be certain of a wonderful dinner.’
My luck was changing. ‘Well, perhaps—’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Beau Soleil, here in Nice.’
‘Hmm, I have not heard of it. Dr Watson, will you hail me a cab, please? It is growing chilly and I should like to return to my hotel. You can expect an invitation soon.’ Stepping into the street, I easily procured a cab for her, and as she mounted it, she turned and gave me a small wave.
How very curious, I thought. If it were not so illogical, I might entertain the thought that she was pursuing us, or Holmes, for some unfathomable reason. But the wind had picked up, and I was dressed lightly. I shivered and turned back to the Beau Soleil.
Some hours later, after a fitful nap and dinner in the modest hotel restaurant, I returned to the room to find Holmes stretched out, catlike on one of the wretched beds.
‘Ah, Watson. I see from your expression that you have been successful,’ he cried. ‘And so have I. Your news first!’
‘Yes, I found the lady almost immediately, or rather she found me,’ I said. ‘She had her shopping with her. But she seemed to suspect that we are on the trail of her family regarding this vineyard problem! Why she could possibly—’
‘Watson, Mrs McLaren is observant. Remember that she espied the miniature still on my table in Baker Street and likely the phylloxera materials as well. It is not a very far leap to infer my involvement.’
‘I suppose. Holmes, let us leave this room and take some air.’
In a few moments we were on a rooftop terrace with glasses of Pernod. There was almost a view of the ocean, if somewhat marred by intervening buildings in various stages of disrepair. Ours was not precisely a first-class hotel.
‘If only I had known of the suspicions surrounding the McLarens, I might have taken Isla McLaren’s case then,’ said Holmes. ‘No matter, I shall take her case now.’
‘Too late. The maid Fiona seems to have eloped with the groundsman’s son. There was a note.’
‘A shame. I could have used that as our entry point—’
‘In any case, Holmes, Mrs McLaren said we would be invited to dinner. Just as you had hoped.’
Holmes reacted strangely to this. ‘This is rather more convenient than it should be. And yet I do not believe in coincidences. I wonder about her agenda.’
‘She did know that her family is suspected of interference in the phylloxera research.’
Holmes started at this. ‘Interesting. I am surprised she did not mention it in Baker Street.’
‘But what of your detour in Tours? Did you accomplish what you hoped?’
Holmes’s meeting, as it turned out, had been with a man we knew from an earlier case. This supremely wealthy and powerful gentleman had, since our dealings with him, bought a château and vineyard in the Loire Valley, in order to be nearer a certain French singer of our acquaintance with whom he was most painfully in love. Her name was Cherie Cerise, or Mademoiselle Emmeline La Victoire, as we had known her.
‘This man happens to be a close friend of Philippe Reynaud. They were old Etonians together. Alas he could offer no insight into Reynaud’s suspicion of the British but something else of use came of the meeting!’
‘What was that?’
‘He was absolutely shocked when I told him that Jean Vidocq had been hired by his friend Reynaud to protect the French researcher.’
‘Why would he care about this?’
‘Because this same Vidocq has developed into a nemesis. Do you remember the friction between them on our case last year? They continue to be rivals in love for the French chanteuse.’
This fit exactly with my impression of Jean Vidocq. ‘I see,’ said I. ‘But … how do you intend to use this?’ I wondered. ‘I mean, given that “domestics” as you call them do not fall in your purview.’
‘Ah, Watson, you chastise. Vidocq’s role in this phylloxera scandal is precipitously attached now to his private romantic life.’ Holmes laughed. ‘I can ensure his dismissal from that post if I can prove the affair.’
The winter sun had dropped low in the sky and dark gold bands of light played across the table and the nearby patrons.
‘Did this man you refuse to name know that his friend Reynaud had hired Vidocq?’
Holmes smiled impishly. ‘Now he does.’
Holmes was ever a master of the long game. But the short-term concerns fell to me. ‘Order some food, Holmes. The omelette is quite good I am told.’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
‘Well I see you have leverage now over Vidocq, if indeed he is romancing Mlle La Victoire.’
‘It is as likely as the sun rising tomorrow.’
‘But is there any chance that Vidocq is actually fulfilling his role? That he is actually protecting Dr Janvier from a very real threat?’
‘That is the far more important question, Watson, and takes precedence.’
He looked out at the sliver of ocean thoughtfully. The slanted rays of the setting sun highlighted his London pallor and he looked rather more like a figure at Madame Tussaud’s than was healthy. As usual while on a case, he had eaten nothing.
‘Shall we take a stroll?’ I offered. ‘Perhaps some dinner?’
‘Not for me, Watson. Go ahead. I have more reading to do before meeting with Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. We leave tomorrow on a very early train for Montpellier.’
‘Come Watson, we must be on the 4.30 train.’
I stumbled groggily into my clothes, and we set out in the predawn hours for the station. Hurriedly gulping down a hot coffee before boarding, I then tried to read a small Montpellier guidebook but soon dozed. Once again, I felt Holmes’s hand on my shoulder, jostling me awake. We had arrived in Montpellier, a small medieval city renowned for its scientific research. I yawned in anticipation of a long day discussing the vineyard scourge. But fate held something quite different in store.
We disembarked just before noon at the Gare de Montpellier and made our way north through the dusty streets to the Place de la Comédie. The weather had warmed since the day before, and the bright Mediterranean sun glowed on the golden brown sides of the crumbling and picturesque ruins that formed the Citadel, once an 11th-century fort. Despite its look of antiquity, this city had developed over the years into a kind of Mecca for scientists.
We were to meet Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier at La Coloumbe, a café on the main square, and we immediately spotted our quarry from a photograph provided by Mycroft Holmes. Seated at an outdoor table, the renowned horticultural scientist and leading investigator in the vineyard scourge, Dr Janvier was younger than I had anticipated, in his mid-thirties. Black-haired and intense, he sported an impressive, curled moustache and a lightweight suit of linen, appropriate here even in December.
Janvier gazed out at the passers-by, drumming his long thin fingers in a manner not unlike Holmes. He seemed lost in thought.
‘Docteur Janvier?’ said Holmes, approaching