Almost perfect likeness

„Next, to the Son/ Destined restorer of mankind, by whom/ New heav´n and earth shall to the ages rise/ or down from heav´n descend"

Paradise Lost

He closed the door of the safe and turned the small wheel a couple of times, setting it to a random combination only he could know. Then he took a step back and peered at the safe sternly, as if it were possible to test its reliability this way. Well, well! This was a first class hotel, and the quality of its safety measures hopefully was also first-rate. Still, he felt he could not leave the place with a clear conscience. When had he become so fretful?

Marching up and down the room, hands folded on his back, he tried to collect his thoughts. What was to be done with the gem? It surely could not remain here forever. What if his darkest suspicions should be confirmed? Maybe it would be better to get it out of the country.

However, there still was the missing woman to consider. His decision not to go to the Police had made certain of one thing: The recovery of the Orb would not become public knowledge, and thus the enemy would probably continue looking for it, which might buy Madame Zhao some time before she would be - well - disposed of. Always provided she was still alive.

Also, Fanny had asked him not to vanish again without notice. He stopped to grip the backrest of a gilded chair, gritting his teeth together. What an ugly business was this! He already regretted the insults he has thoughtlessly aimed at her earlier - in a hurry, under stress, certainly, but still. It was true, he resented her being caught up in social norms and bound to abide by them - but he resented this in Watson too, and could not remember ever having addressed this topic quite so acerbically with him.

How much easier had all of this been with Kitty!

No.

He forbade himself this thought. It was not fair to compare the two women. More than that, it was unwholesome. It would have to stop.

In frustration, he dug his hand into his hair. He would go mad if he remained in this room, with the sole companionship of a safe that contained a treasure, and a bed that contained guilty reminiscences. If he could not bring himself to leave the hotel, for heaven's sake, then at least he would go downstairs to take a cup of coffee. It might do him some good, the day had drained him of resources; mentally and physically.

oooOOOooo

I poured the water from the kettle, still piping weakly, into the tea pot. I would sit down for a bit and re-read Uncle Jonathan's letter over a cup of - yes, of what?

Searchingly, I browsed the row of large glasses containing tea leaves on my counter. There was Madame's disgusting green, and some Oolong, some Hongcha, and some Jasmin, but that was nearly finished. I lifted the glass to the light to see what was left - surely not enough for a whole pot of tea, unless it should be watery.

Setting it down again and at the same time reaching for the Hongcha, I made a clumsy movement with my elbow, touching the outermost glass on the counter. It rocked precariously - and ere I could reach out to stabilize it, the glass went over the edge and broke on the kitchen floor!

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that were any help against the pandemonium of bursting glass. How could I have been so awkward! I had broken the glass with madame's tea, one of the remaining keepsakes I had of her! Slowly opening my eyes again, I berated myself and squatted down to take a look at the mess I had created. Then I saw it.

My mouth fell open. Slowly, like in a dream, I reached out my hand to brush aside a few dried, crumpled green tea leaves, taking extra care not to cut myself on the shards. Amongst them, disguised only by a thin layer of tea, there lay a round, glittering object, with a pearl-studded band around it, and a slightly dented cross on top!

It was impossible, and yet, there it was: The King's Orb. I had recovered it for the second time in a day.

oooOOOooo

He approached the parlor via the vestibule, not very busy at this time of day, when people had already checked out, and new arrivals had mostly been registered and led up to their rooms. The concierge raised two fingers to his cap and gave him an insinuating smile - he really was a most impertinent fellow! In retaliation, Holmes let his gaze languidly hover over the hip pocket where he knew the man was keeping a flask of absinth against regulations.

He stopped grinning and averted his eyes immediately.

With a firm step, Holmes entered the parlor and allowed the waiter to allot a table to him - the one by the window, which he and Félix Faure had occupied last week. He lowered himself into the seat, ordered a cup of coffee and took out his cigarette case. Taking a first draught, he was about to sigh contentedly …when the sound of his own name, uttered a little loudly for this oasis of calm, made him jump like a horse on edge. He brushed cigarette ash from his thigh, and turned around in a huff.

„Monsieur `olmes - why, I knew it `ad to be you, Mr. `olmes! I could not but recognize it from the formatiooon of your back of `ead…."

„Monsieur Bertillon", Holmes returned unnerved, and felt compelled to rise and extend his hand. „Enjoying retirement, I hope?"

„Well it iis a leetle boring, I must confess, Mr. `olmes…especially when I `ear what exciting cases my younger colleagues `ave on their `ands these days!"

He shook hands with Holmes cordially, winking all the while to demonstrate he was in on the secret. As much respect as Holmes certainly had harbored for the detective in earlier years, right now he was slightly unnerved to have met him. Where had the man dropped from, now of all times?!

„But fortunatelee, Paris has many things to offer for a man with too much time at his disposal…especiallee if he be of a scientific turn!"

„I am sure. Has the Académie Francaise offered you membership, to prescribe to people the use of their mother tongue?" He returned waspishly, wondering at the same time why he was continuously poleaxing people today. However, it was not easy to disgruntle a man of Bertillon's merry disposition. Even now, he simply laughed as if at a good joke.

„No, no, Mr. `olmes, I am of course speaking of the natural sciences! There iis a brilliant course of lectures at the Sorbonne this week, as no doubt you `ave `eard!"

„I have not", he admitted without real interest. „What is the topic?"

„Human nature. Psychology, Phrenology, social hygiene, and such. I `ave myself contributed with a leetle speech on my method of body indexing. I can remember `ow this subject used to fascinate you, Mr. `olmes! Why don't you accompanie me to today's lecture? Entrance will begin at six."

„Why…I…." This was getting too bothersome. Under what pretext could he get rid of Bertillon? Maybe he ought to invent some appointment, some investigatory task? But what if he should arouse the bumbling old busybody's interest, Holmes blasphemously thought.

„I see you `esitate, Mr. `olmes…but you won't if I tell you the issue to be treated today. The great Galton has come in person to speak about the most modern, the most promising of new sciences! I am talking, of course, about eugenics. You see, I `ave not forgotten the old days, Mr. `olmes! I remember as if it were yesterday, `ow much you were immersed in the subject matter even then, always a`ead of your time…"

Bertillon talked on rapturously, completely unaware his conversational partner had suddenly blanched. He waved his hands to emphasize points, he flicked his fingers against the other man's shirt front, he clapped his shoulders laughing with the delight of elaborating on scientific findings.

„…and then, with the developments future may bring, how easy could it become for man and woman to have just the child they wished for, eh, Mr. `olmes? Currently, there seem to be too manie factors, too manie variables for certain calculation, you might say. Hah! There is no problem that cannot be solved in time, if science applies itself to it. Take the hereditary disposition: If you were to choose the parents according to certain criteria, say, intelligence, you could make prettie certain of a positive outcome in terms of the progeny's mental capacities. On the contrarie, if man and woman vary in intelligence, mediocre mental faculties could still assert themselves in the babe, if the carrier's dominant genes were to subdue the intelligent part's recessive genes…eh, Mr. `olmes?"

„Excuse me", Holmes said in expressionless tones, but Bertillon hardly heard him.

„But of course, the question remains, `ow can we better the faculties of the existing broad populatiooon until we `ave achieved this aim, eh? Some people are just too sentimental in their outlook. I say, we need to approach this problem from a scientific point of view, and draw conclusions level-headed. Take the disabled, for example, the unfit, the mentallee ill. How much misery humankind could be spared by their eliminatiooon! Now, asylums are overflowing with idiots, and there are some who propagate radical measures. You may have heard their propositiooons of euthanasia…"

Holmes pushed past him, walking straight out of the parlour. He crossed the vestibule, headed for the lavatory. A handkerchief was pressed against his lips, and what remained visible of his face was as white as chalk.

oooOOOooo

Slowly, very slowly, as if I could hurt myself through the touch, I spanned the object with my hand, lifted it from the floor. The brilliance of the stones was a equal to what I had seen earlier that day, but the rims seemed a little rusty, a little filmed over with age and wear. There could be no doubt: This was the real thing, and the other one sham.

I rose to my feet by degrees, steadfastly peering at the object in my right hand. The tinkling of the jewels, at closer inspection, might even be a little turbid in comparison to the fake: My eyes, trained to give attention to detail through my everyday occupation, could discern the difference only with some effort. Otherwise, it was a perfect likeness. The counterfeit had been produced by a master's hand.

Madame Zhao must have wrought it. That much was clear to me. But why? Why had she made the cabman hide a false Orb in a locker at the train station, giving me a most vague and airy hint where to find it, when the real Orb was in my possession already? In hindsight, it seemed unbelievable I had not realized the unusual weight of the glass of tea Madame had pressed on me, knowing for sure I would never use the tea of my own volition. Maybe I had even wondered about it, on a subconscious level, but I certainly had not let my wonder articulate itself.

What was it she had said on our last meeting? I was to drink lots of tea…green tea, the tea with health benefits…I should go to the countryside (by train?!) and prayers to St. Lazare would see to the rest…what tomfoolery!

No, all of this was too confused, too farraginous to make any sense of. I sat on my kitchen stool, still marveling at the gem I was holding. What should I do with it? Should I inform Holmes? Or André Dulage, I thought with a sudden spiteful impulse. What right could Holmes claim to withhold information from those who had commissioned him with the Orb's recovery? Now I had recovered it, and he had just a worthless copy. Well, he would look quite a sight, when he learned I had handed in the original at the Sûrété, where it belonged!

I secretly enjoyed the idea, without having made up my mind what I actually would do. But a sound outside in the staircase ungently woke me from my reverie. There was a heavy footfall on the steps, and then, a knock on my door.

I spun around, a little guilty due to my sacrilegious thoughts.

„Mr. `olmes? Is that you?"

oooOOOooo

He raised his head to see his face in the mirror, still dripping with the wash he had given it in the sink. The curse on this man Bertillon!

However, he had been good for something, Holmes mused, drying himself with a towel. He had given him a good look at himself…the young fool he had been, so many years ago. Conceited, calculating, full of optimism and faith in science, as well as in his own abilities. Oh, the vanity. It had verily ruined his life and that of others. And for this reason, he would go to Fanny now. Go and tell her she had been right about him all along. Tell her he would never see her again, for her own good as well as his. Tell her she was free to - well, to be her own person, for God's sake!

It was right, it was just the best thing to do. He should have known after his outburst today, on the promenade. How could he presume to judge her by another person's standards? He must not ask her to conform with his ideal anymore. It was an onerous business. And even if by now, it would hurt to divest himself of her sight - yes! - it was clearly just a visual indulgence. He didn't really know her, after all, and what he had found out about her, incidentally, did not necessarily tally with his ideal.

He felt better after having made that decision. Throwing the towel in the basket, he examined himself in the mirror once more; then left the restroom. A cab was called by the concierge - pleasantly meek this time - and he drove off towards the squalid quarters where she had made her home…no doubt trying to make some point or other, when she could as well have continued living with the Watsons.

But, he reminded himself, that was not his business anymore - or rather, it had never been. They had lived through a couple of rather intense days together, and that was it. An intermezzo.

The driver stopped at the indicated address, and he got off. Having paid the man, he turned around and entered the high, run-down tenement house, too preoccupied to realize there was another cab, empty, waiting by the kerb.

Hiya!

Ok…that took longer than expected. Mr. Bertillon was so very talkative. I guess we shall have to shift the action part to next time!

I hope the confusion is not too big, with the duplicate around and everything. Sometimes I feel like laying out plot slings and loops that my foot is caught up in and I stumble and fall on my face, Phuuumph! But enough of that. Lets carry on with Chapter 23!

Love, Mrs. F