Echoes of Sherlock Holmes

by Laurie R. King

  “Until the jewels are found, or the public loses interest. At the very least until after the king leaves.”

  “It will close down everything for weeks.”

  “It will.”

  Katherine waved a gloved hand at the street. “And how will the women earn their living for those weeks? Who will pay the rent or feed their starving children? There will be evictions and deaths.”

  The police inspector clasped his hands behind his back. “I never thought of that,” he admitted.

  “And do you know something, Inspector? No one will care. Women and children will die in these streets because the king’s baubles were taken.”

  “I will take my leave of you, Madam Kitten,” Dermot said suddenly. “And let me thank you. You have given me a proper reason to find the jewels. Something more important that my own rather petty ambition. You have my word that I will do my utmost to find those jewels.” Stepping back, he bowed quickly—an old-fashioned, almost courtly gesture.

  Madam Kitten spun around to look at him. And then, slowly and deliberately, she raised the veil off her face and looked at him with bright, grass-green eyes.

  Caught off-guard, the inspector’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Madam Kitten would never be called beautiful, but she was handsome. “Thank you, Inspector,” she said very softly, laying a gloved hand on his arm. Color flooded his cheeks. “Mickey,” she said, not raising her voice.

  The door opened and the huge man filled it, an ugly twist of blackthorn stick in his hands. He stopped in surprise when he saw the couple standing together with the woman’s veil pushed back off her face.

  “Mickey, bring around the carriage, we need to take Inspector Corcoran back to the Castle.”

  “I can walk.”

  “I am going with you.”

  Both men looked at her in surprise.

  “And you will return here at eight o’clock this evening.”

  The inspector blinked in surprise. “I will?”

  “You will,” she said simply.

  “Why?”

  “Because I will tell you then who stole the jewels.”

  Hopelessly confused, Dermot looked from the woman to Mickey and then back again. “You will? Why? How?”

  “Because you set a thief to catch a thief,” she said, spinning away in a cloud of delicate lavender perfume. “Give me thirty minutes and I will join you. Remember: eight o’clock, Inspector. Mickey will meet you at the corner of Marlborough Street and bring you in the back way. A man like you should not be seen visiting a house like this.”

  “A man like me: a policeman?”

  “A good man,” she called over her shoulder.

  Dermot Corcoran looked at Mickey. “I’ve never been called a good man before.”

  “I’ll wager you’ve never met a woman like Madam Kitten before either.”

  Tilly Cusack sat on the edge of the bed and watched Katherine dress. “And if I was to tell you that I think this is a very bad idea . . .”

  “I would listen to you and then ignore you.”

  “Can I at least come with you?” Tilly’s Cockney accent was more pronounced now, a sure indication that she was concerned.

  “No. I don’t think someone like me can be seen in the company of an older woman!”

  “Bitch!” Tilly grinned.

  Katherine spun around and spread her arms. “What do you think?”

  Tilly looked her up and down. “I think you look like an apprentice clerk.”

  Katherine was dressed in a slightly shabby man’s black suit. The cuffs on the coat and the hem on the trousers were a little long, to help disguise her wrists and ankles. Tilly had helped her bind down her breasts with gauze bandages, and a slightly overlarge shirt and waistcoat lent bulk to her slender figure. Her hair was wrapped in a tight coil on top of her head and concealed beneath a cap. A hint of five o’clock shadow on her cheeks and chin, cotton balls in her mouth, and wire-framed glasses with plain glass completed the disguise.

  “Now let’s see how good this get-up is,” Katherine said, linking her arm through Tilly’s.

  Arm-in-arm, the women descended the stairs and peered into the sitting room. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” Katherine murmured. The inspector and Mickey were deep in conversation over the remains of tea and biscuits.

  “Bet he’s telling you his war stories,” Tilly said loudly. “His days in the Sixty-sixth Foot.” Moving over to Mickey’s shoulder, she ran her hand across the scar on his throat.

  He reached up and squeezed her fingers. “Lucky to be here,” he whispered. “The surgeon saved my life.”

  Dermot Corcoran stood and stared at the young man standing in the doorway. He frowned. “I’m usually good with names and faces,” he said. “I believe we’ve met . . .”

  “Aye, we’ve met,” Katherine said in a masculine rasp, and then added in her own voice, “not more than thirty minutes ago, in this very room.”

  Once again, Dermot’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

  Katherine looked at Tilly and Mickey. “Told you it would work.”

  “What is troubling you, Inspector? You’ve barely said a word.”

  The couple sat facing one another in an elegant black brougham which swayed down Sackville Street.

  He shrugged. “I am not entirely sure what to say. It has been a morning of revelations. I believe I may be in shock.”

  “The theft of the jewels must have been a shock,” she agreed with a slight smile.

  Dermot grinned. “In truth, I don’t care about the jewels. I was thinking more of the other surprises the day has had to offer . . .” He pulled out a battered pocket watch. “And it is not yet two o’clock.”

  “The day is not yet over,” Madam Kitten smiled.

  “And the biggest surprise of all was you.”

  Color touched the woman’s cheeks. Surprised by the emotion, she dipped her head and focused on the cap in her hands. “Ah, the disguise . . . well, it’s a useful way to be able to move through the city.”

  “The disguise was a shock—not a surprise—but no, I was more surprised that you would offer to help.”

  “The sooner we get this cleared up, the sooner my world will return to normal, and those who need to can get back to earning a living.”

  The inspector shook his head. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

  “You thought I would be older: a wizened harridan.”

  “I’ve heard the stories.”

  “So did I. Most of them I put out myself.”

  “Why?” he wondered.

  “We all wear masks, Inspector: by necessity, by circumstances, or by choice. The face you reveal to your fellow police officers, for example, is not the same face you show to the young lady in your life. The face you show to your superiors is not the face you would use with a criminal.”

  He nodded. “So Madam Kitten is an invention created to frighten and intimidate.”

  “All the other madams in Dublin are harridans and shrews, ex-working girls. So, Madam Kitten should be cut from the same cloth. It is something people expect, and once they get what they expect, they will not look any deeper.”

  The carriage lurched across sunken tram lines and the ambient sound changed. Katherine peered beyond the blind. They had entered the courtyard of Dublin Castle. The cobbled square was swarming with police, most of them concentrated around the imposing facade of the circular Bedford Tower. The carriage halted and Mickey slid back the panel in the roof and peered down. “End of the road. Place is alive with coppers.” He winked at Dermot. “I’m guessing that a few will know me and it might not be good for you to be seen in my company.”

  “Good thinking, Mickey,” Madam Kitten said, fixing the cap on her head and tucking in any stray hairs. She looked at Dermot. “How do I look?”

  “Like a man,” he grinned.

  Mickey swung the carriage to a halt close to one wall and jumped down to open the door on that side. No one would
be able to see who exited the carriage. He took her hand and helped her down. She squeezed his fingers. “I know,” she said. “You were about to tell me to be careful.”

  “I was,” he admitted. “If there’s a problem and anything . . . happens,” he said carefully, “just sit tight: we’ll come and get you.”

  “I know you will. But I can look after myself.”

  Mickey didn’t quite manage to disguise the look of disbelief on his face.

  Dermot Corcoran climbed out of the carriage, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. Mickey’s hand fell on his shoulders, fingers biting not quite painfully. “I’d be upset if anything were to happen to the Madam,” he said.

  “So would I,” Dermot said, surprising them both.

  “Mickey,” Katherine said. “Wait for me in the street outside; I will be back within the hour. Inspector, I will see you at eight.” Then, shoving her hands in her pockets and dipping her head, she strode across the cobbled courtyard, weaving her way through the assembled police officers.

  “It has been a pleasure meeting you.” Dermot stretched out his hand. Surprised, the big man took it. “And you were right,” the inspector added, looking across the courtyard, but not finding Katherine in the mass of people. “I’ve never met a woman like Madam Kitten before.”

  At precisely eight o’clock, Dermot Corcoran stepped into Madam Kitten’s private drawing room. Mickey clapped him on his shoulder and pulled the door closed.

  Madam Kitten and Tilly Cusack sat on either side of a small circular card table, playing two-handed patience. Katherine was in her widow’s black, but without the veil, while Tilly was wearing a spectacularly low-cut gown which had gone out of fashion a decade previously. Katherine looked up, green eyes glittering in the low gaslight, and smiled. “Why, Inspector, you look quite pink.”

  Tilly slapped down her cards and then wordlessly scooped half a dozen buttons from the center of the table, then twisted in her chair to look at the policeman. “Goodness me, I do believe he is blushing,” she said, almost wistfully. Turning back to Katherine, she asked, “Can you remember the last time someone blushed in this house?”

  “Mickey led me in through the kitchen,” Dermot said. “Some women were having their supper. None of them were wearing clothes,” he added. “Well, some were almost wearing clothes.”

  “Tilly, get Mr. Corcoran a drink. I don’t think he’s seen that much naked female flesh before.”

  “I haven’t,” he admitted. “Oh, and I don’t drink alcohol,” he added, just as Tilly was about to pour a brandy.

  “I’ll get you a hot chocolate,” Tilly said. She stopped before the inspector, enveloping him in lavender, and looked him up and down. “A policeman who doesn’t drink and blushes more often than any man I have ever met. Have you ever been in a brothel before?” she wondered.

  “Never,” he admitted.

  She looked at him with something like awe. “Are you sure you’re a real policeman?”

  “Don’t tease, Tilly,” Katherine said. “Get the inspector his hot chocolate and I will have a coffee. Inspector, come sit with me by the fire.” She moved away from the card table and took a deep wing-backed leather chair set at an angle to the glowing fire. Dermot settled into the facing chair.

  “I know there’s really no need of a fire in the middle of summer,” Katherine said quietly, “but I love the light, don’t you?”

  “I do. But I usually don’t light a fire in July.”

  “Why not?”

  “By the time I’m finished for the day and get back to Drumcondra, where I live, it’s close to nine and too late to light one. And, I couldn’t afford it on my salary.”

  Katherine sat back into the chair, until she was almost lost in shadow. Firelight danced red and golden in her eyes. “If it is difficult for you to survive on your salary, then how will your young lady cope? Would you be able to tell her not to light a fire, to scrimp and save her pennies? She is obviously used to better things?”

  “She is, and yes, it will be difficult.”

  “You can see how so many of your colleagues begin the slide into taking little donations to supplement their wage.”

  “I don’t judge them. I did, when I was a lot younger, but no more. They do what they have to survive. But it certainly makes my job harder,” he added.

  Tilly returned with two cups on a silver tray. The room immediately filled with the odor of hot chocolate and rich coffee.

  Katherine lifted the coffee off the tray. “Tilly, lower the lights and make sure we’re not disturbed. We do not want a repetition of last week’s adventure.”

  “I’ve two men on the stairs and another outside the door.”

  “What happened last week?” Dermot asked when Tilly had left. “Or is that an impertinent question?”

  Katherine smiled. “A young man somehow found his way into this room. He presumed I was one of the girls and made a very crude suggestion.”

  Dermot sipped the chocolate. “What happened?”

  “I shot him.”

  The inspector sat bolt upright. “You shot him!”

  “A flesh wound in the thigh only, I assure you.”

  “I didn’t see any reports of a shooting in your file.”

  Katherine laughed. “Oh, it is not in my file.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “I have a copy delivered to me every week.”

  Dermot wrapped both hands around the cup and sipped. “Somehow that does not surprise me.”

  Katherine brought the coffee cup to her lips to hide her smile. “What did you discover today?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nobody knows anything. The last time the jewels were seen was on the eleventh of June, when Sir Arthur Vicars showed them to some visiting librarian. What is extraordinary, however, is how casually he is taking it. It is almost as if he expects the stones to turn up.”

  “I believe he does,” she said enigmatically, and waved away his next question. “Suspects?” she asked.

  “No one. Everyone associated with the jewels are gentlemen of impeccable character.”

  Katherine laughed softly. She raised her chin slightly to the noise from the rooms above. “This house is filled with gentlemen of impeccable character.”

  “I did discover something odd—amusing too.”

  “Tell me.”

  “When the jewels were moved into the Bedford Tower four years ago, a special strong room was constructed. An impregnable Radcliffe and Horner safe was purchased to hold the jewels.” Dermot started to smile. “The only problem was that when the safe arrived, it was discovered that the door to the strong room was too narrow to admit it. So the safe was temporarily moved to the library. It’s been there ever since.”

  “Who holds the keys to the safe?” Katherine asked.

  “There are two keys. Both are in the possession of Sir Arthur Vicars.” He stopped and sipped the chocolate. “Perhaps a duplicate key . . .”

  Katherine shook her head. “Mickey checked with all the locksmiths today. No one has been approached to make a duplicate. What does that tell us?” she asked.

  “That one of the original keys was used.”

  She nodded. “So someone close to Sir Arthur.”

  “Or Sir Arthur himself.”

  Katherine shook her head. “He has too much to lose: pension, reputation, position.”

  “Then I am at a loss. Perhaps it is a joke?”

  Katherine remained silent.

  “You do not think so?”

  “I spoke with the cleaning lady, Mrs. Farrell, today.”

  Dermot sat back in the chair. “I did not know there was a cleaning lady. No one has mentioned her before.”

  Katherine’s smile was humorless. “Servants and children are always the invisible observers. It would be a mistake to ignore their testimony.”

  Dermot nodded.

  “Mrs. Farrell finishes early in the morning. Last Wednesday, when she turned up for work, she discovered the door to the entra
nce to the tower unlocked and open. And then again, last Saturday, she arrived to find the door to the library ajar.”

  “And did she report it?” He pulled out a notebook and flipped through the pages. “There is no record of it.”

  “She told Mr. Stivey, the messenger, and he, in turn, reported it directly to Vicars.”

  “But why didn’t Vicars report it?”

  “You must ask Sir Arthur that. I also spoke with Mr. Stivey. He told me that Vicars took the news with some equanimity and was apparently unperturbed.”

  “How odd.”

  Dermot sipped his chocolate, watching Katherine’s eyes over the rim of his cup. Finally, he sighed. “Your two-hour investigation has discovered more than the rest of the DMP. Do you know who stole the jewels?”

  “I can tell you that Sir Arthur Vicars shares a house with Francis Shackleton, younger brother of the arctic explorer.”

  “I knew that. I’ve seen Shackleton. A rather vain and foppish young man.”

  “Who happens to have accrued some spectacular debts to some unfortunately unforgiving people.” Katherine’s face appeared out of the gloom. “The IOUs are on the floor beside your chair.”

  Dermot put down his cup and picked up the scraps of paper, turning them to the firelight. “How did you get these?”

  “I bought them for a percentage of their worth.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Oh, Inspector, remember who I am and what I am. Leverage is always useful. Now, see who has guaranteed the notes.”

  Dermot turned over the page. “Vicars!” He looked at Katherine. “Vicars guarantees Shackleton’s debt. But how could he afford that on his salary?”

  “He could not,” she said simply. “He asked a friend of his, Frank Goldney, to take on the debt, which he did.”

  “What a tangled mess . . .”

  “There is another twist. I am presuming that you did not know that Shackleton is an intimate of Lord Haddo.”

  The inspector sat bolt upright. “The son of the Viceroy?”

  “The same.”

  “And when you say ‘intimate . . . ’” he asked cautiously.

  “Both gentlemen are also very close to the Duke of Argyll, who has a fondness for guardsmen.”