The Adventure of the Purloined Portrait Read online

  What They Are Saying About The Early Case Files of Sherlock Holmes

  A multifaceted and convincing addition to Sherlock-ian lore.

  Kirkus Reviews

  Crafted to perfection.

  Chanticleer Book Reviews

  Her books just get better and better

  Goodreads

  [Dr.] Sherwood-Fabre makes her conceit of a teen sleuth work.

  Publishers Weekly

  For the latest addition to our family, Luis Raul Fabre IV.

  Copyright © 2021 by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Although À la Mère de Famille, the Louvre, and Mont-de-Piété are factual places, this is a work of fiction. The author used creative license to manipulate actual facts to fit the story. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or situations is unintentional and coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter NIne

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Author’s Notes

  Also by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  Chapter One

  I stared over the ship’s railing and spoke to my brother Mycroft without glancing at him. “I feel this trip may be a mistake.”

  I saw him turn toward me from the corner of my eye. “The crossing’s almost over. You’ll feel better when you get on dry land.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I glared at him. “Mother hasn’t been herself since Easter. Out of the blue, she announces we’re going to Paris while you’re still recovering from a gunshot wound. And she’d been distracted even before that.”

  Mother had always been the family rock. I’d rarely seen her rattled, but even granite can break under pressure. During our Easter holiday in London, she appeared preoccupied by matters she never explained to me or my brother. At the time, I’d put it down to concern over my father’s efforts to invest in a business venture with an old school chum as well as Mycroft’s wounding at the hands of our kidnappers. Both, however, were now behind us. The investment had produced a modest return, and I saw no lingering problems related to Mycroft’s injury. All the same, we’d barely arrived home from school before she’d packed our trunks and shuffled us all off to Newhaven for the steamship ride to Dieppe.

  “I do believe bringing the entire family is a ruse,” he said after his own inspection of the sea.

  “Including Uncle Ernest in the trip did surprise me.” Her brother rarely left the estate or his workshop. “Perhaps she thinks it will do him some good. They report being happy growing up there.”

  He glanced at the smoke trailing the ship. “If she was so happy there, why doesn’t she show it?”

  I ran through all the scenarios—from something as benign as a sudden bout of nostalgia to a fatal illness calling her back to see her French relatives one last time—and shook my head. “Without more information, I would only be speculating. You yourself have said that can be counterproductive. Whatever the reason, something has truly unnerved her.” I turned back to the ocean, seeking any indication of the coastline. “And whatever it is lies in Paris.”

  Footsteps came toward us, and we both turned around. My mother’s maid Constance approached us. “Your mother asked me to inform you there’s tea in the cabin—if you want some.”

  “I would,” Mycroft said. He turned to me one last time before he headed inside. “I suppose you’ll get your answers soon enough.”

  My chest tightened at this prospect, but I didn’t voice the concern accompanying the sensation—that the answer I sought might not be one I wanted to learn.

  Constance stepped to the rail next to me and leaned her forearms against the top rung. We’d become friends when I’d returned home from school after my mother had been accused of murder. She’d been a great help to me in various adventures, and Mother had taken her under her wing to develop her singing voice as well as her education. She was traveling with us as her lady’s maid.

  I took a similar pose to hers against the rail, enjoying the ocean’s scent and letting the wind whip the hair from my face. Licking my lips, I savored the salt spray seasoning them.

  Letting out a soft “ooh,” she took in the white-foamed waves reaching as far as we could see under a clear, cerulean sky. I tried to see it from her point of view but couldn’t shake the anxiety remaining in my core.

  She turned to me, and a loose tendril of her red hair whipped across her face. As much as the untidy strand annoyed me, I resisted the urge to tuck it behind her ear. Social etiquette dictated a young man—even if only fourteen such as I—wasn’t to have such contact with a young woman—especially one who was his mother’s maid.

  To my relief, she moved the hair herself. “How long until we can see France?”

  “The trip is supposed to take several hours, depending on the weather. I’m not sure how long before we can see the coast.”

  “Will it be as hot there as in England?”

  “I hope not.”

  The weather had been oppressive for more than a month now—with no rain to offer even temporary relief. The fields around Underbyrne, our family estate, held only dried, withered stalks, and the beehives my father had added to one back field hummed with a multitude of tiny wings fanning the hive to keep it cool.

  “I can’t believe we’re goin’ to Paris,” she said, a joyful smile playing on her lips. “The farthest I’ve been from home was that trip to London with your family. Now Paris. What’s it like?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve only seen pictures, but I think it will be a lot like London in some ways.”

  She shifted back around to face the ocean. “Well, I’m not goin’ to waste a minute not enjoyin’ it. Like this boat ride. I ain’t—er, haven’t—been on anything this big in my life. It’s like a floatin’ hotel. Goin’ to drink me some tea on a boat—”

  “Ship.” She squinted a question at me. “It’s a ship. Don’t let the crew hear you call it a boat. Ships are bigger.”

  “Well, I’m goin’ to get me some tea on this ship so’s I can tell my brothers and sisters I had me some.”

  She flounced off, leaving me to ponder exactly what lay ahead.

  While Mother and Uncle Ernest had been born in France and lived there until they were in their early twenties, my British grandfather had taken the whole family to England during growing tensions between the two countries. My French grandmother, the sister of the famous painter Horace Vernet, never returned to Paris. The entire family became British citizens to avoid problems remaining in England, and the relationship between the two countries had only improved in recent years.

  Despite our fluency in the language, we were still subjected to the authorities’ preferences for all things French during our arrival in the country. Once through a rather arduous review of passports and luggage, we exited into the town of Dieppe, hardly more than a few streets deep behind the dock. Still, I had my introduction to French cuisine at a
local restaurant not far from the shore. The fresh fish’s delicate sauce, seasoned with a white wine, lingered on my tongue, and my mother even allowed me a few swallows of wine from the blanc ordered for the meal.

  I wouldn’t have minded passing a few days enjoying the seashore, but Mother insisted we catch the next possible train to Paris. She hustled us through the streets to the station and while waiting for the train alternated between tapping her foot as she sat on a bench and striding to the edge of the platform to check on the locomotive’s arrival.

  Constance’s excitement continued unabated through the train ride. We had two compartments because of the size of our party. Mother, Father, Constance, and I took one, and I gave my friend the window seat with an unobstructed view of the countryside. She rode with her face pressed against the window. I knew she would have hung out the opened top had Mother not been there to restrain her enthusiasm.

  Neither my mother nor uncle spoke much about their years in Paris, although they had spent their youth among the artists and elites of their time. Mother’s Uncle Horace died when I was nine, only five years after he married for the second time. Mother had mentioned we would be meeting his second wife, Marie. Having never met either of my parents’ parents (they passed away several years before I was born), this step-great-aunt was the closest I had to a grand-mère.

  We arrived in Paris before sunset, although the streets were already dark and lighted by lamps. Throughout the drive from the railway station to the apartment we had rented for the summer, Mother gasped and shook her head. As we headed onto one wide boulevard, she gave a little cry.

  “Such destruction.” She turned away from the window and spoke to us. “I barely recognize the city. I’d heard of the changes Haussmann had been supervising, but to see it…”

  She paused and clucked her tongue.

  Father studied the passing scene. “Seems very pleasant to me.”

  “Do you know Haussmann’s work has destroyed more than twenty thousand buildings? Forced the poor to move out of their homes? This area is unrecognizable. Even though Uncle Horace lived and worked here.”

  We turned one corner and a glowing building came into view.

  “Oh my,” said Constance and pressed herself so close to the window she almost leaned too far. Mother’s cough pulled her back to her seat. “How’s it shinin’ like that?”

  “I believe that’s Printemps,” I said, eager to show off my knowledge gleaned from a guidebook. “A store. It has electric lighting. Quite impressive, I have to say.”

  Mother’s thoughts seemed to turn inward. I tried to imagine what it would be like to return to Underbyrne and find it completely changed. Returning home usually meant being surrounded with the familiar. The predictable. Losing that meant losing one’s bearings. Perhaps that was what she was feeling. Confused by unanticipated changes in what had once been familiar.

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a five-story building. Before we could open the door, a woman in a coarse skirt and shirt and carrying a broom approached. “Bon soir,” she said in a rather guttural French. “I’m Madame Bardin. You must be the new tenants for number two. I’ll make arrangements for your trunks to be taken up in a moment. If you’ll follow me, please.”

  She waved us toward a passage beside a milliner’s shop. The passage opened to a small courtyard. She pointed toward the back of the yard. “My husband and I live there. We are in charge of the door to the street. For security. No one gets in or out without us.”

  Leading us to another door, she revealed a stairwell. Mme Bardin reached into her pocket and handed a key to Father. “This is to enter the building.” Holding up a second key, she said, “This one is for the apartment.”

  With a glance toward Constance, she produced a third key. “Chambre de bonne—servant’s quarters. Fifth floor.”

  While this transaction had taken place, a man in a well-worn suit approached us through the still-open street entrance. With a nod to the woman, he pushed through our little group and headed up the stairs.

  “Monsieur Delisle. Third floor.” The concierge provided as an explanation for the man’s entrance.

  Father whispered to Mother. “Just how many people live here?”

  She paused to consider the question. “Five stories. Two apartments per floor—although, as you can see, the ground floor is for commerce. So, eight apartments in all. Depending on the size of the family, in each, I would guess at least twenty-one, not including us or any servants.” She patted his arm. “A wonderful opportunity to practice one’s French with those from all walks of life, don’t you think?”

  Father’s stony expression indicated he did not find the opportunity as grand as she did, but with a glance up the stairs, he stepped back to let Mother lead the way.

  As he passed Mme Bardin, my uncle Ernest spoke to her. “Is À la Mère de Famille still on Rue du Faubourg?”

  “Bien sur.” She gave him a wink. “If you go, a bon-bon from there will get you extra-special treatment here.”

  He turned to me. “They have the most amazing sweets. You’ll see.”

  Constance and I exchanged glances. We’d barely been in the city for an hour and yet its special offerings were already appearing.

  A couple met us at the door when Father opened the apartment.

  Mme Bardin waved her arm toward the two. “Voila. Monsieur and Madame Gagne—your butler and housekeeper. Mme Gagne also cooks.”

  Following introductions, she turned her attention to Constance. “I’ll show your maid to her quarters and return shortly.”

  “Have you received word from Mme Vernet? I was hoping she would visit,” Mother asked before the concierge could turn away.

  “I was to send word to her when you arrived. I’ll do so after the inventory.”

  The woman turned and stepped toward the door. In the open entrance, she glanced in Constance’s direction when she didn’t follow. Mother whispered to her. “She’s taking you to your room. It’s on an upper floor. Take your valise. After you have settled in, please come back down to help me unpack.”

  My friend glanced at the woman, who scowled at her—most likely displeased with Constance’s inability to understand her. She picked up a small traveling bag and glared at the woman’s back as they exited.

  Once the door closed, we all shifted on our feet, as if afraid to move from the spot where we’d stopped. Mother was the first to break the silence by turning to our hired couple. “M Gagne, please assist in bringing our luggage upstairs. Mme Gagne, have you prepared anything for our arrival? Tea, perhaps? Sandwiches? Or another repast?”

  The two bowed and took off to fulfill her directions. Finally, alone for the present, we all relaxed and glanced around to study our new abode. The apartment offered more than adequate accommodations, but nothing along the lines of our townhouse in London. The main room, a sort of sitting or drawing room, had high ceilings with windows that opened to the street. The curtains billowed from the night air gusting in. At least it was cooler here. I stepped across the room to get a better view of the street and the city. A glow above the rooftops marked the store Printemps’ location. In London, electric lighting was rare—most streets and homes in the city used gaslighting, and Underbyrne used candles and oil or gas lamps. How much more modern that fact made the city appear to me.

  Behind me, Father asked, “What’s this about an inventory?”

  “A record of the condition of all items. There’ll be a charge for any damages,” Mother said.

  “As if we’re that destructive. Who do they think we are?”

  “It’s customary, Mr. Holmes. Don’t worry. We’re not being singled out.”

  “I’m going to check out the rooms,” Mycroft said. “I want the one with the most solitude.”

  A knock on the door stopped him in his tracks. We exchanged glances, but before any of us could answer, Mme Gagne came running from the kitchen area and cracked the door. After a brief conversation, she took a note and passed it to
my mother.

  “It appears I’ve been summoned by Uncle Horace’s wife. Apparently, she couldn’t wait for Mme Bardin’s message,” she said after reading the note. “She has sent a carriage with the message. I wish she’d waited. At this hour, I shouldn’t be out on the street alone. I can’t believe she’s so anxious to—”

  Mother cut off her thought. Did her step-aunt lie at the base of her anxiety? I burned to learn the truth. As if reading my mind, Father studied my brother, uncle, and me.

  “I can’t go,” he said. “That inventory probably should be done before we get charged for every grease stain from every previous tenant.”

  “May I go, too?” I asked as soon as Ernest noted his willingness to meet their step-aunt, “Mycroft, too. It’s good for us to meet Mother’s side of the family.”

  Mycroft, taken a little off-guard, didn’t object, but added, “But I still get the room farthest from the street or other tenants.”

  “I’ll be sure to pick out your rooms accordingly.” Father’s tone betrayed annoyance with my brother, but it might have stemmed from his concern with the whole rent process as well.

  In the hallway, we met Constance and Mme Bardin. Both were slightly out of breath, having just climbed and descended several flights of stairs. My friend’s mouth was set in a grim line, and I wondered what had transpired between the two, given Constance’s very basic French. While she had practiced certain phrases and whole songs in the language, I knew her comprehension stopped at words such as “good day,” and “how are you?” Mother seemed in a great hurry to see her step-aunt, and so I had no time to ascertain what Constance may have been experiencing.