“Mr. Murthwaite!”
“It’s Jack,” he said. “Remember?”
His wretched and uncomfortable evening wear, as he had called it, had an antique flavor. The other men, including me, all wore white shirts, bow ties and waistcoats, but his waistcoat was a black double-breasted one with two rows of buttons, and his bow tie was a brilliant scarlet. He looked so different without his turban! His eyes swept over Michelle in a quick, appreciative appraisal, lingering upon her white shoulders and her bosom. “And who is this spectacular lady?”
Bromley proceeded with a round of introductions, taking us around the room. Midway through it, Hodges appeared with a silver tray bearing small glasses of pale, amber-colored sherry. Alice quickly seized one and drank eagerly. Something seemed slightly off in her pale-blue eyes with their swollen black pupils. Those eyes caught my gaze, and her mouth scrunched up on one side in an ironic half-smile. Clearly she was on edge. I would have to keep an eye on her: laudanum and alcohol could be a deadly combination.
Norah, all in green, clung in a proprietary way to a tall man with a blond cowlick which stood exuberantly upright above his broad forehead. She and her James were a study in contrasts: she—short, plump, proud, rounded, self-assured; he—long, thin, awkward, slack, timid, reluctant. Jane wore a pink-and-red extravaganza, the bodice a thick velvet, the skirts and short sleeves covered with silken ruffles gushing forth like miniature pink waterfalls. The dress made her look even larger and more imposing, but since her husband, Lord Franklin Alexander, was tall and stout, his chest and belly under the white starched shirtfront proudly puffing out, the two were a good match. They recalled two large, proud, stout pigeons. Bromley’s friend Jasper Harrison had the same easy charm as his friend, and his wife Florence was a voluptuous blonde with a purple silken gown that took the prize for showing the most bare shoulders, chest and cleavage.
Drawing in my breath resolutely, I took Michelle by the hand and led her to Cowen for a formal introduction. His mouth went from a scowl to a straight, neutral line, even as the lines in his forehead decreased ever so slightly. He bowed his head in greeting. “We have met before,” he said. Michelle and I tried briefly to talk to him, but the futility soon became obvious. Despite his black beard and his black formal garb, he most resembled some miniature blue-white glacier radiating forth waves of frigid air. Michelle retreated to talk with Jane, while I approached Holmes.
He nodded toward the others. “Michelle looks splendid tonight. If anything, maturity has improved her beauty.”
“Yes, I think so too. Tonight will be no different than usual. It will be my privilege to leave with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“Let us hope so.”
I frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing in particular—certainly nothing concerning Michelle. I am only being cautious. We have a long evening ahead of us. Also…” The corners of his mouth briefly rose. “A good thing we are not superstitious. There will be thirteen at the dinner table.”
“Thirteen?” I looked around the room and did a quick mental calculation. “Bromley cannot have noticed that! I hope Alice has not either.”
A few minutes later, Bromley announced that dinner was ready. He led the way with Holmes, while Alice took Murthwaite and Cowen’s arms. We married couples followed them up the stairs.
All the servants except the cook were present in the dining room. Mrs. Carlson was the mother hen, large and sturdy; Matilda and Susan were the two small chicks, while Sabine was another more mature fowl. The women wore black dresses with white aprons and white lace caps. Hodges stood beside them in his formal wear, his right arm neatly bent, his gloved hand resting before his stomach.
The tall open windows beyond the table let in some cooler air. Overhead a cut-glass chandelier shone down on the spectacular table. Red, white and gold roses in full bloom were in bowls set alongside ornate silver candelabras with their tall white unlit candles. Each place setting had a bewildering variety of tableware: multiple silver forks, spoons and knives; four glasses of various sizes, each with a thin gold rim round the top, the largest of which had a cream-colored linen napkin fanning out from its interior; the two plates, one large and one small, were pale ivory with an ornate circular design half an inch thick round the outer edge. Small folded placeholder cards rested on each plate, next to another card, the menu. The thick Persian carpet deadened the sound of our footsteps, and along one wall, a gold-framed mirror hung over a massive sideboard covered with wine bottles and various liqueurs, many in rectangular or other oddly shaped receptacles.
Michelle sighed softly. “How lovely. It always seems a shame to me that we have to actually eat in such a beautiful room and mess everything up.”
“Not me,” I said. “Eating is a serious business which takes precedence over aesthetics.”
We wandered around the table, finding our places, the gentlemen pulling out the curved-back chairs for their wives. Normally you would strictly alternate men and women, but we were an odd party with the men clearly dominant, so exceptions had to be made. Alice sat at the far end of the table, Charles at the other end. To Alice’s right were Murthwaite, Lady Alexander, Lord Alexander, Dr. Cowen, Florence Harrison and Jasper Harrison. To her left were Lord Bartram, Lady Bartram, Holmes, me and Michelle. Thus, despite being the majority, each man had at least one woman at his side.
We all plucked out our napkins and arranged them on our laps. At a small serving table Mrs. Carlson began ladling out soup from a large porcelain tureen. The maids set the bowls before us, starting with the ladies. The thick yellow stock had a fragrant curry smell. Michelle smiled at me. “Mulligatawny soup—my favorite!”
She was seated next to Bromley, who frowned slightly. “I hope you are not too disappointed that it is not turtle soup. This is a specialty of cook’s.”
“Disappointed?” she exclaimed. “I loathe turtle soup!” Bromley gave her an incredulous look, and some of the others stared at her. She blushed ever so slightly. “I mean to say, I do not much care for turtle soup.” I could hear the faint irony in her voice. “I had a pet turtle when I was a girl, and I always feel like it is a betrayal to eat turtle soup.”
Bromley nodded. “Very good. I should warn you this will not perhaps be the most extravagant of dinners, but we have done our best. No elaborate French dishes tonight. Our cook is very good, but English and down to earth. There will only be three courses besides soup and dessert, and not several choices for each course.”
Michelle looked grave. “Somehow we will manage.” She smiled.
“I see you are somewhat ironical, Dr. Doudet Vernier.”
The thick soup tasted pungent and peppery. It contained rice, chicken, bacon, apples and onion. “This is superb,” I said. “I must agree with Michelle—I prefer it to turtle soup.”
Across the table, Harrison nodded enthusiastically. “Righto! Better to spare the poor creatures. And such a dreadful color turtle soup is. Always looks like it has been left out for days.”
His wife Florence smiled. “Come now, Jasper, you know it’s my favorite.”
Beside her Dr. Cowen stared at his bowl and mechanically spooned soup into his mouth. Alice was talking to Murthwaite. She raised a spoonful of soup, but her hand was shaking so that she hardly managed to get it to her mouth. She swallowed, then set down the spoon and put both hands beneath the table. She did not touch the soup again.
Next we were served cold salmon with a dollop of mayonnaise, lemon wedges and a sprig of dill. A glum-looking Sabine set a plate before Harrison and another before Florence. Her broad mouth curved down at the corners, and again I was struck by how her hair and eyes were the same dark brown, nearly black. Her expression was faintly irritated, as if she wished she were elsewhere. Certainly in a wealthier household with the full complement of servants, the mistress’s personal maid would never have to put up with the indignity of serving at the table.
Hodges and Mrs. Carlson began pouring wine, the
choice being champagne or white wine. Michelle and I both chose champagne. She smiled at me as she sipped hers. Recalling our earlier conversation, I decided it would be amusing to actually try ripping her underwear to shreds. Alice also took champagne, and gulped it down. Sure enough, Murthwaite was loudly telling her some story which involved not just one tiger, but two, a male and a female. Norah and Jane listened for a while, then started talking to one another across the table. Beside me, Holmes took bites from his salmon and small sips of white wine even as his gray eyes looked round the table. The wine soon had the desired effect of lubricating the conversation and stimulating laughter. The only one abstaining from drink or jollity was Dr. Cowen; he seemed determined not to participate in the festive mood.
Bromley turned to Michelle. “I see you like the champagne.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed I do.”
Bromley’s gaze shifted from her to me, then back again. “Have you and Dr. Vernier actually spent time in France?”
“Certainly. We were both raised there. Our mothers were English, our fathers French.”
“Really? Oh yes, that makes perfect sense: Doudet and Vernier.” He did pronounce our names correctly, dropping the final consonant and pronouncing the e like the letter a. “I suppose you both must be fluent in the language. How I envy you! I’m very fond of France myself. Harrison and I spent some time there before our marriages, didn’t we?” He turned to his friend.
Harrison swallowed a mouthful of salmon, a bit of bone going last. “Oh yes. Wonderful people, the French. Especially the women.” His wife scowled, then made a fist and playfully punched him on the shoulder.
Bromley turned away, ignoring Harrison’s last observation. “I wish I had some aptitude for languages, but I’m dreadful at them. Still, I enjoyed my time in Paris. All the wonderful museums and the great boulevards, the walks along the Seine, and the food—such food! I suppose you both must like escargots?”
Michelle shook her head. “Not me.”
“No? And you, Dr. Vernier?”
“I eat them, but I’m not terribly fond of them. Sherlock, on the other hand, is a connoisseur of escargots.”
“Can this be true?” Bromley asked.
Holmes sipped at his white wine. “Henry exaggerates somewhat, although I do generally order a plate of escargots as part of my first meal upon arriving in Paris.”
“And I suppose you also speak the language, Mr. Holmes.” Bromley shook his head. “Perhaps I should try to study it again.” He glanced down the table to where Alice was still talking to Murthwaite. “Someday I hope to take Alice to Paris. When her health improves.”
“Why not take her now?” Michelle said. “It would do her good.”
Bromley’s eyebrows came together. “Do you really think so?” He glanced at Cowen, who had been listening silently. “What do you think, Dr. Cowen?”
Cowen dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I would not recommend it.” His voice was grave, as if proclaiming some fearful diagnosis.
A playful glint showed in Bromley’s eyes. “We seem to have a tie. Perhaps we could ask the third physician to cast the deciding vote.”
“Oh no!” I said. “This is hardly the time or place to discuss medical matters.”
Bromley nodded. “Well put, Dr. Vernier. All the same, I hope to revisit France someday soon. The French certainly know how to live. They have such—oh dear, I know I’ll massacre this—but they have such joie de vivre—joy in life. They are not so stuffy and reserved as we English.”
Harrison nodded enthusiastically. “Especially the women.”
“Jasper, will you stop that!” Florence punched his shoulder again. “You would think you were half starved or neglected. It’s not as if…” She winked at him.
Bromley’s eyes were fixed on Michelle. “Tell me what it was like growing up in France.”
Bromley was a willing listener as Michelle and I talked about France. After the fish came the meat course, a saddle of mutton. Hodges carved at the serving table, and then the slices were passed around by the maids. Mrs. Carlson followed with the gravy pitcher and a bowl of potatoes. I took some meat, then let Hodges fill another of my glasses with a beautiful red claret.
Alice had taken only a morsel of mutton and one potato, but she nodded eagerly to claret. Her smile was too extreme, and her eyes had a slightly glazed look as she glanced round the table. Murthwaite was obviously doing his best to keep her entertained, while Jane and Norah conversed loudly about the stupidity of some mutual friend. With friends like these, I thought to myself. Somehow amidst all the splendor of the table and everything, the Moonstone seemed to have dwindled, one other object of luxury lost amongst so many others.
Despite her exaggerated animation, Alice did look fragile, and she was so thin. Her arms and throat were well formed and beautiful, but underneath the diamond, I saw the outline of each rib joining to the sternum. Her collar bones also stood out starkly. Michelle was certainly not fat, but she was… all curved and abundant. Her arms were rounded but firm and muscular, her face and bosom full and healthy. Alice had drunk half a glass of claret, but she had Hodges pour her more champagne. She had not touched her meat or the lone potato.
Michelle touched my shoulder, then leaned closer and said softly in my ear, “Have you noticed how much she has had to drink?”
“Yes.”
“If she is taking laudanum… It worries me.”
“I know. I shall do something.” I wiped at my mouth with the napkin, then set it on the table. “Dr. Cowen, can I have a word with you in private for just a moment?”
His thick black eyebrows made for a formidable frown, and he nodded. Bromley also frowned. “Is anything the matter?”
“No, no.” I stood, then walked over to the corner of the room. Cowen followed, then folded his arms. “Have you noticed how much wine Alice has had to drink? If she took her usual dose of laudanum last night…”
“She did not. I warned her that if she wished to drink wine at dinner this evening, she must abstain from her usual dosage the night before. She told me she has done so.”
“Ah. That is a relief.”
A familiar anger showed in his eyes. “Do you really think I would be so remiss?”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to be certain.” We both returned to the table. Michelle leaned toward me. “It’s all right,” I whispered.
Holmes tapped my other shoulder. I quietly explained the situation. He gave an appreciative nod. “Well done, Henry. I know enough of laudanum to have been worried too.” He joined in our conversation with Bromley, which turned into one of those comical quasi-philosophical discussions about the British versus the Gallic temperament.
Next came the rôti course, roasted capon. I took from Mrs. Carlson only a drumstick, while Michelle took an ample breast and wing. “I sometimes forget how much you can eat,” I said to her.
Bromley smiled. “It is most impressive.”
Michelle flushed slightly and laughed. “My appetite has never been a problem.”
Bromley shook his head and stared down the table at his wife. “I wish Alice had such an appetite.”
The light coming in from the windows had dimmed and had a reddish-yellow cast. Hodges used a long wand with an adjustable wick to light the candles set in the large candelabras at the table. After the capon came the dessert course, a macédoine: lemon jelly containing various fresh summer fruits, accompanied by a crusty chocolate biscuit. Holmes was talking with Jane and Norah. Bartram, as had been the case all through dinner, remained a silent auditor. Alexander had tried earlier to chat with Cowen, but he had given up and also listened silently to Holmes. Given that Alexander was the only one at the table who had eagerly consumed a full allotment of each course, his great belly and that second chin resting upon his collar were certainly understandable.
Holmes set his napkin on the table and leaned back in his chair. Norah had a small, plump, white hand, very different from her sister’s. She wore a go
ld necklace with many small diamonds and a big green emerald; her fingers toyed with the emerald as she listened thoughtfully to Holmes. The necklace was impressive but could not compare with the less ostentatious splendor of the Moonstone and its simple setting in the silver chain. Unlike her sister, Alice never touched the gem.
At last Bromley set down his napkin and rose to his feet. “Before we leave the table, I would like to propose a toast.” Hodges and Mrs. Carlson hovered nearby with champagne and wine, filling any empty glasses which were then raised. Bromley extended his own glass. “To the precious Moonstone and to my even more precious treasure, my dearest Alice.” Alice gave a loud laugh, then smiled and nodded. Her blue eyes had a strange expression.
“Hear, hear,” Alexander said, and we all raised our glasses, clinked them, then sipped at the wine.
Bromley sat, but Murthwaite set one hand on the table and, with some difficulty, rose to his feet. “Yes, yes, to dear Alice, Alice whom I knew as a little girl, and to the Moonstone—yes, the Moonstone! May it someday shine again on Chandra’s head back home in Somanatha where it belongs!” He collapsed back into his chair. Alice smiled fiercely and extended her long, thin arm to clink his glass.
The rest of the table was briefly quiet. Alexander looked puzzled, Norah angry. Bromley’s lips pressed together, even as he gave his head a slight shake. A few people half-heartedly raised their glasses and drank. Bromley did not participate. Murthwaite looked like he was going to try to get up for another toast, but Bromley shot to his feet first. “I’m afraid we don’t have a smoking room for the men, but we can all adjourn again to the drawing room for some port, tea or coffee.”
Everyone set down their napkins and rose. Alice stood, then lurched forward against the table, her hand clutching for the table cloth. Murthwaite grabbed her arm, but he looked ready to topple himself. Bartram stepped forward and seized Alice’s other arm, steadying her. She smiled and nodded, thanking him.
The Moonstone's Curse Page 14
