Meanwhile, my cabbie passed through the Serpentine Mews, turned a couple of corners, and pulled into a small stable at the back of an exceedingly modest house.
“Good. You’re independent, then?” I stated without preamble as I let myself out.
“ ’At’s right.”
No overseer to interfere. How very fortuitous.
The man still sat on his high perch. “Come down, my good fellow,” I told him. Recklessly I lifted both my hat and my wig from my head, tossing them aside onto a bale of straw. He quite gasped, but I was not to be distracted by his feelings. “How much do you usually earn in a day?”
Standing before me now, he opened and closed his mouth in a fishlike manner several times before he managed to say, “On a good day, three pounds.”
“I will give you ten for today’s use of your horse, your cab, and the loan of your hat and jacket.” Although I had always vowed I would never dress as a male, I comforted myself by deciding that technically I was not doing so, in that I would not wear trousers. My lower portion need never be seen; the driver’s seat had little doors that closed it in like a bucket.
“Here you are.” I placed a ten-pound note in the startled man’s hand.
It was not that simple, of course. My cabbie required several minutes of persuasion, not financial—though I would gladly have given him more—but honest fellow that he was, he worried that I wanted his cab for nefarious purposes. I assured him over and over again that my intentions were neither immoral nor illegal, that I would be careful, and that I would have his horse and hansom safely back to him by nightfall.
My intentions, actually, were simply to feel blessedly certain that Sherlock Holmes, even with the aid of Reginald Collie, could no longer lay his hands on me as I performed a very necessary errand: journeying to the East End of London, where I hoped to find the toadlike old woman with a bristly chin who had lured the Duquessa del Campo into the Underground.
She was, I felt almost certain, Mrs. Culhane, of Culhane’s Used Clothing.
It so happened that I was rather unpleasantly acquainted with this interesting person from an earlier adventure—indeed, from the train that had initially brought me to London. On which occasion she had worn a hideous bonnet—and although London might contain hundreds, perhaps thousands of ugly old women in old headgear that flared like fungi, how many of them dealt in used clothing? Moreover, I knew Mrs. Culhane’s ruthlessness and daring, and felt instinctively certain that it was she who had waylaid the Duquessa del Campo. Although she could not have done the entire dastardly deed by herself, I knew the sort of friends she had, and felt sure a couple of thugs had waited for her in the Baker Street Underground station. Although I had not the sketchiest plan at this point of how to confront Mrs. Culhane, still, there was a great deal of earnest truth in my tone as I told the cabbie that I wanted to use his hansom for an errand of mercy.
He rolled his eyes but gave in. “It’s a right fool I am, but very well then. If ye’ll do this one thing. Set down me name and ’ouse number on a paper an’ put it in the cab. So’s it’ll git back to me in case of mischance.”
Willingly I complied, producing paper and pencil from my bosom to write down his name and address.
“Yer name, missus?” he asked.
A most fortunate reminder for me to yank off my wedding band and toss it into the hollow of my wig. As for the good man’s question, rather giddily I replied, “Oh, merciful heavens, I can’t even remember at the moment, I have so many.”
And somehow this unguarded, if quite irregular, response satisfied him concerning me. He shrugged, almost smiling. He waited discreetly as I grimed my face a bit by way of disguise, hid my hair, which was already secured atop my head, under his bowler-hat, and covered my bodice, which was luckily rather low-necked, with his jacket. He assisted me (I allowed the gentlemanly gesture, although I required no help) as I climbed up to the driver’s seat and closed its doors to hide my skirt. He handed me the whip and the reins, led the horse out of the stable for me, said, “Take care,” and then I was off, clattering down the streets of London.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
AS I HAD ONLY THE MOST RUDIMENTARY NOTION of how to use the reins, I will admit that I felt a bit terrified atop the hansom cab. Certainly I am not afraid of heights, climbing trees for instance—but this high perch moved! Moreover, it moved in close proximity to many other large moving objects. I found myself jostling with vehicles of every description, carriages and carts, cabs and wagons, some light and fast, some heavy and slow, some going one way, some the other, trying to pass each other sometimes so closely that their wheels nearly scraped, or the shafts all but locked—sometimes they do lock, and then there is usually a ruckus if not a fist-fight.
Blessedly, I avoided such a fate. My cab-horse, appropriately named Brownie, knew his business, trotting along sedately and keeping me out of trouble.
“Cab!” shrilled strident female voices in unison from two of the most grandiosely begowned, bejewelled, massively bonneted, and great-bosomed dowagers ever seen upon a London avenue. Although startled to recognise them, I at once shook my head as if I were commissioned to pick up a fare elsewhere, trotting on. Once past them, in afterthought, I wished I had managed to splash some gutter-slop on them. They were Lady Cecily’s termagant aunts, who with the connivance of Cecily’s father had imprisoned and starved her, attempting a forced marriage! Cecily was now safe with her loving mother, and maybe someday I would encounter her again. The thought cheered me so that I smiled as I drove on, although I still did not know how I was going to accomplish what I needed to do today.
Somehow I had to enter Mrs. Culhane’s shop and have a look about. If she were to recognise me, there could be the most unpleasant, even life-threatening, repercussions.
But I tucked the problem into the back of my mind as I trotted on, trusting my peculiar mental processes to deal with it along the way. As I reached the edge of London City and passed into the poorer district, the carts and baskets of street-vendors lined the narrow thoroughfares, sending up the most tempting aromas. Stopping my cab, I bought a meat-pie from a pie-man by pointing with my whip, flipping him twopence as he wrapped my luncheon in brown paper and hefted it up for me to catch. All around me workmen and urchins, shop-girls and washerwomen crowded the cobbles. Nearby, a beggar had attracted a crowd by exhibiting a tame tortoise that would stand on its hind legs for the sake of a treat, stretching higher and more erect until it fell over backwards upon its own shell, oscillating like a rocking-horse, to the great amusement of all.
Eating my meat pie and watching from on high, I laughed as hard as anyone, shaking my head in wonder as I threw a penny. One never knew what one was going to see on an East London street, whether ginger-cake sellers or a dancing bear, a woman hawking buttons and boot-laces or the most outrageous beggars. Why, back at the edge of the City, I had seen a beggar with matches who had brazenly positioned himself right next to a vendor of cigars, the reeking things. How males could possibly enjoy such an acrid “pleasure” was beyond my comprehension, although a few daring and notorious women—
Wait.
Actresses, mostly, but occasionally one saw—
Could I possibly?
Oh, my. If I were to try—
I thought I could manage it, especially if I tucked up my dotted swiss overskirt to hide it under my jacket.
Would my appearance then have the desired effect upon Mrs. Culhane?
Almost certainly.
Very well, I would do it!
Standing up in my high perch, I undertook the necessary manoeuvres to hide my dotted swiss, paying no attention to the exclamations and stares of a number of doubly astonished East Enders—not only was I, the cabbie, female, but partially disrobing in public! It didn’t matter; none of these people would ever see me again.
After sitting down, concealed again, ignoring shouts, laughter, and a few catcalls, I addressed all my scant skill with the reins to turning the horse around. Then back
I went to purchase a cigar and some matches. I lit the cigar, but wedged the stinking thing between the cab and its carriage-lamp to burn as I once again turned the ever-patient Brownie eastward.
By the time I reached the corner of Saint Tookings Lane and Kipple Street, the cigar had burned halfway down and extinguished itself, to my relief, for I had no idea how actually to smoke one, nor did I wish to learn. My purpose, rather, was to feign.
I stuck the cigar in the corner of my mouth, clenching its unburned end between my teeth with what I hoped was a most unpleasant grin.
Halting the cab in front of Mrs. Culhane’s shop, I attracted the attention of a crowd of fishwives and street urchins, as hardly ever a cab came into this street. Their interest greatly increased as I got down. Gasps and murmurs arose as my skirt (now plain, dark blue) came into view. Although not common, and much disapproved for flouting the rules of feminine dress and appearance, “Billy” women were sometimes to be seen in London, generally with a bulldog on a leash. Lacking one of those, I glowered, brandishing my whip as I hitched the cab-horse to a lamppost. Then, with whip still in hand, I strode into Mrs. Culhane’s shop.
There she was, her personage shaped rather like that of the beggar’s turtle standing on its hind feet, her demeanour more similar to that of an outraged hedgehog. Although I took care not to look at her directly, I could see her chin bristles quivering, her stubby hands fumbling in the air, and I devoutly hoped that in her shock she would not see past my hat, my cigar, and my sneer to my actual face, or self, which she might recognise.
Striding past her as quickly as possible, I made for the back of the shop, raking its contents with my glance, and yes! Yes, prominently displayed was Duquessa Blanchefleur’s silk moire dress with matching parasol, plus many luxurious petticoats and a long, expensively brocaded, spooned corset that might well have belonged to that same unfortunate lady.
But now what? Confound it, there was no way I could safely question Mrs. Culhane, and most unlikely that any information could be pried from her toothless mouth in any event. Better to leave the dress and parasol here until the police could see them, but I wanted something to prove my case. A handkerchief? Hadn’t the two Marys said that their mistress carried a handkerchief?
I made for the basket where ladies’ handkerchiefs lay in display, riffled through them, seized upon one I thought I recognised, and examined it.
Yes. In one corner, although the red-and-golden thread had been picked out, the impression of close stitching still plainly showed upon the fabric: DdC.
Duquessa del Campo.
Handkerchief in hand, defiantly tossing a shilling onto the shop floor, I exited.
It amused me, as I resumed my perch atop my cab, to glimpse Mrs. Culhane down on her hands and knees, hunting for the money as I drove away. Her greed was greater than her moral outrage, apparently.
Once around the next corner, gladly I tossed the cigar into the street and took a deep breath of relief, yet I suddenly felt bone-weary. Yes, I had got the handkerchief safely in the pocket of my borrowed jacket, and yes, it gave proof to my theory of what had happened to Duquessa Blanchefleur: Having been robbed of her clothing, she remained in the East End for some unknown reason—illness, prostration, lack of resources, restraint by some unknown villain?
So far, so good, but now what?
Wondering whether I should notify Scotland Yard or take my suspicions first to the Duque, I drove back towards the West End to return Brownie and the hansom cab to their owner. As I entered the City with its teeming traffic, soon my pace necessarily slowed to a walk, and then I found myself standing still, in a block-up that seemed likely to last for minutes. Setting the whip in its socket, sighing, just for something to do I pulled the Duquessa’s handkerchief from my pocket.
And looking at it in the full light of day, rather than in Mrs. Culhane’s dim shop, I saw something that had escaped my notice before.
It was perhaps the most disgusting good luck I’d ever experienced. Although she had taken care to remove the monogram, it would appear that Mrs. Culhane had not troubled herself to launder the handkerchief, for in its centre, quite clearly one could see signs that it had been applied to someone’s nose.
I recalled what one of the Marys-in-waiting had said about Duquessa Blanchefleur’s asthma. Could it possibly be that I held in my grasp the nasal detritus of the missing noblewoman?
Although hardly a delicate notion, it seemed quite likely.
Even as I thrust the handkerchief back into my pocket in haste and distaste, nevertheless the thought struck me: Might the scent of the unfortunate Duquessa yet remain upon the handkerchief?
If so, might it (blessedly!) not be necessary for me to search the tracks of the Baker Street Underground, or other areas of London’s nether cesspool? Perhaps not! Instead—I admit the idea occurred due to recent events instigated by Sherlock—might it be possible for a dog to track Blanchefleur from Her Grace’s handkerchief?
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
THE IDEA OPENED MY EYES WIDE, STRAIGHTENED my spine, and so ardently surged my hope and excitement that they seemed to pass through the reins as if via telegraph lines. Apparently receiving a message, the good Brownie elevated his head, snorted, and plunged forward, forcing the cab through a space I would have thought too small for it! A moment later we detoured into a service-drive that led into a twisting maze of back courts and alleyways, from which we eventually emerged near Marylebone Garden. Invigorated, I sent the noble Brownie past an omnibus and straight down Baker Street, achieving a lovely trot—
“Cab!”
The imperious voice affected my heart so strangely that instantly I halted Brownie, although it would have been far safer to drive on. Senseless, reckless obedience! I dared not look at the man who had spoken, for he must not notice my face. But as I bent to pull the lever that opened the cab doors, I caught a glimpse of his tall, stork-like form, and those of his shorter, stockier companions, as they climbed in.
Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Dr. Watson!
They all squeezed in somehow. I opened the sliding door on the roof of the hansom and said in the deepest, gruffest Cockney voice in my repertoire, “ ’Alf fare more fer the extry weight.”
“Agreed. Take us to Oakley Street,” my brother replied.
Ah. Almost certainly they were going to see Duque Luis Orlando del Campo.
“Sir,” I acknowledged in the same deep voice, sliding shut the opening above his head—but not quite. I hoped to eavesdrop.
But confound the din of the city in general, and in particular the rumble of my own cab’s metal wheels upon the cobblestones, I could overhear nothing, except once when Sherlock raised his voice:
“. . . an experiment, Mycroft, the merest experiment! I thought the old collie might be able to locate our daring and elusive sister. I had to go down to Ferndell anyway, for this.”
“This,” I concluded from their exclamations, was the brown paper embellished with charcoal symbols. Apparently he did not wish to tell them that Reginald Collie had indeed found me, and that he, Sherlock, the great detective, had then lost me again, so he had diverted their attention by producing “this” from his valise. “Can either of you make anything of it?”
Watson’s reply was unintelligible, but Mycroft’s pompous tones struck my ear quite clearly as he excitedly lectured, “Why, my dear fellow, is it not obvious? You have your specialties, but you have not read as broadly in anthropology as I, or you would know: These borders and this encirclement are protective, intended to ward off evil. Something has frightened the sender, causing him to make these designs.”
“And the eyes?”
“Very similar to the Egyptian Eye of Horus, or the Hindu Third Eye—”
“For goodness’ sake, my dear man,” Watson broke in, quite audible this time, “this is England, and the nineteenth century!”
“Yes, and still ladies promenade with the hems of their skirts and sleeves bordered with fol-de-rol that has no practi
cal purpose—”
“Decorative!”
“—except that, since aboriginal times, all openings in a garment needed to be barricaded with magical symbols to prevent the entry of evil spirits!” Mycroft then evidently turned on Sherlock, for he demanded, “Who sent you this?”
But my brother’s reply was muted, and strain my ears as I might, I could not tell what he said about Ferndell, or Mum, or me, except that Mycroft once roared, “The extraordinary nerve of the girl!” Yes, the nerve indeed, I thought wryly. He and Sherlock had no idea how nervous I was. Indeed, my nerve was stretched to the breaking point over the crowns of their top-hats as Brownie trotted on valiantly with his heavily loaded cab.
The nearer to the Embankment, the worse the noise, and the denser the traffic, until, reaching the Strand, my cab was barely able to crawl along. As my fare made no complaint, I made no attempt to force a way through the crush, but walked the horse until, near Charing Cross station, we halted, for it seemed that every vehicle in London had come together there. All rumble of wheels had temporarily abated, and though there was still a good deal of commotion—such as some wagon-drivers ahead of me cursing one another—still, I took the chance to try to hear once again what was going on inside my hansom, inching the opening on the roof a bit more widely ajar.
“. . . why on Earth no ransom note?”
Ah. Now they spoke of the missing Duquessa, and Watson had resumed his usual puzzled tone.
“Many possible reasons,” replied my brother Sherlock crisply, “but none of them hopeful. For instance, assuming that she was kidnapped for money, her captors simply lost their nerve and, fearing that she would set the police on them, dispatched her.”
“My dear Holmes! Surely—”
“Alas, nothing is sure. Indeed, they might have taken her—the presence of the old woman suggests a procuress. If she was taken for the upper-class trade in the world’s oldest profession—”
The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye Page 6
