Paris, 20 November, 1922
Late in the morning Russell slowly emerges from the sleep of the dead. Feeling stiff as a cadaver, she wrestles herself from the bed, hissing invectives at the pain in her side and shoulder and starts the laborious process of dressing herself one-handed. She finds the makeup Holmes left for her and dabs it to her cheek to conceal her bruise. Unable to do much with her hair in this compromised state, she opts for a low and loose queue, and imagines Holmes’ acerbic comment were he to see her out and about in such an untamed state. She picks unenthusiastically at the bits of stale croissant he left for her, until she discovers a short list of cafés tucked inside the upside-down cup on its saucer. Holmes has no doubt predicted her yawning appetite, but she’s confident the list is more to do with Mr. Hemingway’s penchant for writing in cafés than a dining recommendation. Efficient as always, thinks Russell, but in this circumstance an excellent suggestion. This is after all Paris, a mecca of comestibles, so why not enjoy a delectable and fortifying meal while on the hunt for Mycroft’s potential spy.
Being once again without a coat, she pulls her heaviest scarf across her shoulders, makes a few enquiries of the hotel concierge, and then steps out into the street of a cold, dreary and rainy day. She’s desperate to walk, despite the wet, chill and ache in her side. She pulls her scarf tightly over her head as she sets off north toward the shops and cafés of the Place St. Michel a short kilometre away. After procuring a new coat, now her third in the 30 hours since arriving in Paris, she steps into Le Depart St. Michel, a clean and wonderfully warm café, and one of the ones on her list. The café is about three quarters full, mostly with locals, either alone at their tables reading over coffee or tête-à-tête over a meal. One gentleman in particular, however, immediately draws Russell’s attention. Protective of her left side, she carefully makes her way to the rear of the room and takes a seat at a banquette table extending from the back wall allowing her to observe him unnoticed.
Russell places an order for coffee, juice and two crepes, one savoury with bacon, potato, cheese and egg and the other sweet with chocolate and cream, then demurs that, contrary to the size of her order, she will be dining alone. By the time her café-au-lait arrives she’s convinced she has found Mycroft’s journalist. The man is seated at a small table in the middle of the room, facing the large rain splattered windows at the front of the café that look to the now empty terrace and busy street beyond. Pencils and sharpener littered on the table, he sits hunched over a notebook, scribbling furiously, his half empty coffee completely forgotten. His hair is very short, just a few weeks’ worth of growth after having been cut to the scalp. His face and neck show signs of recently healed sores from bites, and his skin is slightly yellowed and loose as if he’d recently lost a great deal of weight. Taken together, it’s clear to Russell the man must be Hemingway, recently returned from assignment in Turkey where he’d suffered from the deprivations of war, malaria and lice.
Just as Russell’s food arrives, Holmes enters the café alone. From the entrance he scans the room carefully before acknowledging Russell with a tip of his hat. He then sheds hat and coat by the door, hanging them on the rack to dry, and joins her in the formal manner of mere acquaintances. He orders coffee and the two exchange pleasantries while Russell exuberantly wolfs down her prodigious meal. Passing the time, he looks discretely at some scraps of paper he’s lifted from another coat on the rack, glances to Hemingway and gives Russell a confirmatory nod. As the waiter clears the empty dishes and replenishes their coffees, Holmes returns the papers while ostensibly retrieving his cigarette case from his coat pocket. Once back at the table, cigarette lit, he and Russell resume their conversation, this time speaking quietly enough not to be easily overheard while maintaining the appearance of light, casual and not too familiar conversation.
“You made quick work, Russell.”
“Not so much quick as lucky. I’m moving like an old woman. And you?”
“Like an old man,” he says with a curl of his lips.
“Spry enough for me,” replies Russell coyly, stifling her smile as she recalls their early morning intimacies and the reaction the reference is sure to elicit.
As expected, Holmes responds with a shift in his chair and a disapproving grunt, which in turn elicits a broad grin from Russell. She just can’t help herself, needling him when he assumes this particular role. Holmes is a master of disguise precisely because he adopts not just the outward appearance and mannerisms, but the underlying culture and sensibilities of his intended persona. He can do this successfully for an astonishing array of roles, cutting across age, class, faith, nationality and quite possibly, even gender. But portraying an aged and repressed Victorian patrician comes as naturally to him as breathing. At almost 40 years her senior, it is a culture he has been steeped in and one he can rightfully claim as his own. Fortunately, for both of them, he chooses to do so only when it suits, for an investigation or, should the mood strike him, to needle her.
Russell repeats her question. “And you, Holmes? You’re spry enough to have dodged the question.”
“Have I been lucky? It’s hardly a question worth answering. It was a simple matter to deduce when you would rise and given your need of both a walk and a coat, which café you would choose to visit first. I am surprised that you were not further along with your meal and by the unseemly state of your hair. Perhaps I did not adequately account for your limitations? Or was it an unsuccessful search for more hairpins that delayed you?”
“Or the dose of morphine you administered,” retorts Russell with annoyance. She pauses to swallow her coffee and consider why Holmes is being evasive, explaining how he found her rather than why. “The question of how your investigation is progressing is now twice avoided. You’ve been unlucky,” she concludes, waving off his objection, “and you have a need to tell me something I do not want to hear.”
“I’m beginning to understand how exasperating it is to be read so plainly. You are right, I do have something to tell you. Possibly two things. But first, give me your impressions of the journalist. They have some bearing.”
Holmes’ request that Russell present her observations, relying on her summary rather than spending the time to make his own deductions, is more than a simple expedience. It is a ritual of reassurance between spouses that enables them to continue their partnership. Holmes demands keen observation and clarity of thought, knowing it is her best protection. Russell demonstrates her abilities, knowing it is his strongest reassurance. Russell demands he rely on her, knowing his trust is necessary for true partnership. Holmes demonstrates his trust, knowing it is her strongest reassurance. It is through this ritualized testing and proving that they affirm their mutual respect and shared responsibility to one another. Sitting in a café more than 7 years later, Russell proceeds to recite her observations much as she had done under the shade of the copper beech the first day they’d met, and on countless occasions since.
“Well, Mycroft said he’s young, poor and ambitious; I’d agree with all of that. He’s my age or there about. Married, no children. He’s here for the warmth, not to pay for a meal. He’s a regular, but not so regular that they call him by name or bring him something to eat or drink without request. Perhaps those other cafés are his more usual haunts. He is affable, at least superficially, drawing a quick smile or laugh from the staff. He’s confident, arrogant even, claiming his place in this café like a boulder in a stream, solid, wide and immovable. But not so confident that he’s lazy. He works incredibly hard, obsessively, ignoring what’s going on around him until he wants something. That could be a problem for Mycroft.”
“Unless what he’s writing about pertains to matters of state.”
“True enough. We saw evidence of that in his reporting for the Toronto Star. But I suspect his current focus is a work of fiction. He doesn’t reference any notes. And I doubt the subject concerns what’s immediately around him. When he looks up it’s with a distant or unfocused look. The one exception is women. It’s my impression he pays a lot of attention to them, his wife notwithstanding. There was a young lady here earlier, over by the window, quite striking, her black hair cut short and severely, accentuating her sharp, slender features. He did focus on her, greedily, I’d say. I thought for sure he’d approach her, but in the end, he turned back to his notebook. I don’t think he’s even noticed yet that she’s gone. I’m not sure that bodes well for Mycroft, either.”
“Not unless he could use it to his advantage. Would women find him attractive?”
“I haven’t really considered it,” replies Russell loyally.
“How reassuring,” quips Holmes with a hint of impatience. “Perhaps you would consider it now?”
Russell tilts her head and studies him frankly. “Yes. Yes, I think plenty of women would, especially once his hair grows back in. He has a limp, not recent by the wear of his shoes, probably from the war. He’s vain, his eyesight is poor, but he refuses to wear glasses. And I suspect he’s self-absorbed. But for all that he has a sort of primal appeal; strong, self-assured, virile, a sure bet if you needed a mate.”
“Hm. Most informative Russell.”
“Surely you have something to add, Holmes.”
“Not much. He’s a pugilist. And a drinker. He’s dishonest and self-serving, at least enough so to have worked secretly for the International News Service while under exclusive contract with the Toronto Star. And he departs for Lausanne tomorrow.”
“How could you possibly know that?” says Russell indignantly.
“He has ordered two rum St. James’ since we’ve been watching, Russell,” replies Holmes blandly.
“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean. About the INS and Lausanne. You’ve spoken with Mycroft again, haven’t you?”
Holmes is unable to suppress his laughter, and after a few moments, nor can Russell.
“Holmes, are you finally going to tell me what’s going on?”
“The peace conference starts today in Lausanne and the Star is eager for him to cover it. He’s just taken an assignment with the INS to run wireless coverage there, which puts him on site, so he can keep abreast of developments. The train departs tomorrow at 2pm.”
Russell’s laughter comes to an abrupt halt. “Holmes. That’s three times. Three times you’ve avoided discussing the murder investigation. I’ve agreed to leave it up to you, but this is completely intolerable. I’ll not be cossetted. You know better.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what? You know better or you’re not cossetting?”
“Both, Russell. I am suffering from indecision.”
“A rare affliction indeed,” replies Russell, and a rare confession she adds to herself. Softening her tone, she continues, “I am your partner, Holmes. Use me.”
Holmes raises his eyebrow but Russell refuses to be distracted. Holmes acquiesces. “What we know. Wilson and Girard, two informants, murdered. Both were experts in the politics and economics of the Near East, the competing European interests and Kemal’s deft manipulation of one county against another. The murder suspects; the French, the Greeks or the Turks? Each stand to gain from stopping the leak, as much now as ever while negotiations for a binding treaty proceed. One known killer, Vokos the Greek. His method, an unspeakable assault on a Turkish family, quite possibly in retaliation for atrocities suffered by his countryman, or even his own family, during the war. The purpose of the coercion? To extract information on Mycroft’s intelligence network or to flip the spies to their own purpose. In either event, the henchman is dead and the evidence, so far, points to the Greeks.”
“So far?”
“What we don’t know. Who is the other man? Another Greek, or someone who wants to implicate the Greeks? What will he do now? Is he satisfied, or will he continue?”
“It doesn’t really matter, Holmes.”
“That is a very unexpected statement, Russell.”
“No, of course, it matters. But surely, you’ve concluded that whomever is ultimately to blame is either already in Lausanne or soon to be so. And whatever he plans to do, it will happen there. It would appear that both of Mycroft’s errands lead to Lausanne.”
“Yes. That is what logic dictates. Mycroft, by the way, is in agreement.”
“But you disagree?”
“No. One of us, certainly, should go.”
“One of us,” repeats Russell quietly as she carefully considers this last statement and what Holmes means by it. Her first conclusion, that he intends to leave her behind while she recovers from her injury, is as quickly rejected as the attendant anger it sparked is snuffed. Holmes is nothing if not precise. If he meant that he would go, and she would not, he would have said as much. But he didn’t. Instead he said ‘one of us, certainly’ which asserts both their partnership and the open question of who should go, one, the other or both of them. Which begs the question, why remain in Paris when it appears both of Mycroft’s errands lead to Lausanne. Holmes must not be wholly convinced that there isn’t more to be learned here in Paris.
“Is it indecision, Holmes, that ails you? Or is it that you do not know why you are undecided?”
Holmes looks to Russell, his eyes wide with the accuracy of her diagnosis and the need to unearth the cause of his indecision. Almost immediately his gaze becomes unfocused as he mentally races down new avenues of enquiry prompted by this realization.
Russell continues, “You have until tomorrow at two to figure out the source of your indecision. Bar that, the Lieutenant can continue the investigation here, be our eyes and ears while we pursue matters in Lausanne. Where is Martin, anyway?” asks Russell.
“He’s been pulled away on a personal matter,” responds Holmes distractedly.
“What? What personal matter?”
Refocusing on her, “It is personal, Russell. I opted not to enquire.”
“Good heavens, when has that ever stopped you?” After a pause, “You’ve grown quite attached to him, haven’t you Holmes? You have your suspicions but are respecting his privacy.”
“His affairs are his own,” says Holmes noncommittally, his attention drifting off again.
Russell is not at all satisfied by his vague response but before she can challenge him, Hemingway starts to gather his belongings in preparation to depart. Holmes looks to Russell and states aloud her thoughts, “He’ll respond better to you than me.”
“Agreed, a woman’s touch.”
“I’ll continue with my enquiries and see you back at the hotel tonight or possibly in the morning. We can make a final decision then about Lausanne and whether we shall travel there together. And Russell. Thank you.”
Knowing full well it is not the matter of Hemingway for which he is thankful, but the much more delicate matter of clarifying his thinking, she responds with a curt nod. “I’m happy to be of assistance.”
As soon as Hemingway leaves the café, Holmes helps Russell into her coat, noting how stiffly and uncomfortably she moves. Russell sees the concern in her husband’s eyes and gives him a defiant glare before turning her back and walking out the door. Despite his concern, Holmes knows better than to caution, coddle or chide his partner in any way and turns on his heel to walk in the opposite direction.