Good Night, Mr. Holmes (40 page)

“You... will look again?”

“I will, Nell. I have caught diamond fever in Paris; Godfrey’s jaunt was successful in that. And I do have one small souvenir of that delicious malady.”

She pulled a tiny leather case from her reticule and lifted the lid to show the ‘Tiffany and Co.” stamped into the velvet lining. On the crimson cloth lay a diamond brooch—a crossed key and musical note design with pave diamonds sparkling like ice flakes.

“Goodness, Irene, Mr. Tiffany has given you another brooch! Whatever for? You did not promise him the Zone!?”

Irene’s smile was unreadable. “It was acquired at Tiffany’s on the rue Richelieu but the gift is not his.”

“Not his? Whose then?”

“Godfrey’s,” said Irene. “He was struck by the design, which he said merged my interests of mystery and music. He was convinced it had been made for me.”

“Godfrey’s! Godfrey cannot afford to give you jewels.”

“Likely not,” Irene said, still smiling, “but this bauble is not so precious as those many-carat-sized stones illustrated in the
London News”

I would not have known it, however, from the delicate way she returned the brooch to its case.

“I will keep it in the secret compartment with the photograph of the King of Bohemia’s crown paste,” Irene decided. “It is far more worthy of care for having been given freely.”

“Speaking of things given freely,” I put in, “I noticed that you and Godfrey address each other by first names since your trip.”

“How quick you are! No wonder the estimable Mr. Holmes pried only sour little nothings from you. Yes, we do.” Irene smiled mysteriously. “You could say that overmuch familiarity breeds... familiarity.”

Irene donned a ravishing emerald velvet wrap and a pretty pair of beaded house slippers before going downstairs again. Godfrey had not been idle in our absence; a tray of piping hot chocolate and the assorted teacakes for which Irene had such a passion awaited us. He must have roused Mrs. Seaton to prepare this bounty while we gossiped above.

We three settled before a dancing fire that spat warmth into the interior chill, a sudden odd reticence in the air. Before we supped, Irene deposited the Tiffany box in the secret compartment. She settled on the sofa beside me, at a right angle to Godfrey, whose eyes never left her profile. I felt we were all forced into places assigned us in a play, yet despite the stiff propriety among us, we sipped chocolate in contented silence, the others weary from the exhilaration of their journey, I pleased to have them safely home again.

Evidently we all mused on the same unspoken subject, for when Irene suddenly announced, “I have made a decision,” both Godfrey and I sat bolt upright.

She smiled at our eagerness. “Hounds on the trail, both of you! I agree, Godfrey, that we must find the Zone before another party snaps it up. When Sherlock Holmes calls again, you must give him only the snatches of your family history that he could cull from other sources. But to me...  you must tell all.”

“I don’t understand—” he began.

“Your memory is the key to the puzzle, to the objects jumbled into the chest. I must know every particular that you recall of your father and your childhood.”

“For almost thirty years, I have striven to forget that unhappy time.”

“I know,” Irene said, “yet often the past rests easier once it has been fully examined. You wish me to find the jewels; I must first decipher the nature of the man who had them.”

Godfrey gazed into the hearth for a long moment. I could see the flames reflected small in his mirror-pale eyes. At last he faced Irene. “How must we begin?”

“With the box and its contents. They must stir some associations for you, however unfortunate.”

They rose and went into the small front room. I remained to finish a George Eliot novel I had begun in their absence, certain that any revelations would be told first to me. Yet I could not concentrate upon the page; Irene and Godfrey both acted so bemused, so distracted. Could more than Sherlock Holmes and the Zone of Diamonds be responsible for their odd behavior? For Irene’s radiance and Godfrey’s air of... well, I could only call it... extreme satisfaction...

The house was quiet, save for the ticking clock and an occasional squawk from Casanova. I heard Godfrey’s and Irene’s rising and falling voices as a dappled murmur in which some phrases came clear and others muddy. When I glanced through the open doors, they looked like children playing a parlor game, their brunette heads bent close together—his the darker—the lamp light burnishing their pale faces and hands with the innocence of harmony.

My uneasy speculations were surely only the maunderings of an old maid! I rejected my suspicions as I returned to the sitting room and my novel, permitting myself to feel only the sublime satisfaction of a governess who knows that her innocent charges are safely occupied and can do themselves no harm.

“You have lost all contact with your brothers?” I heard Irene’s voice lift incredulously. That question had intrigued me as well, so I allowed my ears to attend to what they were saying.

“They sided with my father,” Godfrey answered, “feeling our mother was an embarrassment. As the eldest, I had witnessed my father’s cruel behavior toward her. My brothers saw only that we lived apart from him and that society looked askance. Later, when my father sued for my mother’s writing income, they chose to live with him. Not that he cared for their company that much; it was more a matter of asserting his ‘authority.’”

“Yet you kept him in his old age.”

“My brothers were nowhere to be found by then. Life with father was not so gentle that they stayed a moment past necessity. I believe they have left England.”

“That may be why Mr. Holmes was unable to trace you sooner. Many Nortons call this small isle home, but only one could lead him to ‘Black Jack.’”

“You pronounce that epithet with relish.”

“And why not? If you were denied a noble sire, be pleased at least to have a notorious one. There is some distinction in that.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“You sound as if
you
interrogate
me
now.”

“I am a barrister.”

“I am not a witness.”

“No, but you are most reluctant to speak of some things.”

“Such as?”

“Your... family origins—yes, I know I am cautious there, too—and the nature of your association with the King, other than that you fled him. I understand, Irene, that these small eastern dukedoms are ruled by autocrats. I can even understand that the ruler of such a backward place might think he could command your love—”

“It was worse, Godfrey, although what you say is very close to what happened, but it does not name my fault in the business.”

“What you
imagine
to be your fault—”

“No! My fault. My... overestimation of him, and of myself. It was not that the King thought he could command my love, but that I thought that I could win his.”

“You did, else why would you have had to flee him?”

“That is not love,” Irene said disdainfully. “That is possession. You of all men should know that, Godfrey, for your mother fled that kind of trap herself. The King never bothered to disguise his power with the cloak of marriage; even your father did that.”

“The King was a fool, and a deceptive fool!”

“And quite right: a woman in my position need not be married. Oh, I do not crave the state; indeed, I doubt I shall ever marry. It was insanity on my part to imagine for a moment that a man mired in such traditions as the King of Bohemia was could be as unconventional as myself. You see, for him to have married me would have been the height of unrespectability. I could never respect a man who cannot dispense with respectability.”

Godfrey laughed heartily. “Your logic is impeccably skewed; it reminds me of the contradictory wit of this young Oscar Wilde: ‘Life is much too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it.’ The poor King must have lumbered to follow your quicker mind like an elephant after a gnat. What you mean to say is that he was not king enough, nor man enough, to risk anything for you.”

“Or for himself. But how did we proceed from your lost brothers to my ignoble King? You are a circuitous examiner, sir. Now tell me what this ring of keys recalls to you?”

“It reminds me of returning to my quarters for rest. Perhaps your questions will bring me answers in a dream. Let us attack the matter fresh tomorrow.”

There was a silence. I heard a sudden rude metallic rattle and started, guiltily lifting the Eliot within range of my pince-nez.

“Poor Nell,” I heard Irene whisper shortly after from the passage, “she has read herself half-blind and almost asleep while we toyed with the residue of your father’s past. Go out quietly and I’ll get her to bed.”

It was most annoying to have to feign a sleepy state, but better than admitting that I’d heard Irene discussing the King in such plain and personal terms.

I slept well despite my small sin of eavesdropping, but received ultimate punishment. I awoke to the throb of piano keys from below. My bedside clock revealed a dreadfully late hour, so I quickly dressed and went downstairs. The remains of Irene’s breakfast lay crumbled in the dining room. I went directly to the little music room, from which swelling chords of Liszt were ringing.

“Good morning, Nell!” Irene greeted me over a ripple of melody. “This piano is in fine tune for a rented furnishing. I must ask Godfrey about that.”

“You have been asking Godfrey a good deal lately,” I noted.

“And he, me.” For a finishing flourish, her hands lifted off the keys like a conductor’s before settling decorously in her lap. “I have found a dreary, diligent task for him.”

“Just what he needs after a trip to Paris.”

“Oh, you have not had breakfast! I can tell it by your temper. Have Mrs. Seaton whip up whatever is your favorite. If you cannot go to Paris at least you can eat well.”

“And what will you do while I play glutton?”

“Play,” Irene said, executing a rather extravagant glissando with the back of her nails.

Indeed she did play, until I began to wonder if a singing Irene was as evil an addition to our residence as a speaking Casanova. The bird was mute during my meal, its yellow-and-red head cocked while Irene trilled through her exercises in the other room.

I considered what misery I would suffer if Casanova learned to imitate the exaggerated vowels affected by opera singers: “ah-ah-ah-AH-ah-ah-ah, oh-oh-oh-OH-oh-oh-oh, ee-ee-ee-EE-ee-ee-ee and eu-eu-EU-eu-eu-eu-eu,” repeated in relentless sets of seven.

Yet I confess myself most happy to hear it.

Godfrey arrived late that afternoon. He admitted that the piano had been freshly tuned at his orders.

“Then I must play you something,” Irene insisted, whirling down onto the stool and performing the Liszt with far more panache than I had heard that morning.

“But you cannot sing to ‘Liebestraum,’” Godfrey protested when the final lush chords had faded.

“I am not ready to sing,” Irene said, folding her hands in her lap like a child who has been admonished. She looked up mischievously a moment later. “But perhaps
you
are ready to work.”

She went to the table to fish the ring of ill-matched keys from the chest and toss them to him. “You must, as heir, apply to every bank active in London the past—oh, thirty-some years—to inquire if your father had a safe-deposit box with one of them. Several of these keys are of such a type. I believe that they are the true clue in the chest; the rest is... clutter.

“Every bank in London!?”

“You wish to find the Zone, do you not? Then you must look for it.”

“And you? What will you do in the meantime?”

Irene flounced down at the piano. “I? I shall practice. Is that not why you brought the box and had the piano tuned—so that I could solve and practice? Investigation is tedious, methodical business, Godfrey. I would be happy, of course, to visit the banks, but, as your father’s only available heir, you alone can claim the contents of any safe-deposit box you find. As I said, you are the key, quite literally.”

“There is no guarantee that I will find anything.”

“There is never any guarantee of anything. Do let us know how you progress.”

He took the ring of keys in reluctant custody and bid us good day.

“Irene!” I sat in the chair Godfrey had vacated. “It is cruel of you to set Godfrey such a massive task.”

“Cruel but necessary. Oh, Nell...” Her hands struck a dissonant chord on the keys. “I know not what else to try, save the keys. I would rather have him think that I was being high-handed than that I should have an obvious treasure trove of clues before me and not be able to solve a single one.”

“ ‘Pride goeth before a fall,’” I quoted. “But I do not believe that is the reason that you set Godfrey on such a chase.”

“What other reason would I have, pray?”

“This quest will occupy him greatly over the next weeks. You are anxious to limit your association with him.”

“Why on earth should I wish to do that?” Irene was the picture of cavalier disinterest: her right elbow lying atop the piano, her studiedly innocent face propped by a gracefully posed right hand. Her left hand idled up the steps of an octave. “Godfrey has been most helpful to us since our return.”

I recalled the truism of the right hand not knowing what the left is doing, but stated only the obvious. “He has been nigh indispensible and has single-handedly prodded you from a malaise over the Bohemian affair. You do not wish to be reminded that you are obliged to any man.”

“How far-fetched, my dear Nell! You should consider becoming a writer of melodramas. I am only doing what Godfrey wishes: reviving my twin interests—mystery and music.”

Godfrey had his revenge: he stayed away for an entire fortnight, calling one evening to report that Sherlock Holmes had indeed returned—a full week before.

“He called at your chambers a week ago and you did not tell me?” Irene demanded.

“I was most busy with the banks,” Godfrey said with an air of false martyrdom. “Nothing of import transpired. We spoke for only five minutes. He went away apparently satisfied.”