Another Scandal in Bohemia (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes)

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  “And Quincy.”

  “Another surname.

  “You are right, Nell, as usual. We always come back to Quentin.”

  “Did the fortune teller introduce him by mentioning ‘Q’ as a first initial?”

  “Exactly. Of course Allegra immediately blurted out that this must mean her Uncle Quentin before I could stop her. I could have wished for more restraint. No one thought of ‘Queen’ Clotilde.”

  “Of course! ‘Queen’ is her first name in a sense! What was said about this ‘Q’ person?”

  “That such a person was possibly as good as dead and in great personal danger, but would shortly triumph, would in a sense be reborn. When Allegra pressed her about her uncle, the old woman assured her that she would see him again, and soon, but that Allegra herself was in danger.”

  “I don’t like that, Irene.”

  “Neither do I! The irritating crone suggested that we all were in mortal danger. That is no good way to ensure return customers.”

  “The Queen too?”

  “The Queen above all, although the wretch was most cryptic about who really was the Queen. She could have meant Clotilde. Or myself. Or someone other.”

  “Not I,” was my comment.

  Irene smiled. “I fear not. How did your interview with the demanding Tatyana go?”

  “Such a strange woman, Irene. I believed that yours was a dramatic persona. Now that I have seen this Tatyana in closer quarters, I find her even more overwhelming than yourself.”

  “How comforting to know that one’s own excesses can be exceeded by another.”

  I examined her face for traces of sarcasm but discerned none.

  “You’re certain this woman is a seasoned spy,” I asked, “and that she recognizes us all from our brief encounter at Sarah Bernhardt’s salon?”

  “I would stake my life upon it, and, now that I have heard the gypsy’s prediction, fear that I do.”

  “Can this Prague tangle truly be so serious, Irene? So far Godfrey’s excursions among the bankers are routine. Aside from our spectacular vision of the Golem, Prague seems as sleepy as always, and the Queen’s marital anxieties are not unique. Even men who do not wear crowns keep mistresses.”

  “Oh, how worldly and callous you are becoming, Nell. Doesn’t her plight wring your heart? Poor Clotilde, a stranger in a strange land, isolated in Prague Castl e, utterly rebuffed by the one Bohemian legally and morally obliged to care for her—”

  “Extremes,” I reminded her, trying hard not to sniff in a superior manner. “I remember a day not a year past when we sneered at her portrait in the Daily Telegraph.”

  “Sneered? I do not sneer, no more so than you blurt.” Irene on the brink of laughter was always a persuasive force.

  I found myself smothering a snigger. “I must commend you for showing pity for a rival, and a successful one at that.”

  “I can afford to be magnanimous about Clotilde, dear Nell. I have found a far more formidable rival.”

  “You mean that Tatyana woman! I am so sick of her. She does nothing discernable, save associate with the King and presumably do what mistresses do. To elevate her into some overwhelming force responsible for everything from Quentin’s collapse at Notre Dame to the King’s disinterest in his Queen is to make her more than any one woman could possibly be! Your fascination smacks of obsession, Irene, even of delusion.”

  “You think so?” she answered, unruffled as only Irene could be, even when confronted with the most outrageous challenge.

  “I say so! The solution to the entire problem in Prague will be through Godfrey’s efforts with the bankers and the officials, via the Rothschilds. The insanely silly rumor of the Golem and the matter of Clotilde’s marriage bed will prove to be mere distractions to the central puzzle, which is the usual political pas de deux that I find most boring and annoying, however vital it may be to the Foreign Office.”

  “You are thinking of the matter of the Naval Treaty, which involved both Sherlock Holmes and Quentin Stanhope.”

  “Only because Colonel Sebastian Moran linked the two camps.”

  “He may live.”

  “So may Quentin, I am told on good authority, ranging from a Bohemian gypsy to my good friend Irene Alder.”

  “Touché,” she said with sigh, sinking deeper into the upholstered chair. “We are balked until we can catch hold of some loose end of this puzzle.”

  “What puzzle?”

  “Nell, you may not see any peculiarity in it, but I am most alarmed that a crowned head would not attempt activities of an engendering nature with another crowned head to whom he was specifically wed for that purpose! I am not encouraged that the most powerful banking family in Europe believes that political maneuvering in the tiny kingdom of Bohemia will shake the face of the Continent. I am not enamored of the fact that the two people whom I most trust in the entire world have apparently seen an apparition of the Golem of medieval Prague, no matter the means or motive to which they attribute this vision.

  “And I am most disturbed that a woman who a decade ago was a known spy for an ambitious and formidable nation like Russia chooses to entwine her affairs with a minor king on the eastern edge of Europe, and may have been recently active in a murderous plot involving those I know and hold dear, including our new friend Quentin.

  “And, lastly, I am compelled to wonder what our erstwhile rival Sherlock Holmes would make of such a tangle, and if he himself has begun to suspect the possible survival of both Quentin and Colonel Moran, as well as international intrigues that may shake the Continent in its boots!

  “Now. Other than that, I am content.”

  I blinked. “What do you wish me to do?”

  Irene sighed, not sadly or wearily, but as one who gathers herself for some immense task.

  “First, I wish you to accompany me for the day tomorrow.”

  “What of Godfrey and Allegra?”

  “Godfrey has his bureaucratic trail to follow. Also, I find it amusing to set him about making the King jealous, when the King was so envious of this man he had never met, whom I married.”

  “Irene—” I began, stirring uneasily. The pervasive Tatyana disturbed me, but I could not put it into words that she would understand.

  “Allegra will be safely assigned to Prague Castle and the Queen,” Irene went on quickly, as though to reassure me. “On a pretext of further wardrobe consultation. You may wonder that I delegate Allegra, a mere child, to this delicate task. A new shipment of Worth dolls is due, and the Queen’s fashion sense is so appalling that any advice is worth its weight in gold. Besides, we shall know that they are both safe within the castle.”

  “And where will we be?”

  “In the Old Town. My companions today were too distracting.”

  I couldn’t resist a triumphal surge. “You hunt the Golem?”

  “I hunt whatever is setting these events in motion. Something is very wrong, and some essential piece is missing. I sense the tremor of many filaments, of a malevolent web in construction of such vast size that it is all too easy to overlook. Ah, I am not a political person, Nell. And that is the basis of these events. I can only use what has served me in the past: my instincts, my own knowledge of this city and the personalities involved, my... dramatic extremes.”

  “Irene, did the initial ‘G’ come up again during the gypsy’s reading?”

  She smiled cynically. “Of course. Do you think that old woman failed to recognize me, despite my disguise? She is no self-submersed King of Bohemia! Her livelihood depends on more wit than that. I may not believe her predictions, but I do not doubt her consistency. She saw danger shrouding someone whose name began with the letter ‘G’.”

  “Could... the ‘G’ stand again for Godfrey?”

  She nodded.

  “And... Gottsreich? The King’s middle name.”

  “ ‘God’s right,’ indeed. Yes, of course.”

  “Or could it possibly, quite insanely... stand for ‘Golem’?”

&
nbsp; Irene’s face froze. “You mean that the danger may not envelop this unknown ‘G,’ but emanate from him. Or... it. I knew that there were reasons why I relied upon you, Nell. Thank you for reminding me.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  DOLLS TO DIE FOR

  Holmes filled his pipe with the abominable shag he had brought from London.

  Here we sat in a handsome hotel room in Paris, surrounded by the very perfection of everything that money and inclination can buy, and Holmes puffed away on two-penny tobacco.

  “What did you think of our expedition to Maison Worth today, Watson?”

  “I think that it is a grand establishment, and that Madame Worth was once an astoundingly handsome woman; indeed, she is still most impressive.”

  “No doubt you also wonder why such a family attribute took a turn for the worse when it crossed the Channel to England,” he put in with a twinkle.

  "Not in the slightest, Holmes, though I am surprised that you are related to such a family.”

  “The Vernets were ever artists, Watson. I find it interesting that Marie Vernet has married an artist in the sculptural art of dressing. What did you make of all those... draperies?”

  “You mean the clothes, of course?”

  “Of course, dear fellow. I am not interested in mere window hangings unless they contain or conceal a clue. In this case, I fear the clues are far from concrete, but involve the volatile world of ladies’ fashions. There I must defer to your greater observations and interests.”

  “I am only married, Holmes, not an expert on women’s dress.”

  “The two must be the same.”

  “As to what I thought—we saw some splendid specimens of womanhood today, Holmes.”

  “Did we?” he asked in all sincerity.

  “Many great ladies of Paris were visiting the salons through which we passed, of that I am certain, although I am not Parisian enough to know their names. But their forms, their grace, their bearing... their je ne sais quoi—surely even you noticed that we were in the presence of great ladies!”

  Holmes shrugged and puffed simultaneously. “I will take your word on it, Watson. I cannot say that I noticed. Mere mannequins, that is what I saw today strolling through that temple of gingerbread, of no more interest to me than the porcelain dolls that the dead girls worked upon; of rather less interest, in fact.”

  “Holmes, we have glimpsed the flower of French society—queens of the stage, noblewomen and women not-so-noble but far more beautiful, all wearing gowns of the most exquisite design and manufacture. I confess I felt a pang for my wife Mary left behind in Paddington. She would have loved to glimpse such legendary luxury.”

  “There is only one queen of the stage in my estimation,” he answered shortly, “and she is not here.” His expression sharpened, then softened. “In spirit, perhaps, but not in person. Great ladies are not the object of our mission; what of poor Berthe Brascasat?”

  “A tragic turn of events, Holmes. These blithe young things work a long and little-paid day. I admit that I will not admire a well-gowned lady as heartily now that I have seen the dozens of seamstresses who must labor to create such extravagancies.”

  “Yet you purchased a rather frivolous cape for your own Mary,” he noted.

  “I could hardly return home from Paris without some such frippery. If you were wed, Holmes, you would understand.”

  “I am not wed, yet I do perceive the married man’s problem. You decry the exploitation of the bead-girls, but you wish your wife to benefit from their needlework.”

  “Wish has little to do with it, Holmes, as you would know if you were wed.”

  “But I am not, and not likely to be.” He blew out a mighty gout of smoke. “Watson, ignorant as I am of such matters as fashion and women, and as cold as the trail is, I must confess that the murders of this young bead-girl, Berthe, and her sister sewer, are deeds as dastardly as any we have yet seen.”

  I sat forward. “The means—the scissors—were unconscionably brutal.”

  “Brutal... and so unnecessary.”

  “Are you saying that you have a clue to the murderer?

  “The murderer? No, but that’s irrelevant. What matters is why these girls were slain.”

  “You are here to solve these deaths. How can their murderer be irrelevant?”

  “I know murderers, Watson. There is no greater satisfaction than unveiling one who has allowed lust, greed, or cruelty to guide his hand to the ultimate renunciation of common humanity. This is not such a case. Berthe and her compatriot were killed not for who they were, but for their position.”

  “Their position? Holmes, they were persons of no importance, mere bead-girls among hundreds.”

  “That is why these murders are so repellent. The hand that struck Berthe down could have as easily killed her neighbor. This was a crime of mere happenstance, Watson, for a purpose I glimpse and find wanting.”

  “Yet, as you say, Berthe and young Nathalie were of no importance in the wider world; then their murders must be as meaningless.”

  “Your logic is as lacking as your conscience.” He sighed. “No, Watson, her death was meaningless but the motive behind it is one of vast significance. Can you not see what is plain, what was plain before even Berthe’s or Nathalie’s eyes at the moment of death?”

  “I see only a huge room lined with tables, over which dozens of young women bend to their stitchery. The products of their labor are ultimately valuable, but the pieces are mere morsels of lace and ribbon and glass beads... or jewels? Were there true jewels, Holmes, concealed among the glittering beadery? A scheme to steal and hide jewels, perhaps?”

  “Jewels.” He laughed. “You harbor the soul of a romancer, despite your scientific training. Yet who can blame you? To see these young women laboring over such elaborately attired dolls, these mannequins twinkling with tiny beads, some wearing earrings even. What small girl would not sell her innocent soul for such a toy? Is it any wonder that older individuals would sell even more than their souls for such things?”

  “You confuse me, Holmes. First you say that the murders are not significant, then that the matter involves great brutality and the selling of something worth more than souls.”

  “It is crime we investigate, Watson! Crime roots itself in contradictions. Even I may commit a few in the pursuit of crime. Did you not notice a certain oddity about the fashion dolls?”

  “Only that they were exquisitely made, and of course, dressed.”

  You did not... recognize... any?”

  “Recognize them? What an offensive idea, Holmes. They are dolls, mannequins, made from molds. They are pretty and false at one and the same time. They may suit to satisfy small girls, and perhaps the larger girls who play with fashion as their younger selves played with dolls, but I should not look for any revelation among those frozen porcelain faces.”

  Holmes nodded. “No doubt your greater worldliness preserves me from a sad delusion, Watson. No doubt I was mistaken to detect a resemblance or two in that company of dolls.”

  “A resemblance? To whom?”

  “One was to a face that even I have noticed: our Good Queen’s granddaughter, rumored to be destined to wed the future Czar of Russia.”

  “Princess Alexandra? No doubt she is a client, Holmes. How... enterprising of Monsieur Worth to order his mannequins to resemble his famous clients. Are all of them duplicates of some living person?”

  Holmes shrugged. “I cannot speak for all; certainly another one that I recognized memorializes a person no longer living, or presumed so.” The look he gave me was oblique. “Most of the dolls may be anonymous, except for a favored few. Did you notice the one that mimics our Queen in her younger days?”

  “No! One would think Monsieur Worth would retire such a figure now that the Queen is a widow.”

  “Why should he? These cunning mannequins record the lineage and long custom of his most illustrious clients. He clothes every royal house in Europe as well as the uncrowned arist
ocracy of American wealth, my cousin Marie tells me proudly. I wonder if the ramifications of such a fact ever strike her.”

  “What ramifications, other than the fact that she has married a man who has become world-famous, wealthy, and much honored?”

  "He is also in a position to be used, my dear Watson, as are his wealthy clients.”

  “I can’t quite see how, Holmes.”

  “No, that is why my cousin and her husband have come to me. I have business about Paris while I confirm certain theories. Then, I am afraid, we are in for a much longer rail journey than that which brought us to Paris.”

  “We must travel on? Where?”

  “I fear the trail will lead us all the way to Prague, Watson.”

  “Bohemia? But why?”

  “Because that land’s Queen is involved in the matter that led to the murders of poor Berthe and Nathalie.”

  “The devil you say! Royal intrigue and murder? What a case. At least we are acquainted with the King.”

  Holmes puffed deeply on his pipe, assuming that dreamy expression I glimpsed only during his moments of deepest thought, or while he was caught in a cocaine trance.

  “We are indeed acquainted with the King of Bohemia. It will be interesting to see him again.”

  “But you do not like the King.”

  “I did not say it would be pleasant, Watson, only interesting.”

  He smiled, to himself, not me, and stared out over the Paris rooftops turning slightly golden in the twilight.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  CRYPTOGRAPHY

  Irene and I strolled together up Karlova street, she in the best of moods, I in the worst.

  “Ah, what a splendid day!” she cried, stopping to fill her lungs with the lively Prague air. “I feel that we will make excellent progress. As much as an incognito venture into the Prague streets benefitted the Queen yesterday, I could accomplish no real work with Clotilde and Allegra along.

  “We two will make giant steps,” she predicted, taking my arm and implementing her own metaphor until I was stumbling to keep up.

  “Irene, slow your pace! People are staring.”