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.
THE CASE OF THE HAPHAZARD MARKSMAN
Andrew Lane
Langdale Pike never appears in the canon, although he is mentioned in “The Adventure of the Three Gables”. He is described as being “strange” and “languid” (a condition I have aspired to ever since I was a teenager) and he apparently makes a living as a gossip columnist. He does actually turn up in the 1980s TV adaptation starring Jeremy Brett as Holmes, played memorably by the excellent Peter Wyngarde. It is Wyngarde who I imagined when I was writing this story.
My name is Langdale Pike. You have probably heard of me. In fact, I would be surprised if you had not. I write what are popularly known as “gossip columns” for several of the more popular newspapers and magazines available in this, the greatest city in the greatest nation of the world. From the centre of my web of information I pick up on the slightest of vibrations in strands that extend into the servants’ quarters of every large house, into the snugs and taprooms of every tavern and bar, into the fronts-of-house of every theatre and music hall of note and into the comfortable seating of every café and coffee house. Or, to put it more prosaically, from my preferred window seat in my club in St. James’s I have a network of runners who perpetually shuttle snippets of information from maids, footmen, attendants and serving girls into my hands and, subsequently, small sums of money from me back to them. There is no assignation, no affair, no gambling debt and no underhand activity of which I am ignorant – if, that is, the public would find it titillating. If not, you need have no fear. If your fumbled indiscretion with your wife’s sister or your surreptitious channelling of church funds into your own pocket would not sell a few more newspapers were it to be reported in the press then, rest assured, I am not interested. Go, as they say, and sin in peace.
Gossip is, I am convinced, one of the basic drives of humanity. Without gossip what would we have to talk about over the garden wall or across the dinner table? Only the weather, and given London’s dismal record in that regard the conversation would soon peter out. We all have a burning desire to know what members of the aristocracy, royalty, the Church and the House of Commons get up to behind closed doors. I am merely fulfilling a public service by collating and disseminating these details.
Contrary to certain canards that have been spread around about me recently, I do not, I promise you, blackmail people using the information I have about them. Blackmail is an appalling crime, and I am a law-abiding citizen. I have never taken a single shilling to suppress details of a scandal, but I have taken many shillings in the service of getting those details in front of a voracious public. These wicked slurs have, I am sure, been spread by some who have been hurt by the – to them, uncomfortable – truths I tell in print. I understand that their marriages may have been destroyed and that they may be facing financial ruin, but to them I would say that their travails are a result of their own peccadilloes. If they had not lapsed, they would not have lost so much.