Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I should have realized,” I said, and looked up as Tyers brought me tea.

  “Yes, you should have,” said Holmes. “And would have done so had you not been otherwise occupied, in Greece, I think it was.” He turned up the nearest of the gaslights and bent to inspect my face. “Battered but unbowed. You are made of stern stuff, dear boy, and that is a source of great reassurance to me.”

  I looked directly at him. “You need not coddle me, sir.”

  “Good Lord, man, I’m not coddling,” he said, moving back from me at once. “I must be certain you are fit to continue this work, I cannot be forever fretting about whether you have the strength or soundness to go on. I am thankful that you have such bottom that I need not fash myself on your account.” The acerbic tone he used seemed genuine enough, and yet, I suspected he was more concerned for my welfare than he wished to admit, in part because of my churlish remark. “If you were seriously injured, I would have no choice but to find other methods to deal with this coil until you recovered.”

  Certain now that my gaffe had offended him, I tried to conjure up something to offer him to show my appreciation for his concern. I wanted to demonstrate my capabilities, as well, to offset any doubts Holmes may have begun to have about me. It came to me quite suddenly. “Oh, sir, I nearly forgot.” Which was no more than the truth. “Shortly before I found . . . Lord Brackenheath, I was in the ballroom, looking for him. I was afraid he might choose to make a public scene about the agreement, and I wanted to forestall that eventuality if I could. But when I looked for him, I did not find him. Miss Gatspy, however, found me.”

  “Go on,” said Holmes, his curiosity engaged once more.

  I had to concentrate to bring the incident back to my mind without any anticipation of discovering the body. “As I’ve said, I happened to encounter Miss Gatspy in the ballroom. She approached me with some urgency in her manner.”

  Holmes swore fulsomely, then saw the startled expression in Sutton’s eyes. “She is part of the Golden Lodge,” he explained, his brow darkening as he pulled his watchfob out and began to swing it in short arcs around his finger. “And I wish I knew what her interests are in these proceedings.”

  “No more do I,” I said at once. “On that head, I could discover nothing. She had a single purpose in mind: She made a point of telling me about a man in the uniform of a Grodno Hussar—”

  “I saw him,” Holmes said at once. “Good looking in a Slavic sort of way: wide forehead, aquiline nose, hair the color of Russian bread, about twenty-five years old.” He studied me a moment.

  “Yes. I didn’t notice so much about him,” I confessed. “They were dancing, you see, and as I could not take to the floor in crutches—”

  “And you had Miss Gatspy to distract you,” Holmes said, and let it go at that.

  “She is a handsome armful, and one whom it would be a pleasure to take a turn around a waltz with,” I conceded as I strove to continue my report. “But that is nothing to the purpose, or bearing on her intention. She had intelligence to impart to me. She was certain the man was not Russian at all. She was convinced he was an imposter. Said he swore in Hungarian.” I chuckled—it came out like a cough. “There are many ways to account for that which do not require he not be Russian, and so I reminded her at the time. I don’t think she was best pleased at that.”

  “And who can blame her, after all?” said Holmes. His watchfob was still, wound up tight against his finger on its fine, gold chain. “Hungarian. Hungarian,” he mused.

  “What the devil does that agreement have to do with the Hungarians?” asked Sutton, rubbing the fair stubble on his jaw.

  “It depends on what faction is involved, and who is paying for what service, and to what end. Assuming for the moment that Miss Gatspy is right and the man is Hungarian and not Russian, we have not paid much attention to them in regard to this agreement, which I begin to fear may have been an error. It has been thought that the unrest in the Balkans demanded the main thrust of Austro-Hungarian interests. Kaiser Wilhelm has had much to do with his eastern borders. But his government have been at pains to keep abreast of all international developments. I surmise they have been more interested in our Oriental ventures than has been apparent. The Turks, as well, may be more acutely concerned with this agreement than we assumed they were. What concerns Austro-Hungary and Turkey must not be ignored. There has always been a volatile situation in Hungary. At least for the last thousand years, and the cross-currents are treacherous, even for those who are wary of them.” He stopped and looked toward the window. “Any sign of watchers, Tyers?”

  “Not for the last hour,” Tyers replied from his inconspicuous watch post near the window.

  “We must hope their sentries doze,” said Mycroft Holmes with a sarcasm that bordered on the cynical. “At this time of night, it is cold enough and still enough that many would fall asleep on guard. Not the Golden Lodge, of course,” he added, and went on more darkly, “nor the Brotherhood. You may rest assured that those two unholy—” He stopped himself at the penetrating sound of chimes.

  I heard the clock strike the half-hour, echoed at once by the nautical clock in the parlor, and it shocked me. “Three-thirty,” I remarked to the air.

  “Yes, and you must rise early. There is much to attend to.” His manner became brisk and the hour appeared to have no impact upon him other than a certain heaviness at the corners of his eyes.

  “And you?” I asked.

  “I have much to review before I speak with the Prime Minister at eight.” He stretched, his long arms reaching higher than the doorframe. “My study is prepared. Do you remain here tonight, Guthrie. I don’t want you out on the streets again, where anyone can have a ponk at you.” He motioned to Tyers. “The tea. Make sure he drinks it, or he will not sleep well.”

  Tyers nodded promptly. “I will do what I can.”

  “No powders, mind,” Holmes added unnecessarily. “And no drops.” His opposition to Dr. James’ Powders and laudanum was of long standing and steadfast, for he was painfully aware of what cocaine had done to his younger brother; for reasons he never made clear, Mycroft blamed himself for his brother’s misfortune.

  “There’s none in the flat,” Tyers reminded him, as he had many times before, and always with the same patience.

  Satisfied on that matter, Holmes turned to Sutton. “And you, Edmund. It would be an unnecessary risk to have you depart tonight, and futile, considering the hour, for you would have to return almost as soon as you reached your rooms in order to be here when I depart. Use my bed and get some sleep; you may nap in the afternoon, if you require it, though at your age, I don’t suppose . . .” He changed the subject somewhat. “I begin to fear that we are not going to be able to end your engagement in this role by midnight tonight, as we supposed, but will have to . . . eh . . .”

  “Extend my run? I am pleased to have the work, and if you have more employment for me, I am glad to entertain the opportunity to show my versatility. I wouldn’t be much of an actor, would I, if I could only do one thing,” suggested Sutton with a mercurial smile. “I haven’t finished learning Ferdinand yet, and you will make it possible for me to do it.” Say what you will about actorish ways, Edmund Sutton knew how to make himself gallant when he chose to.

  “Ah, Edmund, you are remarkable, as always,” said Holmes, acknowledging Sutton’s grand gesture. “If I were a public figure, I should have to come to you for instruction.”

  Sutton’s color heightened at this compliment and he looked directly at Holmes. “If there is any skill I possess, it is at your disposal.”

  Now Mycroft Holmes looked somber. “I pray your generosity will never have to be put to the test.” And with that he motioned to Tyers to get me into the parlor, and signaled that our conversation had ended for the night.

  “It will be time to rise sooner than you want,” said Tyers, his own eyes puffy with fatigue. “I will bring the willow bark tea to ease your hurts. You must drink two cups of it.”

>   “I will,” I promised, though I was not as certain as he that it would reduce my various discomforts enough to allow me real sleep.

  “I will not wake you until Mister Holmes has left,” Tyers said, intending, I am certain, to soothe me.

  “Not wake me—” I protested, swinging around as much as my crutches would permit.

  “He will have to deliver his report in confidence,” said Tyers. “No one will attend but the Prime Minister and our employer, so that they may be wholly candid with one another.” He held the parlor door open for me and let me enter ahead of him. “I will have a bath ready for you before you eat, so you can assess the extent of the damage.”

  “Thank you,” I muttered. “I appreciate your help, Tyers,” I went on in a calmer manner, “but I fear I am too upset about last evening’s events to show my gratitude properly. I hope you will not be offended by any sharp answer I have given you, for you are not the cause of my rebukes.”

  “No, Mister Guthrie,” said Tyers with a slight, indulgent smile. “You are vexed with yourself and show it this way, so that others will upbraid you as you wish to do yourself. Haven’t I seen this before.” He began to make up a bed for me on the sofa, working quickly. “I have your nightshirt. And I will bring you a robe. I will get them as soon as the coverlets are in place. Will you require a counterpane.”

  “Whatever for?” I asked, looking at the sofa, which was from the time of the Regency, one of the few examples of the period in the flat, aside from the Napoleonic secretary in the sitting room. It was a proper monstrosity with ugly crocodile legs and curving swan arms that looked like nothing so much as Corinthian pillars that had been squashed and bent. Holmes had told me that it was supposed to have belonged to the Prince Regent himself, “And so I supposed it must be up to my weight,” he had jested. At least it served as an extra bed quite easily.

  I was doing my best to undress, removing the studs from my boiled shirt and placing them in the Viennese glass ashtray on the occasional table. I felt as if my clothes had become a trap, confining me, as I strove to be rid of them. Keeping myself steady as I wrestled out of my clothes took all my concentration, and so I was hardly aware of when Tyers left the parlor. But he returned carrying my nightshirt over his shoulder and a tray with a teapot and a large cup on it. I indicated my clothes strewn over the Restoration chair. “It is the best I can do.”

  Tyers shook his head, but not in condemnation. “Mister Guthrie,” he said as calmly as he could, “I will tend to those. In the morning, Sid Hastings will go round to your rooms and bring you a fresh suit of clothes for the day. I am certain your landlady will be willing to do this for you.” He turned his back as I struggled out of my underwear and tugged the nightshirt over my head. “Mister Holmes has said he will leave you a list of instructions for the morning. From what he has said, he will need you to talk with Inspector FitzGerald and Andermatt at the Swiss embassy. There is certain to be more.”

  “Glad to do it,” I said as I half-walked, half-hopped to the sofa and slipped into the bed Tyers had improvised there.

  “Drink the tea and I will lower the light in ten minutes. You must make the most of the short hours you have.” Tyers had the rare ability to be concerned without seeming to cater or belittle.

  “You may be certain I will,” I said as I filled the cup and took a long swig of it. The taste, not very pleasant, brought back memories of my grandmother fussing over me when I was a child, ordering me to keep well under the blankets to hurry the fever breaking. She would make a strong mutton broth, too, with port wine in it, and angelica root, which she claimed would cure all but the most pernicious illness. I sensed her face hovering over me as I drained the cup and wriggled into the bed, dragging the covers up over my head as if I were still ten years old.

  My dreams were not pleasant, filled as they were with bodies emerging from bundles of rags, heaps of leaves, from under fine linen napery, out of coats hung on racks. They came sliding under doors, were pulled out of upholstery, were stacked up like cordwood. There was nowhere I could flee, in this irrational world of dreaming, that I did not encounter bodies of dead men, all of whom looked like Lord Brackenheath, and all of whom had been stabbed by a simple knife with a horn handle.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Finally they are all in for what little remains of the night, and my duties are finished until morning. M H is in his study with coffee and cigars to keep him alert, Sutton has retired, and G was asleep by the time I returned to put out the light. I am going to give myself two hours to rest, and then I will be up again, to get them all about their separate tasks.

  I hope I will be able to catch one of the watchers today, for I begin to think their purpose in their surveillance is not well intended, and portends something more than narrow observation. What that action could be I cannot tell, which serves only to increase my apprehension. Never before have I been so certainly aware of how fortunate I am to lack imagination. In circumstances such as these, an imagination would do little more than exacerbate my fears and clothe my worries in the most convincing colors.

  I WOKE WITH a start as I heard the rear door of the flat close and the first descending footsteps as my employer made his way down the backstairs toward Sid Hastings’ cab, waiting in King Charles II Street. I sat up and tossed my coverlet aside, trying to rid my mind of the last images of my dream. The lingering impression of Lord Brackenheath’s body ripping out of damask upholstery remained with me as I got to my feet and rubbed at my hair.

  My ankle twinged but I refused to use my crutches yet. I would never recover for so long as I had to guard myself against all actions of any sort whatever that might give me the slightest pain. On the other hand, I told myself with what I hoped was wry wit, I would not like to have to run a footrace for a week or two yet. I made my way around the parlor, feeling proud of my ability to do it at all. I resisted the urge to go to the window, for if the flat was still under observation, I would become a temptation for whoever was watching. I sighed once and was about to turn toward the corridor behind me when I heard Tyers’ voice.

  “Good morning, Mister Guthrie. Walking without crutches. Excellent. I hope you slept well?” He carried a cup and saucer. Even across the room, I realized it was more willow bark tea, this time with lemon. “I am just heating the last water for your bath. If you will permit me five minutes? With breakfast to follow in the sitting room. Mister Sutton will join you there.” He set the cup and saucer down. I could see the hollows of his eyes and realized that he must have had less sleep than I.

  “Good morning, Tyers,” I said, adding with as much grace as I could muster, “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  “Happy to be of service,” he said, and I was convinced he meant it. He had gathered up the coverlet and was quickly folding it for storage. “Mister Holmes left a note for you outlining what he wishes you to do this morning. He asks that you will not pay any attention to the items he has scratched out, for he has reassigned those duties elsewhere.”

  That last intrigued me, as I was certain it was supposed to do. I felt my chin and said, “While the bath is heating, I think I’ll shave.”

  “A razor and mug are available in the dressing room. You may use the side entrance so as not to disturb Mister Sutton.” He had the coverlet attended to and was preparing to leave the parlor. “Drink the tea, sir. Mister Holmes expects it.”

  I realized that I would have no recourse against such instruction. I took the cup and downed the tea, thinking as I did that I had not been as sore as I had expected to be. For the time being, I would be happy to give credit to the tea for it. “There. All finished.”

  “Very good,” said Tyers from the door, and led me past the maps and brasses to the entrance to his own room; I hobbled after him as best I could, taking solace in the realization that I had not expected to recover completely at once. “The door to the dressing room is just there,” he said.

  I slipped in and found the mug and razor
he had mentioned. As I stropped the razor, I had my first glimpse of myself in the mirror and it all but staggered me, for the right side of my face was deeply bruised and my eye stared out of a mass of muddy purple. “Good Lord!” I expostulated, and wondered how I could go into public today looking as if I had escaped a railroad wreck. I leaned nearer the mirror the better to inspect the damage.

  There was a hard, low bump on my head where the crockery had struck me, but I did not think it could result in such an appearance of carnage. The skin under my fingers was tender, but nothing so sensitive as the mass of the bruise might lead me to expect. I regarded myself a short while longer, then set about preparing lather for shaving, after pouring water from the ewer into the basin I had been provided. The razor was newly honed and it glided through the suds on my face so quickly that I feared I might do myself an injury and never notice until it was too late that I had cut my own throat. That notion was so repellant that I had to pause in my labors to master my nerves. Then I went back to work on my beard, reminding myself I had been doing this for more than half my lifetime and should not balk at it now.

  “Beg pardon, Mister Guthrie, but your bath is ready,” said Tyers, looking in at the door. “At your convenience.”