Free Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares by James Lovegrove Page A

status. The foreigners section is about halfway through. I don’t really distinguish between nationalities. I lump them all together. You could say they’re all Greek to me!”
    Holmes flicked through the pages until he arrived at the section she spoke of. I peered over his shoulder, and immediately my eyebrows rose and my jaw fell. There were noted diplomats named there, a couple of ambassadors, a royal courtier, not to mention several prominent aristocrats, and even a prince from one of those forested and castled little countries that sit in the hinterland between Germany and Russia. On any given page there was enough material to keep the Fleet Street scandal sheets busy for a year.
    “These symbols,” Holmes said. He pointed to the sets of peculiar little hieroglyphs which attended each name: crosses, spirals, strange algebraic squiggles. “They are... predilections?”
    “That is correct,” said the Abbess. “Every man who comes here has his quirks and peccadilloes, his likes and fancies. I make a note of them. That way I can keep track of which girl to match to which client, and also, if the circumstances ever became so dire, threaten to reveal the full sordid truth to a wife, an employer, even a newspaper. It’s my weapon, my last line of defence if friendly persuasion fails.”
    Holmes ran a finger down the list until it stopped at one. “Here,” he said. “This could be he, the man we’re after.”
    He showed the name to the Abbess. Her face soured a little.
    “His name has these two symbols appended to it,” Holmes said, pointing to a V and a shape like a black teardrop. “What do they stand for?”
    “That,” said the Abbess, indicating the teardrop, “is a drop of blood. It means he tends to get a bit rough sometimes. The girls don’t mind that so much, as long as they know in advance and they’re sufficiently well compensated for it.”
    “And the V?” I said. “Does it stand for ‘virgin’?”
    “Not necessarily. I derived the symbol from... Well, imagine it represents a part of the anatomy where on a mature lady there would be hair but on a young girl there would be none.”
    All at once I felt queasy.
    Holmes pursed his lips grimly. “That confirms it,” he said. “We have our man.” He returned the book to the Abbess and stood to leave. “I thank you for your assistance, Abbess.”
    “You’re welcome, Mr Holmes. You didn’t get his name from me, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    “And my offer still stands. If ever you and your friend want a night you’ll never forget, here’s the place to come. My treat.”
    “I doubt we shall avail ourselves of your hospitality again,” said Holmes briskly, and he swept out of the parlour, as did I.
    Outside I inhaled a few deep breaths of acrid London air, which was somehow sweeter than the cloyingly over-perfumed interior of the brothel.
    “By Jove,” I said. “I feel quite unclean. If my wife were ever to find out...”
    “I shan’t tell her if you won’t,” said Holmes.
    “That list, though. It beggars belief.”
    I am not a naive man. In my way I am quite worldly, and my experiences with Holmes have brought me into contact with some of the worst individuals this world has to offer, the most corrupt, the most venal. Still, I found it hard to believe that personages of rank and renown would frequent an establishment like the Abbess’s. Did they not fear for their prestige and status, were their private indulgences ever to be made public? How could they represent the interests of overseas powers and yet risk bringing so much shame not only on themselves but their fellow-countrymen? What about the sensibilities and reputation of their wives, their families? Who would be willing to jeopardise all they had purely to slake their lusts? It baffled me.
    Holmes was his usual inscrutable self, his face betraying little of the sentiments which I am sure he was feeling and which were doubtless akin to mine.
    “The list, shocking though