I wish you luck in your career, Mr Murdoch," he abruptly said, bowing slightly. "No doubt we will hear more of you in the future." He offered Miss Bassano his arm, and she took it, smiling at the baffled Murdoch. "I hope you have a safe journey home, Mr Murdoch. Remember, this too shall pass." The pair turned and walked into the shelter of the church, leaving behind an oddly comforted Murdoch, who had found new strength and inspiration in an unexpected place.

The rain clouds that Holmes had seen collected into storm clouds, and by the time he and Miss Bassano returned to their little house in Montpellier, water was rushing in heavy currents in the gutters and downspouts. In the front room, on a table by the warmly dancing flames in the lit fireplace, lay a stack of newspapers and letters. Miss Bassano passed the papers to Holmes, who settled in an armchair to read. Having sorted through the envelopes, she stared at the last unopened letter, absently biting her lower lip.

"Why won't you open it?" Holmes intoned from the chair, though by all appearances, his gaze was completely obscured by the London Times.

Miss Bassano sighed. "Most people are afraid of telegrams," she said, "but this is a letter. And when it comes to my uncle, receiving a letter means much worse news." Still, she grasped the letter knife, and sliced open the seal. She read the contents silently, while the fire crackled in the hearth, and Holmes shuffled the paper. When she had finished, she put it down and put her hands in her lap, as was her custom.

"It is from Uncle," she began.

"So you said," Holmes reminded her impatiently.

"He writes that the Ministry were not understanding about the kidnapping in Sudan. He has been forced to resign."

A sort of questioning noise came from Holmes, and she continued. "Your brother warned me, even when you first came, that his career could not stand any more scandal. I suppose it was true."

"What will he do?" Holmes asked, turning a page.

Miss Bassano shrugged. "I suppose he will return to our house in the country. It seems only natural, though he cannot be happy about it." She sat silently for some time, until the quiet was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Holmes.

"He has done it!"

He threw the paper down suddenly, and took up another. Quickly leafing through the pages, he found what he was looking for and read it eagerly. "The Bagatelle Club, of course!" he muttered excitedly, tapping his place in the paper with the back of his open palm. His grey eyes were lucid as he looked at Miss Bassano. "He has laid himself open, and I must give him no doubt that he will be caught."

"You will go back to England?" Miss Bassano queried.

Holmes looked confused for a moment. "I had hoped that you would join me. It may be interesting for you."

She smiled, a trifle sadly, and her answer was no answer at all. "I suppose Uncle will want my help," she said.

"Good!" Holmes exclaimed, jumping up from his chair. "Then we must pack. We will go to Grenoble."

"Grenoble?" she repeated, amazed.

"I must pay a visit to an artist of some renown, whose work I will be useful to me in this case," Holmes said mysteriously.

wwwwwwwwwwwwww

Some days later, in possession of a remarkably life-like waxwork replica of Holmes' hawk-like profile, the pair was finally on a ferry bound for England from Calais. It was a blustery day, and the passengers huddled inside, sheltered from the harsh winds. Holmes and Miss Bassano had seated themselves by a group of musicians; with her usual forthright manner, Miss Bassano quickly ascertained that they were Russian Gypsies, bound to try their luck in the music-halls of London. Soon, as the winds made the waves swell and the boat was tossed from side to side, the ensemble was persuaded to buoy the spirits of their fellow passengers by performing. The singer's low, seductive voice filled the cabin, as the guitars and tambourines played an infectious rhythm. Miss Bassano, whose knowledge of foreign tongues evidently extended to Russian as well, was kind enough to translate some of the lyrics for Holmes. The passengers soon forgot the weather and the time, and everyone regretted it when the ferry finally docked at Dover.

Their luggage sorted out, Miss Bassano and Holmes stood at the train platform, ready to say their goodbyes. As they travelled up from Montpellier, he had told her of his plan to catch Moran once and for all. The more he spoke, the clearer it became to both of them that London was where he belonged. His keen and penetrating mind was best suited to the minutia of the criminal underworld, not to the political machinations of empires abroad. Miss Bassano's plans had been clear all along. She would take up residence with her uncle, caring for him in his retirement in their family home in Sussex. It was there that she was headed now.

Holmes took her hand, squeezed it gently, and bowed. She nodded her head and smiled that sad smile he had seen at their first meeting. As though reading his thoughts, she said, "We will meet again soon." He released her hand, and she turned to walk along the train to her reserved carriage.

As he watched her walk away, the ascending notes of the gypsy song filled Holmes' head like the steam that presently filled the station:

Dark eyes, passionate eyes,

Flaming eyes, beautiful eyes,

How I love you;

How I fear you;

In evil hour did I see you.

"My mistress' eyes," he whispered softly.