What might be the matter? Laying my newspaper aside as if I were tired of it, I considered the desperation I had seen in Lady Cecily’s dark eyes, the pallor of her gaunt face, the dullness of her golden-brown hair pulled straight back from her forehead beneath a simple hat, a flat straw boater.
When, a moment later, I ventured to look up again, she held a fan.
A most peculiar fan, for it was uniformly candy pink—dreadfully common—and quite mismatched to her lemon ribbons, lime skirt, and creamy kid-leather gloves and boots. Also, while her expensive new skirt was of the finest butter-soft yellow-green surah, her fan was made of merest folded paper glued to plain sticks and edged with ordinary pink-tinted feathers.
Her dowager escort, seated close to her and at an angle to watch her, said peevishly, “I am sure I will never understand why you insist on dragging that awful thing around when you have that nice fan I gave you. Cream silk panne with carved ivory sticks and point-lace overlay; have you forgotten?”
Ignoring her, Cecily opened the pink fan and began to ply it as if to cool her face. I noticed that she used her left hand—significant; she chose to be her true self rather than obeying the demands of propriety. I noticed also that she positioned the fan as a frail sort of barrier between herself and her guardian. Behind its brief concealment her gaze caught mine, and in that moment the fan almost as if by accident tapped her on the forehead.
I understood her signal at once: Caution. We are being watched. The language of fans had been invented by young lovers attempting to court in the presence of chaperones, and while certainly I had never enjoyed a lover—nor did I expect I ever would—in my innocent childhood days at Ferndell Hall, and under the wry tutelage of my mother, I had often been diverted by watching.
Giving no other sign, I sighed as if hot and weary, reached into a large pocket centred under the frontal drapery of my dress, and pulled out my own fan, which I carried not for the sake of elegance or flirtation, but simply to cool my face. My fan was brown cambric, plain but tasteful, and I opened it far enough—more than halfway—to indicate friendship.
Meanwhile, the dowager who had gone into the lavatory emerged, and the other one rose to take her turn. Lady Cecily seized this moment, when their attention was distracted, to send her fan into a frenzied fluttering, clearly a signal of agitation and distress.
I let my fan rest for a moment upon my right cheek. Yes. Telling her that I understood; something was wrong.
“Use your right hand,” snapped the dowager who was now seating herself, “and put that silly toy away.”
Although she froze motionless, Cecily did not obey.
“Put it away, I said,” ordered her—captor? Such seemed to be the role of the dowager.
Lady Cecily said, “No. It amuses me.”
“No?” The larger, older woman’s tone became dangerous—but then shifted. “Oh, very well, defy me—but only in this.” Lowering rather than raising her voice, she spoke on grimly yet so quietly that I could not hear. Stiffly seated—her stout waist corseted to the utmost within her elaborate gown-the dowager kept her profile to me; and whilst outwardly I sat sedately fanning myself, inwardly my every sense had alerted like a hunting dog on point. Studying the woman before me so as to recognise her should I see her again, I realised it would be difficult to tell her from the other one; both had features oddly dainty amidst the breadth and fleshiness of their faces: arched, brittle brows, puppy noses, thin lips. Indeed, both looked so much alike that quite probably they were sisters, perhaps even twins. This one’s hair might be greying a bit more than the other’s, what I could see of it beneath a magnificent hat so tilted and convoluted that dog-tooth lilies clustered beneath its brim.
“…if it takes all day.” Her voice rose slightly as vehemence took hold. “A trousseau you will need, and a trousseau you shall have.”
Lady Cecily said, “You cannot make me wear it.”
“We shall see. Come along,” she said as the other matron emerged from the lavatory, signalling her readiness by lifting her parasol.
Without a word Cecily stood up, but as she did so, she held her fan open in front of her face. Meant to encourage a timid lover, the fan so displayed signalled Approach me. But under the circumstances, with her great dark eyes flashing a plea to me over its pink-feathered edge, the fan signalled—what?
Do not forsake me.
Help me.
Willingly, I thought, as I tapped my cheek Yes—but how?
Rescue me.
From what?
“Do put that wretched toy in your pocket!”
Cecily only lowered her pink fan to her side as the two dowagers flanked her again and accompanied her towards the door beside which I sat with my fan languidly waving but my mind racing. Cecily held her fan by its string now, twirling it—another signal of danger. Be careful. We are being watched.
She wished for secrecy, then. So I acted abstracted, gazing at an ugly gilt-framed still-life on the far wall as they passed me, but all the time planning to follow them, find out where they—
Thump, an impact rocked the settee in which I sat, and peripherally I saw a blur of citrine—Lady Cecily—who had tripped over her ridiculous bell skirt, nearly falling into me. Instantly her two scowling escorts scooped her up and hurried her out, all without a word of apology to me.
Had they spared me even a glance, they might have seen as I did: on the settee next to me lay the pink paper fan.
CHAPTER THE SECOND
THE INSTANT THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND CECILY and her two redoubtable chaperones, I sprang to my feet, slipping her pink fan along with my own into my pocket. I had to follow her and find out what was the matter in order to help her—but if I trailed her party too closely, I risked being noticed by her formidable chaperones. Therefore, I first jumped upon the settee, where by standing on tiptoe I could just see through the lavatory’s high window. The deep-set diamond-shaped window-panes distorted my limited view, but I could make out the threesome progressing towards the cab-stand.
Climbing down, I found the maidservant watching me with her mouth open. Laying a finger to my lips, I handed her a shilling, buying her silence. This transaction delayed me only slightly, yet seemed to take forever; in great haste I pulled on my gloves and exited the lavatory. To my relief, I was just in time to see a slight figure in a bell skirt being helped into a four-wheeler along with her two guardians. Taking note mentally of their cab’s number, I strode forward to secure one of my own—
But never got so far.
In that careless, unfortunate moment I found myself face-to-face with my brother.
The older, stouter one. Mycroft.
We all but bumped into each other, and were, I think, both equally startled. I believe I screamed. I know he let forth with a sort of hoot, as if someone had given him a hard blow to his stamped-velvet waistcoat. As everything happened at once, it is hard to recall who moved first, whether he seized me by the elbow before or after I kicked him briskly in the shin—but I know I twisted like an eel in his grip, I seem to recall stamping hard on the well-polished toe of his thin leather boot, and, without resorting to my dagger, I broke away and ran.
Had he been Sherlock, very likely freedom would have been all over for me, but it was not hard to run from Mycroft. I heard him puff after me only a few steps before he bellowed to all and sundry, “Stop that girl!”
Simultaneously I shrieked, “That man laid hands upon me!” An accusation so shocking that bystanders gasped with outrage and turned upon Mycroft with shouts and stares. Meanwhile, dodging between skirts and ducking beneath gentlemanly elbows, I took refuge once more in the Ladies’ Lavatory, whisking past the doorkeeper with a gabbled tale of having forgotten something. Hurrying straight into that excellent facility’s inner sanctum, I found the maidservant at work with her perfume-atomiser, attempting to quell the inevitable stench.
“Vanish,” I snapped at her, and without a murmur she retreated to the parlour.
By the time Mycr
oft had, I surmise, explained himself and summoned a constable, I was gone through the back window, and I was no longer a female scholar. Minus hat, gloves, and glasses, I no longer resembled that drab creature at all, thanks to a colourful length of Indian-print cotton—I always carry such useful things in my bust, for emergencies and also to lend me the appearance of the bosom I do not possess. Thus, looking quite the Bohemian with my bare hands, my head wrapped like that of a heathen and my shawl trailing halfway to the ground, I walked to the Underground and made my way safely back to “Dr. Ragostin’s” office.
None of the servants saw me come in, for I did not, in my outlandish costume, enter by the front door. Rather, I pressed the centre of a certain scroll amid the wood ornamentation that dripped like cake-sugar all over the house’s gingerbread-brown stone façade, then slipped around the side, opened the secret door, and strode directly into the locked inner room, “Dr. Ragostin’s” private office. It was my very good fortune that this sanctum had been fitted out for use by a medium (a villain—but that is another story) who had once held séances there—hence the secret door, behind a bookshelf, to the outside, and also a small secret chamber where I kept my various disguises.
I threw my Bohemian shawl aside, turned up the gas-lamps for light, then lounged upon the chintz sofa, frowning.
Angry at myself. Had I been alert and taking proper precautions, looking about me, the encounter with Mycroft would never have happened. Now, in addition to embarrassing myself (I was not yet ready to rejoice in the way I had embarrassed him), I had lost my chance to shadow Lady Cecily and find out what mysterious new misfortune might beset her. Even the number of the cab she had taken was lost from my mind, which apparently had dropped it during the fracas. I was left with no clue except the peculiar fan lying in my lap. Indeed, if it were not for that candy-pink artefact, I would have found it difficult to believe what had happened.
Holding the fan up to the light, I scanned it. Then, pulling a magnifying-lens from my bosom, I studied it inch by inch. I hoped to find a note or message, but discovered only plain sticks, their cheap soft wood unmarred by any scratched or pencilled lines, and plain pink paper, slightly watermarked in a decorative checkerboard motif, but quite virginal. As was the fan’s edging of downy feathers, no doubt plucked from some common backyard duck before being dyed pink. I could see no marks on the shafts of the feathers, nothing slipped between sticks and paper, no hidden compartment, simply nothing of interest.
Confound it all. If only—
Drat Mycroft. Drat and blast brothers.
Grumpily I moved to “Dr. Ragostin’s” vast mahogany desk, where, with pencil and drawing paper, I sketched quite an alarming picture of Mycroft at the moment he had recognised me, his bushy brows all shot up as if he had just trod upon a rat. Then, my feelings somewhat relieved, more contemplatively I drew a likeness of Lady Cecily in her bell skirt. Often when I find myself in doubt, upset, or perplexity, I turn to sketching, and I generally find that it does good somehow.
In no way is Lady Cecily a fool for fashion. Why ever would she wear a bell skirt?
Doodling, I remembered the flat boater I had seen on her head.
Why such a frightfully modish costume, yet a hat not the least bit fashionable?
Next I started sketching her face, first in profile, then from the front.
The style in which she wore her hair, pulled straight back, was not fashionable, either. If she cared about fashion, she would have worn a fringe to cover that high forehead. Why, she looks a bit like Alice in Wonderland. Despite Sir John Tenniel’s marvelous illustrations, I had never much enjoyed Lewis Carroll’s books.
Alice never smiled.
I did not like nonsense stories; I wanted narrative to unfold with some degree of logic, much as life should. Although often it did not. For instance, it made no sense that such a well-to-do girl as Lady Cecily should carry a paper fan.
Why such a silly pink thing?
Well and truly engrossed in my drawing now, I sketched Cecily again, this time putting the fan in her hand, and trying to capture the way she had looked at me—
With a shudder as if a whip had snapped far too close to me, I felt again the desperation of her gaze.
Something is dreadfully wrong.
Even though I did not at all understand what she wanted of me, I knew I must try to help her.
But how to find out what was the matter?
After a few moments’ thought, I got up and strode to a certain bookcase, where I reached behind a stout volume of Pope’s essays and touched a hidden latch. Quite silently the shelf turned upon its well-oiled hinges, allowing me passage into my very private “dressing-room,” where I began to affect necessary changes in my costume and appearance.
I had decided to go calling upon the Alistairs. Therefore, because Lady Theodora knew me only as the mousy Mrs. Ragostin, I must once again become that humble person.
Timid, fumbling, and dowdy even though she carried a lorgnette and a parasol, “Dr. Ragostin’s” child bride (remembering to tap softly) plied the brass knocker upon the formidable front door of the baronet’s town house. I had achieved the dowdiness by combining grey cotton gloves and quite a limp olive-green felt hat with an expensive but hideous brown print dress. Moreover, I had tucked moss-roses, an old-fashioned blossom, into my hatband and my bosom. (Upper-class bosoms are expected to serve as flowerpots.) I hoped Lady Theodora would see me; from my previous visits I knew that she, a radiantly beautiful woman, found Mrs. Ragostin, who was quite the opposite, soothing to her nerves.
But when the redoubtable butler answered the door, he bore no silver tray, nor did he so much as glance at the calling-card in my gloved hand, although I am sure he recognised me. “Lady Theodora is receiving no visitors.”
“Her ladyship is unwell?” I ventured, remembering to keep my tone that of a well-bred sparrow.
“Her ladyship is seeing no one.”
Hmm. If it were an ordinary matter of indisposition, he would have agreed that her ladyship was unwell.
“Tomorrow, perhaps?” I chirped.
“Most unlikely. Her ladyship remains in total seclusion.”
Another baby on the way, perhaps? As if poor Theodora had not borne enough little Alistairs already? She must be of an age to cease. Was this mysterious seclusion mere coincidence, or did it have something to do with Lady Theodora’s most problematic daughter?
Displaying distress or vacuity of mind, I began to twitter. “How very disappointing. Since I am here…I have been quite wanting to meet…might I have just a word with Lady Cecily?”
“The Honourable Lady Cecily no longer resides here.”
This surprised me, for two reasons: where was Cecily if not here, at her home? And why had the butler been so frank? I saw by his sour expression that already he regretted his indiscretion; evidently my persistent brown presence was wearing him down.
Encouraged, I did not budge from the doorstep. “Really! Lady Cecily has gone already to the country, perhaps?”
But I was to get nothing more out of him. Excusing himself, he shut the door in my face.
So much for talking with Lady Theodora.
Now what?
CHAPTER THE THIRD
THAT EVENING, IN MY CUSTOMARY GUISE AS DR. Ragostin’s secretary, Ivy Meshle, I went home to my rented lodging and shared a less-than-satisfactory supper of carrots and kidneys with my elderly landlady. Since Mrs. Tupper is as deaf as a cast-iron gatepost, I attempted no conversation while we ate. But afterward, I signalled her that I wished to borrow some reading material from her. That is to say, I spread my hands as if opening a newspaper, then pointed upward, towards her bedchamber. There were only three rooms in her East End hovel: mine, hers, and the single cooking/dining/sitting-room on the ground floor. Still, the sweet old soul did not understand. Placing her trumpet to her ear, she leaned towards me over the table and bellowed, “What? You say there’s a bat got in upstairs?”
Eventually I had to lead her up
stairs to show her what I wanted: her stacks of society periodicals.
As a step towards finding and helping Lady Cecily, I hoped to discover the identity of the ogresses in whose dubious company I had seen her.
Society-watching was a pursuit that, being a person of democratic convictions, I had scorned, up until now. So I had a great deal of catching up to do. After carrying Mrs. Tupper’s accumulated periodicals to my own room, gladly I rid myself not only of my dress but my bust enhancer, hip regulators, and corset, my cheek and nostril inserts, my fringe of curls, and my false eyelashes, making myself comfortable in a dressing-gown and slippers before settling down to read.
Although I cannot say I particularly enjoyed it. Over the course of the next several hours I learned that croquet was quite passé, tennis and archery still in mode, but the Very Latest Sport for ladies was golf. Lord Jug-ears and Lady Parsnip-face had been seen coaching in Hyde Park; she wore a Worth gown of ciel-bleu French gibberish moire. What a shame that Kensington Palace stood empty despite its restoration. A most distinguished gathering had attended the christening of Baby So-and-so, firstborn son of Lord Such-a-much Earl of What-does-it-matter. Satin was Out, peau de soie In. An oil-painting exhibition themed around the Progress of the British Empire was viewable at Gallery Ever-so-exclusive. Viscount and Viscountess Ancient-lineage announced the engagement of their daughter Long-name to Great-prospects, the younger son of Earl Blue-blood. My head ached abominably, I thought I should go quite mad, and I had not yet looked through even a quarter of the stack. I peered at photographs of Duchess Duck-foot’s boating-party, Baron Bulb-nose’s cricket-team’s annual banquet, Debutante Wasp-waist’s coming-out ball, and dozens more without finding either of the two unpleasant faces I sought.
When day turned to dark, gladly I rose from my chair, for I would strain my eyes if I attempted to read any longer by candlelight. From its hiding place between mattress and bedstead I pulled the dark, decrepit clothing I wore when I went out to wander the night.
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan Page 2
