Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Holmes broke the seal at once and pulled out several sheets of paper, with a note from Tyers lying atop them. “Strange,” he murmured, and read swiftly through the material, one hand raised as a signal to me to remain where I was.

  Andermatt, realizing he would not be told of the contents, bowed slightly and withdrew.

  “What is it, sir?” I asked, approaching him carefully.

  “I think Sutton and Tyers have come across something important, perhaps essential.” He held up a sheet of banking records. “Ten thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

  I scanned the page, and stared at the figure. “Even a man of Lord Brackenheath’s position must find that a considerable sum.”

  “Especially a man in Lord Brackenheath’s position,” said Holmes. “He was all but run off his legs when he married Edith Francesca Bell.” He smiled slightly at me. “Oh, yes. I have learned something of the lady since last night. I have discovered she is six-and-twenty years old, that she was married at seventeen to Lord Brackenheath, that she was named for her mother—Edith—and for her father’s favorite heroine—Francesca da Rimini—because he was estranged from his family and did not want to recognize them in any way. How often these brilliant men of trade have a hidden streak of romance in their souls: Have you noticed, Guthrie?” As the question was rhetorical, he went on without pause. “I learned she was the only surviving child of Herbert and Edith Bell, that she was well-educated and traveled more than most young persons do before she was married. She was used to care and attention from an early age. Edith Bell and two other children died twenty years ago of an epidemic fever. So Herbert Bell, who did not marry again, fixed all his energies on his business and all his hopes on his one remaining daughter, whom he called Francie. His ambitions for her exceeded his judgment in regard to choosing her husband, but he was at pains to secure her future and guard against Lord Brackenheath’s depredations.”

  “And where did you glean all that information?” I inquired, knowing it was expected of me, and curious in spite of myself.

  “From Lord Brackenheath’s cousin, who will assume the title. He is a bookish sort of man, thirty-eight years of age, married with four children, in temperament more suited to Oxford or Cambridge than his country estate. His means are comfortable but not lavish, and he does not hanker for more. He regards his inheritance as much as a burden as an advancement. I gather he did not approve of Cousin Edward, as he calls Lord Brackenheath. It is also apparent that he does not relish untangling Cousin Edward’s affairs; what he will make of the ten thousand pounds, I can’t think. He was summoned to London first thing this morning, and as soon as I had finished with the Prime Minister, I had some conversation with Mister Virgil Anthony Eneas Lucie. For a man rudely awakened to so grim a purpose, he was most cooperative. He is worried about Lord Brackenheath’s illegitimate children making a claim upon him. Do you know if that is apt to occur?”

  “How should I know?” I asked, with a slight emphasis on should.

  “I thought perhaps Lady Brackenheath, whom her intimates now call Francesca according to Lucie, had explained such matters to you last night.” He drank more of the cognac, then stared at the small amount remaining in the bottom of the balloon glass. “This is as good as what they have at my club. I wouldn’t be as sure of the port.”

  “She told me about the children—though I gather most of them are grown, and were given settlements as part of sending them out of England—in Canada, America, and perhaps Australia, as I recall.” I thought about what she had told me on the ride to her town house the night before. “No; I tell a lie,” I amended as the conversation came back to me, “not to Australia. Lord Brackenheath did not approve of the society in Australia, according to Lady Brackenheath. He did not want his illegitimate children mixing with criminals and their descendants.”

  “How very . . . discerning of him,” said Holmes, his heavy brows forming a noticeable V as he frowned. “If he made settlements on them, he may also have provided for them in his will. What further claim do they have upon their father, other than his concern for the niceness of the company?”

  “None that I know of. Certainly they cannot importune Lady Brackenheath in that regard. It is my impression that her fortune is completely protected.” I thought again of how prudent Lady Brackenheath’s father had been to reserve her inheritance as he had done.

  “Then the only issue would be the land and the ten thousand pounds. Since the land is entailed, it is not likely that it would be worth their efforts, not while he has his cousin to inherit. And if the ten thousand pounds are a mystery to the bank, the sum must be wholly unknown to the children.” He set the balloon glass down and took out a cigar. “So they are not to be considered as likely suspects in the death of Lord Brackenheath, more’s the pity.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, and guessed the answer at once. “Because,” I went on before he could speak, “it means that like it or not, there are international repercussions to his murder, which, had one of his bastard children killed him, would not be the case. The scandal would be a family one, not—”

  “An international embarrassment,” Holmes finished for me. “Sadly, that does appear to be the case. Which is why I want a word or two with Penelope Gatspy this evening. I will send you on your way directly, dear boy, after we settle one or two other points. Now,” he said as he struck a match and held it to the end of his cigar, “we must decide whether or not we inform the police of what we know, point them in the direction of the illegitimate children, or inform them that the murderer is probably a foreign national who killed Lord Brackenheath for political reasons.”

  “Must we not tell them the truth?” I asked, startled at his observation.

  “Yes, but it is a matter of how much truth, and how it is presented that must be decided. Inspector FitzGerald is no fool, and he will suppose we are selecting our facts carefully.” He blew out a fragrant cloud, his eyes narrowing as the smoke wreathed around his head. “It is understood that this is all part of what is expected in difficult cases of this nature,” he went on, forestalling other protestations I might lodge. “The police know that there is more at risk than a crime going unpunished.”

  “But surely they are required to pursue the matter with all the vigor they can summon? Lord Brackenheath was—”

  “A Peer of the Realm?” Holmes interjected. “He was a narrow-minded, bigoted, self-serving old debauchee who used his rank to protect himself from having to pay for his excesses. Had he been an ordinary Englishman, he would have been in the courts long ago. Since he was not, we must continue to shield him from the consequences of his own actions.”

  “In what sense?” I asked.

  “My dear Guthrie, surely you must realize that the ten thousand pounds did not fall out of the sky into Lord Brackenheath’s account.” Again he exhaled a billow of smoke. “And since the source of the money has been deliberately hidden, we must not rule out the possibility that someone—someone who wishes to remain unknown—bribed Lord Brackenheath. What did the person offering the bribe wish to receive for his largesse? Given that the money was paid to him less than a month after he was brought onto the Prime Minister’s negotiating counsel expressly to represent those who oppose any dealings with Japan except for purposes of colonization, it seems apparent to me that the money has something to do with the agreement.”

  “That may be so, sir,” I said, not as convinced as he. “But if he had been bribed, why should he be killed? Surely the money cannot now be reclaimed?” I had meant it as a joke, but failed.

  “Lord Brackenheath was killed very close to the hour that the agreement was being signed. We have been assuming that if there was a political motive to his murder, it was because he opposed the agreement, and was killed to put an end to his opposition of it. But what if he died because he failed to stop the agreement from being signed? What if this is more an issue of punishing failure than ending his attempts to thwart the agreement?” He got up from the chair and,
throwing off the lethargic manner he often assumed, he began to pace restlessly.

  “But that has been considered,” I reminded him.

  He shook his head. “No. We have thought that, assuming his murder was for his role in the agreement, his killer had to be English who wanted to implicate the Japanese. I may have been too hasty when I told Inspector FitzGerald that no Japanese would use that dagger for such a purpose. For we have made the error of thinking that all the Japanese with Ambassador Tochigi support the agreement. But”—he paused and rounded on me like a fencer preparing to thrust—”what if one or more of them do not?”

  “Support the agreement?” I said, wanting to clarify my own thoughts.

  “Yes. That note you received before your interview with Mister Minato has rankled with me since you informed me of it. I think that now I am beginning to perceive its implication.” He made an abrupt gesture. “I do not want to speculate further until I have had a chance to speak with your—”

  “Miss Gatspy,” I finished for him.

  “Precisely.” He pulled out his watch and stared at the face. “I will return to my flat at nine. You may come there, with Miss Gatspy in tow, if she is willing to speak with me. You may bring her to my flat after nine, if you do not find her at once. If she is not located this evening, I will have the police search her out first thing tomorrow morning.”

  That generous allowance of time struck me as unlike Holmes. I remarked upon it. “With ten hours head-start, she might easily flee the country.”

  “So she might,” Holmes agreed in an abstracted way as if this possibility held no interest for him whatsoever. “Tell her I will do all that I can to keep her safe if she will speak with me. And when I say safe, I include preventing the police from questioning her.”

  “Very well, sir,” I said, uncertain how to regard this determination to circumvent the inquiries of the police.

  “Guthrie,” said Holmes gently as I started toward the door, my back held stiffly to accommodate the cane, “suppose, just suppose, that in solving one murder the police bring to light certain matters that would bring a bloody war. Would your sense of justice be more outraged by the unavenged death of one man, or the slaughter of innocent thousands?”

  “And Lord Brackenheath was a reprobate,” I said, trying not to sound too condemning.

  “He could be a risen saint and the issue would be no different. The death of this one man is a tragedy—the annihilation of thousands is a catastrophe. Which would you prefer to answer for?” He inhaled deeply on his cigar. “I will see you here or in Pall Mall after nine. Come in through the service alley, on foot, and if you can make the climb without your cane, so much the better. Miss Gatspy will know how to manage.”

  I nodded to him once, gathered up my cane and portfolio, and went to find Andermatt, to inform him of my departure.

  “I will see you tomorrow, Mister Guthrie?” he said, correct to a fault.

  “I don’t know yet,” I replied. “In any case, I appreciate your help and your tact.”

  “Tact,” he said with a slight smile, “is what we Swiss are famous for.”

  Once I was in Sid Hastings’ cab, I realized I hadn’t any conception of where I might find Miss Gatspy. She had never provided the slightest information regarding her current residence. It struck me as a ludicrous notion that I could spend the evening driving through the streets of London in the hope of apprehending her. As it was growing dark, I was aware no woman of quality would be abroad alone at this hour.

  “Where to, Mister Guthrie?” asked Sid Hastings from his box. “You haven’t said.”

  “Drive to Half Moon Street,” I said, choosing a street near enough to my rooms to make it possible for me to determine if more mischief. had been done there yet, and to make it possible for me to inform Missus Coopersmith that all was well with me, though, given the state of my face, I doubted she would be convinced. I would also be near enough to Berkeley Square to stop in at the Brackenheath town house if all else should fail. I might be able to have an additional word with Haggard. “When we arrive, I will tell you where we are next to go.” I hoped that in that time I would have a touch of inspiration that would point me in the right direction.

  “Right you are, sir,” said Hastings and gave Jenny the office to walk on.

  We had reached Piccadilly, where there was still a good number of vehicles moving on the street. I had to suppress a sudden frisson in apprehension of danger, though I brought my cane up where I might use it as a bludgeon if I were attacked again. But we proceeded without incident to Half Moon Street while I chided myself for allowing my nerves to get the better of me.

  “Drive along to my rooms, Hastings,” I said, watching the street carefully, tying to discern any person watching Missus Coopersmith’s house. I was growing exhausted of this constant need to remain alert to all things around me. It seemed so foolish to fash myself on such a minor matter. Then I remembered the unfortunate cat and the red paint and my vigilance redoubled. “Take me to Curzon Street, and wait for me,” I told Hastings, amending my orders.

  “As you wish, sir,” he said, and set his mare moving again.

  I got out of the cab as soon as it came to the kerb. My ankle was sore, but I could walk quickly enough and only faltered when I had to climb the steps to the front door.

  Missus Coopersmith was waiting as I came into the entry-hall. “Mister Guthrie. I expected you sooner than this. Well, nothing lost; you are come now,” she said through the open door of her sitting room. I noticed the cat was with her, curled up on the plump hassock near the hearth, I was about to thank her for her kindness to the creature but her next words drove all that from my mind. “I have just been having tea with your fiancée.”

  I stared. Elizabeth Roedale? Here? After she had broken off our engagement in such uncompromising terms? I could not begin to fathom her purpose in coming to me now, and I was about to say as much when Missus Coopersmith added, to my astonishment, “Such a charming girl, and so personable,” she said as she gestured for me to join them. “Pray sit with us. I know it is irregular for me to permit her to visit you, but when she explained the circumstances to me, what could I do but welcome her?”

  What circumstances, my mind clamored. “And you are a chaperon,” I said, trying to sound more knowledgeable than I was. I strove to gather my thoughts before I had to face Elizabeth Roedale again: Given how difficult our parting had been, and that I had not seen her for many months, I could not imagine what demeanor was appropriate for this occasion. Yet for some reason she had sought me out, a girl so proper that the thought of calling me Paterson was foreign to her. As Missus Coopersmith smiled her encouragement, I tried to think of how I ought to greet her, how I should account for my appearance; the bruises on my face would surely distress her. I steeled myself as I went through the door.

  She was dressed in full mourning, as she had been the first time I had seen her. She held out her hand without rising, and addressed me in the familiar manner of the affianced. “There you are, Paterson. At last. I was about to give you up. I have been waiting this age; Missus Coopersmith has very kindly received me in your absence.”

  I bent to kiss her hand, and felt myself smiling. “Thank you for coming to me, Penelope,” I said to Miss Gatspy.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  I have done all that I can until the physician arrives. Fortunately the bullet did not penetrate as for as the would-be assassins intended, or Sutton would not have survived. As it is, he will have to rest for at least a week and very possibly more if he is to recover from his wound.

  M H has been informed—Charles Shotley, the Admiralty messenger, carried my note to him at the Swiss embassy—and will, I trust, arrive shortly. He will have to be unusually careful in his approach, for it would not do to have those who lay in wait for him discover that they had shot the wrong man.

  MISS GATSPY AND I arrived in Pall Mall to chaos. There were doors left open and a trail of good clothing leading tow
ard the front of the flat. No one answered my knock on the back door, and when I called out, I received no answer. With dawning fear I led the way forward, ready to strike out with my cane.

  “Be careful,” Miss Gatspy recommended, keeping up a few steps behind me.

  “Good Lord,” I exclaimed as we entered from the rear of the flat through the pantry, for there was a pile of heavily padded material sodden with blood lying in the doorway between the pantry and the kitchen.

  Many another woman might have become faint, but Miss Gatspy was made of sterner stuff. “Someone’s been hurt, I should say.”

  I faltered, fearing that my employer had come to grief. Then, as I approached the door into the corridor, I realized that I could hear Mycroft Holmes’ rumbling accents, and the steady, quiet voice of Philip Tyers.

  “The physician said this isn’t mortal. And he was an army doctor. He is not one to assume either the best or the worst.” Tyers was backing into the hall from the study, a basin held in his hands.

  “It had better not be mortal,” muttered Holmes as I motioned Miss Gatspy to come after me.

  “Tyers,” I called out, not loudly enough to alarm, but not so quietly that it would seem I was coming into the flat by stealth.

  “Oh, Mister Guthrie,” he said as he turned to me. “You gave me a start.” His sleeves, rolled up, showed a smattering of blood upon them.

  “Who’s been hurt?” I asked, and glanced over my shoulder. “This is Miss Gatspy, by the way. Mister Holmes wants to see her.”

  She curtsied slightly, and came nearer to listen to Tyers’ answer.

  “It’s Mister Sutton. As he was returning from the Diogenes Club, he was shot. From the angle at which the ball struck, his assailant was on a second floor or a roof—the ground floor or the first would not create the wound.” He sounded calm enough, but there was a look in his eyes that surprised me, for I had never seen this man show so much fear before.