Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (27 page)

“Thank you Mademoiselle.” Holmes turned to me. “Shall I retrieve those letters?” I asked.

“Yes, we can take a cab,” replied our guest.

“If you will bind the letters with a thread and set it just outside your door Watson will wait in in the cab collect them once you have set them outside, I don't want anyone to see him go inside,” said Holmes.

***

We were off in a hurry. I sat next to our alluring client. The crisp autumn air filled the cab as we bounced down the streets. I peered, causally, out the window to see if we had been followed. Nothing out of the ordinary caught my attention. Mademoiselle Dipin sat calm and quiet keeping her face away from the windows. I would ask her questions about the show, but her responses reminded me of Holmes when he was busy with thought. Short and vague. We passed through Soho Square before coming to a stop a few yard behind the ballerina's door. I watched as she darted out, looking back and forth, before vanishing into her building. I stepped out of the cab just as the door opened enough for me to catch a glimpse of her dainty hand leaving a bundle of letters bound together. Putting them safely into my pocket, I returned to my cab and ordered the driver to return to Baker Street. When I did, Holmes was nowhere to be found. A note had been left which said he had gone to enquire about Javet and would return later. I did not see Holmes the remainder of the day. What exploits he had engaged himself with were not learned until I woke the next morning. I found my friend lying on the floor on our bear rug. He gazed intensely at the ceiling. At his feet lay scraps of paper and to one side lay the letters I had retrieved. I bade him good morning. He was, as on several occasions, unresponsive. I glanced the room for any sign of his cocaine usage, which had, at times, been the cause for his silence. “Fret not, good fellow,” he said. I turned to look at him. He remained unmoved except one hand extended into the air. Grasped between his index finger and thumb hung one of the letters. “I have been in engaged with this. I seek solace in cocaine when there is nothing to stimulate my mind.” I rose an eyebrow at him. He finally turned his head slightly to look at me. “What have you done?” I asked.

“Look at the floor and make a deduction,” he encouraged.

“It seems like you've created a mess,” I said sarcastically.

“Beyond the most obviously, Watson,” his tone became stern, which I found surprising.

“It looks like you have been comparing papers to the letters, given the different makes you've laid out.”

“Well done!“ He said cheerfully.

“After I sent a message to the continent to learn the whereabouts of Javet, I came back to find these letters. I immediately rushed back out, after having thoroughly examined then. The letters are all written in the same hand, of that I have no doubt, even the ink is the same, as was the pen that was used. The paper, dear Watson, on which our man scribbled, is not all the same. So I scoured the city to see where these types of papers are relatively found.”

“What was your conclusion?” I pressed. “The paper is off poor quality. Sold primarily through street vendors. Most vendors won't give you what you pay for and you run out of your sheets soon.”

“So our culprit is new to town and grabbed cheap paper which is why you know this man used it so quickly?”

“The ink, Watson, is a fine ink. Expensive to obtain. He is buying cheap paper from street vendors in order to avoid being recognised in more well established retailers. How I know he's using it quickly: On two of these letters there are three droplets of ink that correspond when the pages are placed together. The man dipped his pen in the ink and it splatted and stained both pages. What I do believe is that our man has set himself up in Islington, somewhere near Angel.”

“How did you come to this?”

“Street vendors!” He exclaimed and shot up from the bear rug. He rifled through the paper and the letters. He matched the letters to the blank sheets of paper. I stood over him and looked down. Written on the new sheets at the top left corner was the name of the vendor and a street where they were sold. “It took me most of the day and into the evening but I found them all. There are three vendors who sell these papers in the Angel area. I took their information, and once I learn about Javet from the French authorities I will go retrace that avenue if need be.”

“When do you expect to hear back?”

“I sent a message to Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris police,” Holmes was interrupted by a knock on the door. “A message for you,” said Mrs. Hudson, poking her head around the door. Taking it from her I handed it to Holmes. In a single thrust he leapt to his feet from the floor. “Come, Watson! The game is afoot!”

***

Silently we sat in the cab. My heart raced with excitement and curiosity. Mademoiselle's apartment had been ransacked during the late morning, between 9am and 11am, and Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police had called for our assistance. When we arrived two police officers stood outside. They waved Holmes and me through. The apartment was a devastating mess. Cabinets where toppled over, clothing was scattered and torn, pillows were thrown here and there. Shreds of paper were under every step. Inspector Lestrade stood in the middle of a small lounge near Mademoiselle Dipin, her face was buried in her hands for a moment before running them through her extraordinary hair, pulling it back away from her beautiful face. When she saw Holmes and me, she stood up and approached. “I am so glad to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Yes, good of you to come in such a hurry,” said Lestrade.

“What do you know?” Holmes asked making no time for pleasantries. Lestrade nodded at the lady. “Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I did not notice myself being followed or feel that someone was watching me. I've been about my daily business. I spent most of the morning at the theatre. I came home to relax for a few hours and freshen up before I returned this evening. When I got home I found the place like this!”

“The lady here has told us about this Javet character. He seems a good suspect,” said Lestrade. “Yes, but we are not certain where he is at present,” returned Holmes. “He's certainly in London!” Lestrade said with a chuckle. “The girl told me about the letters and everything.” There was a commotion outside, officers were shouting. We could hear the sound of several feet thumping up the stairs. “Where is she? Where is my daughter?” echoed the voice of a strong woman. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, majestic, towering some six feet tall. Glowing golden hair was fashionably tied up and styled on top of her head. She was certainly a woman who, in her prime, would have been stolen the hearts of every man. While still very handsome, she was the type of woman who now preferred softly lit rooms. Tucked under her arm was small box which she clung too tightly. “Mere!” cried Mademoiselle Dipin. Her expression was of utter horror. “What are you doing here?”

“I have come to speak with you and when I do I find you caught up in a mess!” the matriarch returned. “Tell me what has happened!”

“It seems your daughter has caught some unwelcome attention by an enthusiast for her art,” said Lestrade. Her mother scoffed. “We believe he's the one behind it all.”

“It's Javet, Mere.”

“That man?” she roared. “This is why I come here, to beg your return to Paris at once.”

“I won't leave, Mere!”

“But can't you see, this is punishment. Holy judgement for pursuing such an unholy profession!”

“You're wrong!” Mademoiselle Dipin yelled. “Come now, ladies,” Inspector Lestrade chimed in. “Let's just calm down.” The tension between the two women slowly eased. “What are you doing here?” Holmes asked our new arrival.

“I am here to see my daughter,” she replied.

“Yes, but why?” He pressed.

“To beg my daughters return. Are you deaf, sir?” She rolled her eyes. “I would do anything to get her to come home where it is safe!” The ballerina's cheeks began to turn red. “Do you know about Javet?” Holmes asked. The woman shook her head. “Why do you have such a fervent aversion to her performing?” I asked. “Look at it, already! She was stalked and attacked in Paris, now her home has been vandalised.” She turned towards Lestrade. “And what you are doing to keep my girl safe? Scribbling in your notebook!”

“Mere, please. I beg you, stop!” asked Mademoiselle Dipin. “Ladies, calm down, shall we?” said Lestrade. I assure you, Madam, that we will do our best to find the one responsible,” assured Lestrade. Holmes let out a sigh. “Have you questioned any of the corps de ballet?” The girl's mother asked. “It wouldn't be the first time and up-and-coming tried to push the Prima out!” Lestrade turned back towards the ballerina. “I... I don't know.”

“Have you noted any peculiar behaviour?” Lestrade asked.

“I have not, well... no. It was nothing.” Mademoiselle Dipin trailed off, her face blank as if she recalled something.

“Very well, then,” said Lestrade. “We will get to work on this Javet character. Mr. Holmes, a word outside, please.”

We left the mother and daughter in the apartment and stood outside in the cool air. The mother had made the room warm with unease. I found the brisk air refreshing. Lestrade: “What do you make of it?”

Holmes: “The mother is an odd character.”

“I shouldn't wonder if it was her who done all this,” said Lestrade. “What coming here like this all the sudden wanting her daughter to leave. She's probably organised it all.”

“Javet is very much a possibility,” said I.

“We won't know until later,” said Holmes.

“The young girl said you were currently looking for this Javet. Any leads?” Lestrade asked.

“Nothing that I can reveal.”

“Holmes! You aren't your own authority,” snuffed Lestrade.

“Do remember, I am not employed by the Yard. It was the girl who hired me. My duty is to her and her safety. If there is any information that is beneficial to both parties, I'd share. Presently there is not. I will keep you updated, Lestrade.” Just then the girl mother rushed out the front door and jumped into a cab. Her elegant face was distorted by a horrid expression of anger and grief. Her daughter followed holding the box which her mother had held earlier. She only saw the back of the cab pull away. “Your mother has quite the temper, dear girl.”

“She does. She hates my work, my art,” she returned.

“Has she always hated it?” I asked. She nodded.

“She has, yes.”

“What did she give you?” I pressed looking at the box. She opened it to show us two ballet shoes tucked inside.

“For someone who hates your art I'm a little surprised by her choice of gift,” said I.

“She said she picked them up from the theatre. A gift.” I nodded.

“Might I have a solitary word,” asked Holmes to the Ballerina. The two walked off a moment. I stood there, Holmes's back to me, watching our client answer whatever mysterious questions he posed to her. “He's bloody brilliant, but he boils my blood sometimes,” scoffed Lestrade. Holmes and the girl turned and came back towards us. “For now, Watson and I must go. We have other business to attend.” I gave Holmes an inquisitive look. Without so much as a nod or wink he took off in a fast walk. I jogged behind a moment to catch up leaving Lestrade and Mademoiselle Dipin behind.

***

Holmes and I arrived that Her Majesty's Theatre and walked inside. During our cab ride, Holmes told me about the brief conversation had with Mademoiselle Dipin. He, too, noticed her uneasy expression when her mother asked about the Corps. The girl admitted that one of the fellow dancers, Esther Daines, who would be first in line to replace her, should anything happen, ducked out of a rehearsal about two hours before she came home. Mademoiselle Dipin said that she hadn't been close Miss Daines and didn't pay her much attention, but noted her acting uneasy before she left. “If ever there was a motivation, Miss Daines would have it, Holmes,” said I, as we walked the backstage halls of the theatre. “Mademoiselle Dipin is a remarkably handsome and elegant woman. I'm sure jealously follows her wherever she treads.”

“Jealously, Watson. A waste of an emotion. It spurs people and drives them to ludicrous decisions that never reveal a positive outcome. Look at David and Bathsheba, jealous for another man's wife so he sends that man to the frontline of war and he's slain.”

“It is a monstrous emotions, but do you mean to tell me you do not feel it?” Holmes did not reply. “Truly, Holmes?”

“I suppose I have had my experiences with it, yes.” Holmes stopped. “Ah,” said he tapped his knuckles repeatedly upon a closed door. It swung open and a short girl with big bold green eyes and dark brown hair greeted us. “May I help you?” she asked. He voice was mouse-like. “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson. Aren't you Miss Daines? “I am, yes...”

“We are professional enthusiasts for your art and we hoped to speak with you,” Holmes continued. “Well, I, uh... are you sure you mean me and not Dipin?”

“No, no! We mean you.” I stood there and watched Holmes. I smiled and nodded at the girl who reluctantly allowed Holmes and me into the dressing room. As we followed, Holmes continued to converse with her about the ballet. I noticed no one was around. She sat at a table littered with cosmetics and large mirror at the back. Holmes pulled a seat over and they continued talking. “I feel you should be the lead!” said Holmes. Miss Daines blushed. ”But Dipin is a master.” she replied.

“Wouldn't you like to lead?”

“Of course, it is my dream.”

“Rumour has it Mademoiselle Dipin is being stalked again. Rumour has it some people aren't keen on her being here, and they want her out of town.” Miss Daines frowned and laid her hand on the table. “Maybe you can take over?” Miss Daines moved her hand, knocking over bottle of perfume. She frantically tried to pick it up. Holmes reached over and caught the bottle before it rolled over the side.