“I don’t know,” said Tyers, making the admission as if to a fondness for opium.
I was about to say something more when Edmund Sutton came into the study. Only it was no longer entirely Edmund Sutton, but Mycroft Holmes, who stood on the threshold, his hand on his watchfob, the other holding two sheaves of paper. “There you are, Guthrie. Can you spare me a minute, dear boy?”
“At your service, sir,” I said. I could not keep from offering the man a slight bow as I would to Holmes himself, though, as always, when he first began to play Holmes, he laid the characterization on a little thick, so broad it would carry to a nonexistent balcony. By evening, when he made his visit across the street to Mister Holmes’ club, his impersonation would be eerily flawless.
He glanced once at Tyers. “Is there some difficulty of which I should be apprised?”
“No, sir,” said Tyers slowly as he retreated from the study.
He permitted Tyers to depart without any reluctance, but as soon as he was gone: “Guthrie? Is anything wrong?” he asked, striding to Holmes’ chair and dropping into it. He waited for an answer, his head cocked as if listening for distant sounds as well as anything I had to offer.
“Some question about a new delivery man in the service alley,” I said, doing my best to dismiss the matter. “If the fellow is still doing the work tomorrow, Tyers will inquire about him.”
“Very good,” said Sutton. He held out one of the’ sheaves of paper to me. “I will rely on your prudence.”
“The script?” I said.
“A complete one for you, my sides for me,” said Sutton. “I would appreciate it if you would read all the parts in the scenes I’ve marked. I am beginning to develop Sir Peter’s reactions, and for that I must hear all the lines.”
Sighing, I opened the script and saw that the play began with a Prologue about rumor and scandal, and then went into a scene between a Lady Sneerwell and someone called Snake. As this scene was not marked, I skipped over it and gave my attention to the next scene, which began with a speech by Sir Peter. “I believe you have the first speech in scene two, sir,” I said.
“So Teazle does,” said Sutton. His posture shifted in an eerie way, and he was no longer Mycroft Holmes. He began: “When an old bachelor marries a young wife, what is he to expect? . . .”
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
My visit to the butcher’s informed me that the usual delivery man met with an accident two nights ago and is currently being treated for a broken arm. According to the butcher himself he was pressed for time in finding a suitable replacement for his injured driver. The man now doing the delivery is the nephew of the usual delivery man, or so they inform me at the butcher’s. While this may be so, I continue to feel a degree of uncertainty that will not leave me. It may be as G says, and I am overly fashed because of M H’s delicate position with the Japanese. I must devote time to observing the new delivery man for as long as he is in this part of London.
I stopped by Baker Street to leave word of M H’s current arrangements, as was requested
M H is still at the Swiss embassy with the Japanese while Sutton takes his place across the street at his club. Fortunately G is here until M H returns this evening. I cannot rid myself of the notion that this place is closely watched; habits of all those long years of active duty prompt my fears, though as yet I have not seen anyone I could directly accuse of such activity, which gives me to worry all the more. Either I am going mad or those watching are experienced and skillful. Neither possibility bodes well.
BY TEA-TIME, three-thirty in Mycroft Holmes’ flat, we had been through School for Scandal twice, and I was becoming heartily bored with the mannered text. The only diversion in the whole of the afternoon was the arrival of the messenger from the Admiralty promptly at twenty minutes after three. I handed over the case and Mycroft Holmes’ instructions regarding it, and accepted a small file-box with two locks on it in its stead.
LADY TEAZLE: Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion?
SIR PETER: The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with fashion before you married me?
LADY TEAZLE: For my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste.
SIR PETER: Ay—there again—taste! Zounds! madame, you had no taste when you married me.
LADY TEAZLE: That’s very true, indeed, Sir Peter! and, after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow . . .
The first time I read this passage with Edmund Sutton, I found it amusing, but now the wit seemed flat, and I wondered at how Sutton was able to keep the sense of never having heard or spoken the words before so foremost in his thoughts. I was about to finish the line when I saw that Tyers was waiting in the study door; I broke off my reading and went to him.
“The butcher’s delivery man was back not ten minutes since,” he said, his habitual stoic calm lost to distress. “I would not have seen him had I not been on the back stairs with the seamstress’ girl. She was bringing the new shirts for Mister Holmes.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to say, or to think, sir.”
“Are you certain it is the same man?” I could not keep myself from asking.
“There is nothing wrong with my eyes, sir,” said Tyers. “And it was not my intention to keep watch for the man. I happened to be where I could observe him without risk.”
“What was he doing?” I hoped there would be another, reasonable explanation for the man’s presence in the service alley.
“He was smoking a pipe and talking to the dairy carter,” Tyers answered, speaking with great care. “He had changed his hat but not his boots. He was not with his delivery wagon.”
“It may be that he has driven for the dairy, or knows the man, or is seeking regular employment,” I suggested.
“It is possible,” said Tyers dubiously. “And it is possible that I am suffering a nerve storm. You are kind enough not to mention it to me, but I am aware that it may be the case.”
It was difficult to keep a calm demeanor, given Tyers’ anxiety. I pulled at my lower lip as I thought. “If you are right and we are truly under observation, it is essential we give no indication we are aware of what has transpired. We do not want the fellow alerted, for then he might become more suspicious still—”
“And it would not do to have our ruse with Mister Sutton discovered,” said Tyers, in agreement. “I take your meaning, Mister Guthrie.” He nodded once. “I will attend to the tea and serve it in the sitting room, as is customary.”
“Very good,” I said, and prepared to return to the study.
“Trouble, Guthrie?” Sutton asked as I entered the room, all signs of Sir Peter Teazle gone. He was once again all Mycroft Holmes. He had risen from his chair and was standing not far from the window. With care he selected a cigar and clipped the end before lighting it, exhaling the smoke with a look of pleasure.
“Best not stand too near the window, sir,” I recommended, one hand going to the faint scar on my forehead, the souvenir of a bullet that had smashed through a window in Munich and cut me with the flying glass.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t?” he asked, taking another lungful of smoke.
“You cannot be sure you are not observed,” I said, and thought my answer sounded absurd.
“You’re too cautious, Guthrie,” he said. “The purpose of having me here is to keep up the illusion that Mycroft Holmes is going about his life as he is known to do on all occasions. You will have to permit me to be caught sight of now and again if you wish the illusion to be upheld. And if we are to fulfill our second purpose.” Sutton himself would have winked; as Holmes he gave me a single, decisive nod.
It was uncanny how he could catch Holmes’ accents and cadence of speech. I stepped nearer to the window, and allowed myself one quick glance out of it at the rooftop of the house immediately next to this one. It was two stories, one less than this building, and its roof was easily inspected from this vantage point. �
��I don’t see anyone.”
“No one there,” said Sutton. “I checked already. And you needn’t worry that I could not find the man if he were there. I am an actor, and I know when someone is watching me. It’s my stock in trade.” He left the place by the window and went back to his chair. “Do we remain here or go to the sitting room?” His lack of concern seemed so reckless to me that I could not respond at once.
“Let’s go to the sitting room.” It was what Holmes and I did at this time almost every day. I watched Sutton stub out his cigar, and allowed him to precede me, as I would have done for our employer.
As we went down the corridor, I found myself listening for unfamiliar noises. Surely the clatter from Pall Mall was more intrusive than it was most afternoons? I imagined I heard more hoofbeats and shouts from below than were usual at this time of day. And the rattle in the service alley behind us was more constant than it ordinarily was? I made myself concentrate on the routine we were supposed to maintain.
The sitting room was the lightest room in the flat, a fine room with tall windows on two sides where Holmes did much of his work, took his meals at a large oak table, and raised a number of plants known for their poisonous properties. It was often more cluttered than it was now, but that would change once Holmes returned home.
“I will plan to go across the road at the usual hour,” said Sutton as he sat down at the table. “I would appreciate it if you would watch for anything . . . untoward. I cannot appear to take note of the street, for Holmes never does.”
“Certainly,” I assured him; I had planned to do so in any case.
“Very good,” he approved, and looked up as Tyers came in. “Excellent. Coffee disguised as tea. I thank you for this.”
Tyers set his tray down and indicated the pitcher of hot milk. “Use a serviette on the handle when you pour.” He had masked his apprehension with the stoic manner expected of a good manservant.
“That I will,” said Sutton. He rubbed his hands together as he looked over the tea we had been prepared. There was a basket of scones and hot-cross buns, a jar of fruit compote, another of ginger marmalade, a pot of clotted cream, Scottish shortbread for me, and a small plate of short, savory, broiled sausages. “This is splendid. A proper afternoon tea. One of the real pleasures of this work.”
“What would you be doing at this time if you were not here?” I asked, having scant knowledge of how Sutton lived when he was not serving as Holmes’ double.
“Oh, we would be ending rehearsal about now, if I were working in a new play. Or I would be resting in preparation for the night’s performance, if the play had opened already. In either case I would not have so fine a tea, or the time to enjoy it.” He pointed to the sausages. “Even these are welcome. Though I should like to know how Holmes picked up a taste for them.”
I did not share Holmes’ love of the sausages, but otherwise the tea was a welcome light repast. I had for some time been aware that Sutton was not fond of the sausages, either, but he would eat them, for that is what Mycroft Holmes did, and as long as he was in the role, he would play it as required. I watched as he poured his coffee into a cup and added the hot milk, much as Holmes himself would pour tea and add milk to it.
“It is the little things that are most tricksy,” said Sutton as he prepared to take his first sip of coffee. He spoke as if we had been in the middle of a conversation, and were now resuming our discussion. “Those who try to assume another identity often overlook the very things that are most important to convincing others.”
“Ah?” I said, putting my cup aside and reaching for a scone. My serviette was spread on my knee and I had taken a small plate from the tray.
“Yes. For example, you would be the very devil to impersonate, Guthrie.” He winked very deliberately.
“You mean because my eyes are different colors?” I asked; my right eye is green and my left blue.
“Precisely. One could cover one of the eyes, of course, but that would occasion an explanation for anyone who knew you, which could be more damaging than anything anticipated, because it would draw attention to something distinctive. And, of course, you are left-handed.” He sipped his coffee, made a face and set it down again. “Too hot.”
“Why is the left-handedness a problem?” I was becoming more curious as I listened.
“You are not aware of how very much you do with your left hand. Those who are right-handed do as much with their right hands, and so automatically. You catch items thrown to you with your left hand when possible, you pick up pencils and spoons and serviettes with your left hand. You open doors with your left hand. You pet dogs with your left hand. Anyone trying to enact you would have to remember to do all those things, constantly, or give himself away completely. Or put your left arm in a sling, but that, too, would occasion comment. You are a challenge.”
“What about Holmes is most challenging?” I poured tea for myself from the water jug where Tyers had put it.
Sutton considered his answer carefully. “His constant attitude of thought,” he said at last. “Yes. That is by far the most demanding aspect of his character. His intellectual alertness is constant, and not easily conveyed.” He put his hands to his forehead as Holmes often did when in pursuit of an idea. “You see? This is not enough. Any fool can ape the gesture. It must be the energy in the eyes. Hardest for me to remember is to keep the voice low, not projected as I have been trained to do, though the accent is simplicity itself, and that is where I must be most vigilant, so that I do not lapse into my old habits, and speak to be heard in the back row.”
I watched him with curiosity mingled with respect. When I had first come to work for Mycroft Holmes, I had thought little of actors; I had no understanding of the range of skills the work required. Since knowing Edmund Sutton, my attitude toward the profession and its adherents had changed; I now regard playing a role successfully as an artistic accomplishment equal to the creation of a good painting, and as meticulous in its execution. My own few experiences of attempting to convince others I was someone else had proven vastly more difficult than I had thought they would be, and more dangerous.
Tyers returned carrying the Times. “The delivery man has not yet departed. And I think he has company with him.” He did not seem upset to tell us this, but there was something that revealed his apprehension. Had I not observed him over the last several months, I would have detected nothing of his state of mind. “I believe they intend to remain here for some while.”
“You mean until Holmes returns and I depart?” Said Sutton without any sign of concern. “Let them watch. They will learn nothing.”
I was not so sanguine. “There was the matter of the bomb,” I reminded him.
“Just my thought,” said Tyers. “As we do not know with whom we are dealing, it would be wisest to err on the side of caution”
“What do you mean to say?” Sutton asked. “Do you think they intend to do more than observe?”
“I think we must consider the possibility,” said Tyers. “I fear they may mean mischief.”
I recalled the man in the theatrical uniform broken over the wooden fence and I could not wholly suppress a shudder. “There are also residents on the two floors below us,” I pointed out, for I was aware there might be other targets of scrutiny.
“A retired High Court judge and a younger son of a Midlands Earl occupy the flats,” Tyers said, as if they could be dismissed. “Sir Edgar gambles, they say, but no one would dare to come to his home for such a reason, not when he might reasonably approach the Earl, or could find Sir Edgar at his club. I can think of no reason he should be followed in this clandestine way. His habits are known and his company is established.” He shrugged a little. “I have not heard that he is in debt.”
“And as you know his servants, you would hear if he were,” said Sutton cannily.
“Just so,” Tyers agreed.
I thought that Sir Edgar was not the only man of fixed habits in the building: Mycroft Holmes had striven for years
to maintain the illusion of his outwardly circumscribed life. “The judge,” I pointed out, “might have enemies from his days on the Queen’s Bench. He sat on some celebrated cases, as I recall. Someone might still desire retribution. It is possible that the men in the wagon are watching him.”
“It is unlikely,” said Tyers flatly.
Sutton looked distressed. “Guthrie, you are implying that someone may suspect that Mycroft Holmes is not, in fact, in his flat, and that a ruse is being practiced? You are worried because of what might happen if our deception is discovered? You believe they are watching this flat to determine if I am Holmes or not?” Sutton spoke up, not sounding the least troubled. He chuckled once, his face briefly his own, and his voice raised enough to carry through the room. “What a rare tribute. I have convinced them well enough that they do not know beyond question if Holmes is here or not.” He rubbed his hands in ill-disguised glee.
“Which is precisely what you are supposed to do,” I reminded him rather more stringently than I had intended. “Convince them beyond question.”
“Yes it is. And I hoped I had done a tolerable job of it. But until now, I was not wholly convinced of my success.” His pride was so honest and oddly naive that I could not think him immodest.
“You go to the Diogenes Club frequently. Surely you have realized your success before now?” I was startled by the thought that this young man would doubt himself.
Sutton cocked his head self-deprecatingly. “Hardly a test. Holmes is such a fixture there, and his habits so regular that I suspect you, Guthrie, could probably walk a dancing bear across Pall Mall at the correct hour, and the club members would recognize it as Mycroft Holmes because he is the one they expect to see.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, so wholly unlike the man he played that it jarred my senses. “So I will have to leave by the front today, and in some guise other than my usual.” He frowned, though it was apparent he was enjoying himself. “Unless we can mislead them in some way, make them think they are mistaken.”
Embassy Row Page 3
