glass at the letter. ‘How curious, these scratches!’ He sniffed the page. ‘This blasted perfume! Yet I detect the slightest odour of— wait!’ He began rummaging through a collection of glass bottles. With small dabs, he applied droplets to the page, muttering as he did so. ‘There must be more.’
I knew better than to disturb him at such work and turned back to the newspaper I was reading. Not long after, I was startled from my dozing reverie by a cry of triumph.
‘Ha! Just as I thought, Watson. The letter that disappeared was not the entire message. I have revealed a second letter underneath, in invisible ink. Clever indeed—a double use of steganography!’
‘But how—?’
‘There were small scratches on the page that did not match the writing we saw. And the faintest odour of potato. The lady has employed a second ink that only appears upon the application of a reagent, in this case iodine.’
‘Holmes, you amaze me. What does it say?’
‘It reads: “My dear Mr Holmes, it is with the utmost panic and terror that I write this to you. I did not wish a letter naming the boy’s father to remain extant; hence my precaution. If you are as astute as reputed, you will discover this second note. Then I will know you are the man to help me.
‘“I write to you because my young son, Emil, aged ten, has disappeared from the unnamed’s estate, and I fear he has been kidnapped or worse. Emil has until recently lived with this man and his wife under complicated conditions which I would like to make known to you in person.
‘“I am allowed to see him only once a year at Christmas time, when I travel to London and must follow explicit instructions for a most secretive assignation.
‘“A week ago, I received a letter telling me that our meeting, to have taken place three weeks hence, is now cancelled and I will not see my boy this Christmas, nor ever again. I was enjoined to accept this on pain of death. I cabled at once, and a day later I was accosted in the street by a vicious ruffian, knocked to the ground and warned to stay away.
‘“There is more, Mr Holmes, but I fear a strange net is closing in on me. May I call on you in London next week? I implore you in the name of humanity and justice to take my case. Please cable your reply to me signed as Mr Hugh Barrington, London Variety Producer. Very sincerely yours, Emmeline ‘Cherie’ La Victoire.”’
Holmes paused, thinking. He picked up a cold pipe, grasping it with his teeth. His tired features took on a hint of animation. ‘What do you make of this “strange net,” Watson?’
‘I have no idea. She is an artist. Perhaps a touch of the dramatic?’ I said.
‘I think not. This letter displays intelligence and careful planning.’
He tapped his cold pipe on the page in a sudden decisive gesture, glanced at the clock and stood, his eyes afire. ‘Ah, there is just time to make the last ferry from Dover. Pack your bags, Watson; we leave for the Continent in less than ninety minutes.’ He moved to the door, shouting downstairs, ‘Mrs Hudson!’
‘But the lady is coming here next week, she said.’
‘Next week she could be dead. Concerned as she is, this young woman may not fully appreciate the danger she faces. I will explain all en route.’
And with that he was at the front door, again shouting into the hallway, ‘Mrs Hudson! Our bags!’
‘Holmes,’ I cried. ‘You are forgetting! My bags are elsewhere. In my own home!’
But he had left the room and entered his bedchamber. I wondered if his brain was even functioning to forget such a thing. Was he healthy enough to—?
I leaped from my chair and tore back the cover from the couch. There, tucked under one of the cushions, lay Holmes’s cocaine and hypodermic. My heart sank.
Holmes appeared in the doorway. ‘Please convey my apologies to Mrs Watson and collect your things at …’ Here he paused, seeing the bottle and syringe in my hand.
‘Holmes! You told me this was finished.’
A flicker of shame crossed his proud countenance. ‘I’m … I’m afraid I need you, Watson.’ There was a slight pause. ‘On this trip, that is. If perhaps you would be free?’
The words hung in the air. His thin frame stood silhouetted in the door, poised, nearly quivering with excitement, or perhaps the drug. I looked down at the needle in my hands. I could not let him go alone in this state.
‘You must promise me, Holmes—’
‘No more cocaine.’
‘No, I mean it this time. I cannot help you if you will not help yourself.’
He nodded, once.
I replaced the syringe in its case and pocketed it and the cocaine. ‘You are in luck, then. Mary leaves for the country tomorrow to visit her mother.’
Holmes clapped his hands together like a child. ‘Very good, Watson!’ he cried. ‘The Chatham departs for Dover from Victoria Station in three-quarters of an hour. Bring your revolver!’ With that he vanished up the stairs. I paused.
‘And the sandwiches,’ he shouted down from above. I smiled. Holmes was back. And so, for better or worse, was I.
The man facing me across our private compartment was no longer the man who had been languishing at 221B only hours before. Clean-shaven and even elegant in his travelling costume of black and grey, Holmes was every inch the imposing figure he could be when so inspired.
Certain that his rapid transformation was due entirely to the stimulation of this new case, and nothing to do with my ministrations, I admit to feeling a bit resentful. Nevertheless, I put these thoughts from my mind and decided to be satisfied that my friend was once again returning to himself, whatever the cause.
He began an unusually voluble explanation of our situation, his eyes burning with an excitement I hoped would not turn manic.
‘The double encoding of the letter was not without interest, don’t you think Watson? She evidently needed to mention the real name of the gentleman, yet to take that kind of precaution must mean she fears him as well. But it is the secondary message which intrigues.’
‘Yes. How did she know that you would find it?’
‘My reputation of course.’
‘And so my recounting of A Study in Scarlet has done you some good, then, Holmes?’
‘You forget I am known in France. Given her interest in chemistry, I would consider her choice to hide the second message a kind of litmus test.’
I sat back in puzzlement while peeling an orange with a small knife. ‘I’ll admit the double-ink trick is a clever touch. But what about the case itself? The lady wishes to travel to you. Why, then, this haste and our trip to Paris?’
Holmes smiled mischievously. ‘Don’t you fancy a trip to Paris, Watson? Leave the gloom of London for the City of Lights? Surely you cannot object to a brief holiday. You have not yet seen the curious ongoing construction of a rather grandiose edifice called La Tour Eiffel.’
‘I have heard it is an abomination. And you do not travel for recreation, Holmes. Why do you think the danger to the lady is imminent?’
‘I