“Quite so, Mrs. Jacobson,” they all agreed to my self-promotion.
“It will make no difference, really,” I admitted. “Just go about your duties as before.”
Without further ado they did so. I knew they would gossip with the other servants in the neighbourhood. Happily, it was a neighbourhood far from either Sherlock or Mycroft, and more happily, neither of my brothers kept servants. Still, I sighed with worry that some whisper might attract their unwanted attention.
But I worried less as June passed into July, the only remarkable event being that I actually ate well enough at my new lodging so that my face, and other parts of my personage, rounded out a bit, and I no longer required so much padding. I had taken an expensive room at the Professional Women’s Club, where I was a member, and where no men were allowed on the premises under any circumstances; I felt safe there. This circumstance combined with the change in my appearance lulled me into a complacence that was soon to be tumbled onto its smug little posterior.
Not, however, before an interestingly confluent event commenced.
CHAPTER THE SECOND
UPON THE AFOREMENTIONED FATEFUL DAY WHEN I wore the mistletoe-green dress, no sooner had I arrived at Dr. Ragostin’s office than the doorbell rang. And rang, and rang, and kept ringing worthy of a fire alarm. “Help! For the love of God, someone help me!” shouted a man’s voice in tones aristocratic, melodramatic, indeed nearly operatic. Not in keeping with British restraint at all. “Make haste!” Did I not discern a foreign accent in his deep voice?
“For Heaven’s sake, Joddy,” I instructed that startled boy from my desk, “open the door.”
As soon as he did so, I saw the shouting man, his contorted and flushed face ludicrously sandwiched between his shining top-hat and his starched collar, silk cravat, and city-coat. Striding into my office, making towards me as I stood to greet him, with apparent effort the fellow set his face in order. Quite a handsome young lord in a wild sort of way, he brought Brontë’s Heathcliff to mind. “Is Dr. Ragostin in?” he demanded like one who has nearly lost his mind, but not his manners; he removed his hat, showing hair as black as a raven.
“Unfortunately not. Nor is he expected back for some time.” My ladylike faille and organza quite showed me to be no mere servant, thereby starching my nerve. “As Dr. Ragostin’s personal assistant, perhaps I can render you some assistance? Please be seated.”
He dropped into a chair as if exhausted. Almost miraculously, considering his usual ineptitude, Joddy appeared with a carafe of ice water and glasses on a tray. I poured, and the man accepted his cold drink, no doubt in order to compose himself as well as to comfort his hoarse throat. Meanwhile, I resumed my place behind my desk.
“Your name, please,” I requested, pencil and paper at the ready.
His eyebrows, black raven wings, stooped. “My wife, who happens to be the third daughter of the Earl of Chipley-on-Wye, has unaccountably vanished in the most peculiar circumstances, the police are nincompoops, and I have no time to waste on any more fol-de-rol. I would much prefer to speak with Dr. Ragostin directly.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, I am fully authorised to undertake preliminary action in emergencies. Now, please, I must record the facts. Your name?”
He drew himself erect as a flag-pole in his chair. “I am Duque Luis Orlando del Campo of the Catalonian blood royal.”
Ah! Pronounced “du-kay”; a Spanish duke! “I am delighted to be of service to Your Grace,” I recited automatically. Like every British schoolchild, I had the ranks of peerage drilled into my head: King, Duke, Marquess, Earl, Baron; forms of address being Your Royal Highness, Your Grace, Lord, Lord, and Lord. For oddities such as emperors, counts, knights, younger sons, and the like, one consulted an etiquette book. “And what—”
“My Duquessa,” he interrupted with even more importance, “is the exalted Lady Blanchefleur, world renowned for her fragile beauty, a delicate blossom upon a frail filament of womanhood.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, rather taken aback by this poetic description, even though his wife’s name did mean “white flower” in French. “And it is Your Grace’s misfortune that the Duquessa has gone missing?”
“She was most unaccountably abducted, or so we believe, whilst enjoying her daily walk with her ladies-in-waiting.” His skin had now gone quite white beneath his black hair.
“The evil deed occurred at approximately what time?”
“About two o’clock yesterday afternoon.”
Very likely he had been up all night, then; no wonder he seemed a bit wrought. “And where did this take place?”
“Whilst they were having a stroll around the Marylebone neighbourhood. Baker Street, I believe it was.”
“Ah,” I gabbled. “Um.” Baker Street! Where my beloved and formidable brother Sherlock lodged, and where I might be put dangerously close to him whilst investigating this case. “Er. Baker Street. Quite. Where upon Baker Street, exactly?”
“At Dorsett Square—”
Oh, dear. Exceedingly close to Sherlock’s flat.
“—where, it would appear, there is an Underground station.” The Duque said the word Underground with the characteristic distaste of a gentleman, disdainful of this newfangled, dark, and noxious mode of travel, as only lower classes generally used London’s cheapest form of transportation. Even though the locomotives stored their smoke in chambers behind the engines, releasing it only at ventilation shafts provided for that purpose, still, the Underground reeked of steamy, gaseous emissions, plus an overwhelming effulgence of unwashed humanity.
Did my brother Sherlock ever use the Underground? Not once in any of Dr. Watson’s accounts had I read of the great detective’s setting foot in the Underground station conveniently located half a block from his lodging.
“Please, Your Grace,” I urged my aristocratic client, “tell me exactly what has happened.”
“Most foolish and distressing.” Duque Luis Orlando del Campo raised both kid-gloved hands in protest. “I cannot continue to parrot the tale like a schoolchild. I demand you to summon Dr. Ragostin!”
Let me spare you, gentle reader, the wheedling, soothing, glasses of water, and waste of time it took for me to extract a confused account from him. Suffice it to say that, for reasons that remained unclear, his wife, Her Grace the Duquessa, had descended into the nether regions of the Baker Street Underground. One of her ladies-in-waiting had the courage to accompany her. The other had remained at the top of the entry. Eventually the first lady-in-waiting had come running back up the stairs in great perturbation of mind; where was the Duquessa? Both had then gone down to search, but to no avail. The high-born beauty Blanchefleur del Campo had quite disappeared.
How very intriguing. “The police have undertaken a search, I suppose?”
He raised his fierce, despairing face. “Yes, they searched, but found no sign of her.”
“Could she have exited by another egress?”
“I am assured that there is none. It is ridiculous to think that she might have wandered down the tracks.”
Ridiculous indeed, for to do so was to keep company with rats and to risk being struck by a passing train. “Could she for some reason have stepped into a train carriage?”
“No trains passed through during the time when she went missing. Both ladies-in-waiting are quite adamant upon that point, and the Underground schedule bears them out.”
“Yet had the Duquessa remained on the platform, or gone up the stairs, they would have seen her.”
“Exactly! It is impossible. I am at my wits’ end.”
“Have you received a ransom demand?”
“Not yet. I daresay I will. Not only am I well-to-do, but her father, the Earl—quite wealthy—yet such a bizarre kidnapping is inconceivable; inconceivable! How was she carried away? Without being seen? When no one should have imagined she might enter such a place, as she went there due to the merest foolish whim?”
“What whim might that have been, Your Grace?”
“No one has yet explained it to my satisfaction. The Duquessa’s ladies-in-waiting simply fly into hysterics when I question them, and the police inspector could get no sense out of them, either. The whole world has gone mad. I believe I shall go mad as well! I have called upon Mr. Sherlock Holmes—”
How my heart jumped.
“—but he has gone to some ridiculous place in the country and is expected to return today. Indeed . . .”
The distraught Duque Luis Orlando del Campo pulled a magnificent gold watch from his waistcoat and consulted it. “He should be waiting upon me at this moment. I must go.” He rose. “Kindly tell Dr. Ragostin—”
“Your Grace, I am certain that the doctor,” I interrupted, keeping my voice serene although my thoughts were racing, “will need to speak with your wife’s ladies-in-waiting.”
“Both are quite prostrated.”
“Very naturally so. Yet they must be questioned, and surely, if they would not confide in you or the police inspector, they will not speak freely to a male stranger.”
“True. Quite true,” he muttered in a distracted manner, his wild eyes searching the room, then fixing upon me as if upon a revelation. “Perhaps it would be better if you, a woman, were to interrogate them? Would you be willing to do so?”
“Of course.” I refrained from congratulating him for so cleverly hitting upon the solution that had been my scheme all along. “Your street address, Your Grace?”
CHAPTER THE THIRD
I BLINKED IN SURPRISE AT MY FIRST SIGHT OF Duque Luis Orlando del Campo’s residence on Oakley Street, for it was of Moorish revival architecture, most unexpected, especially in this exclusive neighbourhood near the Embankment. Almost anywhere in London one might expect to see Greek revival, or Georgian, Italianate, French, Swiss, Bavarian, ad infinitum, and often regrettably combined—but hardly ever Moorish. The home, built of yellow brick, eschewed tasteful ochre-olive-russet tones in favour of vermilion trim and peacock-blue roofing. Ruby and emerald stained glass sparkled beneath pointed arches striped red and white. Oversized checkerboard-patterned tile decked the entry-ways, and the bay windows, turrets, et cetera were surmounted not by ordinary shingles but by bronze domes, like something out of the Arabian Nights. Achieving the front door, plying a knocker in the shape of a grinning genie, I mentally prepared myself for almost anything. A butler in a turban, perhaps?
No. Quite an ordinary parlour-maid in a flowered morning-dress opened the door to let me in, extending the usual silver tray for Dr. Ragostin’s card, upon which I had handwritten my new alias: Mrs. John Jacobson.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes also in attendance?” I asked the parlour-maid.
“Not yet, madam. We expect him shortly.”
Oh, dear. If Sherlock appeared, I would need to devise a way to vanish.
The parlour-maid took my card up to the ladies-in-waiting. Not personal-maids, mind you, or even companions, but ladies-in-waiting, no less. Hmm. This could be interesting, I mused as I waited in a fascinating arch-shaped entryway all carved in arabesques and honeycombed with niches. Nor did these display the usual Dresden, but instead, a collection of curious vessels, pottery or bronze, shaped like every conceivable animal: elephants, lions, storks, fighting cocks, dolphins, crocodiles, cats—no, I saw with a bit of a shock, the cats were real. House cats of a slender, decorative, Oriental description lounged amidst the curios or walked with insouciant balance along the curves of carved wood. The effect was so exotic that altogether, as the parlour-maid reappeared to escort me upstairs, I half expected to be led into a seraglio.
The boudoir did not disappoint me. Its walls, above ivory-hued wainscoting, were surfaced entirely in brilliantly colourful star-shaped tiles cleverly fitted together. Around the low vaults of the ceiling ran a border of fat, stylised spotted horses; on one section of the wall hung ivory-framed Persian miniatures; underfoot lay the most lush and elaborately patterned Turkey carpet, and altogether the effect was gratifyingly foreign.
However, the two ladies who received me were unmistakably strait-faced, thin-lipped, pale-eyed British aristocracy, most likely the younger daughters of viceroys or barons. One of the young ladies was introduced to me as Mary Hambleton, the other as Mary Thoroughcrumb. The former wore turquoise satin merveilleux shot in shades of copper-gold, and the latter peach-coloured chine Pompadour taffeta overlaid with rose mousseline, both elaborate enough to make me feel quite humble in my simple princess-cut faille, however tasteful. I had to wonder: If this was how the Duquessa’s ladies-in-waiting dressed at home, then what in the name of riches might Blanchefleur herself wear for an outing?
I saved this question for later, however, as the two Marys sat down, waving me indifferently to a third chair. Despite their rich attire they seemed quite poor in spirits, their eyes swollen and red.
“This is a dreadfully upsetting time for us,” said the Turquoise-Satin Mary once we had been provided with tea, the maid serving me last, and the exceedingly upright postures of both ladies-in-waiting giving me to know they were being exceptionally gracious in receiving me.
“We have already spoken with the police,” added the Taffeta Mary resentfully. “What is it that your, ah, Doctor Ragostin wishes to know?”
Playing my part, I opened a little valise I had brought with me, took off my nankeen cotton summer gloves and tossed them in, produced a pad of foolscap paper, and sat with pencil poised. “He wonders, first, what errand took you and your noble mistress to Marylebone?”
“Errand is hardly the word,” snapped Turquoise-Satin. “Our dear Blanchefleur needed no reason to go wherever she desired.”
“Our dear Blanchefleur”? Not “our dear lady” or “our dear mistress”? It would seem that the Duquessa was on extraordinarily familiar terms with her ladies-in-waiting.
“Her Grace was—I mean, she is—” Faltering, the lady-in-waiting seemed hardly able to go on. “A restless spirit . . .”
“Young,” put in the other Mary, although she was hardly past twenty herself, “and adventuresome in a harmless way, and her protected life often seemed dreadfully dull to her, so if a whim might make her happy . . .”
Tears appeared in her rather close-set eyes. They both seem genuinely fond of their mistress, I noted mentally, with a degree of surprise.
“A whim,” I prompted.
“Yes. She wished to explore all but the most undesirable sections of the city. Somewhere she had heard that one could tell the boroughs apart by the shapes of their street-lamps. . . .”
Quite true, and a matter of some fascination to myself as well, distinguishing one preposterously ornate lighting fixture from another. I began to feel a certain affinity for Duque Luis Orlando del Campo’s youthful wife.
“. . . And she liked to look at them, so most days we took the carriage one place or another, then walked about.”
“Quite natural and interesting,” I assured them. “Yesterday’s outing led you to Baker Street? And the Underground station?”
“Yes, but of course none of us would ever ordinarily go down there.” Heavens, no, not where one might catch a whiff of cigar smoke, ale, or kippered herrings. “We were merely walking past, but at the entryway hesitated the most pathetic old creature—”
“Snivelling and whimpering that she was lame with dropsy, she could not manage the steps, and she would miss her train. I am certain now that she was part of an evil scheme,” interrupted the irrepressible Turquoise-Satin, “but of course at the time we suspected nothing of the sort, and dearest Blanchefleur—”
Both at once they directed their gazes past me, towards the far wall, so pointedly that, turning, I looked along with them at a life-sized portrait of an exquisitely lovely young woman, her fair-haired, fragile head, especially her sensitive, compassionate eyes, forming the most extraordinary contrast to her rich and heavy red velvet clothing profusely beaded with gold.
“Is that she?” I exclaimed involuntarily, for after meeting the Duque, somehow I had imagined his wife would
be his exotic and tempestuous equal, even though I knew her to be the daughter of a British earl and his French wife.
“Yes, that is our dear mistress, and it scarcely does her justice,” said Taffeta in greatly altered tones, soft to the point of adoration. “Hers is the face of an angel and the heart of a sweet, melancholy child. A kinder, gentler soul—”
“Never was,” interrupted Satin, “a more patient, saintly lamb—” And much to my discomfiture, that haughty young woman began to weep.
“Now, now, there, there,” said the other one to her. “How were we to know? And how could we have prevented it?”
Turning to me, she explained, “We feel to blame, yet it all happened so quickly and so naturally—”
“That toothless crone with bristles on her chin!” choked Satin between sobs.
“Cried out straight to our mistress,” Taffeta went on, trying to imitate a Cockney accent, “ ‘Oh, yer blessed sweet Madonna come down to Earth, ye’ll help a lame old woman, won’t yer, now? Them steep stairs, wuz I to fall, ’twould be the end of me, but I can tell just lookin’ into yer angel face’—”
“Enough,” ordered the other in strangled tones.
“I don’t remember any more anyway,” retorted Mary-in-Taffeta, “for by that time, dear, impulsive Blanchefleur was already helping the old beggar down the steps, and we lost sight of her.”
Although the ladies-in-waiting did not say so, I am sure they had stood dumbfounded on the pavement. To help them along, I asked, “What did this old woman look like?”
“Like a toad in the most hideous old splayed straw bonnet you can imagine,” snapped Satin, recovering from her tears. “I told Mary, ‘You go in after Blanchefleur, and I’ll stay here to watch in case you miss her somehow.’ ”
I am sure there had been some wrangling on that point also, which we did not discuss. Perhaps a few moments had passed before one of the maids-in-waiting had ventured down the stairs whilst the other had waited above.
“And I searched and searched, amongst the most disreputable and wretched loiterers, up and down the tracks to the full length of the platform, but she simply wasn’t there! I even looked into a broom-closet beneath the metal stairs—”
The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye Page 2
