Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“You have only to lead the way,” I assured him, and followed him down the passage to a room I took to be the servants’ dining room. It was unoccupied just now, and I noticed that there was a cupboard against the far wall with plates lined up on it, mugs hanging from hooks above them.

  “I wanted to tell you about something I remembered about Lord Brackenheath two nights before his death. Not,” he added quickly, “that I wish to speak ill of the dead, but it may be that what I observed—”

  “Good.” I drew my notebook from my waistcoat, and my pencil, and opened it to a fresh page. “I will make a record of what you say, so that I will not have to rely on my faulty memory when I report to my employer.”

  Haggard was, in fact, uncertain about this arrangement, but he smiled in order to assure me of his good intentions. “If it’s necessary.” He stared away from me. “I must tell you that I did not admire Lord Brackenheath. I found his way of life improvident and immoral, so my remarks about him are of necessity biased.”

  “I thank you for being direct with me,” I said. “Though I must say that I have found very few who thought well of him.” I hoped this would ease his mind to some degree, and was rewarded with a slight smile for my efforts.

  “Not surprising,” said Haggard.

  “What did you observe?” I prompted when Haggard did not continue.

  He looked up at the ceiling. “It was quite late when his Lordship returned home, for he had gone from the Swiss embassy to a private club, and had remained there for some considerable time. It was nearer three than two when he came in.”

  “You had waited for him?” I inquired politely.

  “Certainly,” he said, nodding. “Many’s the time I have been needed to pay off the jarvey for bringing Lord Brackenheath home.” He gave a disgusted snort, then went on. “That night, however, he was driven in a private carriage. I went to admit him when I heard the wheels and horses in the street. And I . . . happened to overhear an exchange of remarks. They meant little to me at the time.”

  How often, I wondered, had Haggard eavesdropped on Lord Brackenheath, and what did he know of the man? I stilled my curiosity and kept to the matter at hand. “How much of that exchange do you remember?”

  “Most of it, I should think,” said Haggard. “It made little sense to me then. Now I begin to realize its import.” He coughed once. “The other man with Lord Brackenheath was a foreigner, with an Eastern European face, wearing a cloak. He was not quite as tall as Lord Brackenheath, as I recall, but I had the impression he was younger. I did not recognize his accent though, I heard very little of it.” He paused, as if in distress that he should have failed to identify the man’s accent.

  “No matter; it would be better to have no identification than to identify the accent incorrectly.” I held up my pencil to show my readiness to continue.

  Haggard made a single nod, then let himself withdraw into his thoughts. “He was wearing tasseled boots, that I remember.” He offered this as a kind of compensation for his inability to identify the man’s speech, and to condemn his taste. “Lord Brackenheath said that he would be ready to provide the promised copy once he had the ten thousand pounds. He was specific that the amount should be in pounds, not any other currency. At the time I thought they were discussing an outrageous wager.”

  “What changed your mind?” I asked, certain that a man of Lord Brackenheath’s profligate habits might often discuss such amounts.

  Haggard hesitated, as if concerned that he would betray Lady Brackenheath in revealing the character of her husband. “The man said the amount would be in pounds when he was satisfied the copy was in Lord Brackenheath’s hands. His Lordship declared the fellow must think him a fool. For what’s to stop you taking the copy and paying me not a farthing for my part?’ he asked belligerently. The man promised the money would be deposited first thing the banks were open.” He stared down at his feet. “He told the man he would hide the copy as they had agreed, and would expect the thing to be ‘collected’—that was his word—while the gala was going on.”

  “They did not say what the copy was of?” I asked, having formed my own opinion of the matter. Given the timing and nature of his murder, it followed that the copy in question was of the Japano-British agreement. But how, I wondered, had Lord Brackenheath contrived to get his hands on a copy of the agreement when only four were made?

  A clock in what I supposed was the kitchen chimed the hour—ten—and Haggard looked up. “I cannot remain long. There are duties. You understand.”

  “And I have duties, as well,” I said, more than pleased at how this had turned out. I offered Haggard my hand and told him, “If we are able to avert any more scandal in this sad time, it will be due in no small part to what you have been willing to tell me. I thank you for what you have done.” That was a slight exaggeration, but not so great a one as made me feel I was deceiving him.

  “I am glad to be of service,” said Haggard, escorting me out of the servants’ dining room. “Anything to save Lady Brackenheath from more distress. She has endured enough from her husband. Let her be spared, now he’s dead.”

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Sutton continues feverish, but there is as yet no sign of infection, and the flesh, though damaged, has not developed any indication of festering. Dr. W returned a short time ago and pronounced himself satisfied at the progress Sutton has made. He promises to call again after tea.

  M H has been gone for well over two hours, and has sent word back to me that he will not be back until two or three this afternoon. He has requested I be on guard for the watchers, for he has told his brother of the matter, and his brother has given his word to put his mud larks on it at once. These watchers will be identified.

  Miss Gatspy has taken a number of duties upon herself, and has left to call at the Austrian embassy, to discover what she can about Austro-Hungarian nationals currently in London. She thinks that with the knowledge of the Golden Lodge to aid her, she may discover names that might be significant in these developments.

  There is another stranger delivering meat. This may be nothing worthy of my attention, or it may be important as breath. I cannot tell which, and so I will err on the side of caution, for it may be that he is up to some mischief other than watching this flat. If there is anything unwholesome in the meat he brings, I should learn of it at once, so that we will not bring death into the house all unknowingly. I will inquire of the servants in this building and a few of those nearby if they have noticed any increase in dead rats and alley cats, which might well indicate the presence of poison in the meat he brings.

  Given Sutton’s condition, he would not be helped by eating anything that is not as free from taint as is possible in London.

  “SO WHERE ARE we?” Mycroft Holmes demanded as we sat at the table in his sitting room. “You have the information from Florian Gravesend, I see.”

  “Yes, or lack of it. However that ten thousand was handled, it did not make its way through the standard Brackenheath accounts. The bank must have established a second one for him—their records provided do not differentiate.” I held out copies of the documents in question. “These have complete transactions of the last year. Here are household salaries, here are household expenses, here is the allowance given Lord Brackenheath, here are his payments for clothes, travel, horses and carriages. Here are Lady Brackenheath’s personal expenses, which I know were kept in a separate account. She maintained a close watch on the monies spent. Gravesend said as much. He also said that his Lordship resented her for doing it: Apparently he had assumed she had no experience of business and would be willing to be ruled by him once her father died.” I gave Holmes another several pages. “And here are the records of their investments. As you see, no sign of the ten thousand pounds.” I averted my face somewhat, for my bruise was turning green with yellow at the edges and I knew it was not a splendid sight; I did not want to subject others to what made me wince.

  “Then without doubt Lord Brackenheath main
tained a separate account, contrary to his marriage contract. Possibly one he had from the time of his first marriage. Or he established it during his widowed years and decided not to make its existence known. Not unexpected, but quite interesting,” said Holmes as he began to play with his watchfob. “I wonder if I have been a complete fool in this?”

  “You, sir?” I asked, shocked at the very suggestion, even coming from him.

  His smile was wry. “Thank you, Guthrie. You restore my confidence.” He returned to twiddling the watchfob and staring off as if caught half-asleep. “It did not occur to me until earlier today that Lord Brackenheath might be party to his own destruction. I had assumed he was an unsavory but hapless victim of others. Now I begin to think he—” He broke off as there was a rap on the door.

  Tyers informed us that a message had come from Holmes’ brother. “It may be urgent,” he said, and handed it in, adding as he did that “Sutton has wakened.”

  “How is he?” Holmes demanded as I gave the note to him.

  “Weak and in pain, but still without any indication of infection” was Tyers’ welcome answer. “I am going to make him a strengthening broth.”

  “Very good, very good. Tell him, if you will, that I will come to see him directly I have finished this business with Guthrie.” He then opened the note and read it, not once, but twice. “The poor chap’s wandering again,” he murmured, with that air of self-condemnation that infused all his dealings with his brother. He folded the note and shook off his melancholy. “Still, this is more useful intelligence than I dared hope for.”

  “What is it?” I asked when he did not impart the intelligence to me at once.

  He sighed. “It would seem that Franz Joseph is more interested in this agreement than he has indicated in the past. His men are part of the group of watchers, at least according to my brother’s urchins.” He cleared his throat. “I doubt we’ll be able to demand an explanation from their embassy, for if the ambassador is aware of this, you may call me a Dutchman.”

  “But why?” I asked, and tried to clarify my question. “What would so secret an observation gain them?”

  “Secrecy, of course,” said Holmes with a bland sort of smile.

  “Of course,” I agreed, letting my sarcasm be heard as all the frustrations and demands of the last day caught up with me in a rush. “How should I think otherwise?” I regarded him seriously. “If there is something you would prefer not to tell me, well and good, but pray do not address me as if I were an impertinent child.”

  Holmes glanced at me in some shock. “Why, Guthrie. I meant no offense.”

  “If you tell me so, then I must believe it,” I said, doing a poor job of masking my temper. Then I regained my composure. I coughed once. “If there were not so great a potential for disaster as is present in this case, I would be less distressed than I am.”

  “No doubt. We all would,” said Holmes, rubbing his chin and putting his watchfob back into his waistcoat pocket. “I did not mean to exclude you, Guthrie. It is a habit I acquired long since, and it reappears at inconvenient times.” He held out his long hand to me. “Be a good fellow and excuse my ill-manners. You were right, you know. I did address you in a most inappropriate way, given what you have done for me in the time you have been in my employ.”

  Reluctantly l took his hand, feeling foolish. “I should not have been so hot off the mark.”

  “Better you should be so with me than with . . . oh, Inspector FitzGerald, for example. Or your Miss Gatspy.” His heavy brows arched quizzically.

  “She isn’t my Miss Gatspy,” I corrected him wearily, and attempted to return our discussion to more profitable channels. “About these records?”

  He was all attention once again. “I will examine them for the next half hour, and then you may return them to Mister Gravesend, with my thanks.” He chuckled at my look of surprise. “I know you are not expecting this of me. But I am aware of how sensitive Gravesend’s position is and I have no wish to compromise him any more than absolutely necessary for the good of England.”

  “Certainly,” I said, trying not to appear too confused. “I will take care of it as soon as you give me the office to do so.”

  “ ‘Stay not upon the order of your going,’ ” Holmes quoted, and then added, with an expression of chagrin, “Edmund would tell you it is bad luck to quote Macbeth.”

  I heard this with concern. “I hope he continues to improve.”

  “And I,” said Holmes with feeling. “Watson will be by this evening and will report to me on his progress.” He reached for his watchfob. “I am still not satisfied about the circumstances of his . . . injury. The man who shot him will pay for his act.”

  I had rarely heard Holmes speak with such intense purpose. I looked down at my feet and sought for an expression that would reveal my respect for his dedication to Edmund Sutton. “I am certain you will accomplish it, sir,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, making an effort to speak more lightly, “I suppose you will want me to get about this work. You will find a list of military men posted to the Austro-Hungarian embassy. I want you to look it over while I review these accounts.”

  I could not imagine what it was I should look for, and I was about to say as much to Holmes when I realized he had already put his attention onto the pages provided by Florian Gravesend. I took the list and for the next forty minutes I read the names and basic information on the Austro-Hungarians, having no notion of what I should seek to find.

  “Ah!” Mycroft Holmes announced as he gathered the banking records into a neat stack. “I think I know how to begin at last.”

  “And where might that be?” I asked, relieved to be able to put down the sheets I had been given.

  “I don’t wish to offend you, Guthrie, but for the moment it is best if you do not know.” He bent forward and wrote a hasty note on a sheet of paper that bore his name. “If you will be good enough to carry this to a Mister Tschersky at the Russian embassy after you return these records to Mister Gravesend, I would be most appreciative.” He sealed the note and handed it to me. “It must be given to Mister Tschersky in person. He has a password to give you, and you have a countersign. He will ask if you are Robertson. You will give your name and the position you hold with me, and then you will add that Robertson is in Paris. It will not be easy to speak with Yvgeny Tschersky. You will have to be very firm, for the Russians are generally suspicious of foreigners.”

  “I will,” I said, and took the materials he handed me, and slipping them into my portfolio, I withdrew only to find Tyers waiting in the corridor.

  “Just thought you should be aware, sir,” he said to me in his steady way, “the Admiralty have sent guards to watch this place. They should not cause you any difficulty, but if they do, refer them to me.”

  “These are men in uniform?” I asked.

  “Some are” was his oblique reply, and he volunteered nothing more.

  “But surely such guards bring unwelcome attention to this place,” I remarked, thinking it was strange that there should be such a public display.

  “It must be thought that it is Mister Holmes who was wounded, not Mister Sutton,” he explained gently.

  I considered this as I went to the front of the flat and let myself out. I went down the stairs to the front door, my steps brisker and more confident than they had been since my ankle was sprained. As I emerged onto the street, I noticed two men in the uniform of naval officers standing conspicuously at the edge of the road. They were most certainly the guards Tyers had mentioned. I watched them for several seconds and decided that they were too obvious to be the real protection for Holmes.

  Sid Hastings came up, his cab drawing to the kerb smartly. “Where to, Mister Guthrie?” he asked.

  “What about going back to Mister Gravesend? That’s to be our first stop.” I sighed, thinking that Sid Hastings must be heartily bored with driving to the same places. “I have some material to return to him. And then we must go to the Russian embas
sy.”

  “For Mister Holmes, is it? The Russians have a part in this coil, too, do they?” said Hastings, expecting no answer as he set his vehicle in motion.

  I could not help but pay attention to the traffic as we made our way down the street. I kept wondering who was watching me, if anyone was watching me, and why they were watching. I had once before been prey to such anxiety, in Greece, in January. At the time it had seemed reasonable to me to harbor such fears. I welcomed the sense of impending danger to keep me on my mettle. But now, in London, sane, sensible London, to be so afflicted . . . It was a terrible feeling, and one that I feared might be dangerous. I sat back in the cab and did my best not to find staring eyes everywhere.

  We arrived twenty minutes later at a modern building of the Gothic revival style, made of pink sandstone. The entry was very grand, through a pointed archway into a courtyard that was paved in slate. Around the courtyard the walls of the building shimmered with windows.

  Florian Gravesend himself, resplendent in a superbly tailored frock coat of deepest grey, came to the front of his suite and took the copies from me, saying as he did, “I am going to call upon Lady Brackenheath this evening, to show her what we have seen. It is essential she be apprised of these developments promptly. She has already had a note from me regarding the ten thousand. I cannot anticipate what she will say when she learns the whole of this business, but she cannot remain ignorant of it.”

  “No, I should think not,” I agreed. “She will have to decide how she is to present this information to the authorities.”

  “Oh,” said Gravesend, affronted at the suggestion, “I don’t think it need come to that.”

  “It may,” I said, concealing the certainty that possessed me. “Given the nature of his death, Lord Brackenheath is exercising a great deal of public speculation. Or haven’t you read the paper this morning? Not the Times,” I added.

  “I don’t bother with any of the rest,” said Gravesend haughtily. He wanted to be rid of me.