Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Lavinia is most dependable in these matters; she will be here as soon as may be. I know I may rely on her absolutely.” She tossed her head, more in frustration than defiance. “Of all my cousins, she has never foisted her daughters on me with the expectations I could find them noble husbands in want of money. For that alone I like her.” We were stopping now, and the coachman secured his horses before swinging down from the box to lower the steps for Lady Brackenheath and me. She nodded to him. “Thank you, Wilcox.”

  He tugged at his hat and mumbled a response as I struggled out behind her.

  Lady Brackenheath glanced at the coachman and made a swift assessment. “You are burned to the socket, Wilcox. Do you wake Gregory, and have him put the greys to the tilbury so that he may take Mister Guthrie home. See to your horses at once. Then you may have an extra tot of rum before you go to sleep.”

  “Thank you, M’lady” was the prompt response.

  I made my way up the steps behind Lady Brackenheath as the coachman got back onto his box and started the carriage around to the stable behind the house.

  The door was opened by a saturnine man of middle years with an expressionless demeanor. “Lady Brackenheath,” he said quietly. “Allow me to offer the condolences of the staff in this terrible hour.”

  Lady Brackenheath concealed an expression of fatigue and something that might have been exasperation. Given what she had said a few minutes before, this did not wholly surprise me. “You’re very kind, Haggard,” came her reply, as punctilious as an automaton. “As you see, I have other proofs of kindness tonight. This is Mister Guthrie, who has been my escort home, as provided by the Admiralty. If you would extend your goodness to escorting him to the withdrawing room for a glass of sherry or port? I will join him directly I have relieved myself of my wrap and my jewels.”

  “Your dresser is waiting for you in your suite, Lady Brackenheath,” Haggard informed her. “Tomorrow first thing, we will hang the crepe and the mourning wreaths.” In the low gaslight, I thought the house seemed larger and more shadowed than it must have been, though it was large enough by any standards. With the gentle assurances of the butler, I found the whole place eerie, like something out of a de Maupassant tale, or one of those evocations by the American Hawthorne.

  “I depend on you for such things,” said Lady Brackenheath as she went across to the stairs and began her climb.

  “If you will follow me,” said Haggard, addressing me with a curious blend of superiority and servility that mark the very best of servants. “I will try not to hurry you, Mister Guthrie.”

  “I appreciate your escort,” I said as we slowly mounted the stairs to the first floor. I realized that Lady Brackenheath was proceeding to the floor above.

  Haggard only nodded toward the double doors on his right. “You will find sherry, port, and brandy on the sideboard, sir,” he said. “Pour what you like.”

  “That is very generous of you,” I said, and prepared to let myself into the room. I fumbled with the latch while I balanced on my crutches, and as I did, I thought I heard a soft footfall the other side of the door. I paused in my efforts to listen, but there was no more sound, and I was almost convinced I had imagined it, or had heard something in another part of the house. I was about to call to Haggard but that worthy was already making his way down the stairs to the ground floor, and I did not want to alert the intruder—if such there was—any more than I had done already.

  With great care I swung the latch down and eased the door open a crack, No other sound greeted this activity, and so I thrust it wide and used my crutches to propel myself several feet into the room. I landed noisily and struggling for balance, but still upright, which gave me a fleeting sense of satisfaction.

  Although it was dark, the spill of light from the hall revealed a dreadful sight. There were chairs cut open with their stuffing pulled out like pale entrails; drawers had been pulled from their chests and their contents unceremoniously dumped on the floor; a hutch stood opened, its fragile contents in pieces. The wantonness of this destruction all but took my breath away, and made me feel my nerves stood out around me on long, wavering stalks.

  A stealthy movement at the edge of my vision caught my full attention. I set my feet, and in a single fluid motion, I dropped my left crutch and grabbed the right one, sliding my hands down its staff and using it as a wide-arc bludgeon. I had the satisfaction of feeling it connect solidly with flesh and bone, and heard the obscenity cut off in mid-utterance before a flicker of an arm warned me—too late—that there were two intruders in the withdrawing room, and by attacking one I had left myself open to the other.

  “Bloody—” the second muttered.

  I staggered aside, hoping to avoid the blow aimed at my head, and I might have succeeded, but my ankle betrayed me, and I fell heavily beside a gutted sofa, my shoulder striking the edge of the piece on the way down, my head ending up at the edge of a fine Turkey carpet. An instant later something ceramic smashed into my forehead and I lost all consciousness.

  When I came to myself, I was coughing against a dribble of brandy down my throat. I made a quick motion with my arm and tried to sit up. The jangling sound of crockery shards accompanied my movement, as loud to my ears as the rattle of gunfire. The room appeared to wriggle and I had to steady myself.

  “Mister Guthrie, Mister Guthrie. For the Lord Harry—” said Haggard with more animation than I would have thought possible. He was kneeling beside me, a small glass of brandy in one hand, trying ineffectually to tilt its contents down my gullet. “Mister Guthrie? Are you all right?”

  At last I was able to sit up without nausea or overwhelming weakness. “No,” I replied testily. “I am not. My head feels like a bass drum in a parade, my ankle is abominable, and I am thoroughly embarrassed at my own stupidity. You cannot think worse of me than I do of myself. But nothing is broken. I will recover.”

  “Good Lord!” Lady Brackenheath exclaimed from the open door. “What in heaven’s name has happened?” She had only discarded her wrap and all her jewelry but her earrings. I realized only a few minutes had passed since I had been struck by the second intruder.

  Now it was Haggard’s turn to be embarrassed. He got to his feet and made a helpless gesture at the wreckage of the room. “I had no notion, Lady Brackenheath, that anything untoward was happening in this house. I must accept full responsibility for the damage to your property.”

  Lady Brackenheath made an impatient noise as she came across the Turkey carpet toward me. “We will deal with the room later. I am far more concerned about Mister Guthrie. Ought we to summon a physician?”

  “No need, Lady Brackenheath,” I said, wanting to spare myself greater humiliation than what I had already endured. “The miscreants only wanted to escape. They were not here to threaten you.” I realized how strained that sounded in this ravaged room. “If they had intended real mischief, they could easily have . . .” I felt the words desert me as the events at the Swiss embassy returned full force to my thoughts. I tried to conceal the near-panic that washed over me, but without complete success.

  “Should we summon—” began Haggard, only to have Lady Brackenheath finish for him.

  “The police? Yes, I suppose we must. Given the many events of this evening, they will need to know of what transpired here.” Under her manner of competence, I detected a forlorn desire for quiet.

  “I will tend to it on my ride back to Mister Holmes’ flat, if you will order your coachman to take me to Scotland Yard on route to Mister Holmes,” I offered, and, seeing the doubts springing into her lovely eyes, I added, “I can deal directly with the men in charge of the investigation. Inspector FitzGerald will want to be apprised of developments directly. The sooner he is told of what has happened here, the sooner the inquiries will be under way that will determine the association, if any, of this event and the . . . the death of Lord Brackenheath. The police must set to work at once. It is in your best interests to act quickly. The longer you delay, the greater will
be the speculation regarding your participation in this night’s—”

  “I beg you will not say tragedy again,” Lady Brackenheath cut me short.

  “Upsets, then,” I compromised. My head was the very devil, but the room had now lost the unnerving tendency to wobble whenever I attempted to move. I reached out and took the brandy from Haggard, saying to him at the same time, “If you will prepare a report on the extent of the damage, it will be very useful to the police when they arrive. The more specific you can be as to the nature of the vandalism, the more helpful your information will be.” It would also, I suspected, keep him from driving Lady Brackenheath to distraction with his constant solicitousness.

  “Just so, just so,” muttered Haggard as he got to his feet. “I suppose it would be best to have this room fully lit so that we may take stock of all the damage. It will make matters more direct for the police, will it not?” He bowed to Lady Brackenheath, his attitude so correct it was maddening. “If I may, M’lady?”

  “Certainly. Mister Guthrie’s instructions are undoubtedly more useful than mine would be.” She looked down at me, challenging me with her eyes. I supposed she did not like sacrificing even more of her autonomy to inquiries by the police. “Are you planning to return with the police yourself, Mister Guthrie?”

  “No, I am not,” I answered. “I will report the crime and see the men dispatched here. Then I must return to Mister Holmes, for we have much to do before sunrise. There are matters which cannot be handled in the usual way, for the Japanese would be offended.” As I spoke, I doubted I would be able to keep going much longer. The throb in my ankle alone was fatiguing, and my headache continued to belabor the inside of my skull. “If you, Haggard, will lend me your arm, I will be on my way.”

  Haggard regarded me with trepidation, as if he expected me to instigate another mishap by moving. He gathered my crutches, then extended his hand down to me. “When you’re ready, sir,” he said as if signaling a firing squad.

  I took his hand and let him haul me to my feet and shove my crutches under my arms. Much as I resented the need for them; I was glad at that instant that they were here. I adjusted my stance and then spoke to Lady Brackenheath. “I will probably return here in the latter part of the afternoon. If you have need of me before then, you have only to send word to Mister Holmes, and I will do all that I may to assist you promptly. I am very sorry for your loss.”

  Lady Brackenheath looked around her withdrawing room and sighed. I could see how pale she was, and I recognized the failing accents of exhaustion in her voice. “Thank you, Mister Guthrie. We will do what we can to ready ourselves for more police. I think tonight I have spent more time with the officers of the law than I have in the sum of all my life until this evening.”

  I could not blame her for sounding so ill used. In her position I was convinced I would feel the same as she. I made as much of a bow as my crutches permitted, and followed Haggard out of the room.

  We had almost reached the foot of the stairs when Haggard said, “You must not think ill of her, Mister Guthrie. She has had much to endure.”

  Until Haggard said this, I had supposed he had originally been the servant of Lord Brackenheath. Now I suspected that he was part of the improved circumstances Lady Brackenheath’s father had made possible. “I am certain that is so.”

  “Whatever became of Lord Brackenheath, you may rest assured he brought it upon himself,” He lifted his already high chin. “He did not often conduct himself well.”

  Under other circumstances, I would have discouraged his gossip, but I was convinced I had to learn all that I could from the man now, before his prudence silenced him. “I apprehend he was something of a rake in his youth.”

  “Ha!” scoffed Haggard. “He never gave it up. He used to tell M’lady that he wished he could use her for stakes at the gaming tables, for he would then restore his fortunes and rid himself of a shrew at the same time.”

  We had reached the front door, and he held it open so that he could signal to the undercoachman to come to the kerb. I decided to take one more chance with the man. “A pity her friends could not help her.”

  Haggard shrugged as he lifted his arm in summons. “Once her father died, she had no staunch defender, for her only uncle is in India. Of her friends, most could not properly protest Lord Brackenheath’s treatment of his wife, not without giving offense to Lord Brackenheath, which was never pleasant. A few might have had they been willing to make the effort, had the opportunity presented itself. But there would have been a scandal, which no one wanted.”

  “When the year of mourning is over, all her friends must hope that she finds a man more worthy of her regard,” I said with the nostrums kept for such difficult occasions.

  “Yes, for she may now follow the dictates of her heart.” A frown came and went. “And the one who has . . .” The words straggled off. “Nothing can come of it, more’s the pity.” With that cryptic remark he left me waiting for the tilbury coming toward me, with nothing but my roiling thoughts and aching body for company.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  M H has finally come back, but only for a short while. He has announced that he will remain at his desk until dawn, when he will want a hearty breakfast and a shave before returning to the Swiss embassy and other places to continue to advise on the official investigation into the death of Lord Brackenheath. Sutton has taken the news of the extension of his engagement with goodwill saying only that he will do all that he may to assist M H in his work.

  G has not yet returned, and this news has caused M H some consternation, for he expected G to be here before he himself arrived. As there has been no word from G, M H has instructed Sid Hastings to go around to G’s rooms in Curzon Street to discover if he has, in fact, gone there instead.

  M H informs me that he must call upon Inspector FitzGerald tomorrow at noon, and will need a cab to carry him to that destination. I have indicated that I will make all the necessary arrangements.

  I must gather together my thoughts in regard to those who are still watching this flat, and assess the material in light of the death of Lord Brackenheath. It may be that the plot against Lord Brackenheath is of long standing, or it may be that Lord Brackenheath’s death is part of a greater conspiracy that must be discovered in its entirety if it is to be eradicated. That, I suppose, will be my morning task while M H readies himself to meet with the Japanese, the Swiss, and the police.

  There is someone on the stairs. Let us pray it is G returning safe at last.

  I NEARLY FELL into Tyers’ arms as the door swung open. I was worn out by my climb up the stairs and I could feel my shoulders stiffening from the effort. “Good evening, Tyers,” I said as I did what I could to recover myself.

  “Guthrie, dear boy,” exclaimed Holmes as he surged into the corridor from the study, a cigar clamped in one hand, a pen in the other. He was closely followed by Edmund Sutton, who was no longer disguised as Holmes and therefore did not give the uncanny appearance of a doppelganger.

  “Here, Mister Guthrie,” said Tyers in his calm way, “Let me help you get your crutches fixed more securely, and then come into the sitting room. I have the kettle on. Tea will be ready shortly.”

  I found his practicality enormously reassuring, and the rush of gratitude that filled me warned me how unstrung the evening had made me. Setting aside my vanity, I permitted Tyers to assist me, and with his help, sank into a wing-backed chair with the relief of one saved from hanging. “Much appreciated,” I said, doing my best to sound like an American tourist.

  The laugh that greeted this was feeble, but I was pleased to have it. I put my hand to my head and felt a knot forming on my forehead at the hairline. I was pleased it had not struck the long, thin scar that angled across my forehead, for that might have caused a more disfiguring injury. Holmes noticed my self-inspection, and rapped out an order to Tyers. “Bring willow bark tea for Guthrie. He needs it more than our usual black.”

  Ordinarily I would ha
ve protested, but memories of my grandmother giving me that same tea when I was ill as a child stifled my objections. I nodded agreement.

  Tyers hurried off to the kitchen even as Edmund Sutton came forward to check my injury. “What did he hit you with, Guthrie?” the actor asked.

  “A vase of some sort,” I answered brusquely. “I suspect it was porcelain.” How foolish that sounded, as if the material was important.

  “Good,” approved Holmes, joining Sutton at my side. “Any heavier clay might have cracked your skull.” He bent over me and peered narrowly at the bruise. “You are going to be very decorative in the morning, Guthrie. I’ll say that for you.”

  I realized this was his way of assuring me that I had no reason to be worried about my injuries, which pleased me far more than it should have. I let myself relax for the first time in what felt like days, but was actually only a few hours. It was tempting to doze, sitting here in the warmth of Holmes’ flat, my colleagues with me and my discomfort alleviated for the time being. But I had not completed my commission, and so I made myself alert once more. “In the carriage on the way back to her town house, Lady Brackenheath informed me of a number of things I had not known before,” I began, trying not to yawn.

  “What things?” asked Holmes, his voice low and thoughtful.

  “For once, it turns out that Lord Brackenheath has a number of illegitimate children; most of them I surmise are from earlier escapades in his life, and are grown.” I looked down at my feet, trying to determine if my ankle had actually swollen to the size of a rugby ball or only felt as if it had.

  “They are known,” said Holmes distantly. “They each receive a thousand pounds upon their father’s death, which is not to be paid by his wife, but from the revenues of his lands, which are entailed. I reckon some or all of the paintings at Brackenheath wilI have to be auctioned to pay the bequest, for there is no other way for the estate to support the terms of the will without such a sale. Little as Lord Brackenheath believed it possible, he was nearly bankrupt when Herbert Bell suggested the match with his daughter, and Bell made a marriage contract with such constraints as he thought were prudent, knowing Lord Brackenheath’s proclivities. It must have caused Lord Brackenheath much chagrin to have to accept the articles of his marriage contract. I also reviewed the terms of his will when he first became involved in these negotiations, as I did for the other participants, at the request of Lord Salisbury, in order to be certain there were no overriding legal constraints or mitigating circumstances upon their participation in the negotiations.” I must have looked surprised, for Holmes continued, “I have access to court files, dear boy, or I would be unable to do the tasks assigned to me.”