Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “One more thing,” I said. “Do you happen to recall if the deposit was actually made in pounds? Or was some other currency—”

  “That was my first concern,” Gravesend told me. “The amount was in pounds. I would have questioned it before now if it had required conversion.”

  “Of course,” I told him, and removed myself from his presence.

  The journey to the Russian embassy took rather less time than the one to Mister Gravesend’s establishment. The building was in a side-street, not too far from the grander French embassy. I recognized the uniforms of the Grodno Hussars on the guards at the entrance, but not the officer I had seen at the Swiss embassy, whom Miss Gatspy had said was Hungarian. I got down from the cab and presented myself to the senior guard and informed him I had a personal message to Mister Tschersky which I was under orders to deliver by hand.

  “I will see he gets it,” said the senior officer, his English quite good but obviously foreign.

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t make myself wholly understood,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, realizing that challenging them would lead to more resistance than I had already encountered. “I have been instructed by my employer to give this to Mister Tschersky himself, and no other.”

  This caused a level of consternation among the guards that I had not expected, and I feared they would refuse to permit me to enter the building. After a whispered discussion with an embassy functionary, two of the Hussars held me not quite at gunpoint while the functionary scuttled into the building, apparently in search of advice, or possibly, Mister Tschersky.

  Behind me, Sid Hastings held Jenny still, and took the opportunity to light up his churchwarden’s pipe. The guards kept watch over me, but stood at their ease. I hoped this did not presage a long delay.

  Ten minutes passed before a man of more than moderate height, well-set-up, with a long head and narrow jaw emerged from the Russian embassy. His features had a distinctly Oriental cast to them, though his deep-bronze hair was curly, as was his neat moustache. He was unobtrusively well-dressed, and his voice, when he spoke, had an odd timbre to it, reminiscent of spices. He came up to me, extending his hand. “Good day to you. I am Yvgeny Tschersky. Are you Robertson? I am informed you want to speak to me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am Paterson Guthrie, personal secretary to Mycroft Holmes. Robertson is in Paris. So Holmes has commissioned me to bring a letter from him to you.”

  The mention of Holmes’ name had an effect upon Tschersky, who stared hard at me, glanced at the envelope in my hand, and then back at me. His hand, when it finally closed on mine, was firm and I could feel strength in his grip. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “You are either a most fortunate or most unlucky man. Judging from your face, it may be the latter.” He regarded me with interest as he took the envelope. “I would be happy to offer you my credentials, but, as you are undoubtedly aware, they are in the Russian alphabet and it is unlikely you could read them.”

  “I am sorry to tell you, you are correct,” I said, thinking I would be wise to remedy this in the near future.

  “A note from Mycroft Holmes,” he mused, staring down at the seal. “How, I wonder, does he expect me to deal with this?”

  “Until you read it, you will not be able to decide,” I pointed out, startled that he should be so ambivalent about the missive.

  “True enough. But it is my experience that in matters concerning Mister Holmes, there is much uncertainty, and once in his toils, it is no easy thing to get out.”

  “That may be so,” I said, more ruefully than I intended.

  Tschersky smiled suddenly. “As I need not tell you.” He held up the envelope. “Tell Mycroft Holmes I have his note and I will respond to it as quickly as possible, for undoubtedly he wants the information immediately.”

  “Yes,” I said, though I did not know what the note contained. “I will thank you now, Mister Guthrie, for once I know what Mister Holmes wants me to do, I may have less charitable thoughts about you.” With that he offered me a mock salute, turned on his heel and went back into the Russian embassy.

  “Odd lot, the Russians,” said Sid Hastings as he set his pipe aside and prepared to drive me back to Holmes’ flat in Pall Mall.

  I climbed into the cab and did my best to settle back for the ride.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Sutton has been more feverish this afternoon, but Watson warned us that this was likely. There is nothing in a slight rise in fever to cause serious alarm, I am told, given there is no indication of infection. Sutton is weak but not failing. I have been able to give him some restoring mutton broth and lemonade, both of which Watson recommends. If Sutton continues to fight off infection, there is every reason to hope he will shortly be on the mend.

  A note was delivered from M H’s club expressing concern for his condition and assuring him he would be missed during his recuperation. I have sent a note back, following M H’s instructions, informing the members of the club that it will be a few days before M H resumes his regular visits.

  G returned a half hour since from the errands M H sent him upon, which he has dispatched to M H’s satisfaction. G arrived hard on the heels of the Admiralty messenger, who brought another packet of records to M H. This makes three separate deliveries in one day, and I suspect it is not the last, and not limited to the Admiralty.

  M H will be away from the flat this evening, having arranged a meeting with Ambassador Tochigi for the purpose of assessing the information he has garnered thus far. I have also been told to expect Miss Gatspy shortly, to take tea with him and G.

  “NOT BAD FOR a man who just had a bullet taken out of him,” said Inspector FitzGerald as Tyers reluctantly led him into Mycroft Holmes’ sitting room. “Where did you say you were hit?”

  If FitzGerald had wanted to see Holmes nonplussed, he was disappointed: Holmes swung around and said with no trace of distress or dismay. “What an unexpected pleasure, Inspector.” He put special emphasis on unexpected. “Do come in and have a cup with us. And something to eat. You must be getting peckish.” He gestured to Miss Gatspy and me. “We’ll be pleased of your company.”

  Inspector FitzGerald hesitated, clearly torn between his desire for conversation and his sense that this was not the opportunity he had hoped for. At last he shrugged. “Why not? I might learn something.”

  “So you might,” Holmes agreed, and called out to Tyers. “Inspector FitzGerald is joining us. Will you bring another cup?”

  “And the second pot,” said Tyers, and set about it.

  Holmes nodded to me, prepared to do his duty as host. “You know Guthrie, but I don’t believe you have met Miss Gatspy. Miss Gatspy, this is Inspector FitzGerald.”

  “Charmed,” he said, taking her extended hand. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her face. “But I have seen you before.”

  “Why, how gracious of you, Inspector,” she said, on her very best behavior. “I have sometimes served as a translator at various embassies. With so much to demand your attention, what can I be but complimented that you recall me?” Her smile was winsome, her manner guileless.

  I half-rose and held out my hand to Inspector FitzGerald. “How go your inquiries, FitzGerald?”

  He shook my hand perfunctorily. “It is most perplexing, and not just because it is the very devil to get answers from those who might be thought of as suspects.” He was growling as he pulled up a chair and sat down beside the large table where tea was laid. “I can’t get most of them to talk to me. They withdraw into their embassies and no one can touch them. The rest tell me that they are not at liberty to discuss any aspect of Lord Brackenheath’s role in the negotiations, though it is apparent he did not approve of it at all, if what I’ve been able to discover is correct.”

  “I think it is fair to say that he did not like our dealing with the Japanese,” said Holmes calmly. “His inclusion was the work of the Prime Minister, who was eager to have all positions represented during our discussions.”r />
  “Which, I suspect, was more for show than any true dealings.” Inspector FitzGerald gave a shrewd glance toward Holmes. “If we should be discussing this at all?”

  “If you mean Miss Gatspy,” said Holmes in the same unperturbable way, “I would suppose she knows more of the goings-on in embassies than anyone but the footmen.” He refused to be provoked. “You may say what you like in front of her. She is in no position to compromise the agreement at this point, no matter what you may say to me.”

  I was certain I detected a warning to her in that statement, and so I added, “And as a woman working in the capacity as translator, you may be sure she is discreet.”

  She looked at me. “Why, thank you, Guthrie.”

  Holmes paid no attention. “No need, then, for roundaboutation, as my mother would have said. What is it you are seeking to find out, FitzGerald? For you did not come here for either the fare or the company. And you did not expect me to be laid out upon my bed with physicians hovering around me.” Holmes sat straighter in his chair as Tyers brought a cup-and-saucer and a second pot of tea into the sitting room.

  “I am seeking to find out who killed Lord Brackenheath. I would also like to know why he was killed, and if it is indicative of anything more to come.” He sounded exasperated but not angry. “But my hands are tied by our government, the Swiss government, the Japanese government, and I can get nothing from the Germans, the Austro-Hungarians, or the Russians, though we know they have been sending dispatches thick as autumn leaves.” He put his big hands on his knees. “What can half-a-dozen English policemen do against such massed forces as all of that?”

  “You can come to me,” said Holmes cordially, lifting the teapot and filling FitzGerald’s cup. “And quite sensible of you, too.”

  Now FitzGerald seemed confused as he took the tea Holmes poured for him. “But you are one of those who is making my path difficult.”

  “Not out of any desire to protect those who did the killing, I assure you,” said Holmes quite seriously: “I have no wish to see Lord Brackenheath’s murderer go unpunished. But I would rather we root up the whole of the plant than chop off a single limb.” He put his fingertips together. “And it is possible we will learn something shortly.”

  “How shortly?” FitzGerald demanded. “If the murderer is a foreigner, he could escape our justice handily. He need only go to a ship in the harbor and be out of our grasp.”

  “I doubt that will happen,” Holmes soothed him rnendaciously, for this was precisely the thing Holmes himself feared.

  “That, Mister Holmes, does not console me.” He put his cup aside, rubbed his hands together, then reached for the milk jug. “Just as it does not please me to learn you, yourself, have been shot.”

  I suppose this was meant to jar a comment out of Holmes, but, given FitzGerald’s opening sally, it failed to do more than evoke a faint chuckle. “It is just as well that most people caught up in these events should believe it is so.”

  “To mask your various efforts, is that it?” challenged FitzGerald.

  “Of course. In order to prevent just such an escape as the one you fear. If those behind this plot are convinced they need not deal with me, then there is a chance something might be done to apprehend them before more mischief can occur.” Holmes had the expression of one contemplating a battlefield where casualties lay.

  “Can it be so critical?” FitzGerald protested.

  “Yes, indeed. We are gambling for very high stakes, and they continue to rise. This entire farrago has been calculated to destroy the burgeoning alliances between East and West, and without very careful strategy on our part, might still succeed. Then we should have to say good-bye to holding India, for Russia and China should both prey upon it. This would lead to danger for Australia and New Zealand, as well as our lesser Pacific holdings. Once that was lost, we might well have trouble in Africa. England would have her forces divided and in distant parts of the world, so should trouble erupt in Europe—and you may be sure it would—we would be unable to go to the help of our allies. And Franz Joseph would have his dream fulfilled.”

  “Do not suppose that Mister Holmes is being too pessimistic,” said Miss Gatspy when Holmes was silent. “I have discovered many things in my work, and I can assure you that there could be such an unwelcome end to this case.”

  “The murder of a rakehell peer, bring about the total breakdown of all dealings between East and West?” FitzGerald did his best to appear gallant. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss, many of the fair sex do not grasp the complexity of these matters. No doubt it all sounds very dramatic to you and—”

  He got no farther. Penelope Gatspy was sitting upright, a flush spreading over her fair skin. “Empires have fallen for less.” She continued with great precision, every word bitten as she spoke. “My dear Inspector FitzGerald, you do not appreciate my comprehension of the problem confronting us, or the potential for harm it represents. I am not some frippery girl, to think devastation and calamity makes for excitement. Nor am I of a romantic disposition, for I can discover nothing uplifting in men going to war. I see nothing noble or heroic in thousands of men slain and the countryside in ruin. I find that tragic. I deplore its very existence. And I hope that in some small way, what I do can lessen the chances of such catastrophe.” She glared at him.

  “Through translations?” said Inspector FitzGerald in some confusion.

  She recovered herself nicely. “If nations have greater mutual understanding, it is my hope that they will not be so eager to make war.”

  “She has said it better than I could,” Holmes told the Inspector soberly, though he reserved a quick smile for Miss Gatspy.

  “Yes. Brava,” I chimed in, feeling idiotic, but agreeing with her wholeheartedly.

  “Listen to her, Inspector. She has more perception than you credit her with.” Holmes offered the basket of muffins, saying as he did, “Rest assured, I have every determination to learn the whole of what transpired to bring about Lord Brackenheath’s death. And not just for the sake of his family, or the good name of Scotland Yard.”

  “I don’t know what to make of all this,” Inspector FitzGerald admitted. “It would seem I am out of my depth.”

  “So it would,” said Holmes with as genial a smile as I have ever seen from him.

  “But I have an obligation to the law, Mister Holmes, and as I respect you for your dedication, so you must respect me for mine. I cannot step away from this case because it may be inconvenient for the Admiralty and the Prime Minister, without specific instructions from the Crown. I have my duty to perform as well as the rest of you.” He sat so rigidly then that I had a fleeting impression that he was studying to be cast in stone.

  “Do as you must, Inspector. As I have told you, I have no wish to compromise your inquiries. But I have obligations, too, and I must adhere to them as you do to yours.” Holmes took one of the French pastries off the small platter. He bit into it with such force that some of the raspberry filling oozed out around the corners of his mouth, giving an impression of blood.

  Inspector FitzGerald put clotted cream on his muffin and took a bite, which provided an excellent excuse for him to say nothing more.

  We finished tea in silence, and only after the Inspector had taken his leave did Holmes say to Miss Gatspy and me, “I am placing my hopes on Tschersky, and his fundamental grasp of the situation. If he cannot or will not help us, or if he has placed his trust in others, then I am very much convinced we will—” He did not go on.

  “Your brother might turn up something,” I said, by way of offering encouragement to my employer.

  Holmes shook his head. “I am afraid not,” he said, very seriously. “Watson has informed me that my brother is once again seeking the intoxication of cocaine. He will not be weaned from it, not for long. He claims it cures his boredom.”

  “But surely, with such a case as this, he would not—” I began, only to be quelled by Holmes’ sharp look.

  “In these circum
stances, it is enough that he has set his urchins on watch for us. The boys are very adept at their work.” He would allow no other discussion of his brother, of this I was acutely aware.

  “Then you should have an answer from them in short order,” I said, wanting to know more than we had been told.

  “Yes. And with Mister Tschersky’s intelligence we should be able to put the puzzle in order.” He came near to looking satisfied, and then said with unusual vigor, “In the meantime, I need you to go to Lady Brackenheath again. I know,” he went on, “it is not the time you would choose, nor would I if I had the opportunity to select the occasion. But it is most necessary. I wish to learn if Lord Brackenheath knew either of the secretaries sent to copy the documents. The English secretaries,” he added with feeling.

  I was startled at this, and said, “But surely a note sent round would be preferable. With the funeral and all—”

  “A note cannot make observations or ask questions. I rely upon you to be my ears and eyes.” He sighed. “The alternative is to summon her here, but that would not be very wise, would it?”

  “I suppose not,” I conceded, and nodded. “Very well, I will go to call upon Lady Brackenheath and discover, if she knows, if Lord Brackenheath was acquainted with either Mister Wright or Mister Hackett.”

  “It may be that one of those two men began their training with Herbert Bell, for he employed dozens of clerks. If you can, get the records of employees of Bell’s manufactory, to determine if either Hackett or Wright ever worked for him. Or a brother, cousin, or father. It is important that we discover this link—if it exists—as soon as possible.”

  Making a gesture of resignation, I rose to my feet. “I will be on my way directly.” I glanced at the windows and noticed the fading glories of sunset. “I hope I shall not intrude on their evening sherry.”

  Penelope Gatspy set her cup aside. “I will come with you,” she announced.

  “No,” Holmes said in a firm voice. “You will do me the honor of staying here, and lending me your aid in reviewing the last of the records delivered to me this afternoon. I need your eyes, Miss Gatspy, to detect what we might have missed.”