The Game (9 page)

And then he was looking out over the crowd, and Holmes was there with another glass of champagne, and the sensation was gone completely. Thomas Goodheart was merely the superior older brother of a kittenish girl who had befriended me, a young man patiently enduring a rather boring party for the sake of his family.

But I did not think I had imagined the glimpse of iron, nor the meaning behind his words.

And I began to speculate whether the likes of a Berlin cabaret might not be considered downright wholesome by Mr Goodheart, if perhaps the lessons in depravity Holmes had mentioned might not apply to certain American aristocrats among the rajas.

Villain, I would now believe. But also, I had to agree, what sort?

Without realising I had done so, I found myself drawn slightly away from the stagey Holmes until my arm pressed against that of the maharaja’s ornate coat. Holmes glanced at me, surprised at my uncharacteristic demonstrativeness, then frowned slightly at whatever remnant of discomfort he glimpsed on my face. But it was gone in an instant, and I stood away and raised my glass in a toast to the festive gathering. Goodheart drained his glass, as did Holmes and I. I do not know about Holmes’, but this particular drink was nothing more intoxicating than ginger beer.

And so it continued throughout the evening, with every other glass he put into my hand containing sweet nothingness. Tommy, however, continued to down his bubbly wine, with the predictable results when the strength of that substance is underestimated. The young man became increasingly intoxicated, and although Holmes appeared to match him in consumption and in effects, I knew my husband well enough to see it for an act.

Goodheart’s drunkenness was not an act, although the slipping of his controls was not wild and overt. No, it came out in two ways, one of which he had already shown me, and which Holmes soon witnessed for himself. Holmes was enough of a professional to control his rage, and was also sure enough of his wife and partner’s strength and self-respect that he did not feel the need to protect her by a simian pounding of chest, or of Goodheart’s face. But it was an effort for him to stand by with smiling incomprehension and good will as Goodheart made one suggestive remark after another in my direction, and I was glad for his sake when the young man’s intoxication ripened and bore fruit in the form of a hobbyhorse.

“These people, they haven’t a clue,” he declared, sweeping his glass at the room. Holmes plucked it from his hand and substituted a miraculously full one, and Goodheart slurped it with a scowl. “They haven’t a damned clue. Pardon my French, Mary.” I had not given him permission to use my first name, but I was hardly going to object now.

“That’s true,” Holmes agreed emphatically, then drew his eyebrows together in exaggerated confusion. “What about?”

“The world,” Goodheart explained, pausing to belch lightly. Fortunately, he did not stop with the generalisation, but went on. “Look at them, prancing about like a bunch of aristo . . . , ’rishtocrats with the mob pounding on the gates. Like France, don’t you know? Haven’t a clue that there’s a mob out there.”

“With guillotines,” Holmes encouraged.

The tweed deerstalker wagged enthusiastically. “Right, you are so right.” His diction was sliding, the dental sounds long turned to mush, the “s” sounds now “sh.” Soon the labials would become difficult; in another half hour, he’d collapse with his head on the table.

“But look what’s happened in England,” Holmes urged. “The Red Flag is practically flying over Parliament.”

Goodheart’s eyes tried to track, with limited success. “Right,” he said, although he sounded somewhat dubious, as if unsure why Holmes had introduced politics into the discussion.

“Isn’t that a good thing? To have a Labour victory?”

“Of course,” he said, more stoutly now. “But they think it’s the end, when it’s only the beginnin’.” It sounded like a quote pulled from memory, and served to confuse him for a moment. Then he rallied, raised his glass, and shouted, “By s’prise, where it hurts!”

But the effort was too much—either that, or some vestige of self-preservation ordered him to be silent; in either case the effect was the same. He let his glass fall to the floor and slapped his palm across his mouth in the gesture of a child hushing itself, or in the more likely identical motion of a man whose stomach is on the verge of rebellion. I took a hasty step back while Holmes seized the man’s free arm and hustled him speedily out of the doors and to the railing, where the deerstalker caught the wind and sailed off into the night.

A gentleman in the P. & O. uniform came to tidy away the broken glass, and another appeared to help Holmes lead Goodheart away. So much for
in vino veritas
.

I traded my glass of sweet nothing on a table for one of the real thing from the first passing waiter, and went outside for air and thought. After a while a snake-dance of celebrants came shuffling out the door, Sunny Goodheart at their lead laughing gloriously at her long tail of admirers.

I put down my empty glass and went to bed.

Chapter Five

T
he following day we came to Aden and the mouth of the Red Sea,
where the ship would pause for a few hours to take on coal. This would be our last land until Bombay, and Holmes and I were among the few walking wounded of the night before who waited to go ashore. The hills around the town seemed covered with tiny windmills, spinning in the hot wind, and the instant the ship dropped anchor, the sea around us filled with small canoe-type boats paddled by young boys, calling for the passengers to drop coins for them to dive after. From where I stood at the rail, the water looked so murky, thanks to the steamer’s huge screws, that I couldn’t imagine the boys seeing anything smaller than a gold guinea flashing past, but clearly the exercise was worth their while, or they wouldn’t have risked the sharks.

Heat settled over us as the launch approached the town, making me glad for once of the topee’s shade. We passed through the canoes and the dhows to tie up at the pier and be ceremoniously handed off; the solid ground felt oddly unforgiving beneath my feet, which in the eight days since leaving Marseilles had grown accustomed to the rise and fall of the decking. The air smelt intense, marvellously complex with the odours of dust and spice and animals, and only occasional whiffs of burnt fuel.

Our first stop was the post office, where we retrieved a handful of letters, including one from Mrs Hudson and two from my solicitors in London. A quick glance through them showed that there was nothing of any great urgency, although I did send off a telegram to the legal people to say that I’d got their letters and would write at leisure. We then slid the post into our pockets and turned into the bazaar.

Aden rides the border between several worlds, all of them represented in her marketplace. Skin tones from ebony to ivory, a thousand shapes of head covering, dialects to keep a linguist in ecstasy for a lifetime. Three dusty Bedu slipped down the streets behind a pair of British soldiers; a dark-skinned Jew displayed his copper pots to an African Moslem headed home from Mecca; four British tars with their distinctive rolling gait haggled with a Christian shopkeeper over the price of a small carpet; a pair of Parsee women, wrapped in loveliness and followed by a pair of watchful men, fingered lengths of brilliant silk; a British captain strolled with his lady, his eyes on her and not the pick-pocket trailing close behind.

All that in the first fifty feet, before Holmes ducked inside a gap between shops. However, I was ready for it, and made haste to follow him.

The noisome passageway was clotted with filth, its air stifling, the darkness such that one was tempted to feel for the walls—but for the knowledge that one really didn’t want to touch what was on those walls. I took half a dozen steps and stopped, waiting for my eyes to adjust before I found myself stepping into a coal cellar.

Then a door opened and the end of the passageway grew light, and I picked my way through unexamined shapes in that direction.

The room at the end was considerably tidier than its approach. It was a small space with a high ceiling, light but shaded from the direct sun hitting the courtyard outside its latticed windows. As soon as the door closed, the room’s fragrance of jasmine-flower and musk reasserted itself; it even seemed cooler in here, although it was probably an illusion brought about by judicious use of blues and greens in the hangings, and the pale wood of the walls and chairs. Just as, I noticed, it seemed larger than it was, since all the furniture was somewhat smaller than normal.

A light and lightly accented voice interrupted my survey. “You like my house, Miss Russell?”

I whirled, unaware that there had been anyone in the room. I had to look around for the owner of the voice, then look down, to find a tiny figure scarcely four feet tall, nearly hairless but wizened with wrinkles, seated in a nest of silk cushions beside a burbling hookah.

“It’s very attractive,” I replied. “How do you know me?”

He giggled, a sound I normally mistrust in a man but which seemed natural in him. “We have, shall I say, mutual friends. And you, Mr Holmes. I had not thought to lay eyes on you again this side of Paradise.”

“Good of you to imagine I might be headed in that direction, Solly. Russell, this is Suleiman Lal. Suleiman is the uncrowned king of Aden, and this room is the junction-box through which all the power of the Red Sea is dispersed. The state of the hall-way outside is his little jest.”

“I imagine it also keeps away stray tourists,” I said drily.

“Precisely,” said the small man, and took a draw at his pipe. “You have come for your mail, I think?”

“To see if there was any,” Holmes replied.

“In the cigar box on the second shelf,” said Lal. Holmes stepped over to the diminutive shelves and drew out the wooden box, thumbing open its lid and taking out the pieces of paper therein. They were not mail, but telegraph flimsies. “Please, do read them,” the small man urged. “You may wish to send a reply. And while you do so, we shall take tea.”

With that, a narrow door behind Lal opened silently and a very dark-skinned man of normal height padded in with an ornate brassware tray set with the makings of an Oriental tea. Lal laid his pipe aside and shifted forward to pour from the tall pot into the handleless porcelain cups, and as the odour of mint filled the room, I was transported back to Palestine. Yes, this was already sweetened, and I slurped at the scalding, syrupy mint essence with pleasure.

Holmes read the telegrams and handed them to me. Both were from Mycroft. They read:

YOUR PRINCE INDEED OF QUESTIONABLE VIRTUE

MAKING ENQUIRIES RE AMERICAN

MYCROFT

Followed two days later by:

TGH ACTIVE POLITICALLY AT UNIVERSITY NO CHARGES BUT MOTHERS GURU ARRESTED TWICE SPIRITUALIST FRAUD NO CONVICTIONS

TGH SEEN IN COMPANY OF MOSCOW SECURITY

SUGGEST YOU MENTION TO FRIEND IN DELHI

MYCROFT

“TGH” was doubtless Thomas Goodheart; his “political” activity at Harvard (to Mycroft, “political” would be synonymous with “subversive”) and his proximity to “security” in Russia went some way to justify Holmes’ interest in the man. Goodheart might be nothing more than Holmes’ shipboard hobby, but I agreed that whomever we were seeing in Delhi should be informed of our chance meeting.

I handed the flimsies back to Holmes, who stretched his arm over to Lal’s hubble-bubble to uncover its burning coal, using it to set the telegrams alight. He allowed them to burn out in an ash-tray, then thoughtfully tamped the ashy curls into black dust with his finger.

“There will be no reply,” he told Lal, who nodded.

“I was told your brother was unwell.”

“Is there any place you have no ears?” Holmes asked, sounding amused.

Lal thought for a moment. “Within the American White House I am currently friendless, but no doubt someone will come to my aid before long.” And with that revelation his smile changed from a thing of easy humour to a hint of what lay behind it, a knowledge of the world’s wickednesses and the sheer joy of possession. Suddenly his giggle was not so child-like and endearing.

Holmes continued to sip his tea, but I found the stuff too sweet, cloying along my throat, so that I had to force the last swallow down for the sake of politeness. The two men chatted of names I did not know while I hid my impatience to be gone, hid, too, my growing suspicion that there were things behind the airy silken drapes that I did not wish to see.

At long last, Holmes put down his empty cup and rose.

“You will not stay to lunch?” Lal asked, not really expecting that we would.

“We have purchases to make before the ship leaves, but thank you.”

Lal nodded, that curious sideways gesture of the Oriental, and his eyes slid to mine.

“Miss Russell, I am not, perhaps, on the side of God as you would see it, but I assure you, I am not on the other side, either. I am glad to have met you, my dear.”