Good Night, Mr. Holmes (36 page)

The interrogator barked something at Irene. She slumped in her captors’ arms, betrayed by my weakness. Her muttered German phrases apparently translated my words. I recognized “Paris.”

Finally, the man nodded and the pincer around my arm released. The ruffians holding Irene freed her to take custody of the carpetbags instead.

As fast as they had hemmed us in, the men streamed back into the flow of indifferent humanity that churned around us.

“Your watch, Penelope!”

I finally felt free to consult it openly. “Two minutes!”

“Let us hurry!” Irene strode for the gate, for the stairs. She had the tickets in hand and was seeking the track number even as we flew over the ground.

“There!” she said.

Through a cloud of steam the dark metal body of the train was sliding past, drawing into daylight. Leaving.

“Quickly!” Irene said, taking my arm.

We ran. Dear Lord, how we ran. Irene had the advantage on me with her low-heeled boots, but we were freed of all burdens save ourselves and ran and ran and ran, chasing the iron coattails of the vanishing train.

Out of the huffing fog of departure I saw windows, incurious faces, a set of steps, Irene on them and I—I with my heart in my throat, my feet flying, my breath mingling with the steam and vanishing.

“Nell! Jump for it! Come on!”

An amber dragon’s head loomed from the steam. I clung to that slender lifeline of extended cane and was abruptly pulled forward. I leaped into the mist, struck a step with my foot and crouched against a throbbing wall of wood and metal.

“The smelling salts were in the atrociously patterned carpetbag we left to the King of Bohemia’s henchmen,” Irene said. “Sorry.”

“I don’t require smelling salts,” I replied indignantly, sitting up in the compartment. The lumpy seat felt soft as home, the motion of a train at full thirty-miles-an-hour speed like rocking-cradle safety. I was unsure of how I had arrived here and didn’t wish to know.

“We are...?” I said.

“On our train, bound for the English Channel.” Irene sounded most satisfied.

“But the carpetbags! The money! The photograph—your only defense!”

She smiled at my last word and touched her midriff. “So it was.”

“Oh, Irene! I don’t know how you survived that terrible blow. It quite... undid me. Surely you are not a secret pugilist? The brute acted as if you were stronger than he expected.”

“As indeed I was, Nell. Righteousness shall arm thee in the camp of thine enemy.”

“Irene, when you quote Scripture, even if it’s pseudo-Scripture, I become suspicious.”

“ ‘Oh, ye of little faith...’” She patted her vest again. “I did have a secret defense, though. A nice leather-bound, padded defense, directly over my solar plexus, to put it delicately—or at least medically.”

“The cabinet photograph! You’d moved it from the carpetbag to your person.”

“Indeed.” She smirked.

I sat back to consider this. “Yet we’ve lost all the money you earned in Warsaw and Prague, money that is rightfully yours!”

“And so it still is.” Here she removed her hat, not from any belated sense of courtesy, but to reveal the lumpish bag stuffed into the crown.

She chuckled. “If that fellow had struck me in the face a flood of gold coins and paper money would have inundated the station floor.”

“That is all you worried about if he hit you? He was treating you like a man, Irene! There would be no mercy.”

“But you were acting like a woman, Nell! I could not have done it better myself. It quite wrung my heart to see you capitulate and tell them all you knew. I admit I was surprised to hear you utter a falsehood, but it was effective. Here we are, bound for Dover. Safe, and not sorry. I... trust not sorry.”

“Lying in the face of villainy is hardly that. You took nothing from Bohemia that was not yours, paid to you or given to you. Oh—what of the King’s brooch?”

Her face deadened. She lifted a ruby glint from the pocket that held the revolver. “Some gifts are thorns, but perhaps they teach us something. I never wish to forget the lesson I learned in Bohemia.”

“What is that?”

Her hands parted in a weary little gesture. “I do not know yet, only that it was a lesson.”

Ostend was
a blur, the steamer packet an abomination of motion that my constitution did not relish.

Victoria was merely another cavernous railway station—a palace for the aristocracy of travel—save that it was Home. I had not expected Godfrey to meet the train, and indeed quite started when a tall, dark man descended upon us from the crowd. I noticed that Irene’s hand had automatically gone to her right pocket.

“My dear Miss Huxleigh, my dear Penelope! Nell...”

Godfrey took my gloved hands and shook them. Irene walked on as I hastened to catch up, knowing how weary she was and how much effort it took to continue her masquerade.

“I’d no idea what sort of accommodation you required,” Godfrey said as we threaded through the maze of people, “but have found respectable rooms in a quiet neighborhood. Your baggage?”

“We have none,” I admitted.

“Lost?”

Irene muttered in a convincing baritone, “Lost between trains in Brussels.”

Godfrey regarded her in a puzzled manner. “There are indeed a good many changes of trains on your journey. You must be exhausted,” he said to me.

I nodded, beyond words. Sensing that, he asked no more questions, but saw us to the hired carriage. Irene waited while Godfrey helped me in. They eyed each other, then Irene entered and sat beside me. She gazed out the window while Godfrey sat and pounded his cane on the carriage ceiling to signal the driver to go.

“You seem to have left Bohemia in haste,” he noted. “And secrecy. Your cablegram, Nell, was as curt as the letter that originally called you there. And the signature!”

“How is he?” I asked at once.

“Who?” Irene wondered gruffly.

“Casanova,” Godfrey supplied with a smile at me.

Thoroughly confused, we all stared at each other and looked away.

“I don’t understand,” Godfrey finally told me, “I had assumed from your cable that your friend, Irene Adler, was to accompany you. You both seem exhausted and I’m sure there’s a tale behind that, but I do believe that introductions are finally in order.” He looked pointedly at Irene.

What could I say? The story was so long and convoluted and Irene’s history and guise so complicated...

She finally turned to him and lifted the bowler hat from her head, then the money bag. Last, she pulled the long tortoise shell pins from her hair and shook it onto her shoulders.

Godfrey Norton was not a barrister for nothing. Not a muscle of his face moved as Irene proceeded with her unveiling. During the following pause, Godfrey studied Irene from stem to stern. Then he said conversationally, “Miss Adler, I presume?”

In answer she pulled a cigarette from her breast pocket. Before she could withdraw a lucifer, Godfrey snapped a lighted one into his fingers. She inhaled long and shakily at its fire, then sat back.

“I could smoke one myself,” Godfrey said.

Irene offered him her case. He managed to light a cigarette from the last of the lucifer before his fingers should scorch, then shook it out. Twin blue hazes drifted around the carriage and mingled sinuously.

I fluttered my hand for mercy. “I shall have to get out and walk soon, and, believe me, I do not wish to.”

“Sorry.” Godfrey cracked open a window so the smoke slithered into the glorious foggy haze of a London afternoon. “I confess myself at a loss.”

Irene looked at me. I looked at her. We began laughing. She flicked her cigarette through the window slit. We began laughing harder. We laughed and laughed until we fell into each other’s arms in relief and hilarity and hysteria.

Godfrey Norton watched us and wisely held his tongue.

At our new rooms on a still-shabby street of four-story rooming houses in Chelsea, Godfrey saw us into an adequate suite furnished with antimacassar-covered anonymity. “You apparently have funds,” he began.

I nodded.

“Another day,” Irene said from the window to which she had gone as a caged bird seeks the light.

The comparison reminded me of Casanova; I was startled to find my ears missing the parrot’s
sotto voce
serenade of squawks, grumbles and ostentatious feather-preening, so like the subtle rustle of taffeta petticoats.

Godfrey eyed the stiff figure in masculine dress with the auburn hair cascading to its shoulders. His eyes sent mine a mute message of pleased greeting, then he bowed his way out.

Irene and I remained silent in our alien rooms, our only possessions the clothes on our backs, save for the money, the photograph and the ruby brooch from the King of Bohemia. She removed these items from her hat crown and her pockets and person, stringing them along the broad windowsill like offerings for the pigeons. I was startled to see that she had also saved the younger Tiffany’s offensive octopod brooch. It lay entwined with the King’s starfish of rubies, together the beginnings of a bizarre seascape.

“It was wise to telegraph Mr. Norton,” Irene said from the window. “I could not have struggled on a moment longer.”

I joined her there, once again viewing a carriage roof and a vanishing top hat. This time I knew its possessor and Irene was staring down in numb indifference.

She bent her forehead to the glass. “I am tired, Nell, so very, very tired.”

Chapter Twenty-five

A
F
RIEND IN
D
EED

True to
his word, Godfrey did not intrude upon us.

This put me to some suspense. I found myself worrying when he did not even inquire at what point I might return to his employ—Irene’s gold would not last forever, and, besides, I had my own living to earn—or when I would remove the unlovely Casanova from his custody. I felt redundant.

Irene, of course, was indifferent to Godfrey’s absence. She occupied the first few days of our return with converting her foreign money into pounds.

Once she had funds to support herself, she set about restoring her lost clothing. Instead of haunting the used clothing markets with a hunter’s passion as she had used to, or hieing to a dressmaker, she purchased excellent but unextraordinary items from the department stores (not Whiteley’s) with as much enthusiasm as she would have bought dust cloths from the ragman.

All her actions those first days occurred in a methodical fog. After the enterprise of our headlong escape from Bohemia, it seemed a trifle tame.

One evening after dinner at a respectable restaurant, we sat reading in our forlorn rooms, both silent. I missed the familiar clutter of the Saffron Hill rooms, thinking it sad that much that once meant a great deal to Irene lay unused while we languished here.

She stirred and sighed. “I shall require an agent.”

“For performance?” I chirped, cheered by the idea of Irene resuming her singing career.

She smiled wanly. “Performance seems a world away! No, we must find larger, more permanent quarters, and someone must inquire of my Paris acquaintance, without betraying my whereabouts, if my trunks arrived untrammeled. Do you think, Nell, that your barrister friend, Mr. Norton, would care to act for me in these—and more delicate—matters?”

I was astounded that Irene had accepted Godfrey as “my friend” rather than her long ago rival for the Zone of Diamonds or merely my (perhaps) former employer.

“I should be delighted to ask him,” said I, relieved to have an excuse to visit Godfrey the very next day, as indeed I did.

What a glorious May day it was—crisp-aired, with budding leaves crimping every tree limb and bush. A faint porcelain-blue bowl of sky yawned over London’s everlasting grit and bustle.

“My dear Penelope!” Godfrey greeted me with genuine pleasure. “Come in. Sit. Have a dish of tea! I have been fretting over your welfare this past week, but did not wish to intrude uninvited.”

I noticed an insipid-looking male clerk laboring in the outer office as Godfrey ushered me into his inner sanctum. There I felt that same cozy sense of belonging that I associated with my late father’s study—the comfortable yet practical assemblage of furniture, the piled papers and open books, the air of quiet thought that suffused the chamber.