strange that they were severed in the same place,” remarked Clawdia, with a look of revulsion.
“No, it is quite normal, in fact,” responded Grimod. “When a body decomposes in the sea, it is common for the head, hands, and feet to detach. The extremities always give out at the thinnest point, but normally it all stays on the sea floor; in our case, the rubber soles allowed them to float up.”
“As for the shoes’ shape,” suggested Holmes, “it must have preserved the contents for longer.”
“It certainly helped,” said Grimod, prodding the flesh, “but when bodies—and feet in particular—are left in seawater, they can change into adipocere, or ‘grave wax.’ The lack of oxygen combined with the influence of the cold and the damp causes a process similar to saponification; thus, the flesh becomes waterproof and takes on the waxy look that we see here. However, this makes any calculation of time of death very problematic. I highly doubt that the tests will give us anything.”
“May I see the soles?” asked Martial.
Holmes tilted the shoes, and Canterel bent down to inspect them, hands behind his back for fear of touching them.
“And here’s the odd thing,” he said. “The pattern of the nonslip grooves is different on each, even though they are the same model.”
“You’re right,” noted Grimod. “I’m going back up to our rooms to look for something to take their imprints.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Clawdia. “What do you need?”
“Ink and paper. A sponge, as well.”
A look from Lady MacRae sent the valet off in search of the required equipment.
“Well,” said Holmes, “I believe that’s everything on this side of things. For now, we have three right feet, that is to say three bodies, and one . . . ‘necessity.’ It’s not much, I must say.”
“Where was the diamond?” asked Canterel.
“In my safe. A Delagarde Amiens with a lock and combination. It was not forced open, and I don’t understand how it’s possible.”
“The key?”
She looked him right in the eye, tugging on a small gold chain that slid the key between the curves of her breasts. “I always have it with me.”
“How did you come to have such a jewel in your home?”
“Unusual circumstances. I always leave the Ananke in the Royal Bank of Scotland, but the Duchess of Kent was supposed to visit me, and I had promised to show her the gem. No one knew about it.”
Holmes shook his head. “Besides the employees at the bank, the deliverer, and the security officers who accompanied him . . . Let’s say between fifteen and fifty persons. That’s a lot of people, milady.”
The valet returned, and Grimod quickly began taking the shoes’ imprints. Having swabbed the soles with an ink-soaked sponge, he applied them to three pieces of rice paper. The macabre remains went back into the icebox, and everyone returned to their seats by the fireplace to go over what they had learned, though they did not refrain from partaking in some of the best malt in Lady MacRae’s cellar.
“It’s extremely confusing,” said Grimod, passing the imprints to Holmes. “This does not resemble anything I recognize.”
“Indeed,” replied Holmes. “The circles in these tread patterns appear to have been placed completely at random. You’d swear they were leopard spots . . . Perhaps there were three machines, one for each shoe size, with their own unique patterns?”
“Unlikely . . . I would lean more toward a custom-made fabrication, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“These three shoes, however, seem to have the same pattern of wear on them,” said Canterel.
Miss Sherrington took a look at the impressions, ranked them from largest to smallest, then held them out to Clawdia for her to pass on.
“Not very talkative, your Russian dolls,” she said, giving them to Canterel.
“More than you would believe,” exclaimed Canterel, looking at all three together through the transparent paper. He adjusted them a little and smiled briefly in satisfaction. “Look, each of the imprints works as a fragment of the same stamp, we must assemble them in order for them to acquire meaning. Layered on top of each other like this, the markings on the treads come together to form a word: ‘Mar-ty-rio.’ That’s what I read, anyway.”
Holmes leapt out of his chair. “Terrific, my friend! I knew I was right in bringing you! Let me see that. ‘Martyrio’ . . . It’s right there. Incredible!”
“Except that we have gotten nowhere.”
“Martyrio, you say?” asked Grimod, looking thoughtful. “I’ve seen that word somewhere before. Wait . . . It was in the New Herald, in the same issue as the discovery of the three right feet.”
“Kim, please,” said Lady MacRae.
The Malaysian valet took a few steps and returned with a touch-screen framed in varnished wood. Grimod scanned it silently with his finger.
“There it is!” he said, separating the page out. “‘Chung Ling Soo finally returns to London. After his triumphant tour of the United States, the celebrated Chinese magician Chung Ling Soo will be presenting his show at the Wood Green Empire, February 5-7. He will, for the first time in years, perform his “Condemned to Death by the Boxers,” the extremely dangerous act that made a name for him at the Martyrio Circus before he went off to do his own show.’”
“Well,” muttered Miss Sherrington, “I get the feeling I should repack the bags . . .”
A Lovely Odor of Roasted Turnips
Carmen is the unfortunate wife of Dieumercie Bonacieux. The latter does not smoke or drink, he showers her with attention, he works hard, he is handy around the house. He is not ugly, despite having big teeth and a slightly stupid smile. Even his receding hairline is not without a certain charm. But his thingy doesn’t work. “Your husband is affected by ‘sexual blindness,’” the doctor said, “what is called genital ataraxia,” he even specified, fearing that they had not understood. And it’s true that, though she had tried a thousand ways to tantalize him, Dieumercie could not get it up. To make matters worse, he turned out to be one of the twenty-five percent of patients on whom even the strongest dose of Viagra has no effect. As for yarsagumba, the Tibetan fungus with a reputation for being an aphrodisiac, that did him no more good than any old omelet made with mushrooms. Or even truffles, at that price.
Given that this impotence threatens their relationship, Dieumercie is ready to try anything to fix it. Yesterday evening, his wife convinced him of the benefits of a foolproof technique, a method she heard about from a friend who is a nurse. The results should be visible by the time he returns from the factory.
At the moment we meet her, Carmen is sprawled
