Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird

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СКАЧАТЬ pale face and beady eyes were strangely rat-like. ‘The dangerous one dies first,’ he said. The sharp side of the blade pricked my skin. I felt a warm trickle of blood down my neck and it seemed the end. I closed my eyes.

      But the Frenchman had prevailed and suddenly the Rat was knocked aside!

      Seizing the moment, I yanked the man who was choking me off balance. Dimly I was aware of the Frenchman struggling in the corner of my vision but I could not dislodge my assailant and his chokehold tightened. I dropped to my knees, growing faint.

      We were outmatched.

      The Rat regained his footing, and charged. But a sharp crack of something hard on bone caused the small man to tumble before me with a high-pitched cry of rage. Somersaulting skilfully out of his fall like a circus acrobat, he leaped to his feet and turned to face a new attacker.

      Backlit by the streetlamp was a tall, cloaked figure brandishing a stick. It was Sherlock Holmes!

      The odds were looking up.

      I slammed an elbow into the gut of my assailant. He loosened his grip and staggered back. I turned and we grappled, slipping in the ice and landing on the ground.

      Holmes’s voice pierced through the sounds of the mêlée. ‘Your pistol, Watson!’

      ‘Gone!’ I cried. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

      In a single glimpse I saw the Rat now facing the Frenchman, as two others advanced on Mlle La Victoire.

      ‘Busy!’ shouted Holmes, as he ran to her aid.

      Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed him battling two assailants, walking stick held out before him in both hands, like the trained singlestick fighter he was. He whirled it above his head and then rained it down in a series of quick blows on the men facing him.

      My own assailant leaped on top of me, and as we struggled, I heard Holmes’s stick connect and the cries of his attackers.

      I landed a sharp uppercut to the thug charging me and he fell. I turned to see if Holmes needed help. But he had one man down, and as Mlle La Victoire cowered behind him he neatly felled the second of her attackers with a blow to the legs.

      Then he took the lady’s hand, and pulled her away from the light and off into the darkness.

      Where? I wondered.

      The Rat, across the small courtyard and advancing on the Frenchman, saw it, too. But he did not follow. Instead, he uttered a curse, and turned, slashing at my tall ally. The Frenchman fell with a cry and the Rat leaped on him.

      Without thinking, I plunged towards the two and for a moment the Frenchman, the Rat and I rolled like marbles on the icy cobblestones. I managed to land a sharp blow on the Rat’s collarbone and he screamed but rolled free and up on to his feet.

      The Frenchman lay unmoving. I was on my own!

      The Rat gave a quick glance to my mysterious ally. Dead? He barked a short command and his three cohorts – two downed by Holmes and the third trying to help them up – froze and looked up. Then all four vanished into the darkness.

      I paused, waiting for a further attack. Silence.

      From the ground came a sigh. ‘Ah,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Enfin, c’est fini!’ He stood up with barely a wince, brushing off his elegant suit.

      I was panting, exhausted. What in the hell had just happened?

      I felt my neck; it was still bleeding. I took out my handkerchief and pressed it to the cut. I looked over at the Frenchman. His face was now a mask of pain, and he had a hand to one shoulder.

      ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘I am a doctor.’

      He flashed me a look I did not understand. Guilt? Embarrassment? Then it was immediately replaced by an impudent grin.

      ‘I have never been better,’ he said, straightening up and shaking off his pain like a man would fling a bead of sweat on a summer’s day. For the first time I noticed his size. He had at least two inches and fifty pounds on Holmes, hardly typical for a Frenchman. Could he really be French? He glanced around and casually retrieved his top hat, lost in the struggle, replacing it at a jaunty angle.

      My doubts were at rest; he was most definitely French.

      ‘Jean Vidocq,’ he said. ‘And you must be Dr Watson.’

      ‘How do you know my name?’

      ‘You fought well, Doctor,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Not injured too badly?’ While his words were friendly, there was an undercurrent of mockery.

      ‘No,’ I replied stiffly. ‘Thank you.’

      I looked about me. Mlle La Victoire and Holmes were nowhere to be seen.

      The Frenchman noticed this as well. ‘Merde!’ he said. ‘Where did Holmes take her?’

      ‘How do you know us?’

      At that moment, Holmes strode into the light, alone, and carrying my cape and hat. ‘Good work, Watson,’ he said, handing me my things. Then – ‘Watson, your neck!’

      ‘I’m fine.’ I removed the handkerchief. The wound still bled but only a little. I pressed harder on it.

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