I too was ready. I opted for a classically cut summer suit with a necktie. We were ready to depart. The carriage was waiting.
We arrived at Alice Darringford’s villa, or rather palace, shortly before seven o’clock. Guests from far and wide were already arriving. A long line of automobiles, fiacres and carriages streamed in along the road from London, passing through the main gates at less than one minute intervals. There were so many of them that the coachmen and chauffeurs had to jostle and compete for who would unload their passengers first. We disembarked onto the vast marble steps lit by torches and leading to the widely opened doors of the opulent mansion.
Holmes proceeded up the steps as though he were dragging an iron ball on his leg.
I had to laugh.
At the entrance a footman in livery sidled up to us and offered us champagne. We drank it and plunged into the crowd. The vestibule already contained many notables. I recognised several politicians and actors, and there were also industrialists and members of noble families. Their wives wore the most opulent jewels, which danced in the light of the crystal chandelier above our heads. From both sides of the hall a staircase rose to the upper floor of the house; on the right was an immense drawing room and French doors leading to the garden. The guests conversed in a lively manner while a six-piece orchestra played gently in the background.
We walked through the villa, politely conversing with people whom I knew mainly by reputation in a manner that Holmes derisively called “a variant of empty chatter”. Personally I was fascinated by how some people could carry on a ten-minute monologue without actually saying anything.
Two hours passed in this way without us even seeing our hostess. Finally we walked out into the garden. The sky had already darkened and silver stars shone down on the illuminated garden.
À propos of that garden! The architect must have lavished it with attention. The lawns, shrubs, trees, beds of exotic flowers, everything was designed in charming and brilliant combinations of colours and shapes, and it was all perfectly maintained. It was especially magnificent now in the spring. I guessed that one of the reasons for the festivities was the proud owner’s desire to show off her hobby.
“Lady Darringford certainly has taste and a weakness for fine things,” said Holmes. “I feel as though I am in Versailles.”
We set off on a short tour of the park, further from the merry company and the light of the lamps, in order to rest from the noise of the party, which was already making my head spin, and take some fresh air. We made it all the way to a beech grove next to an old gazebo.
The mighty crowns of the trees had a regular egg-shaped form and the trunks were textbook slim, covered in a thin light-grey bark with a slight blue tinge. On the ground lay achenes and near them were freshly planted rhododendrons.
“The architect did not succeed in this part of the garden,” said Holmes. He was referring to the lack of taste reflected in the gazebo, which was begging to be torn down, and the disparate combination of trees. Nevertheless the shrubs smelled beautifully and had a calming effect. We were ready to head back to the whirlwind of society in the centre of the garden.
“Watson, is that you?” we suddenly heard in the dark. “I can’t believe it!”
The lawn was overflowing with people, so at first I did not know who was calling. From a cluster of guests emerged a tall man in a red officer’s uniform, waving at me in a friendly manner.
I only recognised him when he came closer and his face with its rust-coloured sideburns shone in the light of one of the lamps. It was Pankhurst, my old friend from my student years.
“How long has it been since I’ve seen you!” he boomed. “Hell, at least thirty, forty years![17] But don’t think I’ve lost track of you. I literally devour your stories about that famous detective. They are simply exceptional!”
“Thank you, Pankhurst, I am happy to see you again too,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Is it true what I have heard? That Holmes is dead?”
“Sadly, yes. This is Mr Parker, Holmes’s cousin,” I said, introducing the detective, who had been standing silently a short distance away.
The officer took off his hat and shook both of our hands.
“My condolences to both of you. England has lost a great man. He embodied the values that we all believe in.”
“And what are you doing here, old friend?” I said, steering the conversation elsewhere, despite the fact that Holmes looked as though listening to someone singing his praises interested him.
“Well,” said the old soldier waving his hand and barely able to contain a disgusted grimace. “I am here because of my youngest daughter, Grace. I am her escort. You see, my friend, I can tell you: she is unmarried and I fear that she will remain so for a long time. Not that she isn’t pretty, mind you. But she has taken up these modern feminist ideas and considers men as just a necessary evil.”
Pankhurst sighed and gulped down a glass of champagne.
“As I said, our country is going down the drain. The values and traditions which made England great are departing with the generation to which we three - and Mr Holmes - belong.”
“Surely it can’t be that bad,” I said.
“I wish you were right,” said the officer, screwing up his face. “It is my fault. During my career I did not have time for her; after the death of my dear wife she was raised by her aunt, the wife of my eldest brother. A peculiar woman. So long as she is under the influence of her friends, including our hostess, it is hard to believe.”
“I had no idea that Lady Darringford was a feminist,” said Holmes.
“She is not actively involved in the movement, but she shares their opinions,” said Pankhurst. “By the way, have you met her?”
“As yet we have not had the pleasure.”
“She was here a moment ago,” he said, looking around. “There she is, heading into the drawing room!”
We looked in the direction he was pointing, but saw only a female silhouette against the backdrop of the illuminated entrance to the villa. I reckoned her to be a lady of medium height with well-rounded hips and a tall coiffure decorated with peacock feathers. She was the first tangible lead to Rupert Darringford, the secretive man with the blood of Minutti and Paolo on his hands.
“We should pay our respects,” said Holmes, and as Pankhurst returned to his friends, we detached ourselves from him and left the garden.
“Let us hope that the lady does not share her brother’s opinions,” I said, remembering the fleeting incident with Darringford in Fulworth.
The detective did not reply. He tried not to lose sight of Lady Alice, who was moving about her house with the natural grace of a swan. Now we finally saw her in full light.
I had to keep my jaw from dropping. Alice Darringford was without doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She possessed a full feminine figure and light-coloured hair and eyes, which lent her a certain ethereal quality.
She stopped in the middle of the drawing room and clapped her hands.
“Friends, allow me to invite you to a small recital that my dear friend Grace Pankhurst and I have prepared for you!” she called in an enchantingly raspy voice.
The other guests began to return from the garden to the house. The lady made her way to an improvised stage, which until then the orchestra had occupied.
The musicians removed their instruments, leaving only two note stands.
“Grace, my dear, if you would,” she said, grasping the violoncello.
Pankhurst’s daughter, slim and freckled, brought over her violin and the women patiently waited for the audience to settle down. Thanks to Pankhurst, who rushed in for his daughter’s performance and used his elbows to make room for us, we were able to watch the recital unobstructed from the first row.
17