“Well, Nell,” Godfrey began as we set out from our hotel the following morning, enunciating the words with the same relish as an actor rendering “How now, brown cow” for the edification of elocutionists everywhere. “Well, Nell,” he repeated in the same rolling tone, “now that we are again safe and sound in the light of day, what do you think of our chance meeting with the Golem?”
“I think that if we are to resort to reason rather than rank superstition we would understand that the creature we saw was some drunken brute on a rampage, no doubt a regular client of U Fleků and its ilk.”
He did not disagree. “Don’t you find it odd that we should chance upon such an apparition, however ordinary our diagnosis, on our very first night in Prague?”
“Given the number of beer gardens I have observed now that I am staying in the city proper rather than at the palace, I should say that our chances of encountering a wild, careening drunkard are extremely high at any time in any quarter.”
He nodded again, but said no more.
I had resolved to enjoy the day, fair as London days seldom are, and as Paris days are far too often to be appreciated. The vivid sunlight brought into knife-sharp relief the architectural fancies that garnished the city’s Baroque buildings, like lacework formed by stone and shadow.
Godfrey had consulted the notorious travel guide for more than the unfortunate directions to U Fleků, and held forth on Prague’s reputation as a mystical city of many faces, compared at various times by various poets and pundits to Athens, to Venice, Florence, Rome and other Italian cities, even to Jerusalem. His comparisons did not persuade me to a desire for visiting any of those locations.
Yet, once we had penetrated the Bank of Bohemia’s imposing stone exterior, we could have been within any civilized metropolis’ most trusted institution. We glided across ice-smooth pale marble floors while green marble pillars and engraved brass grillwork slid by our wondering eyes. In short order, we were shown into the huge, cherry-wood paneled office of a high bank official named Mr. Werner and ensconced in tufted red leather chairs.
Godfrey was offered a cigar. I was barely offered a considering glance.
Our host was a stout, middle-aged man with a single lock of unconvincingly black hair drawn across an otherwise bare pate as polished as any marble pillar.
He told us, in impeccable English, that Baron Alphonse had opened a significant line of credit for “your needs”—he looked exclusively at Godfrey—with the Bank of Bohemia, and that we were invited to an important reception at Prague Castle on Friday, which was only two days away.
Godfrey was to call upon Mr. Werner for any matters that might arise,
Godfrey thanked him and suggested that our demands would be modest. I thought him optimistic, for Irene had not yet arrived, and her demands were never modest. I began to worry about what I would wear to the palace reception, even though I was a person of no importance and nobody would care what I wore so long as it did not disgrace the company. I wondered if a Liberty silk gown would be considered disgraceful in Bohemia.
The banker rose, and presented Godfrey with documents allowing him to extract money from the Rothschild account and with a fat cream parchment envelope that gave my heart and memory a nasty knock. I glimpsed the ornate von Ormstein seal on the back, and realized anew on what perilous ground I would again intrude, and this time more was at stake than my friend’s romantic future!
Godfrey sensed my subdued mood on the stroll back to our hotel.
“Well, Nell,” he began, “are you surfeited with Bohemia already?”
I tried not to set my teeth. It is indeed unfortunate when one’s nickname rhymes with a common introductory word. At least no one can play the same trick with “Penelope,” with the possible exception of Oscar Wilde, should he set his mind and his Oxford classical education to it.
“Well, Godfrey,” I replied, “I have already seen the purported Golem and can report that a fraud. If we can discover whatever nonsense is affecting royal politics as quickly, we will be home before Casanova and the rest even miss us.”
Godfrey smiled. “I fear that politics are never as plain and accessible as reputed monsters. Do not underestimate the delicacy of our mission at the palace reception. There we shall begin to learn how the land lies, and there I will first lay eyes on the King of Bohemia. It should,” he added, tightening his grip on his walking stick, “be a most provocative evening.”
I instantly realized that I would likely also see the Queen of Bohemia, who might remember me from her interview with Irene at Maison Worth and blurt out some betraying comment!
“Amen,” I said to Godfrey’s last observation, so fervently that he eyed me oddly, although he said nothing.
We each had our own private mission in Prague, ones that had nothing to do with Rothschild interests, political maneuvering, or monstrous stirrings of any nature other than ordinary human passions.
That Friday evening the slow-setting sun made Prague Castle’s turreted silhouette into a harsh black border for the firmament of windows blazing brightly down on the town.
Our hired carriage climbed the long hill to the summit. Within it, Godfrey looked as splendid as a duke in a new evening suit courtesy of the Rothschild tailor. A man’s evening dress in this unimaginative age is a rigorous uniform: white tie, shirt, and vest; cutaway black coat and tails, black trousers. I am so ignorant of male tailoring that I cannot put my finger on the difference between an ordinary suit and one from a master tailor, save to say that this evening Godfrey looked at least the social peer of the King of Bohemia, if not of the Czar of All the Russias, or perhaps even of the Prince of Wales.
I had no choice but to wear the blue Liberty silk Irene had bought me on the sly. While Irene always went equipped for the most lavish of formal occasions as well as for rough-and-ready danger, I was always caught by surprise in both cases, and must make do with something halfway appropriate. At least I wore long white kid gloves of softest Parisian leather and tasteful ivory satin slippers that Irene had persuaded me to buy for “the small soiree.”
There was nothing small about the train of carriages our conveyance joined as we crested the hill to face a blaze of exterior torches. Night had fallen as if cued to do so. We were aided from our carriage by footmen wearing powdered wigs and knee breeches, and joined a throng being gently steered through the massive entry hall and down imposing passages to the reception chamber.
I had never entered the Castle by the public way before. When Godfrey bent a mutely inquiring gaze on me, I could only shake my head. How useless I was already proving to be! Out of my element, experiencing the pangs of unhappy memory, I deeply regretted that we had allowed ourselves to be seduced by the Rothschild commission, that I had allowed Irene’s obsession with the Queen of Bohemia’s confession to overrule my native caution and sense.
Godfrey was navigating these candlelit halls as if to the manner born, but, then, barristers are born actors at heart, whereas a typewriter-girl is only a nervous supernumerary for life. Our progress had clogged into a crowd: we were stalled before a high double doorway, waiting our turn... to be announced!
Godfrey presented the heavy cream card to the footman at the door, who passed it in turn to a tall, stout man in puce satin and a powdered wig. This worthy struck a rococo staff upon the marble floor and bellowed our names so loudly that I hardly recognized them as they echoed in the upper vastness and bounced among the dazzling glass chandeliers alive with light and melting candle wax.
He announced our true names. My grip on Godfrey’s forearm grew tigerish. “My name... should never have been used. The King and his family have met me.” Godfrey’s reassuring hand covered my gloved fingers. “I believe that the official has pronounced it ‘Foxleigh.’ Don’t worry, Neil; we will hardly cause a stir in all this crowd.” I hoped that he was right As we strolled into the vast chamber, I recognizing the decor from one of my ambles through the castle. Irene would know and remember every inch of the place. Des
pite our travels to Monaco and our brief time in the palaces of the wealthy and titled, for me to tell one palace from another was like distinguishing lavishly iced wedding cakes from each other. They were all huge and overwhelming, and it made one’s mouth purse to see so much richness and sweetness; to know each one was impossibly distant from one’s reality.
Godfrey led me to a gilt-framed chair against the wall and went to fetch some refreshment. While I sat there, thankfully ignored and fanning my heated cheeks, I discovered that the steward’s voice was clear and audible throughout the chamber, however garbled it seemed on the threshold.
I wondered at Godfrey’s calm in letting his name suffer such a public bandying about. Surely Sherlock Holmes had confided to the King the identity of the man whom Irene had married in haste before escaping them both. Or did Godfrey want the King to know of his existence and presence? Did I underestimate the unspoken motives he might have for this ill-fated excursion to Bohemia? Was Godfrey as curious to meet Irene’s one-time royal suitor as Irene was to find out why her former pursuer ignored the wife he had obtained at the sacrifice of Irene and his own deepest inclinations?
My head began to ache, no doubt an effect of the extremely silly arraignment of flowers and pearl beads I had affixed above my right temple because Irene had declared it went wonderfully with the Liberty gown. Inside the supple kid gloves, my palms were growing intemperately wet. At that moment, I would have rather dared another encounter with the muffled, lurching being of the byway than with either of the crowned heads present tonight.
“The freshest spring water!” Godfrey proclaimed, returning with two brimming flutes. His glass bubbled with the pale saffron effervescence of champagne, I noticed. “Shall we take a stroll around the room?”
I stood reluctantly, studying strangers as if they were snakes who could turn and show me a familiar face that might, in fact, find me all too familiar. But the crush permitted not even a mite to turn; after a few minutes of uninterrupted progress I began to calm. After all, who would pay any attention to an obscure British barrister abroad—or his secretary—at such a elegant affair?
“Mr. Norton! Miss... er... Mufflee.” The banker, Werner, stood before us, recognizable only by the black serpent of hair bisecting his pate. “If you will remain here, the King and Queen will pass shortly. His Majesty is most anxious to meet you.”
Godfrey started as my fingers clawed into the impeccable wool of his sleeve. He looked down, showing the same utter calm under pressure that Irene had made her signature.
“Don’t worry, Nell,” he assured me. “This is the moment we have been waiting for.”
“But I have met the King before! I have sat at the same table with him, shared the same sitting room and library. He must recognize me.”
“Nonsense. You have changed a great deal from your Bohemian days, don’t you realize that? That long ago Miss Huxleigh would never have worn a Liberty gown.”
“Oh.” I eyed my blue silk form downwards. It did look alien.
“Nor that smashingly fetching hair ornament,” Godfrey added with an encouraging smile.
“You really think so?” I asked, astonished.
I was so engaged in pondering why a gentleman should notice, much less compliment, such a ridiculous item that I hardly noticed when the banker popped back and presented us with great pomp to a couple that had paused before us.
Oh! While Godfrey managed a proper bow from the waist, I dithered between a bob and curtsy and produced a ungainly duck of my head.
Oh, indeed. There he stood. The King. He did look every inch a King, no denying that. Golden hair glinted like gilt on his head, eyebrows, and mustache in the chandelier light. He stood so tall and regal that the nearest chandelier gleamed behind his leonine head like a crystal halo, although I was not so utterly undone that I could conceive of King Willie meriting a heavenly halo in any lifetime. His uniformed, royal-red chest glistened with royal-blue ribbons of rank and ornate gold medals and stars of office.
Beside him, Godfrey seemed... smaller, plain. Dwarfed.
And beside the King, at his side, stood the Queen, even more diminished—a sad, golden spaniel of a woman with silky hair and huge, humid eyes and a deferential chin. Daisy-yellow silk and silver netting—I saw now the unmistakable mark of a Worth creation at a glance—could produce no sparkling, sunny effect vivid enough to counter the sad confusion that Queen Clotilde carried like a crown of thorns, despite the diamond tiara glittering on her satin-blond head.
“Werner,” the King commanded in English, and the banker jerked like a puppet. “I am confident that you will do all you can to assist Mr. Norton. We are most pleased that the House of Rothschild shows interest in underwriting the affairs of Bohemia, and will extend every courtesy to its emissary here.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty.” The man bowed low, the better to display his ridiculous ornamental hair.
Now that business greetings had been made, the King’s attention then turned to whatever social pleasantries as he could muster from such a pinnacle of perfection. He looked down—and down—at me. My fan paused in mid-flutter, pasting itself to my bosom. The King eyed me with regal disinterest. “And this, Mr. Norton, is your lady wife?”
I gasped, wondering what Mr. Norton’s true lady wife would make of such a misapprehension.
“Alas, no, your Majesty,” Godfrey answered with smooth, sincere regret. “This lady is my secretary only, but a paragon of efficiency. I quite depend upon her impeccable memory.”
Mr. Werner, single carats of sweat beading his bald head, quickly consulted a card in his curved, gloved hand. Apparently he had decided that ignoring me yesterday had not been wise.
“Miss Huxleigh,” he declared by way of introduction, pronouncing my name emphatically—and correctly.
The King regarded me. I cringed within but regarded him back, wishing that I were a cat looking at a Queen. Next to me, I sensed Godfrey doing that very thing with lightning glances. The King did not notice him eagerly eyeing the Queen, which was very good for Godfrey. Instead, the King stared directly at me, which was very bad for Penelope Huxleigh. The Queen stirred under Godfrey’s scrutiny, then looked at me to avoid it. A vague flicker livened in her sorrowful eyes.
“Most charmed, Miss Huxleigh,” said the King, his eyes as blank of recognition as if I had been introduced as Miss Eel-Peeler of St. Elfing. He was already moving on and swept the Queen with him, but she twisted her head over her milk-white shoulder to give me a last quizzical, hopeful glance.
“She cannot hold a candle to Irene,” Godfrey whispered fiercely in my ear. “The King was a madman to think that Irene would consent to be his mistress while he married that!”
“The Queen may be kind-hearted...”
Godfrey snorted indignantly. “Not much recommendation for the marriage bed. And, you see that the King did not recognize you or your name!”
“Perhaps I underestimate how overlookable I am. The King was never one to acknowledge servants. No doubt he took me for one. What did you think of him?”
Godfrey’s vehemence died swiftly. He glanced down at his white-gloved hands as if wishing for a walking stick, then spread them in an empty gesture.
“He is indeed larger than life,” Godfrey said dully in a tone of giving the Devil his due. “Robust. Barbarically splendid. Wealthy. Aristocratic. A Prince Charming out of an operetta. I had hoped for less.”
I sighed so heavily that a passing gentleman paused to ogle my neckline, a new experience for me. Before I could contemplate my reaction to it, a voice thundered behind us, too imperious to ignore. The steward was announcing a new guest.
“Sarah Wilde of Kent, Lady Sherlock,” came the clarion call.
Godfrey and I froze like a marzipan couple atop a wedding cake. We did not regard each other, nor did we turn to face the double doors behind us where another guest was making a fashionably late—and therefore unforgettable— entrance,
“I believe,” said Godfrey between his t
eeth, with commendable aplomb, “that the King’s memory is about to receive a more formidable testing.”
“So,” I replied, between mine, “are we.”
“And,” boomed the steward, “her sister, the Honorable Allegra Turnpenny.”
“And,” I added privately to Godfrey, “so is Irene.”
Chapter Seventeen
SHERLOCKIAN SCANDALS
In moments, Godfrey and I were confronting a sea of faces. It became obvious that we were the only individuals in the ballroom not transfixed by the newcomer. With a mutually resigned glance, we braced ourselves and turned in unison.
We faced what could have been a scene from a play, or perhaps a grand opera.
Irene stood alone center stage, framed by the rococo double doors through which she had made her entrance. (With Irene, it is never any wonder that the noun “entrance” is spelled the same as the verb “entrance,” if not accented on the same syllable.) Irene’s entrances always managed to entrance. At least I assumed it was she!
My eyes told me quite differently. Lady Sherlock (oh, odious pseudonym!) seemed taller than Irene, even thinner. Her hair was a glistening black arrangement in which diamond drops sparkled like dew on wet tar. I had never seen dyed hair of such a vibrant black hue before and began to doubt my identification... except that Milady Sherlock was attired in Irene’s coq-feather Worth gown—and how it shone, like the iridescent ebony-tissue cloak-lining of Night itself, drawing all into its deep, secret, enveloping darkness.
The Tiffany diamond corsage slashed diagonally across that feathered bodice like a blinding-white sword-stroke of utter luxury set against a black taffeta background.
Only later did I notice the slight, brown-haired girl in ivory satin standing behind Irene, eyeing the gathered throng like a shy but crumb-hungry wren.
Silence held for a long minute as the guests wondered who Irene was and absorbed her extravagant appearance. When she had enjoyed enough adulation, speculation, and envy, she unfurled her black ostrich feather fan with a snap of her wrist. The clack of the fan’s unfolding tortoise-shell sticks echoed to the chamber’s farthest corners.
Another Scandal in Bohemia (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) Page 18
