The Dark Lady Read online

“And does your father’s friend know his name?” I asked, too curious to wait for the rest of the story.

  “Mais oui!” Lupin said triumphantly. “The dead man’s name is François Poussin!”

  I was so excited by what Lupin had discovered, and the ingenious way he’d done it, that I hugged him then and there and complimented him on his good work. Then I noticed that Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle or said a single word. It looked like something was bothering him. I began to wonder if he was jealous of Lupin, or if maybe there was some sort of contest between them to impress me . . .

  That memory still makes me smile. I obviously didn’t know Sherlock Holmes very well at that point! I changed my mind the second Sherlock finally decided to speak.

  “That’s all quite remarkable,” Sherlock said. Lupin unwrapped himself from my arms. “Remarkable and very unusual.” He began to look more and more thoughtful.

  “Unusual?” Lupin said. “What’s so unusual about having a room at the Hotel de la Paix?”

  “Oh, nothing at all,” Sherlock said. “There’s absolutely nothing unusual about the man having a room at the Hotel de la Paix, particularly if he’s from out of town.” His mouth curled in an expression of doubt. “But I also did some investigative work this morning, since I’d come to basically the same conclusions that you had.” Sherlock made another of his long pauses for effect. “And the funny thing is, I tracked him down as well — but his name was Jacques Lambert and he had a room at the Hotel des Artistes!”

  Chapter 10

  HOTEL DE LA PAIX

  There must have been something predestined about our lives. What other explanation could there be for how three children who’d just met in a remote seaside town would get involved in such a strange and mysterious crime? Perhaps fate wanted the three of us to share a memorable adventure that would link us for the rest of our lives.

  After all, how could anyone even imagine a more incredible story than ours? One man found dead on the beach. A man who had two different names and rooms at two different hotels in the same town. And another, no less mysterious man who was spying on us when we found the first man’s dead body.

  To top it all off, there was now a possibility that Lupin’s father’s friend, the one who worked at the Hotel de la Paix, was trying to confuse us even more. I can’t remember exactly what his name was. Something Dutch, I think — Van Hesselink or something like that. What I can remember is how his name just didn’t match his appearance. He was a small man with round eyes who wore a jacket three sizes too big for him. To talk to him, you had to speak into his good ear or he couldn’t hear you.

  We asked Lupin’s father’s friend about the man he knew as François Poussin and he responded with a series of jumbled sentences. “Ah, Mr. Poussin, of course. He was one of our guests. A handsome man. Very tall. Although not too tall. A handsome man, indeed. Not that it’s my place to say whether or not our guests are handsome, but he really was. Maybe even more handsome than your father, Arsène. That says it all, don’t you think?”

  We kept questioning the man and eventually found out that Poussin had been staying at the hotel sporadically for almost a month. “He was never here for more than three days at a time. Each time, after three days away, he’d come back again. His leaving and going was like clockwork.”

  Sherlock asked to see the guest register, but apparently the hotel didn’t keep one. “Did he ever leave a handwritten note?” he asked.

  “What?” the man asked.

  Sherlock rolled his eyes. He and the man went back and forth a few times to clear things up. Sherlock wanted to find something written by François Poussin so he could compare it with the note we’d found on the body at the beach. We eventually convinced the man to let us see his room.

  “You never spoke to him?” asked Lupin, as we all went up a creaky staircase in single file.

  “Never!” roared the man. “Apart from a few words here and there, like I said. But nothing important. He’d just ask me for a coffee or a fruit juice.”

  “Did he have an accent?” I asked.

  He stopped in his tracks at the top of the stairs. “An accent, you say, Miss? Well, now that I come to think of it, yes, he had an accent. A southern accent. I’d say he was from Marseilles, maybe.” He fumbled with a master key. “I’m only doing this because your father and I are friends, you understand.”

  The little man turned to Lupin. “Don’t you touch or move anything, you hear?!” he warned. “Actually, just stay near the door and look inside.” Finally, he opened the door.

  “Have the police already been here?” asked Lupin, sliding past the man and into the room.

  “Not since I’ve been on duty,” the man answered shortly.

  “All the better for us,” Sherlock said.

  “Please, Arsène!” the little man said. “I’m doing this as a favor to you. Don’t make me regret it.” The little man then launched into a muddled discussion about something which none of us paid much attention to.

  That Friday had been all about bedrooms to that point. It was the day Lupin had hidden himself in mine, scaring me half to death. And now we were in the bedroom that was apparently the last place where the dead man had slept.

  The moment I set foot in that room, I felt overwhelmed by anguish. And there was something else. Something vaguely gruesome. I carefully avoided touching anything and moved as stiffly as a puppet as the man rambled on and my two friends carefully inspected everything.

  Sitting on the nightstand beside the neatly made bed was a small red book. There was also a jacket, a pair of velvet pants, a small suitcase, bed linens, and a pair of shoes.

  Sherlock lifted the shoes and turned them around in his hand. “It’s only slightly used,” he said, noting how the leather sole was barely worn.

  There was practically nothing in the room. There were no clues as to what work the man did, no business cards, nothing that could put us on the right track to learning more about him. When I looked at the bedside table again, however, I noticed that the little red book had disappeared . . .

  Soon after, the little man took us down to the lobby hotel. “And you have no idea who might have killed him?” Sherlock asked the porter, the floor creaking beneath our steps.

  This time the porter heard the question the first time it was asked. “At least ten people have asked me that today,” he said with a shrug. “He never had any visitors. He never talked to anyone — at least not that I know of. He was always coming and going. And I have no idea what kind of business he was in. He washed his own clothing, so he never spoke to any of the staff here. As far as I know, he was killed by the Rooftop Thief.”

  My eyes went wide. “The Rooftop Thief?” I asked. “Who’s that?” I had to repeat the question until the man’s face changed shape into a kind of grin. He probably meant to look mysterious, but it was actually rather funny.

  “Oh, a lot of people have seen him,” the porter said in a playful voice. “On nights when there’s a full moon, a figure moves around on the rooftops all dressed in black. The dark figure climbs the walls like a spider!” I glanced at Lupin, expecting a Cheshire-cat grin, but found that his face had gone entirely pale.

  * * *

  Later that evening, I was walking home with Sherlock. It seemed as if the dark sea beside us had swallowed up all of the colors in the town. The streets seemed gray, the stone houses appeared black, and the wisteria hedges vaguely silver. We’d talked a lot about the man with two names but didn’t reach any conclusions.

  “This Rooftop Thief,” I said, breaking a long silence. “Do you think he was the man I saw on the beach?”

  Sherlock didn’t seem very convinced — I could see it in his eyes. And he hadn’t believed a single word of what the porter had told us.

  “I don’t know,” Sherlock said. His perplexed expression told me that I shouldn’t push the issue.

&nbs
p; I noticed that Sherlock had chosen an indirect path to my home that didn’t pass by his house. Perhaps it was because he was walking me home, and not the other way around, or because he didn’t want me anywhere near his family. Whatever the reason, I was grateful.

  “It’s getting late,” I said when we were almost back to my house. “I hope your mother won’t be angry.”

  It took a few seconds for Sherlock to understand what I’d said. When he did, he chuckled. “I’d finished all my chores before I went out. I’m not worried. When she’s playing cards, she’s usually back home late at night.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I asked. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Did you take it?” I didn’t have to explain what I was talking about.

  “Only to see if he’d written anything in it,” Sherlock said.

  I nodded. “His handwriting. Of course,” I said. I sighed deeply as we turned the last corner.

  “Lock yourself inside,” Sherlock said as we approached the door of my home.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Double check the door, even though you have a butler,” Sherlock said. “And make sure to close your window.” He looked up at my house and I noticed that he was eyeing the two lighted windows on the first floor. “Lupin told me that one is yours,” he muttered, pointing to one.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, really? He told you that, did he?” Which one of them actually figured out which was my window? I wondered.

  Sherlock looked at me with sparkling eyes. He was about to say something but, whatever it was, he changed his mind at the last moment. “Good night, Irene,” he said instead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Sherlock,” I said.

  I watched as he passed into the darkness. When I turned back to my house, I noticed that Papa had arrived.

  Chapter 11

  VOICES IN THE NIGHT

  “Irene!” Papa called.

  He waited for me in the hall with his arms wide open. I threw myself into them. “When did you get here?” I asked.

  “Just now, my little one!” Papa said.

  My father lifted me up in the air, as he’d done even in my earliest memories of him. He only put me down when my mother immediately chastised him. “Leopold!” she shouted. “Put her down!”

  That was what she always called my father. It made him sound like some Bohemian prince. And he would have made a good prince, although he didn’t quite look like one. He was quite short and tubby, with intelligent eyes and a mustache that seemed to be in a perpetual state of agitation. His hands were soft and strong at the same time, and he always smelled like cologne — even after his longest journeys.

  I saw immediately that he was very tired, and that surprising me like this had taken a lot of effort on his part, but I could tell he was happy to be there all the same.

  “So how’s your vacation going?” he asked.

  “I know you already know!” I said, then leaned in close. “It’s as dead as a doornail.” I added with a whisper and a grin.

  “I know, I know,” he answered, rustling my hair. “It’s all quite scandalous, this murder business, isn’t it?”

  There was a real trust between me and my father I sometimes hardly know how to explain. He’d just arrived a moment ago, and I already wanted to take him to meet my new friends, and maybe even to see Ashcroft Manor.

  Instead, we went into the dining room. We were greeted by an array of fine crystal and silverware — and a guest. He was a tall, thin man who was about sixty years old. He was very distinguished-looking. I was told his name was Dr. Morgoeuil and that he was a doctor in the town. Mother had invited him so he could meet Father, although Dr. Morgoeuil would speak very little that evening.

  My parents had an unusual way of entertaining guests. Mama did most of the talking, while Papa simply added one-word comments here and there. Sometimes he just nodded. Then, from time to time, he’d shoot a quick glance at me. I never missed them because I knew exactly when they were coming. It was always when he was sure that no one else was looking. Father took advantage of these moments to make funny faces at me. He’d feign being shocked at something that was said, or he’d stick out his already big lips in a comical pout. Or he’d pretend that he was starting to fall asleep. He was always funny, and I loved meals when we all ate together — especially because it didn’t happen very often.

  As my mother explained to Dr. Morgoeuil, my father was a very busy man who looked after trains and railways for the Bavarian royal family. He was a very important person. But he traveled so much that he envied people who were able to just stay in one place and enjoy the peace and quiet of their own hometown. In all likelihood, those same people envied him for his life of constant first-class travel and his extended stays in luxury hotels.

  “Absolutely fascinating discussion, Mr. Adler,” said the doctor. “And thank you, Mrs. Adler, for the meal. Everything was delicious.”

  The adults then went to the drawing room for coffee, tea, or wine (which I wasn’t allowed to touch). I said goodnight to them, beginning with the doctor and ending with Papa.

  “Would you like to go the beach tomorrow?” Father suggested.

  “Are you staying with us for a while?” I answered, both excited and doubtful.

  “Only until Monday, little one,” he said. Now that Father was home, I suddenly forgot all about the hooded man on the beach, the snakes hiding in the ivy, and anyone who might be spying on my house from the dark alleyways of the old town.

  Maybe that was a mistake on my part, because none of those things forgot about me.

  * * *

  I awoke with a start in the middle of the night. The first thing I saw was my wardrobe — the door was ajar and I thought I could hear someone whispering inside. My heart was pounding.

  “Lupin?” I asked, stupidly.

  Of course no one answered. I got up and walked cautiously over to the window, pulled back the curtains, and looked out. I saw the dark sea, crossed by the jagged, silver sliver of the moon. The sky was so clear that you couldn’t possibly have counted all the stars. There was no one in the street. No shadows behind the wisteria. Everything seemed quiet.

  With my heart in my throat, I opened the wardrobe door. But inside there was nothing but the black shapes of my clothing.

  Then I heard it again. Whispering. I realized it was my mother and father. I looked out into the hallway. The grandfather clock chimed dully, the sound seeming to come from the far reaches of that the dark sea. I could only hear some of what my parents were saying — only when one of them raised their voice.

  I don’t know why, but I decided to listen to them. Maybe it was because I was so absorbed by my role as an investigator that I thought I had to investigate everything. Perhaps I was just curious. Or maybe I just wanted to sit up all night talking with Father in the sitting room. Whichever reason it was, I stood at the top of the stairs listening to them, using my imagination to fill in for the words I couldn’t quite make out.

  There was one thing that wasn’t difficult to understand: they were talking about me. “I’m worried,” I heard my mother say.

  My heart started beating faster. What was she worried about? The man on the beach? Something else?

  “There’s no need to be worried,” my father answered quietly. “It will be calmer here than anywhere else.”

  “Maybe so,” she said. “But people will talk.”

  “Let them,” Father said. “The doctor . . .” I couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence.

  “He’ll never know, will he?” Mother asked.

  My father hesitated before answering. “I think we should tell him sooner or later,” he said.

  I could guess what they were talking about. I had an urge to go downstairs and tell them that I understood, but just then a hand appeared on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. I opened my
mouth to scream, but didn’t make a noise.

  “I think it would be best if you went back to bed, Miss Irene,” whispered Mr. Nelson. He’d come up behind me without me even noticing. “It’s not appropriate to listen in on other people’s conversations.”

  In the darkness, all I saw was his white smile, like a crescent moon. I followed his advice, and the next morning I’d forgotten all about what had happened.

  Chapter 12

  THE DARK LADY

  “Care to tell me where you’ve been?” Sherlock asked me the moment I stepped onto the porch of Ashcroft Manor. I smiled, glad to see him even though he seemed annoyed with me. He walked toward me, but then passed right by and headed down the trail which I’d just come.

  “Come on, let’s go!” he said.

  I scoffed. Who does he think he is? I wondered. And who does he think he’s talking to?!

  “William Sherlock Holmes!” I exclaimed, not budging an inch. Hearing his full name in that tone of voice had exactly the effect I’d hoped for. He jerked to an abrupt stop. “Apologize to me immediately!”

  “What?!” he snorted. “Apologize for what? For waiting all morning for you to arrive?”

  “But my father’s here!” I said, although I still felt guilty for having kept him waiting.

  “So?” Sherlock said.

  “So . . . I haven’t seen him for a long time,” I said. “We went for a boat ride!”

  “And how was I supposed to know that?” Sherlock asked.

  “Why did you need to?”

  “We’ve made a pact, the three of us!”

  “A pact?! What are you talking about?”

  “We’re involved in an investigation, young lady!” Sherlock said. “A dangerous investigation! Or have you forgotten already?”

  “How dare you? You’re not my brother!” I shouted. “And you’re certainly not my . . .” I didn’t know what I wanted to yell at him, but that unspoken word was like magic. We stopped arguing at that point, suddenly realizing I was standing just a couple of inches from Sherlock’s face. We both blinked twice.