“Which for my part I can swear she never ascended,” snapped the other, “so you must have missed her somehow.”
“But I looked everywhere!”
“And the old woman?” I asked before they could start quarrelling.
“Gone as if she had never existed! Quite vanished! Like our darling Blanchefleur.”
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
IN THE FACE OF THEIR DISTRESS, IT SEEMED HEARTLESS to remain any longer. Putting away my notes, I had just stood up to take my leave when my ears caught the sound of a voice raised in ire downstairs. “. . . headlines in every newspaper, ‘High-Society Beauty Abducted,’ ‘Shocking Disappearance of Earl’s Daughter,’ ‘Castilian Noble’s Bride Kidnapped’ . . .”
An unmistakable voice.
My brother Sherlock!
“. . . yet you say you have received nothing in the morning post?”
The reply, whilst inaudible, was evidently negative.
“My fear is that all of the hullabaloo in the press may have frightened them off.” Sherlock certainly did sound wrought. “And until we receive a ransom demand, there is very little we can do.”
I felt surprised to hear him say so, for I certainly had thought of things to do—but until he left the house, I needed to remain hidden in the boudoir. “Ah, um,” I asked the two Marys-in-waiting, “could you describe to me Her Grace’s attire on that fateful outing when last you saw her?”
They were pleased to do so in considerable detail. “Oh, she wore her new walking-gown from Redfern, with the very latest in Parisian sleeves!”
“Bouffant, you know,” explained the other Mary condescendingly, as if I might not realise: As fullness disappeared from the rear of female attire, the most ludicrous puffery was swelling the shoulder and upper sleeve; it seemed that there must always be a bulge somewhere.
“In moire silk all the colours of a pigeon’s throat, with a box-pleated front and a wide belt appliquéd in white beading with a truly stunning Art Nouveau design—”
Art Nouveau? Perhaps my face looked blank, for she then cried, “Wait a moment; I think we have a photograph!”
I observed as both of them searched dresser-drawers packed with quite exquisite unmentionables. One of a stack of crisply pressed handkerchiefs fell to the carpet; I picked it up, admiring its luxuriant Venetian lace edging and its closely embroidered scarlet monogram couched in gold: DdC.
“Duquessa del Campo?” I guessed, handing the handkerchief to the Taffeta Mary.
“Quite so. Where is that photograph?” complained Satin.
As I luckily happened to be on my feet whilst they searched, I took the liberty of idly wandering the room, observing its many luxuries: an exquisite fernery, well-filled bookshelves fronted with glass, enormous exotic vases displaying peacock feathers as if they were flowers, the most delightful inlaid rosewood writing-desk—
Upon the writing-desk lay a half-finished letter, written with blue ink on paper of excellent quality displaying the DdC monogram. This letter interested me exceedingly, although I took care to appear aimless as I ambled that way. I deduce a great deal about a person by his or her handwriting, and Blanchefleur’s handwriting appeared extraordinary for its modesty, with no flourishes, each letter simply and carefully formed; indeed, only its small size saved it from looking childlike.
The content of the letter was also remarkable. I should perhaps explain that I am capable of reading and fully understanding a page at a glance, perhaps because when I was a child I undertook to read the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica, and so became very practised and quite speedy. Although I have perhaps not got it word for word, the lady’s letter ran much as follows:Dearest Mummy,
I hope this finds you well, and dearest Daddy also, and I trust that he does not suffer so much from his rheumatism in the warm summer weather. Thank you for sending your recipe for eels in mint sauce with vegetable marrows; I have explained it in detail to the cook, and we shall surely try it soon.
My biggest, indeed my only news is my new dress from Redfern, which my sweet husband, on the urging of Mary T. and Mary H., has ordered for me; it is lovely, of course, and you shall hear all about it in a page or two, I promise-but Mummy, they’ll have me over in Paris being fitted by Worth next, and you of all people know how badly I feel about such extravagance. What good or useful thing have I ever done in my entire life that I should deserve to be so rich? I know that Daddy would tell me that we are well-to-do because God intended us to be that way, and that the poor are poor for the same reason or because they are lazy, but I cannot just let it go at that. I see the poor on the streets—here in London one cannot go out-of-doors without encountering the blind beggars, the crippled soldiers, the frizzy-haired women selling nosegays of flowers, the ragged Gypsy children—and I pity them so. I give them pennies, and my ladies scold me, although of course they are good enough not to tell my husband—dear Luis, you know how extravagantly he reacts to every little thing, either roaring like a dragon or giving me kisses so loud they embarrass me. I had thought his ardours would decrease over the years, but it is not so, for all that I feel myself unworthy to be his wife, childless as I remain. Of course one must neither despair nor be ungrateful, but how a Redfern dress cures matters is beyond my comprehension.
Forgive me if I sound ungrateful. I scarcely know how to express the turmoil of emotion
Truly she did not know how to express what she felt, for the letter broke off there, to be completed later. And similarly I hardly knew how to feel, for I had expected Blanchefleur to be a coddled and contemptible aristocrat, yet certainly she showed conscience, making me wonder whether, if I were to meet her, I might like her.
“Ah! Here it is!” cried Satin Mary.
I hurried over, and she handed me a rather large casement photograph, which I opened.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
THE DUQUESSA’S SLENDER FACE LOOKED LOST AND forlorn amidst the glory of her own full head of golden-auburn hair along with her alarmingly elaborate costume. Her plaintive eyes met mine over the most extremely ruffled silken collar imaginable, with a soft bow at the side rather than the front, and a matching bow at the opposite side of the—good heavens, what a Draconian belt. Gawking, I blurted, “I believe Her Grace has quite the smallest waist I have ever seen.”
“Very possibly!” replied Taffeta with pride. “Since childhood, dear Blanchefleur has worn a spooned corset.”
Heavens! A corset extending all the way from the upper limbs to the lower, with a “spoon” of solid steel to minimise any frontal protrusion below the bust. And since childhood! I could scarcely imagine her suffering. I myself wore a corset, necessarily, in order to conceal items such as my dagger, but I never tightened it, and even so, I could hardly wait to get the stiff thing off at the end of each day—
“And she has always done so continuously, even to sleep.”
The Duquessa kept her corset on even to sleep? Such martyrdom to the tiny waist was expected of noble ladies, but still, how—how awful.
“Except of course during her confinements.”
Confinements? “She has, um—?”
“Unfortunately, both ended in miscarriage.”
Well, no wonder!
“Very disappointing, and quite as painful as childbirth, greatly endangering her ladyship’s health.”
Indeed so. Good heavens, the Duquessa, maimed by such excessive corseting, might well have died. I could not imagine her having a child, as seemed to be expected of her.
“It occurs to me,” said Mary-in-Satin, taking the photograph back from me, “that Mr. Sherlock Holmes ought to see this. I thought I heard him downstairs a moment ago.”
Oh, no. Pretending not to notice what she had said, I babbled, “Her Grace wore gloves, of course?”
“Oh, yes, white net.”
“And with her ensemble, what did Her Grace carry?” For a lady on parade always carried something, whether reticule, muff, fan, or—
“A parasol of white net with a ruffle of m
oire silk to match the dress,” Taffeta replied. “And in her other hand, a handkerchief.”
This surprised me slightly. Handkerchiefs were usually carried by unmarried young women, held by the centre, letting the corners form a fanlike expansion, the more readily to be dropped if a desirable male hove near.
“Blanchefleur needed it,” added Satin in answer to my unspoken question, “in order to apply it occasionally to her nose, as she had a slight case of asthma. Has, I mean.” Her tone had grown quite stiffly starched; she was upset with herself and offended with me. “I will see you out.”
Thus, abruptly, the interview was over, but why did she not summon a maid to remove me?
“Come along.” She swept towards the boudoir door with the casement photograph still clutched in her arms.
Oh, my unlucky stars, she wished to show the confounded thing to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Herself. Indeed, she could not wait.
Ye gods, what was I to do? As I followed the haughty lady-in-waiting towards the stairs, my mind darted like a rat in a trap, for the consequences could be most severe if Sherlock were to notice me. Even as I tried to assure myself that he would not recognise me in my stylish and womanly gown and hat, still, he might ask who I was, and if he were told I was Dr. Ragostin’s assistant—no, it would not do. This situation simply could not be allowed; he must remain unaware of my existence, and—
And as we reached the turning in the stairs, I saw with plummeting heart that there, in the middle of the arched entryway, stood the unmistakable tall form of my brother, taking leave of Duque Luis Orlando del Campo himself, no less.
“. . . do hope you will be able to shed some light in the dreadful darkness fallen upon my family.”
Sherlock listened with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed, giving the appearance of greatest attention and sympathy, even though he no doubt longed to retrieve his hat, gloves, and walking-stick from the hall-table so as to be on his way—
The spindly little hall-table, or hat-stand, stood near the bottom of the stairway, and opposite the door.
Almost before my mind had worked it out, my eyes had sought and my hands had caught what I needed. Two or three cats were perambulating up and down the banister. The largest, a lithe, lion-coloured specimen, I picked up with one hand under his belly, carrying him under my arm and letting my valise dangle from two fingers, meanwhile patting his rather serpentine head with my other hand so that he should make no outcry—yet.
The Satin Mary, rustling ahead of me at a great rate, intent on Sherlock Holmes, saw nothing of this, nor did she or anyone else see me loft the cat as we reached the ground floor.
Although kind to animals as a rule, I must admit that I lifted the poor kitty briefly by his tail in order to induce maximum indignation upon his part as I swung him and flung him (with, dare I say so myself, admirable accuracy) onto the hat-stand.
The diversion succeeded beyond my wildest hopes. Not only did the unfortunate feline screech like a dairymaid who has just been kicked by a cow, but as he landed, his claws slipped and scratched upon the waxed wood. He knocked my brother’s top-hat, gloves, and stick to the floor, and the table itself fell over.
Or at least I heard quite a crash as all backs turned to me and I slipped out the door. I heard someone, probably the Duque, roar, “Abominable felines!” and something about how they were always and forever breaking things, but I can report no more. It is my misfortune that I can never fully enjoy such scenes as the above, as I am generally fleeing whilst they occur.
But one must not complain. Once away from the house and around the first street-corner, I felt comfortably sure that neither my brother nor anyone else was particularly thinking about me.
Concerning the fate of the young Duquessa, however, I felt not nearly so comfortable, knowing that she had gone missing underground.
Very few of the upper or indeed the middle classes realised to what extent London was really two cities, the one above and the one below. Early on, there had been many rivers flowing into the Thames. Covered over as the city grew, they had served as sewers until the great cholera epidemic, after which a new sewer system had been put in to carry waste out towards the ocean. Yet the old rivers remained. And then the underground railway had been put in! All of which required tunnels for workmen, too. The wonder was that the city could stand upon such a Swiss cheese of undermining. Surely, in such a muddle, there must be passageways that villains could use in order to kidnap a wealthy lady for ransom?
I needed to investigate the Baker Street Underground station.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
I TOOK THE UNDERGROUND THITHER, OF COURSE. So, whilst the great detective was perhaps still on the doorstep of the Duque’s Moorish town-house hailing a cab, I was already at Baker Street station, where I left my valise in the care of the station-master until I should call back for it.
One of the older stations with only a single stairway, the Baker Street Underground consisted mainly of metal and murkiness, the flickering gas fixtures of its vaulted rafters unable to disperse the gloom. Like the high iron rafters, everything was made of open-work metal—the railings, the stairs, even the walls of the station-master’s cubicle—providing, it would seem, no place for any villain to hide. However, unsavoury persons loitered on the platform, and there were plentiful shadows, and also—most disturbing—the sheer noise of wooden and metal wheels rumbling over the cobbles of Dorsett Square above combined with the clop of horses’ hooves made the station a thundering drum which I stood inside. Always before, upon entering a subway station, I had hurried across the platform, intent on my own business, climbed immediately onto my train, and departed, enduring commotion and acrid odours for the briefest possible period of time. But now, even without the roar of a locomotive, all around me sounded such echoing, reverberating, almost terrifying clamour that I realised no outcry would be heard. Indeed, a woman could be murdered in the shadows here and no one would be the wiser. Especially if all decent citizens were intent on catching a train.
Or—this seemed even more chillingly plausible—a woman could be somehow led, lured, or forced by a thug or two out of sight down the tracks in either direction.
Given that Duquessa Blanchefleur del Campo had not come back up the stairs, nor had she departed on any train, nor, blessedly, had her body been found—why, then the only way she could have departed the station was by the tracks.
Yet—could it be done? If a train were to come by, would one not be crushed against the walls of the tunnel? I felt distinctly alarmed by my own thoughts. This modern metropolitan dungeon was not only chokingly dense and shadowy, but also dank and dripping. The tunnel was even darker, and I had no lantern. Still, that must be the way she had gone . . . confound my own daring, which might one day be the death of me. As a child, I had always been the kind to cross a river not by walking on the bridge, but by balancing atop its balustrade.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I knew what I had to do.
Left or right? Choosing a direction at random, I strode to the end of the platform, which stood quite six feet above the tracks. But, after glancing around to make sure that no one was watching, I swung myself down easily enough and started off in what I thought was a north-west direction, to my left, feeling my way along the wall as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Rats scuttled off, squeaking; this I had expected, along with the cockroaches, the rubbish, and the stench and dank dripping down from cracks in roof and walls.
What I had not expected was to find a ragged man rooting in the trash.
Such was the gloom that I was nearly upon him before I noticed him, for his filth blended with that of his surroundings. And I had no time to prepare a greeting, monetary or otherwise, for he noticed me at the same time, and turned upon me with a bellow of rage.
“Wot you doin’ ’ere!” Well might he ask, considering that laundered and starched ladies did not generally roam the tracks. Appropriate dress is just as important to the lower classes as it is to the upper ones. �
�The likes of you don’t belong ’ere! This ’ere’s my stake, see?”
Already retreating, I did see: He was a “tosher,” lowest of the low amongst the “worthy poor.” I had seen them emerge from the sewers, redolent of underground creatures, rotten fish, rubbish and offal and waste and slime of all kinds, for the sake of “finds” such as wood, metal, coins, or occasionally, eureka! a dead body that could be looted of its cash and clothing. For the sort of people who do murder knew their way around the underside of London, too.
“You keep out of it!” he bellowed after me as if himself contemplating homicide.
With no reason to think he might be hiding Lady Blanchefleur behind his grimy back, I meekly obliged, vanishing down the track, making my way back to the Baker Street station platform. There, I took a deep breath, considered a foray in the opposite direction, to the south and east, one can but try, faint heart ne’er won fair lady, et cetera—but common sense prevailed. I had found out what I wanted to know, namely that people survived the tunnels without being crushed by trains, as evidenced by the presence of the tosher. I needed shabby clothing, a lantern, a large stick, and a Cockney attitude before I again attempted to explore these underground passages in hopes of hypothesising where the Duquessa might have been taken. With my heart still thumping from the encounter with the hostile troll of the tracks, I reclaimed my valise from the station-master, then fled upstairs, glad to reach the light and air (comparatively speaking) of Dorsett Square, through the middle of which ran Baker Street.
Beer-wagons and bread-wagons, water-carriers, pony-carts, barouches, and broughams passed in constant, necessarily slow procession; an omnibus trundled by, advertising the inevitable “Nestlé’s Milk.” Many and various people also traversed the cobbles of the square: a fish-porter with a basket of fresh pollock on his head; a bill-sticker carrying his long brush and a bucket of paste, with a roll of advertisements under his arm; a ginger-cake seller; promenading ladies; businessmen in top-hats; laughing children (including some rather well-grown girls!) swinging from a rope they had tied to the top of a lamppost; and a hokey-pokey (that is to say, ice-cream) vendor who had set up his churn and folding table in the midst of everything, crying, “Hokey-pokey, penny a lump!
The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye Page 3
