As I stared into space, Holmes’s face broke into my reverie. After my marriage, I thought, we would see far less of each other, since the happiness of my domestic life and a growing medical practise would give me little time to look in upon my dear friend. I would follow his exploits as well as I could through the London press. In that way I would learn of his whereabouts. Sadly, I thought, his adventures would remain quite unknown to me.
“Perhaps, Watson,” he broke in, “in the interest of adding to your already voluminous files about me, you should have an account of my recent journey to France. It was a visit to Montpellier to do research on a host of new poisons that have entered the criminal market. There was no adventure in this, the journey being free of those lurid elements which you continue to relate in your popular accounts of my comings and goings, and it may not serve your purposes. Here, however, are the results of my research, dedicated to you, my dear friend, soon to depart for the land of domestic bliss.”
His voice was free of the usual sarcasm that accompanied his words when he uttered such sentimental thoughts. He leaned forward in his chair and handed me a substantial tome entitled “Poisons and Their Criminal Uses. A Monograph Submitted to the Sûretè of France by Sherlock Holmes.”
I was deeply touched by his gift and he saw my eyes mist over.
“Do not worry, Watson, I shall be here, and I promise you that I shall take no one new into our quarters. You are free therefore to come and go as you please. And I hope you will find the free time to come. I have already told Mrs. Hudson of the arrangement and she concurs. While we await our visitor, perhaps I should explain to you the reasoning that took me to France.”
I wiped my eyes, and muttered a hoarse, “Go on, old boy.”
“Very well, then, here is the case, or rather the reasons for my visit to France. It was to write a book about poisons, the one you hold in your hand.”
He did not move from his chair, but sat motionless. For a moment, and for but a moment, I could almost see his great brain as it scrutinized events and characters, thus bringing forth the detailed observations and deductions that led him to his inevitable conclusions.
“After we disposed of Jonathan Small, you will recall that I had little to occupy my time, and so I decided to spend a month in the south of France. There, in a cottage that belongs to a distant cousin, I continued some of the chemical researches that had been delayed because of my active professional life. My interest was in a number of poisons that I felt must be described in detail if criminal investigations were to be more successful.
“You have recorded already my constant dabblings with poisons and other toxins, and my knowledge of what you have termed sensational literature, by which phrase I assume you meant the history of crime. My historical knowledge, together with the recent results of my many experiments, I finally put down in this monograph published in France through the good offices of a friend in the Sûretè. Written under my name, it caused a bit of an uproar within criminological circles since it pointed to the increasing use of obscure but deadly poisons as a more and more common weapon of inducing death. I chose to publish the work in France, because my historical researches had traced the use of poison in modern Europe back to the late-seventeenth-century Poison Affair at the French court, in which several notables were involved. The poisons used by Marie Madeleine d’Aubray, marquise de Brunvillers, and by Catherine La Voisin, to dispatch many at the court of Louis the Fourteenth, were nearly all new at the time and the more difficult to detect because of their very recent appearance in Europe. The line between medicine and poison is a fine one, Watson, and my monograph showed how murder had been made easier by the recent increase in the number of substances now available from our colonies in India and Africa. The most common of these were of course the various strychnine poisons that were made from the seeds of the strychnos nux vomica, a plant native to India. These and others mimic many diseases and if given over long periods of time produce long suffering and, finally, death.”
I recalled as he spoke that he remained in France for about eight weeks before his return to London only two days before. His stay in Paris was far longer than he had planned, due largely to the publication of the monograph, and he did not arrive in London until almost the end of January.
“Two days ago, while you were out, dear Watson, I was informed by Mrs. Hudson that a monk, probably of the Roman Church, wished to see me. He had appeared suddenly and unannounced. She had gathered from his broken English that it was a matter of the gravest urgency, and judging by his excited gestures, she felt that I had best see him at once. I, unfortunately, was not here either, and so our prospective client left, saying that he would return at the same time the following day.” And so he had, for there was a sudden knock at our door, unmistakably that of our landlady, and Holmes nodded, asking that she show our guest in immediately.
When he entered, I was a bit taken aback, for I recognized him instantly. Still tall, though slightly bent and much older now than I remembered, there was no mistaking the dramatic figure, the powerful face, the aquiline nose, the famous moles on the cheeks, and the long snow-white hair that reached his shoulders. He wore the long black frock of the monk, and a black velvet cape over his tall frame.
“Welcome, Monsieur Abbé,” said Holmes in French, “I am rarely honoured by so distinguished a visitor. And this is my colleague, Dr. Watson. I think you will find the chair near the window the most comfortable. Please sit down.”
“I need your immediate help, Monsieur Holmes,” said the monk, continuing in French.
“I am at your service, Monsieur Liszt. I assume that you have learned of me through—”
“The King of Bohemia, my good friend, and most recently through friends in the French Sûretè, where you are held in the highest esteem. The King has often recounted to me—and to very few others—the successful outcome of your intervention in his affairs, an intervention that saved his marriage and throne. And now I turn to you for help, not for myself, at least not directly, but for my daughter, Cosima, more than anyone, and for her husband, who has been my close friend for many years.”
Holmes paused briefly to light his pipe. He looked at me directly as he said, “You know as well as I, Watson, that one does not have to be an avid follower of music and musicians to know of whom Monsieur Liszt speaking.”
Indeed, I thought to myself, even an unmusical person such as I knew of those of whom he spoke. Liszt, his daughter Cosima, and her husband, the German composer Wagner, were the subject of constant gossip and the object of endless attacks by pamphleteers and the lower forms of the press, both in Germany and the rest of Europe. Holmes himself kept a large file on musicians, one in which Wagner and his circle figured prominently.
Addressing our guest, Holmes said, “Please continue, Monsieur Liszt. If I believe that I can be of help, I shall be so gladly.”
His guest paused for a moment, struggling with his choice of words.
“Then let me explain, Monsieur Holmes. I believe Richard Wagner is in great danger, and I fear for his life. We have known each other for many years. We first met in Paris over forty years ago, and while we have had careers that often placed us far apart, we have never lost touch. Since he married my daughter Cosima in 1870, his children are now my grandchildren, and I have made it part of my life to visit with his family as often as my work permits. I was not a good father, Monsieur Holmes, neither to Cosima, nor to her brothers and sisters. My habits are well known, but, seasoned by age perhaps, I have attempted to make amends, at least to Cosima, by spending time with little Siegfried and his sisters, the Wagner children. I adore them and wish them every happiness.