Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’m nearly finished here,” I said as I tilted my head back and scraped under my chin. This morning my skin felt much thinner than usual, and I had to resist the urge to wince as I continued my grooming. Two more swipes and I was finished. I rinsed and dried the razor and presented the mug and basin to Tyers, saying, “Why did you not warn me of my appearance, Tyers? I took quite a shock when I looked in the mirror.”

  If Tyers thought this question mean-spirited of me, nothing in his manner suggested it. He answered in his usual level voice, “I did not think it would serve any useful purpose to do so.” With that he withdrew, mug and basin in hand, indicating the way to the kitchen where “The alcove is open.”

  I thanked him and made my way along the corridor to the alcove between the water closet and the pantry. I pulled out of my robe and hung it on the hook provided on the door. I had a moment’s qualm, as I have often had since my unfortunate sojourn in France when one of the men of the Golden Lodge had surprised me in the inn’s bath and had threatened to drown me. That, I reminded myself, was in the past. I had enough on my plate as it was not to go dredging up past dubious escapades.

  The water was warm enough to take some caution getting in. As I watched my skin pinken in the heat, I felt my ankle begin to relax. It felt delicious. How pleasant it would be, I thought, to loll here in the hot water all morning. But, I told myself as I reached for the bath-brush, the water would soon grow tepid and then cold, and there was work for me to do, urgent work. Much as I might want to indulge myself, I did not like the thought of leaving Mycroft Holmes without what support I could lend him.

  By the time I emerged from the bath I felt much improved. My little aches had faded and the worst hurts had diminished. I was glad to be able to wrap myself in the robe and saunter—or more accurately, limp—into the sitting room where Edmund Sutton was waiting, already in his Holmes disguise, which did not serve him well as he caught sight of my countenance.

  “Christ!” he burst out in a mix of dismay and confusion. He strove to recover himself “How . . . Last night it didn’t—”

  “No, it didn’t, last night. I may tell you I had quite a turn when I looked in the mirror,” I said, doing my best to make light of it. “Rest assured it is nowhere near as ferocious as it looks.”

  “No doubt,” he said, aping Mycroft Holmes. He continued in that manner with all his theatrical flare, “I perceive that you have permitted yourself to be drawn into antagonistic company. This may be accounted for by the untimely arrival of a party of Basque priests at Dover for the purpose of analyzing the writings of Druids. It is said there are a number of prophesies of the Roman period that have to do with the Basque role in current European politics. You must surely be aware of the historical connection between Basques and Druids, Guthrie. There are no less than four hundred twenty-nine citations of this mutual influence on record at Oxford. There may be more at Cambridge. With this renewal of Druidical activity compounded with the Basque element, your injury may be evaluated in that perspective.”

  “Bravo,” I said, trying to summon up enthusiasm for his kind effort to entertain me.

  He attempted to smile, but did not manage it well. He relapsed into his own character, his manner anxious and his words rapid. “Are you able to keep on working? Are you certain you should not lie down for the day? Should you see a physician?”

  “I will do very well, thank you,” I said, beginning to feel sympathy for his distress. “I had hoped you might have something in your paint-box that would minimize this, but I don’t suppose it’s possible.” I had intended this to be a challenge to his skills and talents, and was inwardly gratified when I realized I had succeeded.

  “I’ve never attempted anything of the sort, but it should be possible.” Sutton leaned forward to study my face, his expression intent. “There’s no hiding a bruise that dark, unless you were about to play Othello as the Moor.” He sighed. “The most I can do is diminish it somewhat, so that it is not so . . . obvious.” A frown puckered along the paint-emphasized lines between his brows. “I can use some yellow and a lighter shade of blue to make it look a bit . . . greyer. There is no way to mask that bruise entirely, but . . .” He glanced up as Tyers appeared with pots of coffee and tea, and a basket of scones.

  “There will be baked eggs, grilled tomatoes, and good English sausage in a moment, gentlemen.” He put down his items and left.

  “Lord, I’m famished,” said Sutton, taking his serviette and spreading it in his lap. “After last night, I’m worn to the bone.” He glanced swiftly at me in the manner of a child who has been found out stealing sweets. “Not that I’ve done anything to match what you and Mister Holmes have done, of course.”

  I laughed as best I could. “I should hope not. Your necessary pretense would be in danger if you had been about the way Holmes and I have been. I, for one, am grateful to you for maintaining a semblance of normality.” I was oddly touched that he should have such concern for my good opinion, for such was surely the case. “I know I could not pull off the part you play. I haven’t the talent for it, nor the eye for detail you have.”

  Sutton looked pleased. “That’s kind of you, Mister Guthrie,” he said, and grinned as the rest of breakfast was presented.

  I had finished most of my food when a thought struck me. “I’m a bloody fool!” I burst out, interrupting an amusing tale Sutton was telling on one of his colleagues who, in the middle of a performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor, had discovered that what he supposed to be cold tea in his tankard was actually good whiskey.

  Sutton looked startled at my outcry, yet was good enough not take offense. “You’ve remembered something important.”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted as I did my best to concentrate on the fleeting images that swirled in my thoughts, memories from the night before mingling with the residue of my nightmares. “It is the upholstery,” I declared.

  Now Sutton was rightly baffled. “What upholstery?”

  “At Lord Brackenheath’s house. Last night,” I said, as the pictures in my mind became stronger. “Yes. Yes!” What had been the matter with me that I had not thought of this earlier? I asked myself. “The upholstery of the chairs and the settee was all cut into, and the stuffing pulled out.” I rounded on Sutton as if he had been there with me. “Don’t you see? Why would thieves do that? What purpose could they have? They had taken none of the valuable items in the room. So why did they rip open the upholstery in that wanton manner?”

  “They were looking for something,” said Sutton at once, grasping the direction of my reasoning. He propped his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, just as Holmes would do if he occupied that chair. I had the eerie sensation that a portion of Holmes’ nature had communicated itself to Sutton. “Why should they make a search in that place? What was the object they sought? Something small enough to be hidden in the seat or back of a chair. Something they knew would be hidden there. They expected to find it.”

  “That’s it!” I cried, getting hastily to my feet. The vigor I had felt the lack of not three minutes ago returned to me in a rush. “I must prepare a note for Holmes,” I said. “And then I must be about my errands.”

  “Very good,” said Sutton, getting to his feet beside me. “Sid Hastings’ cousin Reginald has said he will carry messages for Mister Holmes today. His cab is not familiar to the watchers, or so we hope.” He reached out and clapped me on the shoulder. “Be careful, dear boy.”

  I had to bite back a retort that he was not to call me that, but of course, he was, to complete his performance and make it convincing to anyone who might be observing us. “The Swiss embassy first, and then Scotland Yard,” I said, to remind myself as well as Sutton about where I would be.

  “And the Japanese?” asked Sutton, with a curiosity that went beyond his performance. “What of them?”

  “They are supposed to make themselves available at the Swiss embassy,” I said, referring to the note Holmes had left me. “I am to speak with Mess
rs. Minato and Banadaichi while Holmes is closeted with Ambassador Tochigi and Deputy Ambassador Chavornay.”

  Sutton smiled briefly. “What will be the advantage of this?” He held up his hand to supply the answer himself. “You are looking for inconsistencies, or discrepancies in their reports, are you not, and possibly for an unguarded word that might indicate some knowledge of the reason for the murder.”

  I returned his smile. “Yes. You have the right of it.” I set my serviette aside. “If you will excuse me—”

  “Be about your tasks, Guthrie. I look forward to a full report at the end of the day.” He picked up the newspaper and studied it. “By evening the press will be on it and the whole world will have something to say about how Lord Brackenheath met his end.”

  “I fear you are correct,” I said, and went to dress. As I set my collar stud in place, I gestured to my face, calling out in order to be heard, “I fear I will not have time for your art, after all.”

  “Perhaps later,” said Sutton with an anticipatory tone I could not help but find disquieting.

  “Is there anything you would recommend in the interim?” I asked, fixing my cuff links in place before pulling on my coat.

  “Hiding under a big hat?” he suggested impishly. “No, Guthrie,” he went on as he came down the hall. “I think you may have to brazen it out.”

  “Not a promising prospect,” I remarked as I gave a last tweak to my tie.

  “No,” Sutton agreed. “If you wish my help tomorrow, I would suggest allowing an extra half hour for me to do the task properly. You will have green in the bruise by then, and that can present certain problems.”

  “And purple does not?” I asked, beginning to feel amused by my own plight for the first time since I shaved. “I will keep this all in mind, Sutton. I hope you will forgive me for leaving without benefit of your ministrations.”

  I was out of the flat by ten minutes past nine, and riding in Sid Hastings’ cab for the Swiss embassy. I had elected to bring a cane along with my portfolio, and I was reviewing the notes Holmes had left for me, particularly the things I was to be certain to ask Messrs. Banadaichi and Minato more than once. I was striving to commit as many of these points as possible to memory so that it would not be obvious that I was seeking out specific information, when at the tail of my eye I caught sight of a woman on the sidewalk, and for a moment I did not realize that it was Penelope Gatspy, for she was dressed in a somber dress of dark brown with a very modest bonnet on her fair, rosy hair. I rapped on the ceiling of the cab and ordered Sid Hastings to draw abreast of her so that I could speak with her.

  She pretended to be unaware of my pursuit until I ordered the cab to slow so that I could step out and accost her directly.

  “You should not be speaking to me” was all the greeting she offered me. “I doubt Mister Holmes would approve.” Her manner softed a bit. “Oh. Your poor face.”

  “It looks worse than it is,” I said, not wanting to be turned away from my inquiries.

  “But it must have hurt terribly. First your ankle and now this, and that scar on your forehead from Bavaria. He asks a lot of you, does your Mister Holmes,” she persisted. “I hope you have taken something to lessen the pain.”

  There it was again—my Mister Holmes, coming from my Miss Gatspy. I dismissed her concern with a gesture. “You will not detract me, Miss Gatspy. Don’t make assumptions about Mister Holmes,” I warned her, and set my pace to hers, which, being brisk, demanded I have more recourse to my cane than I liked. How a woman in fashionable skirts could move along a crowded sidewalk at such a pace, I couldn’t imagine. As I looked back, I could see Hastings’ nephew turn and follow. If there was other surveillance, I could not discern it.

  “Well,” she said brusquely, “then I should not be talking to you.”

  “Very likely not,” I agreed at my affable best, to give, I hoped, the impression of old friends meeting by chance. “But in this jumble, who’s to notice?”

  She stopped abruptly and turned toward me. “Good God, don’t you know how close they’ve come already? They’ve—”

  “Which they are we talking about? And close to whom? These events seem to have an unholy number of them.” I was doing my best to make light of it all, but my raillery only served to increase her dismay.

  “Why, the Brotherhood, of course. Vickers came back to London two weeks since and has summoned men to him with the express intention of wreaking vengeance on Mycroft Holmes. That in so doing he can destroy the agreement with Japan is only an added treat to him.” Her lovely eyes were bright with distress, and I could think of nothing to say that would dismiss her concerns.

  “Vickers is in London?” I asked, shocked in spite of myself.

  “With at least a dozen men around him.” She nodded twice. We were stopping foot traffic in both directions, but neither of us paid any heed.

  “They are on a mission against my employer?” I pursued. It did not seem possible to me that such a thing could happen.

  “That is what we of the Golden Lodge have learned: against your employer and against the government. Vickers has someone in London who is aiding him whose identity is unknown to us, but who may be in diplomatic circles, or so we have reason to suspect, given their determination to compromise the agreement. Though with the Hungarians taking a hand in ending the negotiations, half the work of the Brotherhood will be done for them, for if the treaty is repudiated at this stage it will undermine much of Mister Holmes’ credibility with the government, will it not?”

  I did not know how to answer her, for it struck me that she might be using her concern as a means to elicit information from me that I might not otherwise impart. “How do you mean?” I asked, determined to be cautious.

  She lost her air of flattering anxiety and replaced it with exasperation. “How can you be such a lob-cock?” That unladylike expression took me aback and I goggled as she went on. “You are the private secretary of one of the three most powerful men in England. You cannot be unaware that the government has more than a few warships riding on the terms of this agreement. Mycroft Holmes would not employ such a simpleton as that.”

  “All right,” I said, keeping my voice as low as I could and still be heard, “I will allow that there are ramifications to the agreement that go beyond simple military support. But I fail to see how—”

  “And if this agreement is abjured by the Japanese, England will be diplomatically embarrassed throughout the capitals of the world. Her enemies will make the most of it, you may be certain of that, and the confusion that would result would delight the Brotherhood as well as advance their cause, to the detriment of all, she went on with feeling. “Those who are interested in bringing chaos to the world can only look with delight upon the murder of Lord Brackenheath, for it will give the Japanese more than enough reason to withdraw from the terms of the agreement.”

  I shook my head, certain I had missed a crucial connection in her reasoning. “That may be so,” I said. “But why are you so certain that the Japanese will respond as you suggest? Surely there are ways to protect the agreement.” I stood a bit straighter, confident that Mycroft Holmes would have the resources to circumvent any trouble arising from the murder.

  “I doubt even your Mycroft Holmes could undo the ravages of this scandal,” she said.

  First Holmes called Miss Gatspy my Miss Gatspy, and now she was assigning the same custodial duties to me in his regard. “What scandal?” I demanded more hotly than was wise, for several passersby glanced our way with dawning interest.

  Apparently aware that she had overstepped the mark, Penelope Gatspy began walking once more, but at a more leisurely pace than before. “Surely you know?” she asked in that maddening way of all women. “You cannot be so naive that you are unaware of . . .”

  “If I did know whatever this secret is,” I told her with care, “I should not mention it here in the street. Perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me.”

  She looked up at me, the very pict
ure of innocent femininity. She was sensible enough to speak so softly that I had to lean down to hear her. “Why, the scandal that will result when it is discovered that Prince Jiro’s married paramour is Lady Brackenheath.”

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  I have received a packet of documents from the Prime Minister regarding the guests who attended the gala reception last night. Edmund Sutton and I will spend a good portion of the afternoon reviewing these notes and matching them with those M H keeps in his private files. In regard to the matter of the Grodno Hussar, I will do all I can to, identify the fellow and determine his alliances, if any, beyond those implied by his uniform.

  Inspector FitzGerald has sent word requesting an interview with M H when he returns from his club tonight. I have responded to the request saying that M H will receive him at nine-thirty, giving Sutton time to shed his disguise and leave, for it would not do to have Scotland Yard too much aware of this impersonation. I assume it will be satisfactory to the Inspector to agree to the hour.

  The investigation into Lord Brackenheath’s death continues, but far more cautiously than it might had Lord Brackenheath been a rakish old merchant and his murder taken place at a village fête. When the governments of the world are implicated, murder shrinks in importance as a crime when weighed against the possibility of war.

  The watchers are still in place, and I fear they are armed, though I cannot think they would be foolish enough to attempt an assassination on so busy a street as Pall Mall. They would attract too much attention to themselves, as well as running the danger of injuring those passing in the street. I write this and want to believe what I write, but I cannot forget Cairo, and the mayhem that reigned in the streets there. We must continue on our guard as resolutely as possible, for any other course might well lead to disaster.

  “GUTHRIE, GUTHRIE, PLEASE tell me that this is not all the result of a sordid little affaire?” Mycroft Holmes beseeched me as we rode in Sid Hastings’ cab going from the Admiralty to the Swiss embassy. It was early afternoon and pleasantly sunny. “This sounds tawdry enough that my brother would wash his hands of it, despite his fascination with criminality.”