Good Night, Mr. Holmes (15 page)

“And I,” said Irene, donning a fur-trimmed bonnet to foil the November wind and fixing it with a lethally long pin, “have an appointment with Mrs. Bram Stoker on Cheyne Walk regarding the whereabouts of Oscar Wilde’s cross of gold.”

So we parted, each to our errands, mine as usual more pedestrian than hers.

The chemist in the Strand wished me to transfer a roster of his various potions into a fresh listing. I spent the afternoon converting alien terms half-obscured by spilled chemical blots into legible type. Such words as “hydrochloric” and “sodium alginate” and the names of herbs like arsenic and jewelweed did not come trippingly to my typewriter.

I returned home cross, with a stiff neck and a headache, to find Irene still gone and a strange man quite at home in our rooms.

“I suppose you’re a Pinkerton in search of Irene,” said I rather brusquely from the threshold. “And I suppose Mrs. Minucci misguidedly let you in.”

The young man nodded and shrugged, drawing my attention to his singularly dull plaid suit.

“Still, and however legitimate your business, there is no excuse for your settling into our chambers with your bowler hat still planted on your head and dried mud caked upon your boots.”

“Sorry,” he muttered indifferently, pulling a case from his breast pocket, a lucifer from another and lighting an Egyptian cigarette.

I pointedly waved the emerging smoke away from me, suddenly realizing that the young man might be an intruder rather than a visitor.

“I must ask you to leave, sir. These are my rooms and I demand to know your reason for camping here so cavalierly! Otherwise, I shall have to call Mr. Minucci, our landlord, to eject you.”

He rose, forced at last into reaction.

“I wouldn’t,” he suggested in a silkily husky voice.

“I most certainly will.” I recognized a veiled threat when I heard it, and retreated into the passage, wishing that I had withdrawn as soon as I had perceived our rooms to be invaded.

“Please don’t go, Miss Huxleigh,” he cajoled, perhaps alarmed by my likely escape. “My close friend, Irene Adler, has spoken most highly of you, and you certainly would not be one to panic.”

“I am not panicked!” I paused in my flight to answer the charge of cowardice. Too late I realized my mistake.

The man laughed softly, having already crossed most of the distance between us with the long, easy swagger of a lion. In the dim light of the single gasolier I realized that I should be hard put to describe him beyond the rusty sideburns and mustache, nondescript plaid suit and oddly innocent features.

“The least you can do, sir, is remove your hat, as is proper in a lady’s presence,” I said with some asperity, attempting to restore the illusion of ordinary social intercourse.

Secretly, I feared that his next act would be to lift the ebony cane at his side and strike me down, though why anyone should want to rob Irene and myself I could not imagine.

I envisaged myself tumbling down the four flights of twisting stairs, my poor aching head bobbing from riser to dusty riser... a discreet mention in the papers headed “A Saffron Hill Mishap: Mysterious Man Vanishes in Wake of Tragedy to Parson’s Daughter”... Irene pacing and wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth at my untimely end and vowing to track the intruder to the ends of the earth....

“Oh, very well, Miss,” the young man conceded a trifle rudely, taking the swarthy little cigarette from his mouth and the hat from his head at the same moment.

Masses of cinnamon-colored curls tumbled to his manly shoulders.

“Irene! You monster; what a fright you gave me!” Now that we stood toe to toe, the cigarette smoke swirled around my face like fog. “What is the meaning of this mummery? Surely you have not got a part in male guise?”

“Indeed no,” she assured me in a normal tone, turning to display her costume. “But I did deceive you?”

“You nearly were the end of me! How did you—
do
you manage to look so masculine?”

She paced before me. “Long strides, to begin with. Amazing how much more efficiently one gets on without pantaloons and petticoats and pounds of flounces.” She paused to tap her shoulders. “Shoulder pads and gloves, as you can see. Hands are the tricky part. A bit of spirit gum and some ginger crepe hair—do you fancy me with a redder tint? No? The bowler rides right over the ears and the muffler almost meets it, implying a thicker neck.

“And”—she expertly flourished the slim cigarette clamped between her fore and middle fingers—”the little cigar is the
pièce de résistance.
Only men smoke in public.”

“Only men smoke at all!” I retorted.

“Do you think so?” Irene smiled and inhaled delicately on the vile weed between her fingers. After my long afternoon among the chemist shop’s mingled odors it nearly made me ill.

“But why?” I asked, edging back over the threshold as she returned to her chair.

“I have business in town tonight. My interview with Mrs. Stoker was most productive; the next stage of my investigation awaits.”

“You actually discussed the Wilde matter with her, and she did not toss you out for impertinence?”

“Why should she? I was not impertinent.”

“Well, since my head aches and my nerves are aflutter, you had better tell me what happened. Nothing could put me more out of sorts than what has happened today.”

“Sit then and hear an amazingly simple tale.” Irene rolled her eyes toward the gasolier above. “Mr. Oscar Wilde would not like it, but there is no mysterious or melodramatic reason for Florence Stoker clinging to his silly cross.”

“What then? Why would she possibly refuse to return it?”

“Because she does not have it to return! It was mislaid—or, as I think, stolen. She is too embarrassed to admit that the treasured keepsake of the Divine Oscar was cavalierly let go. Imagine his chagrin to find a gesture of his so ephemeral! It would quite slay the man. He might not speak in aphorisms for an entire week or two.”

“Why do you think the cross was stolen?”

“Florence Stoker keeps a rigorously ordered household. It is her husband who leads the unmannerly theatrical life. I doubt she would mislay a fallen hair, much less an object of value. And this little cross is the kind of thing a servant might take, expecting no one to miss it.”

“You have a suspect.”

“Indeed. Your predecessor.”

“My predecessor!? What on earth do you mean?”

“The previous pourer at Florence Stoker’s Sunday afternoons at home—I suspect her of splashing Jimmie Whistler with hot tea as a ploy to get herself hastily dismissed. Numerous other small household objects are missing also. Bram Stoker lays it to pixies.”

“Of course he would; he’s Irish.”

“So am I,” Irene returned. “Half.”

“I didn’t mean to slander your origins, Irene. The Irish are actually quite, quite—”

“Misunderstood,” Irene finished for me. “I know how fond you are of the breed, especially with Mr. Wilde among it.”

Irene, whatever her antecedents, was American-born and on that basis alone did not share my British dislike of those spawned across the Irish sea. I could have called the Irish many things, but “misunderstood” would have been the kindest. There the matter lay, although I tucked away this rare fact about Irene’s background as I would a fresh handkerchief—for use when needed.

“Surely you didn’t visit Mrs. Stoker in your present guise,” I said.

“Naturally not. I approached her woman-to-woman, doing a service for a mutual friend too tongue-tied to speak for himself.” Irene gave a little shudder. “Mr. Wilde is well off to have lost her. A chill woman, Nell—quite lovely, but chill. I would think living with her could predispose one to despair.”

“Perhaps she is misunderstood, and you mistake English reserve for something worse. We do not all share your
joie de vivre.”

“Joie de nécessité,”
Irene shot back, rising with a flourish of the cigarette. “As is my disguise now. I go to track down the clumsy Sarah Jane in her new lair.”

“Which is?”

“A position in Berkeley Square. Mrs. Stoker seemed much surprised, but I am not. There are better pickings there than in Chelsea, no matter how fashionable. No doubt Sarah Jane made connections with the Stokers’ wealthier guests at the Sunday affairs.”

“But why do you go at night, and Friday night at that?”

“Because the master will be out and I can deal with Miss Sarah privately. I will tell her I’m a Pinkerton, I think. You inspire me as usual, Nell.” Irene twisted her hair and pinned it up, then settled the bowler hat at a rakish angle. “Don’t worry; I’ve never yet been accosted in such garb.”

“You’ve done this before?” I said faintly.

“Frequently,” Irene confessed from the threshold, leaning back with a conspiratorial wink like a music hall songster about to exit the stage. “I heartily recommend it.”

Her advice not to worry fell on deaf ears. It was hard to stare into the black mirrors of our nighttime windows and see only the faint reflection of myself. I pictured Irene jostled on the street below with the crowds of men, given no more courtesy than a hod-carrier. I wondered if the wicked little revolver weighed down her pocket. I even imagined the devious Sarah Jane with a burly henchman who would attack Irene as if she were the man she pretended to be.

Thus my evening passed, with tincture of belladonna in my eyes to ease redness and a medicinal rag around my throat to ward off la grippe after my hard day at the apothecary shop. The cloth had been pressed on me by the grateful chemist, along with sundry other remedies, all of an evil-smelling nature.

The gaslight seemed to dim as the hours passed, though perhaps it was my sleep-hungry eyes that faded. At last I heard light steps running up our stairs and rushed to the door to admit Irene.

“Well!?”

She tore off the bowler. “No wonder men are so often rude on the street; these headache-giving hats must sour their dispositions.” She threw the cane on the sofa and wrenched open the wing collar that must have aided in making her voice husky by sheer compression.

“Well? What happened?”

“I found Miss Sarah Jane ‘to home,’ as we say in the States, in the kitchen of a most elegant house. She has elevated herself to ladies maid, the better to purloin, but came down from her attic retreat soon enough when she heard ‘a gentleman’ was inquiring for her.

“We two closeted ourselves in the pantry, where I put the fear of the Pinkertons in her, with the result that...”

Here Irene reached into the various pockets about her person and began extracting trinkets—a
gold watch-chain, a silver brooch, amber earrings and garnet rings.

“Miss Sarah Jane’s entire collection. She rushed back to her room and showered me with her ill-gotten gains. I made her swear to replace the items she had lifted from her current employers. As for the rest, she could not remember where she had taken it all, so... I confiscated it.”

“But what of Mr. Wilde’s cross?”

Irene’s smile broadened as she lifted one last item from her vest pocket. The chain was eyelash-fine and the slender Celtic cross that anchored it was beautifully engraved, although thin enough to be of no immense value.

“He shall have it as soon as I can get it to him.”

“And the rest?” I studied the array glittering on the faded Oriental turkey carpet atop our dining table.

Irene eyed me hopefully. “A... lucky commission? Since the owners can’t be found and Mr. Wilde is paying me in nothing but flowery terms?”

“Stolen goods, Irene? There’s no doubt about that.”

“I did fancy the garnets,” she said, her fingers reaching toward the gleam of tumbled jewelry.

“Stolen,” I intoned.

“Oh, very well. We will donate them to St. Sepulchre Without Newgate. It is known as ‘The Musicians’ Church’ and will likely use the proceeds to succor some poor, starving, unknown singer living only on her wits and the mercy of such moral guardians as she may find.”

“I am not in the least sorry for you, though I am glad that Mr. Wilde shall have his cross back and never darken our door again.”

“Charity, my dear Nell. Charity is the greatest of virtues. I have extended it to the unknown poor; now you must offer it to the known but unappreciated Mr. Wilde. Who knows, he may even make something of that Irish wit someday.”

Irene paused to regard me sharply, and indeed, I must have made a sight with my makeshift medicinal muffler.

“Where do you labor tomorrow, good Nell?” she asked. “The chemist’s again?”

“Yes. More verbena and foxglove, all transcribed in the crabbed hand of a medieval alchemist.”

“You really should seek more congenial work now that your expertise is established. Have you considered advertising your services in some professional arena where the work is likely to be steadier and the pay more rewarding?”

“Where is there such a working girl’s paradise?”

“I was thinking of the Temple.”

“The Temple? That’s just a lot of barristers’ chambers. They all have clerks.”

“Do clerks type-write?”

“The whole point is that legal clerks hand-write, and quite uppity about it they are, too. Most of the barristers’ offices would not even have type-writing machines, I imagine.”

“You could bring your own in a case, like a violin.”

“Bring my own?” I took the cup of hot chocolate Irene lifted to me from the fender. It was thick and foamy. “I suppose I could.”

“Why don’t you put a notice up on the grounds— surely they must have some central message board—and see what comes of it?”

“That is an excellent idea, Irene, very businesslike.”

She smiled with her lips still pursed on her cup rim. Then I realized who resided at the Temple.

“What makes you think I can worm my way into Mr. Norton’s chambers, Irene?”

“Talent, Nell. Cream rises, like foam on chocolate. I have no doubt that if you put yourself in the way of work at the Temple, you shall soon be in high demand.”

Chapter Ten