Good Night, Mr. Holmes (26 page)

“As compared to what?” said he. “All these little east European dukedoms are only fringe on the greater empires’ petticoats—Russia, Austro-Hungary, even the Turks to the east. It is dangerous ground your friend treads, and she always had a taste for danger.”

“No! Irene has never been so settled, so... conventional. She has been singing at the National Opera in Prague—”

“An Opera named ‘National’ only because Bohemia had
to force
Austria to permit its native language to exist side-by-side with the conquering German. She sits astride a political maelstrom at your bucolic opera house in quaint Bohemia.”

“Irene is a friend to the King! The man soon-to-be-king, rather! Surely she would be protected?”

“Ah.” Godfrey Norton folded the letter neatly before returning it to its envelope. I had a sudden sense of being abandoned.

“It is not what you think!” I returned, nearly crushing the letter as he handed it to me.

“Perhaps not,” he said, a certain distance in his voice, “but the situation is certainly not what you assumed it to be.”

He suddenly put a hand on my shoulder. “My dear... Miss Huxleigh. You have been seeing the world through your friend’s bedazzled eyes, not reality. I do not wonder that she sends for you with such urgency; she has undoubtedly run afoul of some court intrigue or peasant rebellion. Or perhaps the would-be king has proved to be less than he should. Whatever the difficulty, as
your
friend, as your... barrister... I must advise you not to go.”

“But I must! I must!”

“Alone? Into unknown lands, unknown situations? At least she could have explained—’

“Not if the letter risked interception!”

“And if it did—think, think what that implies! If her position is that delicate, you risk doubling the number of those endangered. You could send her a cable if you wish, to set your mind at ease—”

I stood. “Irene knows how to send a cable by telegraph. She knows that I could telegraph her. She did not ask me to telegraph; she asked me to come—at once!—and I shall.”

He was quiet for a very long while. “I cannot approve,” he said finally. “My mother was a headstrong woman and she paid dearly for it. I had not suspected you of such determination.”

“Nor had I,” I returned. “Something is very wrong, something that Irene cannot manage.”

“And you can?”

I stiffened. “Perhaps. Irene would not waste her time asking for aid from one she did not rely upon.”

That gave him pause. “No. No, I don’t imagine she would. Very well.”

His sigh was deep, and made my frown soften. It showed how much my welfare was on his mind. I have not known many people who cared for me in any capacity whatsoever—save for Jasper Higgenbottom—and another, upon whom I dare not think. That is why I had to answer Irene’s summons, no matter how cryptic or hazardous.

Godfrey Norton rolled his gold watch-chain between his ringers, as if debating the nature of time. Then he, too, made up his mind.

“I will attend to the travel arrangements; they will be complex. And see that you do not forget how to send a cable, for I want to hear the instant you arrive—even sooner, should anything untoward happen.”

“Yes! You are most kind, Mr. Norton.”

“Godfrey,” he said shortly. “Anyone capable of defying my best advice should call me by my Christian name.”

I lowered my eyes before extending my hand. “Nell.”

We shook hands, a gesture he ended by gazing at me fondly and shaking his head.

“I hope that you are up to Miss Irene Adler’s high estimation, for I fear that you are running right into the mouth of the maelstrom.”

In that much Mr. Norton—Godfrey—would prove correct.

With his help, I paid some weeks in advance for the Saffron Hill rooms, closed them and was soon leaving Charing Cross Station en route to Dover, soon embarked by boat train for Ostend and, once ashore, soon swallowed by a succession of trains that snaked their way eastward to Brussels, Cologne, Frankfurt and Nuremberg.

I smiled at my reflection in the compartment windows as I recalled pointing out before my departure that someone must take custody of the formidable Casanova.

“What? Can’t you...?” he had begun.

“Sell a souvenir of a case? And at such short notice? Never.”

“Surely some—”

“I have no suitable friends. Godfrey.” He winced as I sweetly invoked his Christian name and then went on, “No, Casanova is in your care now. No doubt he will liven the chambers in my absence.”

Godfrey groaned.

“I have been teaching him the alphabet in an effort to distract him from his less presentable vocalizations. Three letters at a time. We are at j, k, 1.”

“No doubt as in ‘Jekyll.’ Have pity, Nell; I shall be transformed into a raving Mr. Hyde by your return after the exclusive company of the redoubtable Casanova.”

“I must face my dangers abroad; you now have yours to attend to at home.”

On that firm note the matter was settled, yet even the image of Godfrey merging Casanova into his set bachelor’s existence couldn’t divert me for more than a few moments as I steamed across Europe in answer to Irene’s mysterious summons.

The Rhine was exceedingly picturesque, but any countryside I gazed upon faded under the constant haze of my anxieties. I stopped nowhere to rest, but slept on the trains, lulled by the rails’ constant clatter as an infant is by a rattle. I imagined Irene writing me on the first leg of this centipede of a journey. I envisioned her viewing the same scenery—rolling forest and ruined castle towers beckoning like arthritic fingers from the hilltops and woodlands.

Nothing could seduce me from my purpose, not even the crowded common railway car that conveyed me and sixteen other souls from Nuremberg to Prague amid a cloud of all-too identifiable odors.

Prague was a tumble of gabled roofs, towers and Medieval buildings straddling a river—the Moldau, they called it. Reminiscent of Venice in the rungs of bridges that laced both sides of the river together, Prague boasted a castle perched upon a prominence like a plum atop a Christmas pudding. This great Baroque pile must surely be one of the principal palaces in Europe. I gaped to think that my friend knew the man who would one day rule from it, even if he would reign over only a small fairy-tale kingdom.

I shook off my wonder and directed myself to practical concerns: finding Irene. To do so, I had begun to inquire about the National Theatre even while on the train. By the time it had arrived in Prague, I knew that the theatre stood near the Charles Bridge. Once disembarked, I instructed—or rather, gestured—to a man to hold my baggage at the station, then set out for the heart of town on foot.

Language was no barrier: I merely had to follow the river. The twisting Medieval streets often conspired to lead—or tempt—me astray, but I finally spied a grand building with a row of consonants keeping close company on its pediment. I entered with a show of boldness to find myself enveloped in a dark, empty lobby.

No one challenged me. I crossed the plush carpeting step by careful step and pushed through a gilded door. An opera house opened up to me, as if the shadowing lid had been lifted from a box of French chocolates. Gilt clung everywhere, like those foil wrappers that hide sweetmeats. I saw a sweep of red velvet seats and curtain, and—far away—a cluster of people in the seats nearest the stage.

And on the barely lit stage, I spied tiny figures as dainty as marionettes. I began walking down the slanted aisle, hearing unmusical voices lift and lower in turn. The language was mostly the guttural mutter of Bohemian that I had heard at such close quarters in the rail coach. Yet an English word would break into the round in a man’s commanding voice. And, yes, a woman would answer in English... Irene!

I rushed toward the stage, forgetting myself in my joy at seeing her well and normally employed. One by one, the rehearsing singers turned to regard me.

Irene turned last, looking the same and not the same. Her hair was arranged in the kind of complicated interweaving of braids and curls that requires a maid; her clothes spoke with a rich quietude far above the everyday sleights of scissors and thread. Yet her face broke into a familiar smile as she stepped to the unlit footlights and held out her hands to me even though the yawning orchestra pit separated us.

“My dear Nell, how kind of you to come,” said Irene Adler, smiling as if I had just arrived from around the corner—instead of the far corner of the earth—to see her.

She did not sound in the least surprised.

Chapter Eighteen

A
P
RAGUE OF
P
OISONS

I gazed
around the elegant apartment.

“Surely it is not quite proper—”

“Proper! That is a very English concept. I have not heard the word in over a year.” Irene laughed and lifted her feet atop a chaise longue upholstered in gilt-embossed brocade. I stared at the slender satin slippers that encased her feet. They must have cost ten pounds.

“Six hundred and fifty kreutzers,” she announced, having noticed me eyeing her dainty footwear.

The splendor of her surroundings made opera settings pale by comparison. My eye darted nervously from the nymphs and nude gentleman capering on the painted ceiling to the cherub-carved woodwork. A gaudy icing of gilt frosted it all.

On the wall opposite the windows, a lace-canopied dressing table was crowned with an array of crystal flagons holding multicolored liquids.

“I have never known you to use such a quantity of cosmetics,” I murmured.

Irene joined me in regarding the array. “A whole chorus of potions—all cosmetics for the throat. The ancient peasant traditions underlying this land speak strongly still. Why do you think the word ‘Bohemian’ has become synonymous with ‘gypsy’? Gypsy herbal remedies throng the marketplace and even the palace.”

Irene pointed from bottle to bottle. “I give you calamus root, that gnarled mass in the decanter, for a clear voice and strong throat; carob seeds to chew for the selfsame reason; cinquefoil to gargle when my throat is sore; frankincense, which may be inhaled for the same purpose. Here stand heliotrope, honeysuckle, lavender and licorice water and purple loosestrife, five pretty, pale liquids also devoted to the humble art of gargling, which I can manage in three octaves. You have no idea what a singer must do to protect her voice.”

“But you only drank hot tea with honey at home!”

“At home I was not a diva,” Irene said with a self-mocking gleam in her eyes. “Here I must demonstrate that I take myself seriously. As a grenadier lines up his blunderbusses, so must I arrange
my
weapons in a row.”

“I can quite understand your adopting the native cures, Irene, but you have evaded my main question. Is it proper for you to reside in the castle?” I persisted.

“A castle is a hotel, not a home, Nell. If you saw the numbers of guests that come—and stay for days and weeks and months—and then go, you’d know that! Besides, Willie insisted.”

“It is a man’s house, so to speak—”

“It is a man’s
father’s
house, so long as he shall live. The entire von Ormstein family resides here with enough servants to make up a Wagnerian chorus; surely all these people suffice to chaperone the most notorious courtesan, much less an innocent opera singer. No, propriety is not my problem. Would that it were.”

“What is your difficulty, then? What has compelled you to call me all these thousands of kilometers ...?”

“The journey was wearing, I know, my dear Nell. You had better rest before I acquaint you with the... situation.”

“I have not come all this way to rest!”

“Peace, peace, Penelope! Hush. This is a palace, after all. Even the arras has ears.”

I looked quickly at the huge tapestries swagging the bed, the windows, the walls.

“He did say it was likely a palace intrigue,” I murmured in sudden recollection.

“Who said this?” Irene asked sharply.

I hesitated. “Godfrey. Mr. Norton. My employer, the barrister.”

“I know who he is, and what he is. I did not know that you were on such terms with him as to call him ‘Godfrey.’ Perhaps I should be questioning
your
working arrangements instead of allowing you to cross-examine me about my living ones.”