“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.”