I soon arrived at the Hôtel Du Beau Soleil. The ivory stone façade, which sparkled in the sun, promised glamour, but inside, the dim and faded lobby with its scuffed marble floors and drooping ferns spoke of better days. My hopes plummeted further when I opened the door to the one room allotted to us both. It was a cramped, dingy space with two single beds, hard and uninviting. To make matters worse, the single window opened over the rubbish bins, their ripe odour quite pungent. I slammed it shut.
This was not quite the holiday glamour I had anticipated.
Holmes had said the hotel detective might consult him on one or two issues in exchange for free lodging. He should only get half an issue for this sorry room, I thought. However I had a mission to accomplish, and soon wandered several blocks down towards the seaside, and the famous Promenade des Anglais.
What a sight! A vivid azure sky topped a deep turquoise ocean. Palm trees and bright flowers competed with the equally colourful frocks of a number of very attractive ladies. Below me, extending out at the end of a long pier stood one of Nice’s famed casinos, its exotic Byzantine architecture evoking something between a Russian Orthodox church and a carnival.
Nearby, children devoured fruit ices, and the rich scent of coffee enticed me to purchase a hot cup from a small stand. The air was cooler than I had thought, but the sun warmed the skin. It was an instant balm to my spirits, and I felt myself begin to relax.
I had a twinge of regret that Mary was not with me here to enjoy this beautiful city. She had loved Brighton and longed for another restorative, peaceful sojourn together. The seaside was her preference, calm and soothing. But my gaze returned to the casino, and I could not help but feel a small thrill of anticipation. Perhaps I might have time to slip away and try my hand at baccarat, if a few extra francs came my way.
But finding Isla McLaren was my goal, and I spent the next hour or two walking, wondering where might be the best place to spot my quarry. Eventually I grew discouraged and stopped at another stand, considering a second coffee.
I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder. I turned and there stood the lady herself! She was attired for a holiday in a fetching navy and white striped dress with a matching parasol and hat. Her skin and hair were glowing in the slanted sunlight of late afternoon.
‘Dr Watson, what a pleasant surprise!’ she exclaimed, examining me with her forthright and penetrating gaze. ‘I hardly expected to find you in Nice.’
‘Nor I you,’ I lied. ‘How lovely to see you here, Mrs McLaren. Are you wintering here by chance? It is wonderful to escape the snow, is it not?’
‘We are, and yes, it is, Dr Watson, though I doubt you are here for a holiday. Mr Holmes seems hardly the type.’ She looked around me. ‘He is here with you, is he not?’
‘Er, yes, in Nice.’
‘Are you following us?’
‘Why do you think that? You did not tell us you would be here.’
‘Do not be coy, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes has his methods, you write about them. If he wished to know where I had gone, he would easily find out. Let me see. If you are not following us, you two must be on a case. No doubt something more compelling than my own sad story of the sheared little parlour maid?’
‘You look quite lovely, by the way. Your hat—’
‘All right, then, Doctor.’ She fingered her velvet hat with its jaunty white ostrich feather, and smiled, coquettishly. ‘Thank you, kind sir. My hat is French, bought only this morning. They do these chapeaux only too well.’
She dropped the act and took my arm. ‘Now, do you mind? There is news about Fiona. I should like to bring you up to date. Shall we stroll?’
‘Why, yes,’ said I. ‘If Mr McLaren would not object.’
‘He is not the jealous type.’
She took my arm and we sauntered along the Promenade. The sun gave Mrs McLaren’s chestnut hair bright copper highlights, and the frames of her small gold spectacles glinted as she spoke. I wondered anew why Holmes had turned her away so abruptly.
‘I shall come straight to the point,’ said the lady. ‘When I returned to Scotland from London, I found that Fiona had disappeared again and no one knew where she had gone. The laird hesitated to leave for France yesterday with mystery hanging in the air, but then a note was found. She seems to have eloped with the groundsman’s son.’
Eloped. ‘Well that is certainly good news,’ I said.
‘The family is greatly relieved. Fiona had been so upset by what had happened to her that she could not function. Though we may never know what precisely did happen.’
‘Well, then, it was certainly a domestic intrigue, as Holmes surmised. What brings you to Nice?’
‘I told you, Dr Watson. We winter here in the South of France.’
‘Yes, but I mean specifically here, in Nice, today. The Grand Hôtel du Cap is more than an hour from here.’
She stopped walking and just stared at me. Her voice turned icy. ‘Then Mr Holmes is tracking the family. How do you know we are staying at the Grand Hôtel du Cap?’
‘Well, the Grand Hôtel du Cap … I just presumed you would be in the best hotel in the area,’ said I, realising my gaffe.
She looked unconvinced. I knew I was in trouble and went on the offensive. ‘Well, I might then ask you how you managed to discover me here, on the Promenade? That is certainly serendipitous.’
‘In fact, it was exactly that, Dr Watson. I came in for some shopping. You see?’ She opened a large canvas bag she had been carrying which contained some brightly embroidered linens, and then tapped her new hat. ‘We have only just arrived and it is always how I spend my first day.’
As Holmes had said, of course. ‘Forgive me,’ I said.
‘Forgiven,’ she said with a smile, taking my arm. We resumed our walk. ‘Though I do not give up easily, Dr Watson. I know full well that the McLarens are under a cloud of suspicion of having to do with the phylloxera epidemic and some vague threats to the research. I do not see it myself. The laird is not the warmest of men but he is not an evil man. His elder son, Charles, has not the courage or brains to have engineered such a thing, which began some years ago, anyway, and my Alistair thinks the notion of the epidemic being man-made is foolish and impossible. Nevertheless we have been questioned and I would not be surprised if your Mr Holmes was sent to investigate us.’
This young woman was making me nervous, and I am not a nervous man. The McLarens were most certainly on Holmes’s agenda.
‘No, he has been sent on another matter,’ I said, thinking that investigating Vidocq made this at least partly true. ‘Would you care for a fruit ice?’
‘Dr Watson, you are a very poor liar.’
I said nothing.
‘I noticed a book on phylloxera on his table in Baker Street. The research on this pest is centred in Montpellier. When do you plan to visit?’ The lady stood looking at me, her blue and white dress now billowing in the sea breeze. She held on to her feathered hat with one hand and smiled at me.
‘The wind is coming up, madam, perhaps it would be best if—’
‘That is all right. Let me help you. Dr Watson. I would wager my last shilling that you are here on the business of the French wine industry. What you fail to understand is that I am on your side. I brought the dynamite to you, did I not? If there is something amiss in my family, I am as interested as you or Mr Holmes to discover it.’
‘I really do not know what to say, Mrs McLaren.’
‘I