23. THE CASE OF THE PERFECT MAN

Blackmail is one of the worst offences even when it is based on lies....

“I get the feeling that this rain will never stop,” grunted Holmes as he carefully tried to tune the g string of his violin, and placed the instrument as close to his ear as he dared. “The rattling it makes against the window interferes with my adagio.”

“The forecast suggests it’ll rain all day,” I reminded him. “I know it’s a bit wet for August but we’ll just have to put up with it and if needs be tolerate your caterwauling!”

“Watson! That’s quite enough of that kind of talk!” he ejaculated, and minutely adjusted the string again.

“I thought we had a case,” I reminded him. “Pierre Montcalf’s blackmailer is out to wrest his fortune from him or expose him as a blackguard.”

“A nasty piece of work,” he muttered.

“All blackmailers are,” I told him, stoutly.

“I meant Pierre Montcalf,” said Holmes, taking his eyes off his violin for a moment and trying to penetrate my skull with them. “The man’s the worst of all tyrants, Watson. He treats that wife of his appallingly, and I’ve heard it told that he runs at least three mistresses in town!”

“It’s not like you to listen to gossip, Holmes,” I murmured.

“Sometimes the idle words spoken without intention to portray anything but what is commonly supposed to be true is more than educational,” he said. “Montcalf’s maid said to her cousin that he rarely leaves her without bruises on her person. She says she’s seen them, and I believe her.”

“This cousin,” I grunted, “how do you know her, Holmes? You’re never so close to women as to be engaged in conversation with them.”

“She calls on Mrs Hudson, as you’d know if you paid attention to the comings and goings at 221b,” he told me, “and Mrs Hudson is a lady of great selection when it comes to passing on snippets that may prove to be useful. By saying that I mean that she selects with unusual care.”

“Mrs Hudson is also a gossip,” I growled.

“Now now, Watson, it matters little where our intelligence comes from as long as it comes from somewhere, and I have heard that Montcalf is a tyrant as well as being a womaniser of the worst sort, keeping w****s in apartments in town and visiting them for whatever nefarious motives despoil his mind! You know what men like that do with the women they cheat, Watson? When they’ve had their fill of whatever charms they perceive that they have they dump them on the streets! That’s what they do! And what becomes of the poor souls so wretchedly disposed of, Watson? I’ll tell you: they end up in the workhouse with all manner of diseases lurking within them.”

“And you’ve deduced all this from idle gossip, Holmes?”

He nodded violently and almost caught his ear on the g string. “I have, and you should be grateful for it!” he growled. “For it means, Watson, that neither you nor I have to venture out into this downpour. We can stay here in the dry and you can confirm when I have achieved a perfect pitch on this awkward string!”

I was looking out onto the saturated scene of Baker Street as he spoke, with water like torrents washing all before it.

“Just a moment, Holmes!” I uttered brusquely, “we appear to have a visitor and it is a handsome creature of the female persuasion!”

“Does it look like a potential client, Watson?” he asked. We had been idle for too long and I could see that the need to exercise his powerful deductive instincts was uppermost on his mind.

“It might be, Holmes,” I said quietly, and within moments there was a gentle knock at our door and Mrs Hudson pushed her head in.

“There’s a lady wishing to see you, Sherlock,” she said in the tone of voice that implied we might be able to pay our rent if we agreed to help the lady.

“Show her in, Mrs Hudson,” exclaimed Holmes, putting his violin down and taking his usual seat.

The lady who swept into the room was a magnificent creature. She had already disrobed from her street coat, which no doubt was dripping somewhere downstairs along with her umbrella, and looked attractively smart in puce.

“Mr Holmes?” she enquired.

“You have an advantage over us,” said Holmes. “I am Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson.”

She looked at me and smiled. “I have read many of your accounts of the exciting life of Mr Holmes,” she said, “and if I may venture a comment, I consider them to be very well written. Very well written indeed.”

I was about to demur politely when Holmes interrupted.

“So what can we do for you Miss … er, Mrs … er?” he asked.

“I have come over a matter of grievous importance,” she said quietly. “I am Amelia Montcalf and my husband is unaware that I am here.”

“Let me see, said Holmes thoughtfully. “Would he be Pierre Montcalf, by any chance?”

She nodded. “I see you have heard of him,” she said, smiling.

“I most certainly have, Mrs Montcalf, and I can assure you that I will do anything I can to solve your wretched problems.”

“Oh, the problems are not mind, Mr Holmes,” she said. “The problems belong to my husband, who is the worthiest and shyest of men.”

“They are?” murmured Holmes, waving to me to remain quiet unless I chanced to pre-empt anything the lady was going to say.

“My Pierre is a perfect gentleman,” she said, and she smiled. “Until I met him I had no idea just how delightful a man can be! Our marriage is … I suppose you might accuse me of superlatives when I describe it as perfect in every respect, but it is. And when I say in every respect I mean just that, you understand. A man and a woman might share thoughts and ideas as we do, might enjoy long conversations on a number of fascinating and important issues as, again, we do. And there are other ways in which a man and a woman might be in delightful and intimate harmony, if you see what I mean?”

I understood what she was implying, having been married myself until my lovely Mary passed away, but I could tell that Holmes, who was a permanent bachelor had no idea.

“Matters of close … er … acquaintance as the state of matrimony provides,” I explained somewhat pompously.

“And often vigorous, which is by far the best,” she explained, and she sighed with a smile. “Many’s the time we have begged each other for excess… but I need say no more of that, for I suppose such matters are personal,” she sighed.

“I understand,” I told her, and offered her a reassuring smile. “So what brings you here?”

“Well, my husband has two sisters and a cousin who live in town, three maiden ladies who he has provided lodgings for as he has no intention of seeing them on the streets or in the workhouse,” she explained. “He has done well for himself in the city, but then he is the sort to do well at whatever he chooses to attempt, but both sisters had bad marriages and their husbands both died in tragic but criminal circumstances. Therefore he looks after them as best he can, with rooms in town. And his cousin also, she is cared for by him though to me mind she is a most unpleasant person.”

“It sounds as though he has a great deal to trouble him,” I murmured.

She nodded, with another smile. “He has, but nothing is too much trouble for him, and now a villain has emerged from my cousin’s murky past, and he is threatening to tell all manner of lies concerning my faultless husband unless he receives a large sum of money, which we can in no way afford.”

“Blackmail,” muttered Holmes, “a dire and dreadful crime. But what can this wretch say that is so dreadful?”

“That I am beaten,” she said simply, “and what he sees as evidence is there, for some of our, what shall we call them, loving adorations, might from time to time cause the odd little lover’s bruise. Nothing painful, Mr Holmes, and nothing I would wish to reverse… Then the creature suggests that my darling Pierre is enjoying carnal relations with his sisters, as if he would do anything of the sort, or, indeed, if his mind was so disposed, have the time or energy to do it!”

“And there is absolutely nothing of truth in the man’s assertions?” asked Holmes.

Mrs Montcalf looked appalled. “There most certainly is not!” she cried.

“Then what evidence does the villain have?” asked Holmes, “has he a note or letter? A photographic image?”

“No, nothing like that,” sighed the lady, “but if word of such behaviour were to get out then my husband would be forced out of his job and his name blackened forever, and it is all lies, Mr Holmes, all lies!”

“Then you will have to leave it all with me,” he said, gravely, “and worry no more about it. For Watson and I will sally forth into the rain before this hour is out and apprehend the wretch and leave him in no doubts as to how long he will linger at His Majesty’s pleasure if he utters another word on the matter!”

Amelia Montcalf provided him with details before leaving our rooms and Holmes tut-tutted to himself whilst carefully placing his violin into its case.

“As we were discussing, Watson,” he said, “it is folly indeed to listen to gossip and I, for one, am surprised that you ever have done such a thing.”

I might have replied, but thought better of it. It takes a lot to get the better of Holmes and for the moment I lacked the stamina.

© Peter Rogerson 11.08.17