Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird

doubt this story.’

      ‘He does not have an uncle.’

      ‘These yearly visits, have they been every year since his birth?

      ‘Yes. It is the arrangement I have made with his father, the Earl.’

      ‘That would be Harold Beauchamp-Kay, the present Earl of Pellingham?’ asked Holmes.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Begin at the beginning, please. Describe the boy.’

      ‘Emil is ten. Small for his age. Slender.’

      ‘How small?’

      ‘About this tall,’ Mlle La Victoire held her hand some four feet from the ground. ‘Blond hair like his father, with my green eyes. A sweet-faced child, quiet. He enjoys music and reading.’

      ‘And who does the boy think you are?’

      ‘He believes me a friend of the family, no relation.’

      ‘Does the Earl accompany the boy to London?’

      ‘Emil,’ I prompted. ‘His name is Emil.’

      ‘Non! I have not seen Harold – er – the Earl since …’ Here her voice faltered. She looked stricken. I felt Holmes suppress a sigh of impatience.

      ‘Then who brings Emil to Brown’s?’

      ‘The Earl’s valet, Pomeroy. He is of French descent, and very kind. He understands a mother’s love.’ Abruptly her façade cracked and she gasped to cover a sob. I offered my handkerchief. She took it graciously and touched it to her eyes. Holmes remained unmoved. But her feelings were genuine, of that I was sure. She struggled to compose herself.

      ‘I must explain. Ten years ago I was a poor singer here, in Paris. It was three days of love; we spoke of marriage. I did not know he was an Earl or that he was already married. But then—’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course. Moving forward in time. So, this valet Pomeroy is complicit? What happened this year?’ he barked.

      ‘Holmes!’ I admonished, once again. The lady was evidently in a state of great agitation.

      ‘Pray continue,’ he pressed on, only slightly altering his tone. ‘What did you do upon hearing your Christmas visit was cancelled?’

      ‘I wrote, demanding an explanation.’

      Holmes waved his hands in impatience, ‘And …?’

      ‘A reply warned me to cease contact, or I would never see Emil again.’

      ‘A letter from the Earl?’

      ‘Non. I have had no contact with the Earl – either in person or by letter – once our agreement had been made. The letter was from his man, Pomeroy.’

      ‘No further explanation or contact?’

      ‘I wrote and sent a third telegram but with no response.’

      ‘What kept you from travelling to the Earl’s estate to investigate?’ asked Holmes abruptly. ‘I will take that cigarette now.’

      The lady offered him one from her case. He patted his pockets for matches. I retrieved one and lit it for him.

      ‘This is all very recent, Monsieur Holmes,’ she replied. ‘The original arrangement was that I make no other attempt to reach Emil except the Christmas visits. Those were the terms.’

      ‘And yet this arrangement has been breached by the other party,’ snapped Holmes. ‘Have you entertained the notion that your son may be dead?’

      ‘He is not dead!’ Mlle La Victoire stood up, eyes blazing. ‘I do not know how I know this, Monsieur Holmes, and you may analyse or sneer if you wish. But somehow, as a mother, I know that my son is alive. You must help me! I need you to act.’

      ‘Mademoiselle! We are not finished.’

      ‘Holmes,’ I said gently, ‘you are distressing this lady with your harsh questions. It seems we do not yet know the half of this story.’

      ‘Which is precisely the point. I cannot assist you, unless I know not only the half but the whole of it,’ said Holmes. ‘Sit down please, and let us continue.’

      She sat, composing herself.

      ‘Who else at the Earl’s estate knows that Emil is your son?’

      ‘Lady Pellingham knows.’

      Holmes leaned back, surprised. ‘The Earl’s wife, the American heiress! Does she know the full story? That the child is the Earl’s?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And she has accepted her husband’s illegitimate offspring in her home?’

      ‘More than that. She is a mother to Emil. She loves him dearly and he returns the feelings. In fact, Emil thinks that she is his mother!’ Here she broke off, her voice catching in a sob.

      ‘That must be very difficult for you,’ I said.

      ‘Go on,’ said Holmes.

      ‘At first it did pain me,’ she admitted to me. ‘Greatly. But later I realized it is for the best. Lady Pellingham is a kind woman and lost a child at birth, close to the time Emil was born. My little Emil was substituted in secret for their dead child, and the rest of the world believes him to be theirs. Emil will inherit the estate and will be the next Earl of Pellingham. And so you see—’

      ‘I see,’ said Holmes, once again abrupt. ‘It is a fortunate arrangement in many ways.’

      The lady stiffened. ‘You think me mercenary,’ she said.

      ‘No, no, he does not.’ I jumped in, but Holmes overrode me.

      ‘I think you practical.’

      ‘Practical, yes. At the time of the adoption I was but a poor artist, with no way to offer Emil an education or any advantages. And life with a performing artist would place a small child into a world full of dangers, bad influences. Imagine a baby backstage—’

      ‘Yes, yes of course. You wrote that you were attacked, Mademoiselle La Victoire,’ said Holmes, ‘which is the reason we are here. Elaborate, please.’

      ‘It was exactly one day after my last telegram to the Earl. A ruffian approached me in the street. He pushed me rudely and brandished a weapon, a strange kind of knife.’

      ‘Describe this knife.’

      ‘It was very odd. It resembled a ladle, but the end was very sharp, a kind of blade,’ said our client. ‘I pulled away and slipped in the ice, falling to the ground.’

      ‘Were you hurt?’

      ‘I was more frightened than hurt. I received only a small bruise from the fall. But there was something else—’

      ‘What? Be precise.’

      ‘After I fell, the man helped me up.’

      Holmes’s leaned forward in excitement. ‘Ah! Did he speak to you? His exact words?’

      ‘After helping me up, he held this strange blade to my throat and said I had better watch out.’

      ‘His exact words? No mention of the Earl?’

      ‘No, nothing specific. He said, “Leave it alone. Or someone might die.”’

      ‘His accent. English? American? Greek?’

      ‘French,’ she said. ‘But hard to understand. A low voice.’

      ‘Did anything about this man, his clothing, his voice, the knife, seem familiar to you?’

      ‘Not at all. The man’s face was in shadow from a large hat. It was dusk and snowing heavily. I could not see him clearly.’

      ‘Do