“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–”