Cornered

„Our knowing, as to highest wisdom seemed/ Deign to descend now lower, and relate/ What may no less perhaps avail us known."

Paradise Lost

„Winter felt closer than during the past week. I imagined a silvery white dusting in the air as we alighted from the Métro and trudged up the stairs. Of course I was mistaken, the air was just unclean and polluted with the traffic cars going by. But the cold was more persistently biting into my flesh than formerly, no longer tempered by the mellow October sun.

As per usual, his gait was quick, hasty even. I wondered whether I would be able to keep up, steeply as our way wound up the Montmartre. Poor Uncle John! How had he managed? It must have been thanks to his army training that he had been able to follow Holmes round for so many years!

However, I took the lead as soon as we were among the small shops and boutiques, inside a maze of narrow cobble stone streets. It was not easy to find the address, even if you thought you knew your way. The streets seemed to capriciously turn at surprising points, and very easily people could find themselves in the very spot they had started from. But as soon as I spied the gaudy red lampions dangle from the ledge of the roof, I knew we had come to the right place.

It was the merest nook, wedged between two other houses, and would be overlooked if it were not for the far easterly decoration, and the small racks on which a curious assortment was displayed: chopsticks and china, paper fans, incense, tiny tea pots and the very kind of bamboo implement Madame had used to spoon her tea. Involuntarily, I stopped to finger the scoop, whilst Holmes did not let himself by diverted from his object. He marched straight into the cramped dark opening of a door.

Although I had once accompanied Madame hither, I had never stepped inside. For some reason, it had seemed indecent, and under a pretext of feeling faint, I had waited for her in the open air. I could not precisely lay my finger in it: But the outlandish presentation of the shop, the strange smell, and the interior, darkly removed from curious glances, had had on me an effect like a lion's den. I had been hesitant to venture inside, and even in the street looked up and down if there were somebody familiar who should detect me in front of what looked like an opium place, or worse.

Aunt Cathy would not have faltered, it suddenly occurred to me. She had been wont to socialize with doubtful people in doubtful places, without having misgivings about it. With me, it was different. Ever since I was a child, I had tried to escape that sort of environment, the seedy demi-monde I had been born into. The filth of my mother's household, the vagrant life Aunt Cathy had led with various artists were equally repulsive to me. I was a hard worker, respectable, a professional. I could not be seen in shady places. The cult house had been a different thing, as darkness and the outermost Parisian periphery had provided security from detection. What, however, would any of our customers think if she should happen to see me on her morning walk through Montmartre?

Then again, I thought of Madame, and a shame almost as compelling as nausea seized me. Were not my feelings an insult to her people, her culture? To be sure, the shop was selling first class products, or she would not have deigned to put her foot on the threshold. Was I not held back by a timid dread of the race she belonged to? Was I not a victim to the most narrow form of xenophobia? What would Holmes think of me, tarrying outside? Would he not think me extremely square?

All this rushed through my brain within seconds. And yet, my feet were in such a hurry to make good the time I had lingered; I almost stumbled inside the shop behind Holmes, and had to stop my fall against the counter. Luckily, Holmes had already addressed the ancient huckstress behind it, and took no notice.

His tones were the most casual, and he randomly enquired after this product and then another, and became quite friendly with the old woman. To fall in tune with his behaviour, I browsed the shelves; took out the wares and restored them after inspection. There were a number of curious things I had never even seen at Madame's flat, for example a venomously green paste in a jar, dried algae of all textures and colors, and a repellent, spongy white substance which, if my reckoning be correct, was intended as a substitute for meat.

I caught Holmes dropping the name of Madame Zhao, and perked up my ears.

„Oh yes! She comes regularly. She buys my best Ooolong tea always. I keep a stock for her and only a few other customers", the old crone croaked. „Strange though, last time she forgot about the tea and left without it. I would still have the package here, though of course those ruffians have utterly ruined it!"

„Those - ruffians?"

I could hear the tension in Holmes' words. Probably, he knew he would have to prod the old woman, but was afraid of overdoing it. Thus, he tried casual interest first, and really -

„Why, yes. She came…let me see….aye, it must have been a fortnight!" The woman exclaimed, obviously stunned by this achievement of her memory.

„And the ruffians….?"

„She bought Oolong, as per usual", continued the shop keeper, her mood visibly brightened. „An ounce she bought, as per usual!"

„Did she come alone?" His tones, heretofore subtly excited, had now returned to a patient calm.

„Quite alone! She came by cab, you know, and after she had paid I went to the storing room to get the tea. But as I came back, she had disappeared! And the cab still waiting there in the street, she must have gone away on foot. Such strange behaviour!" The old bat exclaimed.

Holmes inhaled sharply. „I believe you mentioned `ruffians`?" He insisted.

„Why yes! The moment I had realized she was gone, a pair of them stomped into the shop!"

„What did they want?" Holmes' patience was crumbling again. I could see it by the way his hands cramped around the edge of the counter, white at the knuckles.

„They asked me where she had gone…and I said to them: `Why, I don't know, just as I come back from the store, she has vanished from the place, and without her tea, too!"

„What happened then?"

„These ruffians tore it from my hands!" The shop keeper blustered. „They slit it open with a knife, and searched it, and then they left it in shreds on my counter. What they expected to find in it, I cannot imagine! I only wonder what the police thinks they are for, if such people can come in at light of day, and scare and old woman!"

„Indeed - indeed. But you said you kept this package of tea?"

„I have, in case she should come back and claim it. But she won't have much joy of it!" Exhibiting a flexibility I should not have credited her with, the old crone suddenly dived beneath her counter, and brought up what looked like a heap of tattered rags, poorly holding in a small pile of tea-leaves.

Holmes barely glanced at it, and on the whole seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation. He smiled spasmodically, and nodded at me.

„I completely forget. The lady would like to wash her hands. We wanted to ask whether you would be so kind and let her use your facilities?"

Surprised, I glanced down at my hands, who were as clean as could be expected after fingering half the wares in the shop. The old woman, still warmly glowing with the excitement of telling her story, nodded.

„Come this way, lady, please!"

And she showed me down a short corridor behind the shop, which ended at a stair beneath which a door probably indicated the privy. Another door seemed to lead into a sort of backyard. I smiled gratefully at the woman, and locked myself in the tiny lavatory.

oooOOOooo

„Do you think she went through the storage room?" He asked after we had bought this and that and had left the queer shop for good.

„Through the backyard, more likely", I returned. „If there is a gate or portal, of course. Madame is in not state ter climb walls like we did yesterday."

„I examined the package with my magnifying glass whilst you diverted the woman", he said, creasing his forehead. „As far as I can tell, there was nothing in it but tea, but I took a small sample and will test it for various poisons, precious metals and other suggestive substances."

„I'll wager ye'll find no fink", I sighed. „If it had any significance, probably those `ruffians` would of taken it away."

„I agree. Still, it is good to make sure."

„Watcha fink it all means, Mr. `olmes?" I asked, too puzzled to hazard a theory of my own.

„I think", he said, with a petulant emphasis on his th, „she was running away from somebody. These men, whoever they were, were evidently following her. She realized it, entered the shop, got rid of the old woman, and left the house on the rear side, thus escaping her pursuers."

„It seems plausible - she was pretty bright. On`y, what can they `ave wanted of `er? D'ye fink the old woman knows more than she told us?"

„I should doubt it. Frances, I think we can both fashion a motive for following your friend from what we know so far."

„You mean the Orb." I fell silent. So it was true - wasn't it? Madame had fallen victim to criminals - thieves. Most likely, they had killed her, and thrown her dead body into the canal. And she so alert, so frightened…!

„You mentioned a Café Madame patronized", Holmes broke into my train of thought. „Here in Montmartre, I believe. We might have a look at it, if you feel up to it…?"

I blinked. „Yes", I said, „Yes - yes. It is just around the corner from `ere. We can walk there."

And so we did, though I would have preferred to return home. A long day of sewing dust ruffles and stitching flowers on a camisole lay behind me. Also, any place would have been preferable to just that Café. What devil had ridden me to even mention it to Holmes?

But there we were. He solicitously held open the door for me, and thus left to me the choice of table. I had my pick, and, as soon as seated, shielded myself with the menu. Holmes ordered coffee, and had a look around.

„So!" He said and gave a tight smile. „Madame's favorite Café. Not an unnatural preference, given the close proximity to her flat."

„Aye. It is within walking distance. She would call the cabby for most other excursions."

„But she went to that shop in a cab." He put his index to his lips, and seemed to ponder that.

„Yes…but that makes another five minutes' walk."

„I scarcely think this is the reason for her choosing the cab", Holmes returned. „She must have noticed her followers soon after she left the house. She had a good eye - so she would, being an artist. An eye for detail. I wonder…Frances, did you ever come here with Madame?"

„Sometimes", I replied.

„And when was the last time?"

I cast down my eyes. „That would `ave been the day before she disappeared."

He nodded. The coffee arrived. Holmes took one cup and saucer from the waiter to set it before me, but accidentally spilled some on the back of my hand. I started, and met his eye. There was a brief pause.

„My mistake", he said softly. „I am so sorry."

I inhaled deeply, and very flustered returned to the business of adding sugar to my coffee - I, whom I detest sweetened coffee.

„What were we talking about?" Holmes mused. „Oh yes! Your last visit here together. What was she like that day? Nervous?"

I looked up from my coffee. „Mr. `olmes, I `ave told ye all that already at the Sûrété!"

„What did you talk about?" He urged.

„This an' that - she was `er usual self! We were `aving a hot drink, that's all."

„Sitting over there", Holmes observed, nodding at one of the tables in the window.

I was taken aback. „`ow on earth d'ye know?"

„You keep looking at it", he replied with a sudden lightness of tone. A little lower, so that only I could hear it, he added: „Also, it is the farthest from our table."

I did not know what to say, and resorted to monosyllabism.

oooOOOooo

He return to the Meurice if not in high spirits, then at least something very much akin to it. It was true Frances had not been any more forthcoming than ion former occasions, and still he felt he had made some headway. At least, she knew now she could not fool him, provided she was not herself a fool.

He stopped to enquire at the concierge's desk. Yes, there was a reply cable from England, and a note from the Sûrété as well. He took the envelopes, and opened them in the elevator. So, Mr. Rhys-Folmec did not currently stay at the house in Sussex - good, reliable Mrs. Hudson! What a well of information she could be, if accordingly deployed. The note from M. Simon was also in the negative. No man or woman of the name of Rhys-Folmec was registered in Paris.

He lent against the mirrored wall biting his nails. Maybe, he had been on a bit of a wild goose chase about that. But he was not yet convinced. It would be almost too great a coincidence. The lift boy stopped the elevator for him to step out on his floor. He went down the hallway and into his suite. Back to Frances!

He sat down on the plush, elegant sofa and poured himself two finger-breadths of brandy. Swirling the amber liquid in the glass, he meditated on the various strategies he had tried so far. The alcohol had failed, the ingratiation, the bullying. But he had been close…today, he had felt it. He could break her, and then, he would know her, for better or worse.

He rose to stand by the window and look into the street as had been his wont in Baker Street, still swirling the brandy with gentle circulations of the wrist. Yes, the strategies heretofore employed had not been good enough. But maybe, combined they might do the trick. There still was a lot of liquid in that bottle, and a lot of uncomfortable questions he could ask.

Hi folks!

Finally - some development! Sorry to keep you so long. But a story must be evolved before it can pick up a little pace.

What are your thoughts?

Love, Mrs. F