Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird

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       CHAPTER 3

       We Meet Our Client

      s it turned out, we were forced to spend the night in Dover, sharing a cramped room in a hotel crammed with stranded travellers, all delayed by the rising storms. Holmes had briefly slipped out into the sleet and had sent several telegrams, including one to Mlle La Victoire. Our client was now expecting us at eleven that morning at her apartment.

      Leaving the Gare du Nord, we made our way through snow-fogged streets, past rows of trees garlanded with crystal icicles, gradually moving towards the hills of Montmartre. There Holmes had a favourite bistro, the Franc Buveur, where we could pass the hour before we were to meet our client. It was still early, and I longed for a coffee and perhaps a roll, but Holmes ordered us both a bouillabaisse provençal. This proved to be a hearty and flavourful fish stew from Marseilles, apparently available all hours at this establishment. It was perhaps somewhat extreme for my taste, but I was relieved to note he consumed his with gusto.

      I made a mental note to return with my friend to Paris any time I noticed his thin frame becoming dangerously gaunt. I have never been plagued with this problem, but at thirty-five I knew that, for myself, precautions in the other direction might be wise.

      We made our way through curving, tree-lined streets to Mlle La Victoire’s address. This part of Montmartre had an almost rural tranquillity that belied its proximity to the area’s renowned nightlife. The occasional empty plot and cottage garden, now blanketed by snow, stood tucked in between the old houses. Windmills poked through from behind, just beyond the nearby streets.

      Approaching an elegant three-storey building with delicate grillwork at the windows, we rang and were shortly standing on the third floor, facing a door painted an unusual shade of dark green. An ornate brass knocker invited use. We knocked.

      The door was opened by one of the most beautiful women I have seen. Cherie Cerise, née Emmeline La Victoire, stood before us in a velvet dressing gown of the same deep green, perfectly accentuating her startling green eyes and auburn hair. It was not merely her physical beauty that struck me, but a rare quality which emanated from the lady – a sparkle of intelligence coupled with a womanly allure that nearly took my breath away.

      However, deep shadows under her bright eyes and a distinct pallor spoke of grief and worry. Her glance swept us both, taking in every detail in an instant.

      ‘Ah, Monsieur Holmes,’ she said with a smile to my companion. ‘I am so relieved.’ She turned to face me with radiant warmth. I flushed for no reason at all. ‘And you must be Mr Holmes’s most wonderful of friends, Dr Watson, I believe?’ I held out my hand to shake hers, but instead she leaned in to kiss me, and then Holmes, on both cheeks in the French manner.

      She smelled of the same delicious scent as her letter – Jicky perfume, Holmes had called it – and it took considerable self-control not to grin from ear to ear. But we were there on serious business. ‘Mademoiselle, we are at your service,’ I offered.

      ‘Madame,’ she corrected. ‘Merci. Thank you for coming, and so quickly.’ Her charming French accent only added to her allure.

      Soon we were seated in front of a small, cheery fireplace in the salon of her sumptuous apartment, decorated in the French style in shades of tan and cream, with high ceilings, a light-coloured oriental carpet and silk-upholstered furniture in subtle stripes. Bright against this neutral background were several bouquets of fresh flowers, expensive at this time of year, and a rainbow array of silk scarves strewn about. Our client was a woman of sophisticated tastes.

      With apologies for the absence of servants, the lady herself brought us hot cups of coffee.

      ‘My husband will return soon,’ she said. ‘And the maid, with groceries.’