by Steve Hayes
‘Well, you’re here now,’ she said, ‘and that’s all that matters. Fordham, please take Mr Howard’s bag up to the guest room Sally prepared this morning, if you please.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
As Elaina impulsively took his arm, Howard caught something in her smile that told him he wouldn’t be spending too much time alone in that room – or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.
‘Now, come and meet my guests,’ she said, leading him inside. ‘I know they’re dying to meet you.’
As they entered the enormous, high-ceilinged foyer Howard stopped and stared about him. Its white walls were covered in portraits and frescoes, and on the marble floors stood Romanesque plinths supporting exquisite busts. To him it looked more like a museum than a place where folks lived.
‘What’s wrong?’ Elaina asked.
He grinned. ‘Just wonderin’ how a girl from Kansas ends up with all this?’
‘She needed a lot of luck,’ Elaina said. ‘’Course, having a genuine real-live earl staying at her father’s hotel didn’t hurt none.’
‘I didn’t know there were any genuine real-live earls in Kansas.’
‘There aren’t. Not anymore.’
‘What was a British earl doin’ there in the first place?’
‘Hunting buffalo. We never would’ve met, but one of his entourage accidently shot himself in the leg and the nearest doctor was in Kansas City, a few blocks from our hotel—’
‘—and that gave you the chance to meet him?’
‘And for him to meet me,’ Elaina said, smiling.
‘Why do I have a feelin’ that it wasn’t a fair fight?’
She laughed, all of her earlier misgivings now melted away. ‘Straighten your tie, Thomas Howard. You’re about to make acquaintance with the cream of British high society, and I want you to look your best.’
He glanced around self-consciously as she led him into the library. The oak-panelled room was a storehouse of Queen Anne furniture, shelves lined with priceless tomes and French windows overlooking terraced lawns that sloped gently down toward the river.
Elaina’s gentlemen guests rose to their feet and shook Howard’s hand. The ladies stayed put and allowed him to dip his head respectfully and kiss their fingertips. Elaina realized he was making an effort to behave himself and play the game, just as she did, and she smiled appreciatively. But he soon tired of being the centre of attention. He felt more like an object of curiosity than anything else, as much a thing to be studied by all these lords and ladies as by Sherlock Holmes the night before.
One of the servants gave him a cup of coffee. But as he was asked one cliché question after another, his mood darkened. At last he got bored and stared through the French windows at the manicured lawns and the line of trees beyond, wishing he could be out there in the fresh air, away from this sickly stench of cologne and perfume and obscene wealth.
An overweight, bejewelled woman Elaina introduced as Lady – hell, he’d already forgotten her name – asked him what he did in Missouri.
‘He’s a cattleman, Elspeth,’ Elaina answered smoothly.
Lady Chatfield’s pencilled eyebrows rose a notch. ‘Oh, are you one of those rustlers the books talk about?’
‘Elspeth!’ said one of the women beside her. ‘Shame on you. You’ve actually read those dreadful whatever-they’re-calleds?’
‘Penny dreadfuls is the term, my dear,’ put in her bewhiskered husband.
‘I haven’t actually read them, Daphne,’ Elspeth said hurriedly. ‘But I confess, I did find one in the servants’ quarters the other day and gave it a quick peek. Quite stimulating’ – catching her own husband’s look of disapproval, she added – ‘in a revolting sort of way, of course.’
‘In answer to your question, Elspeth,’ said Elaina, ‘no, Mr Howard is not a rustler.’
‘Stealin’ other folks’ cattle is a necktie offense, ma’am,’ he explained.
‘‘Necktie offense’?’
‘Hangin’, ma’am.’ And in case he hadn’t made himself clear enough, he mimed hanging, bugging his eyes, poking out his tongue, making gurgling noises and pretending to twist the end of an invisible rope.
It had the desired effect. Lady Chatfield and company might be happy to suggest all manner of dire punishments for the criminal classes, but they recoiled at the grotesque sight one of those punishments might look like.
‘O-Oh, dear me, do rustlers steal?’ asked Elspeth. ‘I am so dreadfully sorry, Mr Howard. I had no idea—’
‘Forget it, ma’am. I know you ain’t on the prod.’
‘On the what?’
‘Tryin’ to rile me. Twist my tail. Get my goat?’
‘Oh-h, no, of course not. I’d never even touch a goat’s tail, let alone twist it.’
‘If you’ll excuse us,’ Elaina put in, ‘we simply must mingle.’
As they moved on, she said through her fixed smile: ‘Thank God I don’t have to see these pompous idiots too often. I’d die of boredom.’
Howard scowled. ‘What I can’t figure out is how folks can speak the same language and not understand each other.’ He pulled up suddenly and nodded toward a man with a heavy moustache, who was busily working over a sketch patch.
‘Who’s that feller?’
‘He’s a sketch artist from the Illustrated London News. He’s recording the event for the society pages.’
‘He keeps lookin’ at me.’
‘Maybe he’s sketching you.’
‘He better not,’ he growled.
She cocked her head at him, surprised by his reaction. ‘Don’t tell me you’re like the Indians,’ she said, trying to make light of it. ‘They believe that if someone takes your photograph or draws your picture they take your soul along with it.’
‘It ain’t that,’ he murmured, suddenly disentangling himself from her. ‘Listen, I’m gonna tell that there feller to quit drawin’ me.’
She frowned, alarmed by the change that had come over him. ‘You don’t really mind, do you?’ she asked. ‘I mean, we have ascertained that you’re not a rustler.’
But for the moment at least his sense of humour appeared to have deserted him. Without another word he strode across to the sketch artist, yanked the pad out of the startled man’s hands, turned it around and glanced at the portrait he’d been working on. His mouth thinned when he saw that it was an excellent likeness of himself.
‘I’ll take this,’ he said softly, and before the artist could do more than open and close his mouth a few times in surprise, he ripped the portrait from the pad, crumpled it up in one fist and shoved it into a jacket pocket.
‘But … but …’ was all the artist seemed able to manage.
‘Don’t you go drawin’ me again, mister,’ warned Howard. ‘I don’t cotton to it.’
They stared at each other for a moment, the artist’s hazel eyes both puzzled and fearful. There was something about Howard that thoroughly intimidated him, and he could only sigh with relief when a voice behind the man suddenly called: ‘I say there, Mr Howard!’
Howard glanced around. ‘What is it?’ he asked testily.
If he sensed Howard’s dark mood, Victor Landon certainly didn’t show it. He said jovially: ‘They tell me you’re from America, sir – Missouri, of all places! I spent some time there last year, on business. Saw some of the locals perform the most marvellous tricks with a lariat. How are you with a rope, sir?’
Howard shrugged, deciding to settle with the sketch artist before the party ended. ‘I reckon I can handle one,’ he allowed. ‘But I didn’t bring mine with me. Didn’t figure I’d need it.’
‘Surely you can find a length of rope, Elaina?’ Lady Chatfield said.
When everyone else chimed in, begging Howard to perform some tricks, Elaina sent Fordham in search of a length of rope. He returned shortly with a coiled washing line. ‘I’m afraid this is the best I could do, my lady.’
Howard took it, got the feel and weight of it, and said: ‘
Best do this outside.’
Caught up in the excitement, Elaina clapped her hands and called: ‘Outside, everybody! Mr Howard is going to entertain us.’
She opened the French windows and led Howard outside. Everyone followed them out on to a wide paved terrace overlooking the formal gardens. Immaculate lawns and rose gardens were surrounded by stands of spring-blooming ash, birch, beech and wych-elm, all of them dwarfed by a single massive oak that occupied the centre of the main lawn. In the far distance, hawthorn, blackthorn and holly sheltered against the old red-brick wall that enclosed the grounds.
The terrace itself was enclosed by a low wall, upon the coping stones of which sat a series of small terracotta flowerpots, each one holding amaryllis, gardenia, phlox or other spring flowers. As he walked, Howard quickly fashioned a small eyelet in the rope. Through this he threaded enough rope to make a loop of about five feet in diameter.
When his audience had gathered around, he arranged the loop on the ground beside him. Silence fell as he began to spin the loop, which slowly rose off the ground for a few inches and began to revolve ever faster. Everyone applauded, but this wasn‘t the trick – it was merely what came before the trick.
A moment later he hopped into the spinning loop and began switching the free end from left hand to right and back again, around and around him, at incredible speed. The loop rose ever higher, first to his knees, then his waist, then his shoulders and finally high overhead. The loop whirled up around him like a well-trained snake, causing the onlookers to gasp with admiration.
Under his control, the loop began to descend past his head and shoulders, then below his waist to his calves. Now, spinning it one-handed, he stepped out of the loop, then back in. He repeated the procedure several times, so that he appeared almost to be skipping. Once again his audience burst into applause.
Enjoying himself, he continued to perform. He allowed about three feet of the rope to dangle from his left hand. His audience watched expectantly. Then he turned his wrist suddenly and the end of the rope flew backwards over his arm, forming a loop as it did so. At the same moment he jerked the eyelet up and caught the loop. He shook the rope off his arm and let it fall, and there, tied into the rope, was a perfect pretzel shape.
Once again there was a burst of applause. Once again Howard repeated the procedure, allowing the last three feet of the rope to dangle from his left hand. Turning his wrist sharply he caught the end in the eyelet, but this time when he shook it out it described a near-perfect figure eight.
‘Bravo!’
‘Well done, sir!’
He shook the rope out again and began to spin the loop vertically beside him. Women cocked their heads in curiosity. Men scratched thoughtfully at their sidewhiskers. Then Howard hopped sideways, right through the loop, only to hop back again just seconds later. He repeated the trick twice more, and then brought the loop up so that it was spinning directly over his head.
Again the guests fell quiet. The only sound now was the whoosh the rope made as it sliced through the air, leaving a vacuum in its wake. At last he cast the loop and a gasp went up as it fell neatly over Elaina’s head, pinning her arms to her sides. While everyone around them clapped, Howard slowly began to draw her to him, hand over hand. Elaina, acknowledging the cheers, went towards him, laughing like a young girl.
She thought he would stop pulling when she was almost to him, but he didn’t. He kept drawing her closer until they were standing face to face, almost touching. There was something so intimate in the moment that the applause and cheering faltered a little and suddenly turned uncomfortable.
‘Better let me go before they get the wrong impression,’ she whispered through a smile.
‘Or the right one,’ he said with a sly wink.
With one movement he removed the loop and then turned and bowed. The good humour immediately returned.
‘More … more … do some more!’
Encouraged by the reception, Howard threw the rope aside, unbuttoned his jacket and suddenly pulled out his ivory-handled six-guns.
An uneasy silence descended upon the terrace. Even Elaina’s grin began to look strained.
‘All of you,’ said Howard, ‘keep well back.’
Everyone quickly obeyed.
Howard began to spin the guns by their trigger guards. They flashed and winked as they spun first one way, then the other. Then he started flipping them over his shoulders and under his arms, and soon the watchers started to clap and cheer appreciatively. The guns seemed to be alive as he flat-spun them, then made them cross in mid-air. He caught them by their barrels, spun them again and then, almost faster than anyone could see, they were snug back in their holsters.
Acknowledging the appreciation of his audience with a casual wave, he set himself with legs spread and knees slightly bent. Then, almost faster than the eye could follow, a gun appeared in his right hand and a shot boomed out in the chilly afternoon. One of the flowerpots resting on the low terrace wall exploded, spraying terracotta and dirt everywhere. Howard’s audience, who’d never seen the like before, went wild. As they clapped and cheered he fired again, three quick shots, and one after another the adjacent flowerpots exploded in spectacular fashion.
The gun was back in leather before anyone saw it happen. Immediately, he drew his other gun and three more shots echoed through the afternoon. The heads of three flowers burst apart.
‘I say, good show, Howard!’ cried Landon.
Howard grinned, feeling that he had at last gained the acceptance of these idle rich and, caught up in the moment, he aimed at the head of a fourth flower.
But before he could fire there was another gunshot and the flower disintegrated. Howard spun around, eyes hooding like those of a cornered wolf.
He saw Holmes and Watson standing in front of the French windows. They had clearly just arrived … and Holmes was holding a smoking revolver in his right hand.
CHAPTER 6
Jealousy
For one long moment no one moved. Then Elaina broke the spell, hurrying back to the house to greet the newcomers. ‘Holmes! I was wondering when you were going to show up,’ she exclaimed.
As she approached, Holmes deftly spun the gun by its trigger guard and handed it back to Watson, butt first. ‘Here, Watson – your service revolver returned with thanks.’
Watson accepted it with a look of disapproval. But Holmes only had eyes for Elaina as he pressed her hand to his lips. At last his keen eyes found those of Howard and he nodded with respect.
‘My compliments, sir. You are quite the marksman.’
‘You’re no greenhorn yourself,’ Howard said. Gun still in his hand, he slowly approached Holmes. ‘Accordin’ to my brother, you English don’t care to go around packin’ iron. And yet here you are, loaded for bear.’
‘We only go armed when the situation demands it,’ said Watson.
‘Like a tea party, you mean?’
‘Of course not. But when Holmes here tells me to carry my revolver, I carry it. Had he told me that his only intention was to use it for show, however, I would have thought twice. Firearms should be treated with more respect.’
Howard indicated the revolver. ‘You mind?’
Before Watson could argue, Howard took the gun and examined it with interest. ‘Never seen one of these before.’
‘It’s a Webley mark two,’ Watson said stiffly.
Howard hefted its weight, felt the way the grips fitted his palm, then whirled and fired it. On the other side of the terrace the head of another flower vanished in a small but dramatic explosion of petals.
Holmes gave a faintly mocking smile. ‘Do you mind, Mr Howard?’
Howard hesitated, then drew one of his Colts, spun it by its trigger guard and handed it to Holmes. As he took it, Holmes said: ‘Ah. Mr Colt’s famed Peacemaker.’
‘You know your weapons, I’ll give you that.’
Holmes sidestepped, snapped his arm out straight and fired. Flame tore from the barrel and yet another flower
burst apart.
Again their audience clapped. But Elaina, sensing the growing tension between the two men, quickly stepped between them. ‘Before you destroy all my flowers, gentlemen, may we call this little competition a draw?’
‘A diplomatic solution,’ said Holmes, ‘but not one that I could accept. I have no doubt that Mr Howard could shoot rings around me, if he so chose.’
‘There you go again,’ said Howard, bristling. ‘Makin’ a compliment sound more like you’re spittin’ in my face.’
Forcing a smile, Elaina turned to her guests. ‘Show’s over, ladies and gentlemen, and since it seems to be clouding up I suggest we go back inside and enjoy some more refreshments.’
For the remainder of the afternoon Howard gave Holmes and Watson a wide berth. But he surreptitiously kept an eye on them to make sure they didn’t get a chance to surprise him again.
Watson, meanwhile, was troubled by Holmes’s attitude toward Howard. He had known Holmes long enough to recognize just how out of character it was, and decided to await the right moment to question it. The moment came as they were standing in a corner of the library sipping their tea and observing the other guests. ‘You know, Holmes,’ he said quietly, ‘sometimes I just do not understand you.’
Holmes lifted one eyebrow. ‘I fear that few people do,’ he replied. ‘But I see from your expression that you have something specific over which you would like to take me to task?’
‘I do. This Howard fellow. Ever since you first set eyes on him, you seem to have gone out of your way to goad him … even belittle him. Doesn’t the poor man already have enough problems of his own without having to endure your sarcasm and veiled insults as well? Good God, man, how would you feel if your younger brother went missing overseas?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Holmes, unfazed by Watson’s chiding, ‘his missing brother. I had quite forgotten about him.’
‘You never forget anything, so don’t try to deceive me with that. I must say, though, you seem to have taken an instant dislike to that man and for the life of me I can’t understand why—’ Watson broke off abruptly as it hit him, then said: ‘Good Lord, you’re not jealous of him, are you?’
