“You may remain for a short while,” Holmes assured me. “I do not want your actions to appear too obvious.”
I would have liked to make a pointed observation on the matter, but I quickly saw that there would be no use to it. This evening was proving to be as demanding as I feared it might be, and I was aware that I was becoming testy of humor because of my long inactivity and a small-but-persistent headache which gnawed at the back of my eyes. It was useless to debate orders with Mycroft Holmes, and I knew it.
The gala was in full progress. I could hear a company of musicians playing one of the minuets from Handel’s Water Music, though it was mixed with the clamor of conversation. I went down the corridor toward the ballroom in the hope of catching sight of Lord Brackenheath. It would be most upsetting, I thought, to have him elude me at such a gathering as this.
As I made my way along the corridor, I noticed a man in a regimental uniform from Germany or Austria hovering in the doorway to the ballroom. I had not noticed him earlier, and I supposed that the incident at the Diogenes Club with the unknown fellow in the theatrical uniform made me more suspicious of this chap. I observed him until he glanced my way, at which point I entered the ballroom.
Stepping over the threshold I paused to get my bearings and noticed that Prince Jiro had just offered Lady Brackenheath a glass of champagne. I looked around, hoping that Lord Brackenheath was not in the ballroom, for he would be apt to take offense if he saw his wife with Prince Jiro. Which, I decided, was probably why the Prince had done it. I allowed to myself that I could not blame Prince Jiro for his gallantry, for Lady Brackenheath was surely the most elegant woman in the whole ballroom.
Lady Brackenheath smiled at Prince Jiro as she accepted the wine from him, and I thought Lord Brackenheath would surely be outraged if he saw such cordiality between them. Then I realized with a start that Lady Brackenheath was only two or three years older than Prince Jiro. No wonder she was enjoying his company, for not only was he the center of the occasion, he was her contemporary, a pleasant change for her.
Andermatt appeared at my side. “Mister Guthrie, may I assist you in any way? I have a little time to spare, and it is fully at your disposal.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask about the fellow in the European uniform, but I knew it would not be appropriate. I made myself pleasant.
“That is very kind of you, but no thank you. I am on an errand for my employer.”
“Ah, yes. Mister Holmes, who is not officially here tonight. It would be awkward if he were to be seen in the ballroom.” He was about to go on when he stopped and said, “There was an inquiry at the messengers’ room about him, half an hour ago or so. His presence was denied, of course. Perhaps it should have been mentioned.”
“Was it from the Admiralty?” I asked in some alarm.
“No. A gentleman came and asked if Mister Holmes was attending the gala, given he has done so much work on arranging this agreement with the Japanese. Of course, no message was left.” He said it as calmly as he might announce dinner.
I felt my bones go cold. No one was supposed to know Holmes was here at all, in any capacity. We had been at great pains to keep up the appearances that his routine had not deviated. Now this, which meant our meticulous plans had been for naught. To have such a question asked shook our carefully maintained fabrication to the foundations. “And what did you say?”
“I was not there. However, the man was informed that no one of that name had been here at any time today, or was in any way connected with this gala.” Had he not possessed such formidable dignity, I would have sworn he smirked. “The staff here knows how to do the work expected of it.”
“So I should hope,” I said, sighing once. “Thank you, Andermatt. I will tell my employer of this incident.”
“Very good,” said Andermatt, and began to move away from me.
The musicians had switched from Handel to Strauss, and the opening bars of the Village Swallows Waltz summoned couples onto the floor.
“One last thing,” I said, reclaiming his attention. “Have you seen Lord Brackenheath?”
Andermatt turned back to me. “He told me he was going out into the Terrace Garden to smoke in peace.”
“I see,” I said, thinking that he might have more sinister purposes than that. “When was that?”
“Not long ago—about ten minutes, I should think.” This time Andermatt was gone before I could frame another question.
There were French doors on the far side of the room leading onto the terrace. Since the direct route lay across the occupied dance floor, I made my way in that direction circuitously, only to be waylaid by Penelope Gatspy, looking delectable in a gorgeous gown of a color between amber and rose, which must have been made for her in Paris and which showed off her charms to admiration.
“Mister Guthrie,” she said, coming up beside me and plucking at my sleeve. “How fortunate to see you here.”
“Miss Gatspy,” I said as I turned toward her, not quite smiling at her, but expressing a modicum of pleasure. “I fear I cannot linger. I am currently on an errand.”
“No doubt. For Mister Holmes, of course. But I want to speak to you about a development of which he should be aware.” She looked around as if we might be overheard, though in the noise of the room, I supposed if we shouted we should not attract any attention.
“Tell me what it is,” I said, hoping she would be brief.
She drew me a little out of the way, and waited a moment as she looked over the dance floor. “There,” she said, pointing to one of the pairs on the floor.
“The Russian? Do you see him?” She did not do anything as obvious as pointing, but cocked her chin in the direction she wanted me to look.
“You mean the Grodno Hussar?” I asked, picking out the one obviously Russian uniform on the dance floor.
“Yes.” She watched him swirl his partner around the end of the ballroom and then start the long, twisting way back. “I doubt he’s Russian at all. I have been watching him—and I am certain he is not what he seems.”
I heard this with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance, for it seemed a minor matter at best. “Why do you think that?”
“Because he swears in Hungarian,” she said. “I heard him.”
I shrugged. “His family is Hungarian on his mother’s side,” I suggested, “or he has a superior officer who has banned profanity, and so he has found a safe way to curse without having to deal with disfavor, or he has occupied a post in Hungary in the past, perhaps at the Russian embassy there, and has learned a few words to curse with.” All three suggestions were given sensibly, and I was satisfied would account for the man’s behavior. “Besides, there are Hungarians present. He could as well have been part of their contingent if he is Hungarian.”
“I don’t like it,” she said with feeling. “The man makes me . . . worry.”
With a quick smile I looked down at her. She was really quite stunning tonight, I thought. It was a pity she had thrown in her lot with the Golden Lodge as she had, for she and I would forever be adversaries, and that was unfortunate for both of us. Or so I felt at this moment. “I will keep an eye on him.”
“I’m doing that,” she said in exasperation. “I think he ought to be watched. He may be up to no good.”
I caught the edge in her words, and I became apprehensive. “Tell me—do you have specific information I should share?”
“No, I do not,” she answered. “I have only the observations I have made and my own conviction that there is more to this occasion than is obvious.” She gave me a single, hard look, then directed her gaze toward the door to the corridor. “The meetings going on here are the true reason for these festivities, aren’t they? It isn’t simply a matter of the Swiss wanting to honor the Japanese.”
“You know I—” I began uncomfortably.
“—can’t talk about it,” she finished for me. “Yes. I am aware of that.” She made an impatient gesture. “And you cannot linger either, can yo
u? You are doing the bidding of Mister Holmes. Who is not on the guest list, I have discovered. But I doubt you would be here if he was not.”
“Miss Gatspy,” I protested.
“Oh, never mind, Guthrie,” she said bluntly, and took a step away from me. “Mind the Russian-who-is-not-Russian.” And with that she was gone into the confusion at the edge of the dance floor.
I could not help but watch the man she had indicated swing elegantly in the fast-paced waltz with his pretty Austrian partner. How could Miss Gatspy be so certain about the man? And was swearing in Hungarian so different from swearing in Russian that she could tell the difference between them? Had she truly intended to warn me or was her intention to distract me from my purpose? I hardly knew how to regard her actions, though in retrospect they filled me with misgivings. With these uncomfortable notions to goad me, I resumed my progress toward the terrace doors, hoping that Lord Brackenheath had not left while I was speaking with Miss Gatspy.
The night air was chilly after the heat of the ballroom. I steadied myself on my crutches and made my way through the spill of light from the open doors to the edge of the terrace. I saw no one, and heard only the music and conversation behind me as I approached the steps leading down into the garden. I did not relish descending to the graveled paths at night, which might well bring me to another fall. As I pegged my way down the first few steps, I longed for a torch or a lamp to pierce the deep shadow of the stairs. I used my crutches to feel my way, testing them carefully as I placed them on the broad stone treads.
Then I became aware of a bundle at the foot of the steps, like a large sack of laundry. I made my way to it carefully, thinking that this could be a trap, perhaps the sack hid a bomb or something worse. I could swear the hackles rose on my neck, for I certainly felt a sudden presence of danger. After a quick look about me, in case I should be set upon while making my way down the stairs, I descended, my breathing harsh in my throat, half-expecting a bullet, knife, bludgeon, or other attacker upon me on the instant.
With an effort I got down to inspect the shape, feeling with both hands in the hope that I might not put myself in too much danger if I did not actually upset whatever-it-was, lying there in the dark. For an instant I thought of the insurrectionist bombs left in sacks in Ireland for the unwary to trigger, and wondered if this could be one. I touched what was certainly good cloth, but it was wet and slightly sticky. The breath caught in my throat. I suppose that I realized what this was upon the instant, but I would not permit myself to own it. Then I felt a sleeve, and as I pulled on it, the body rolled slightly, and in the faint lume from the lamps in the street beyond the garden I could just make out the pain-contorted features of Lord Brackenheath.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
I have asked Sid Hastings to send his oldest boy around in the morning. I want to put him to work in the access court behind the house, to watch who comes and goes from the place. I am afraid those who are keeping this place under surveillance are on guard against me, and are likely to conceal themselves if they think I am watching as intently as they are. But a child, and a scruffy child at that, with a Bow Bells accent, would attract little notice. I have promised the sum of twenty pence for two days of the boy’s time. I know that Hastings will not deny any assistance he can give to M H.
Sutton has just taken himself off to the study to work more on Ferdinand, claiming that keeping in my company was making him nervous about something he can do nothing about. He insists he cannot concentrate on playing M H if he is about to jump out of his skin at every noise from the street. I understand his sentiments more than he supposes I do, but at the same time, I cannot approve of his determination to ignore the very real risks we are running here.
HOW I STRUGGLED to my feet, I shall never know. I found myself at the top of the garden steps, my crutches clutched in my hands, sweat standing out on my brow, and a steady, churning nausea working behind my waistcoat. The enormity of this discovery rushed in on me like a tidal wave, and I needed a short while to collect my thoughts enough to act. Somehow I composed myself sufficiently to make my way along the terrace to the door to the Terrace Suite, all the while reminding myself I might be being watched. The blood had not congealed, and the body was warm to the touch. I had to conclude Lord Brackenheath had been killed only a few minutes before my arrival, a thought that did not comfort me in the least. Good Lord, what a coil this could become, I thought as I hurried to inform Holmes of what I had discovered. I hoped no one would make the same grisly discovery I had before Holmes was able to deal with it.
I tapped on the Terrace Suite door, and when that brought no results, I slapped the frame with the flat of my hand. I did not call out for fear of alerting the killer, who might still be in the immediate vicinity; surely the situation was impossible enough without further complications.
A moment later the door was opened by Sir George Tyrell, who concealed his surprise admirably. “Good God, man, what happened to you?”
“Nothing,” I said, attempting to push past him.
But he blocked my way, as impassable as a cordial bear. “Won’t do, old man, truly. Not with a smear of blood on your face and the front of your shirt. Are you injured?”
“No,” I said quickly, and made a swipe at my face with one hand. “I am well enough. Please, Mister Tyrell, I must speak with my employer at once.”
At that Tyrell relented and moved aside. “Very well; he’s over there, with the ambassador and the secretaries.” He indicated the far end of the table where the men were gathered to affix the seals to the agreement.
“Guthrie,” said Holmes as I approached. He was holding a fresh-lit cigar between his long fingers, and as the light fell across his face, he appeared unusually saturnine. “Whatever it is, you had best tell me about it.”
“It’s Lord Brackenheath,” I said quietly.
“God save us, what’s he done now?” Holmes demanded in exasperation. “I am losing patience with him.”
I glanced at George Tyrell and said, “I fear I must talk to Mister Holmes in confidence.”
To give him credit, Tyrell did not dispute this. He laid his finger beside his nose and stepped back from us, going to join the Prime Minister at the side-table where brandy was being poured.
I leaned on my crutches, grateful for once of their support. “I have just left Lord Brackenheath,” I began.
“What is he up to now? Tell me the worst,” said Holmes with resignation.
So I steeled myself and said, “He is lying dead near the foot of the terrace stairs. There is a knife of some sort in his back.”
Rarely have I heard Mycroft Holmes swear as he did then, and I stood apprehensively by as I heard him out. He glared at his cigar. “A knife you say?”
“Yes, with a short, simple handle, of horn, I think.” I tried to bring my thoughts to bear on the sight, but they slid and scattered like quicksilver. “Something like a German hunting knife, perhaps.”
Holmes took a sharp breath; when he spoke, his voice was still lower than it had been. “Try to remember precisely. Tell me exactly what you saw.”
Carefully I recounted my search and my discovery, trying to keep my tone level as I described the body. “I could not see it very well, sir, and I was very much shocked to find it at all.”
“I suppose,” said Holmes sarcastically, “we should be grateful that the killer chose that site to leave the body. If it had been thrust under one of the boxwood hedges he might not have been discovered until tomorrow, and that would make this situation much more awkward for the Swiss. And they will be upset enough as it is.” He rocked back on his heels. “We must give the alarm.” He scowled. “Or rather, you must give the alarm, as quietly as possible. We do not want any appearance of compromise, for that would call the agreement into question. It will not do to have this place in an uproar until the agreement is fully ratified.” He gave a quick look over his shoulder. “I am going to say that Lord Brackenheath is not available, so that we may co
mplete this work. It is, after all, the truth, is it not? And it will permit us to conclude our negotiations without undue delay. While I tend to this, I want you to find Andermatt and inform him of your discovery before you go to the police, who cannot be left uninformed. When you arrive at Scotland Yard, I recommend you request Inspector Cornell for the investigation. He is the soul of discretion. Barring him, Inspector FitzGerald will do.” He turned away from me abruptly and made his way to Ambassador Tochigi’s side, bending down to make his request.
I could not wholly conceal my dislike for this arrangement, but I realized it was the only reasonable way to proceed, given the importance of the agreement. I took a moment to muster my thoughts, and started out of the room.
“Guthrie,” said Holmes quietly, “attend to your face first. You have not yet got all the blood off.”
I colored up as I drew my handkerchief from my pocket and swiped at my jaw and chin. Upon receiving a nod of approval from Holmes, I resumed my departure. I had almost reached the door when Ambassador Tochigi came up to me.
“I understand Lord Brackenheath has departed,” he said quietly.
What an apt way to put it, I thought with grim amusement. “Yes, sir. I am very much afraid he has.”
“And his wife as well?” he inquired politely.
“No. She is still in the ballroom,” I said, and realized how odd this would seem to a Japanese gentleman. “She arrived on her own, in her own carriage,” I said, as if this would account for such a lapse.
“Hai,” said the ambassador. “Then Lord Brackenheath may return.”
“I most sincerely doubt it,” I said, feeling uncomfortable again.
Ambassador Tochigi cocked his head. “If you are sure of it. He made no secret of disliking this agreement. He may not wish to be party to it at all. In which case we may proceed without delay.”
Embassy Row Page 16
