Associates of Sherlock Holmes

NOR HELL A FURY Cavan Scott

The last person I wanted to see was Sherlock Holmes. I had made it perfectly clear in my letter to John Watson. Come alone, and tell no one the reason for your visit to Paris. Especially not him. Not Holmes.

And yet here he was, strolling through the door of the Café Verlet. I should have left there and then, head held high – but Watson would have simply come after me, the quintessential gentleman, so gallant, so brave, always ready to leap to the aid of a damsel in distress.

It was what had brought him here, after all. Racing to my aid across the Channel, with Holmes by his side.

Why was I surprised?

I rose, extending a hand that Watson took gladly, his lips brushing against my fingers.

“Mrs Langtry.”

“Dr Watson,” I responded, attempting to keep the tremor from my voice as I turned to acknowledge his constant companion. “Mr Holmes.”

Holmes returned the greeting with a curt bow. How little the man had changed in the years since we’d last laid eyes on each other. As tall and gaunt as ever, his hair resolutely dark, although a few flecks of grey dotted those monumental eyebrows. It was curious that the brows never made their way into Mr Paget’s illustrations. Perhaps the editor of The Strand had insisted on a more noble aspect for his hero. Give the people what they want, and all that.

I sat, indicating for Holmes and Watson to do likewise. Within seconds, a waiter had appeared at our table and orders were taken, delaying Watson’s inevitable apology.

“Mrs Langtry, I realise that you specifically asked for me to come alone–”

“And yet you have brought company,” I interrupted, turning to regard the great detective of Baker Street.

Holmes smiled sincerely. “You must not blame the doctor.”

“Is that so?”

“Watson is incapable of keeping a secret, especially from me. From the moment he opened the letter, I realised that something was afoot. First, there was the look of surprise on his face, and then the ridiculous attempt to appear nonchalant as he continued to read.”

“Really, Holmes,” the affronted doctor complained.

“Well, if you will leave the envelope on the arm of your chair, where I could easily make out the handwriting…” Holmes returned his gaze to me. “Naturally, when Watson announced that he was leaving for the continent–”

“You insisted on accompanying him.”

Holmes nodded, a genuine smile on those thin lips.

I sat back, regarding them both.

“Mrs Langtry.” I laughed, as if rolling my own name around my mouth. “I half expected you to address me as Mrs Norton, or Miss Adler, for that matter.”

Watson granted himself a chuckle, although I couldn’t tell if it was formed of amusement, or acute embarrassment. “You read my account, then.”

“Of course. It’s not every day a girl finds herself immortalised, even under an alias.”

“One has to protect the innocent.”

“And the guilty?”

Holmes laughed heartily, as colour rushed to his Boswell’s already ruddy cheeks.

“Mrs Langtry,” said the detective, “tempting though it is, I’m sure you didn’t summon us all this way to taunt Watson over his literary foibles.”

“I didn’t summon you at all.”

“Touché.”

Our verbal sparring was interrupted by the waiter as he delivered the gentlemen’s orders. Holmes’s eyes never left me as the over-attentive Frenchman fussed at our table. Sweat prickled on my neck.

After what seemed like an eternity, we were again left to our own devices. Holmes waited expectantly as I turned to his biographer.

“I am grateful that you would come all this way, Doctor. I admit I had little idea who else to turn to. My letter must have come as something of a surprise.”

“I cannot pretend that it did not.”

I nodded. “I am a proud woman, and not accustomed to asking for help, from anyone.”

Before I could utter another word, Holmes took control of the conversation once again.

“It concerns your husband, Robert Langtry,” Holmes interjected, drawing a rebuke from his companion.

“Holmes, really. Let the lady speak.”

The detective inclined his head in reluctant apology.

“It is that obvious?” I inquired.

“A lady writes to a man with whom she has had no contact for over a decade. She offers to pay for his transport, insisting that he tells no one his destination. Then, when they finally meet, she spends the entire time playing with the wedding band on her finger.”

I glanced down to see that, as always, the man was correct. I clasped my hands together.

Holmes continued, reeling off his theories as if they should be obvious to all. “Her marriage is therefore very much at the forefront of her mind.”

“Could it be that she is in trouble herself?” I asked.

This he considered, before rejecting it completely. “Possibly, although if that was the case, why meet in public, choosing a table so near the window? No, she is not concerned for herself, but for the man she loves.”

The detective sat back, so confident in his own abilities that he had no need to inquire if his supposition was correct. I burned beneath his gaze, tears welling in my eyes.

“You are correct, of course,” I eventually conceded, the mere mention of my beloved’s name catching in my throat. “Robert has… not been himself of late.” I reached for my bag as the first tear fell. Dr Watson produced a handkerchief quicker than I could find my own. Of course he did.

Offering thanks, I dabbed at my face before continuing my tale.

“After leaving London, Robert and I travelled for a while, before settling here in Paris. Robert established a practice and we started making friends. Good friends. It was everything we’d always wanted.” My voice failed me again. “Almost.”

“Almost?” Watson echoed.

I offered the doctor’s handkerchief back to him, but he waved it away. I folded the cloth and placed it in my bag, knowing all too well that both men’s eyes were still on me.

“While Robert and I could build a home,” I continued softly, “it soon became obvious that we could not build a family.”

Watson’s mouth dropped open at my honesty.

“My dear, I’m so sorry…” he began, somewhat flustered that the conversation had taken such a personal turn.

“At first, Robert hid his disappointment, insisting that we had each other, which was all that mattered.

“And yet I know it burned away at him. Our friends would regale him with stories about their children and his face would darken, a shadow that came to consume him over time. He starting drinking heavily, staying out to all hours. He said it was on business, but a wife knows when she is hearing lies.” The words stung even as I spoke them. “It is all too easy to fall into the wrong crowd in Paris, gentlemen.”

“And, once you fall, all too difficult to claw yourself back out again, I would think,” Watson offered.

I nodded, giving the doctor a grateful smile. “He kept up appearances, of course. I was dressed in the latest fashions, we were seen at the right events, and yet…”

“Yes?”

“Things would disappear from the house. Trinkets at first, but then paintings, the miniatures he had begun to collect when the practice had started to do well. He claimed he was bored of them, and yet no replacements took their place. And then I realised that his mother’s jewels were missing.”

“He was gambling?” Watson asked, the look of compassion in his eyes almost too much to bear.

Again I nodded, the sounds of the café filling the silence around our table: the clatter of china, the buzz of mid-morning conversation.

Finally, Holmes delivered another painfully direct question.

“Where is your husband now?”

I swallowed, struggling to maintain my composure. “I do not know,” I told him, the merest shake of my head sending fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.

“A week ago, Robert went out to work and never returned. No one has seen him since. People have been very kind, but I know what they are thinking. You should have seen him, Mr Holmes, that morning. He wasn’t the man I married with you standing behind us, stinking of shag tobacco in your ridiculous disguise.”

A flicker of recollection crossed Holmes’s narrow features, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“He was as pale as I had ever seen him,” I continued, “his hands shaking as he picked up his case. He didn’t even say goodbye, but rushed out of the front door, slamming it behind him in his haste.”

“And when Mr Langtry failed to return home…” Watson began, obviously choosing his words carefully, so not to upset me further, “did you–”

“Did I find anything else missing?”

Watson nodded, looking embarrassed that he would even have to ask.

I sat up straight, determined not to play the helpless woman any more. “As you know, Doctor, I have lived an interesting life. I am not proud of everything I have done, but I stand by the decisions I have made.”

“Decisions that have made foes along the way,” Holmes reminded me. “Fortunately, you have taken out certain… insurances.”

“I have articles that assure my safety, yes. As long as they are in my possession, then the individuals I have wronged will leave me alone–”

“In fear of you going to the press.”

“Or going to other interested parties. You may not approve, but it has served me well. I have never demanded so much as a penny for my silence, never acting in spite or retaliation.”

“Very… honourable,” Watson muttered with little in the way of commitment, but I didn’t care a jot what he thought of me. It wasn’t as if the man hadn’t made his mind up about my “dubious and questionable memory” long ago.

“These articles,” Holmes inquired, “your husband was aware of them?”

I nodded. “Of course. I kept nothing from him.”

“Which must have been all the more galling when you discovered that he had absconded with them.”

It was not a question.

“My husband was… is a loyal and loving man, Mr Holmes. Whatever he has done, Robert would never knowingly place me at risk. Wherever he is, I am sure that he believes he is doing the right thing–”

“But has no idea what dangers await him.”

“The reason I approached Dr Watson rather than yourself is that I fear for my husband’s life.”

“My presence would have been more conspicuous.”

“Which is why I now regret my choice of this café for exactly the reasons you suggest. We can easily be seen from the street. Meeting Dr Watson in such a place is one thing…” I turned to the medical man. “Your appearance is somewhat nondescript, after all, Doctor.”

Watson did his best not to look insulted.

“Whereas Mr Holmes bears one of the most recognisable profiles in all of Europe, thanks to your stories.”

“You fear my presence can only spell more trouble for your husband, wherever he is.” The detective considered my words, before delivering his verdict. “Mrs Langtry, I apologise that I foisted myself on the good doctor. Tell me, have you any idea of the establishments that your husband frequented in the weeks leading up to his disappearance? You say he had been drinking and gambling.”

I nodded, opening my purse once again. “I found these,” I said, drawing out two dog-eared books of matches. Holmes reached for them, turning them over in his long fingers to read the garish legend emblazoned across the cover.

“Le Cabaret de L’Enfer.”

I let my distaste show on my face. “It is a nightclub on the Boulevard de Clichy.”

Holmes looked up from the matches. “Near Place Pigalle? The wrong crowd indeed.”

“Have you visited this… cabaret?” Watson chimed in. “To ask if anyone has seen him?”

“Watson, the cabarets of La Pigalle are not places for ladies of good character.” The doctor soon gathered Holmes’s meaning. “Nor could Mrs Langtry request that any of her husband’s friends or colleagues investigate on her behalf.”

I shook my head. “For its bohemian splendour, Paris is more conservative than Monsieur du Maurier would have you believe. Having survived one scandal in Bohemia, I am eager to avoid another.”

Holmes rewarded me with another tight smile. “Watson, you will go to Le Cabaret de L’Enfer,” he commanded.

“Of course,” the doctor agreed, ever the faithful bloodhound. “I’ll make enquiries, see when your husband was last seen, that kind of thing.”

“If you are sure,” I said. “Le Cabaret is rather… theatrical.”

“Watson’s a man of the world,” Holmes insisted. “Not much shocks him, isn’t that right?”

The doctor chuckled, although I could see the trepidation in his eyes.

“And what of you, Mr Holmes?” I inquired.

“I shall return to our hotel,” he replied, drawing a look of dismay from Watson. “As you quite correctly surmise, my presence would draw too much attention. As always, I can rely on Watson to be my eyes and ears.”

Holmes rose to his feet, reaching for my hand. I had thought that he was a man who balked from human contact – and yet, he bowed and kissed my hand, with such gentleness that I almost caught my breath.

“Au revoir, dear lady. Please be assured that we will do everything within our power to reunite you with your husband.”

With that, my saviours departed, leaving me alone at my table. The door to the café closed, and I released the breath I had barely been aware I was holding.

Perhaps everything would be as it should be, after all.

That evening, the streets of Montmartre were heaving from the moment the sun dipped below the horizon. You could almost taste the anticipation in the air. The brave and foolish descended onto the narrow roads, wondering what adventures the night would bring.

No one gave me a second look, sitting outside a pleasantly shabby bistro, smoking a cigarette, a newspaper laid in front of me as I waited, just another soul wiling away the hours until the revels began.

I saw him at once, parading down the road, back ramrod straight, looking neither left nor right, no doubt in case he caught the eye of devils proffering temptations of both body and soul. I couldn’t help but laugh. John Watson, the Englishman abroad, desperately trying to look as though he owned the place, even though he was so very far from home. I extinguished my cigarette and rose as he approached.

“Dr Watson?”

He started, caught between stopping to see who had called his name and fleeing in panic.

“I’m sorry, I…”

His voice trailed off as realisation dawned, his eyes growing wide as they took me in from head to foot. “Good lord!”

The doctor took a step closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear. “Mrs Langtry?”

I thrust out my hand, only increasing his bewilderment. Out of habit, he took it, and I shook his sweating hand vigorously.

“That’s it,” said I, my voice a good octave lower than normal. “Just two old friends meeting in the street. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I– I wouldn’t say that,” he stammered, struggling to find the words.

I released his hand, and brushed an imaginary piece of fluff from my sleeve. “I must admit that I’m out of practice, but it’s gratifying to know that I can still fool you as I did Mr Holmes on the steps of Baker Street.”

Watson was still staring open-mouthed at my attire, from the top hat perched atop a masculine wig to my sharply pressed trousers. “As Mr Holmes suggested, ladies of good character would never frequent Le Cabaret de L’Enfer, but as for gentlemen? Well, the same standards never apply, do they not?”

“Surely you don’t intend to come in with me?”

“I certainly do. I admit, I wouldn’t venture through the gates of hell on my own, but by your side, I fear no ill.”

“Shall we then?” the good Doctor asked, wisely deciding that the argument was lost.

I took one last sip from the cup of coffee I had been nursing and, leaving my paper on the table, led Watson down the street. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Dr Watson’s expression on finally seeing our destination was a delight to behold. If the sight of a woman in man’s clothing had been enough to rock his world to its very foundations, nothing could prepare him from the entrance of Le Cabaret de L’Enfer. The exterior been fashioned to resemble molten lava, the upper reaches of the building adorned by hideous statues of naked men and women writhing in agony and ecstasy. The door to the nightclub was surrounded by a gigantic carved face of Lucifer himself, crimson eyes blazing with hellfire. You entered by means of a gaping, fanged maw, the doorman dressed as a horned imp, complete with cape and pitchfork.

“Dear God,” Watson muttered, appalled at the sight.

“There is little of the Almighty beyond those doors, Doctor,” I promised. “At least, that’s what the customers hope and pray.”

“And your husband came here, to such a den of iniquity?” he marvelled, staring at me with judgement in his eyes.

I let my pain show in my face. “Yes,” I said quietly.

Realising his insensitivity, the doctor placed a comforting hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I realise this must be difficult. If you wouldn’t rather–”

“No,” I said abruptly, before he could send me home. “I’ve come this far and need to know if Robert was here.”

The doctor took a deep breath, and looking as if he was about to offer me his arm, thankfully stopping himself at the last moment.

“Shall we?” he said, covering his embarrassment.

I punched him manfully in the arm. “Whatever you say, old man.”

Watson laughed, playing along at last, and we approached the astonishing facade. All at once, the impish doorman danced a jig and hooted in merriment. “A-ha,” he shouted out to us in his native French, “still they come, the lost and bedevilled. Oh, how they shall roast.”

To his credit, Watson didn’t hesitate. He marched up to the red-faced fellow and, with surprising mastery of the imp’s own tongue, demanded entrance. The doorman bowed dramatically. “Of course, foolish mortal, we welcome all sinners here.” With a flourish, the gaudy fellow opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped aside. “Enter and be damned. The Evil One awaits.”

Showing more humour than I expected, Watson rubbed his hands together as he crossed the threshold. “Well, I hope he’s stoked the fire. It’s been positively freezing all day.” The doorman brayed a peel of frenzied laughter, slamming the door behind us.

We found ourselves in a sloping corridor, decorated to resemble the Devil’s gullet and lined by glowing grates that belched thick smoke.

“Charming,” Watson commented, coughing into his gloved hand. “I’m surprised they don’t open a concern in the West End.”

“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 clothing?” 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 was 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.”

“The photo of you and Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich of Russia.”

I allowed myself a bitter smile at Watson. “How clever of Dr Watson to protect us all with pseudonyms. The King of Bohemia. Irene Adler. Godfrey Norton. No one would ever know the true identities of the characters he splashed across the pages of The Strand. Or at least that’s what you obviously hoped.”

“They worked out who you were,” Watson intoned.

“No,” I replied, quietly. “They worked out who he was.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” I spat in fury, jumping back to my feet. “Your oh-so-dramatic visitor with his mask and his barrel chest and, what was it? Oh, yes – ‘the limbs of a Hercules’. Well, it appears that your Hercules is as unlucky in love today as he was then, and has found himself in the middle of another scandal. The vultures are circling and have seen beyond the smoke and mirrors. Once they had realised the true identity of your King of Bohemia, it didn’t take them long to work out which prima donna had so vexed him in London, the woman who still held proof of his past indiscretions.”

Watson’s face was pale, smudged only with the grime of his subterranean prison. “Evidence that could be used against him.”

“The last thing that Nicholas wanted was for his brother’s sins to be found out all over again and so the photograph that had kept me safe for so many years became my death sentence.”

“Or rather that of Robert Langtry,” said Sherlock Holmes.

The memory of that fateful night brought tears to my eyes. “They came to our house, demanding the photograph. They had already killed poor Cammi.”

“Your maid.”

“Robert tried to protect me, only to receive a knife to the stomach. They already had the photograph. There was no need for him to die.”

“You escaped.”

“Evidently. Our footman – Pierre – tackled my husband’s murderer, and in the confusion I managed to slip away. I ran from the house, from everything I owned. I had nowhere to go, no friends I could turn to. Do you think the Tsar’s agents would let me live, after what I had witnessed?”

“So you lost yourself in Paris, returning to the stage, rebuilding your life.”

I threw my hands wide and turned on my heels. “And here it is, my new nest.”

Holmes didn’t pass comment, but reeled off what I already knew, ever the showman. “The apparently fine clothes you wore this morning were as false as the name Watson gave you all those years ago, costume reproductions designed to fool an audience from the stage.”

“Or a doctor,” I added, with little humour.

“And when I kissed your hand, there was a distinctive odour, barely disguised by inexpensive soap and cheap perfume: sulphur, used to create the allusion of walking through a volcano.”

“Or an inferno,” Watson added with a grimace.

“The reason you dressed yourself as a man tonight is that you are known at Le Cabaret de L’Enfer, not as a customer, but a member of staff, perhaps one of the musicians who play from within the cauldron. There are usually six from what I can gather, although tonight there were only five. That’s where you discovered the pit. No one pays to be buried alive at the back of the cabaret. That was a fiction, designed to reel Watson in, appealing to his more melodramatic tendencies. His early grave was nothing more than a little used storage area, not opened from one year to the next.”

Watson’s eyes bored into me, bristling with recrimination. “I may never have been found. If Holmes hadn’t forced his way past the curtain…”

“Needless to say that the infernal masters of the cabaret are keen to keep the entire sorry affair out of the public eye.”

“Until Dr Watson writes an account of it…” I sneered.

“As for your accomplice,” Holmes continued, ignoring my interruption, “the obliging nymph who just so happened to remember Robert Langtry, she has vanished into the ether.”

“No doubt assisted by the two hundred francs purloined from my wallet,” Watson added.

“Not stolen,” I reminded him. “You gave it gladly.”

“To help you!”

“Instead you have helped her escape a life in the Pigalle, and for that I am grateful. At least something good has come of this evening.”

“Quite so,” agreed Holmes.

I looked the detective in the eye. “And what of me?”

Holmes walked over to my mirror to remove the last scraps of his make-up. “From the ticket on your dressing table, you are preparing your own escape, although the chances of you now catching the last train to Vienna are minimal.”

“Because you intend to turn me over to the police?”

Holmes turned to face me. “Because you will never make it to the railway station in time, that is all.”

Holmes strolled across the room with such confidence that I wanted to scream. He opened the door and indicated for his companion to take his leave. Watson walked out without so much as a backwards glance.

Before he followed his friend out into the corridor, Holmes paused, turning to face me. “Mrs Langtry, you sought to take revenge on the man you believe ruined your life. You lured him to the City of Lights with the intention of leaving him to rot in the dark. I for one am grateful that I was on hand to ensure his safety. I bear you no malice, and hope you can indeed rebuild your life.”

The man’s hubris made me sick to my stomach. “How gracious of you.”

“But know this: move against Watson again, and I will move against you. Yesterday, I was your admirer. Today, I am your enemy.”

With that, Sherlock Holmes closed the door behind him.

A chill wind blew along the banks of the Seine the following morning. As Holmes had predicted, I had missed my train. There would be others, of course, but for now I was content to sit, gazing over at the great cathedral of Notre Dame, wondering what might have been.

Would I really have gone through with it? Would I have let a man die in that pit? I told myself not, that I would have sent word when I was away. The police would have raided the cabaret and found Watson, despairing but unhurt. It would have been hard to keep such an occurrence out of the papers, the good doctor finding himself in the middle of a scandal of his own making, indirectly at least.

I watched the gulls whirl in the sky above the ancient buttresses, convincing myself that yes, that’s exactly what I would have done.

And Holmes was right. Now I had to start again, to build another nest, far away, where no one would find me again. It was time to take another name.

The gulls shrieked, twisting in the air before swooping away. I watched them go, barely noticing the man who came to sit alongside me on the bench. He regarded the cathedral for a moment, before rising to walk back the way he came. I waited, counting to ten, before dropping my gloved hand down to the envelope he had left behind.

Opening the flap, I removed the photographs that I had ordered – Dr John Watson sat in the bowels of the cabaret, his hand on the arm of a handsome young man, their faces surprisingly close, lips inches away from each other. Then there were the images of the good doctor handing over a wad of notes to a scantily clad girl. You couldn’t see her face, but Watson’s profile was clear for all to see.

Certain editors on Fleet Street would pay good money for such shots. Think of the papers they would sell. Think of the headlines. Give the people what they want, and all that.

My words of yesterday came back unbidden.

I have never demanded so much as a penny for my silence, never acting in spite or retaliation.

I slipped the photographs safely back into the envelope and smiled. If I sent them, I would not ask for recompense. Instead, copies would land anonymously on every news desk in the land.

If I sent them.

I rose from the bench and strolled along the banks of the river. Interesting times lay ahead for Dr Watson, and I wished him well.

After all, whatever threats Sherlock Holmes made, to me, John Watson would always be the man.