It was a threat he had made many times before, but this time I perceived he meant it. “You have always done what you could to minimize the danger in which I have worked,” I ventured.
“So you would think,” he said. “I do what I can to convince myself that is true.” He made an abrupt gesture. “Collywobbles, Guthrie, collywobbles,” he said, explaining his sudden devastation of mood, which he briskly banished. “Get that note to Ambassador Tochigi and return here.”
While I thought it likely that Holmes did have dyspepsia, I doubted it had anything to do with what he had eaten. I held my tongue, thrust the envelope into my waistcoat pocket, and again left the flat. This time as I made my way down the flights of stairs, my ankle was more tender than I liked, and as I reached the street, I could not keep from limping a bit.
Again Sid Hastings’ deputy brought his piebald horse to the kerb and I climbed into his cab, giving him Standish Mews as his destination. “Right you are,” he said and signaled his horse into traffic.
“I will not remain long. I will need you to wait for me.” I realized if Sid Hastings had been driving, he would have made that assumption, but I was aware that this jarvey did not necessarily know to anticipate this possibility.
“That I will, then.” He said nothing more as we set off, taking care to maneuver his cab through the tangle of carriages, wagons, carts, cycles, and pedestrians.
The Swiss were at the entrance to Standish Mews, the men in uniform and armed. They politely intercepted any vehicle or person turning into the Mews, inquiring what the destination might be and what purpose they had.
When I explained that I was bringing the Japanese ambassador an important note from Mycroft Holmes, I was astonished to see how quickly these officers hurried to aid me.
“But just you, sir,” the Captain of the Swiss added, apologetically.
“Not the cab?” I asked, startled at the idea.
“I regret, no. It may wait for you here.” He was determined and I did not want to waste time debating the matter with him. I climbed out of the cab.
“I will be back directly. If you will pull to the end of the service alley and wait for me there, I should return in less than ten minutes.” I made sure the guards heard me issue the orders.
“That is satisfactory,” said the Captain.
“Good,” I responded with a tinge of sarcasm in my words. I did not wait to see the jarvey move his cab, but set off down the short street to the number of the house written on the envelope I carried.
The house in question was a tall, handsome building of Restoration vintage, with elaborate columns flanking the door. It had the look of unfaded elegance that is not often seen in such establishments. I knocked on the door and was promptly admitted by another Swiss officer, who directed me up one flight to the first floor. “There are guards on the floor above the first, as well as another five with the servants below-stairs.”
I trod up to the first level and knocked again. This time it was Mister Banadaichi who admitted me. He was in Japanese dress and his bow was more formal than usual. “Mister Guthrie,” he said as he rose.
“Good afternoon,” I said, glancing around. The flat was as handsome as the exterior of the building, its furnishings a curious mix of Japanese and Restoration. The effect was not unpleasant once the eye grew accustomed to it. “I have a note from Mister Holmes for Ambassador Tochigi,” I said.
“I will tell him so,” he said, and held out his hand.
“Mister Holmes has charged me to give this to the ambassador personally,” I said, hoping he would not take offense. “If you will tell him I am here, I will discharge my commission and leave you to your work.”
At this Mister Banadaichi scowled, and was about to speak when Mister Minato appeared at the end of the corridor. Unlike his fellow secretary, he was in a dark English suit of clothes, the muffler pulled up around his lower face, which surprised me a little as I had not thought the weather so brisk.
“Mister Guthrie,” said Mister Minato with the slightest of bows, and then his extended hand. He was not reaching for the note, as Mister Banadaichi had, but to shake my hand.
“Good to see you,” I said, and began to explain my errand to him.
“I comprehend,” he said, cutting me short as he loosened his muffler. “I will inform the ambassador at once of your arrival and your mission.”
“Thank you,” I said, and watched him go down the corridor to one of the closed doors.
“Is Prince Jiro here?” I asked Mister Banadaichi, as much to make conversation as anything else.
“No,” said Mister Banadaichi in disapproving accents. “He has gone to the Admiralty. They asked him to help them in their inquiries. To send for the Emperor’s son!” He was much offended by this development, and made no effort to conceal his indignation.
“Well, Emperor’s son he is, but he is also a Dartmouth cadet. He has a sworn obligation to the Royal Navy. And I should hope he would want to help resolve the matter of Lord Brackenheath’s death, seeing as it had direct bearing on an agreement he publicly supports.” I hoped this would provide a little break in his resentment, but I had not realized the depths of his emotions.
“That is nothing!” declared Mister Banadaichi. “That is a formality, less binding than the proper conduct of good hospitality.”
“He may see it in that light,” I said. “I doubt the Admiralty do.” In fact, I supposed that Prince Jiro found his oath more binding than Mister Banadaichi could like, or he would have found an excuse not to go to the Admiralty when he was sent for.
“It is still wrong,” muttered Mister Banadaichi as Mister Minato appeared in the hall once more, beckoning me to come.
“I do not say my colleague is wrong in his thinking,” said Mister Minato as I reached him, “but I do think he often mistakes form for substance, as you Westerners would say. It is a failing of the Japanese, regretfully.” He smiled once as he rapped the door again with his knuckles. “It is a difficult thing, cobbling an agreement together. So much can go wrong.”
“Sadly, yes, it can,” I agreed, and wondered what his purpose might be in making such a concession.
A crisp command in Japanese ended our brief discussion. The door was opened from the inside by a small, balding man in dark silk robes with such an air of austerity about him that I could not help but believe that he was some kind of monk or priest. Mister Minato said something to him as he bowed, and we were admitted to the room which had clearly been turned into Ambassador Tochigi’s study, for neat cases of scrolls and books lined the walls, and a low writing table was set near the window.
Ambassador Tochigi himself was rising from his knees. He was also in a kimono and he bowed to me with great dignity. “It is good to see you faring so well, Mister Guthrie. You have something for me, I believe.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, taking the envelope from my waistcoat pocket and handing it to him. “Mister Holmes instructed me to hand it to you myself and I am pleased to do this for him.”
Again Ambassador Tochigi bowed as he took the envelope. “I will give it my full attention at once, and will provide what assistance I can without compromising my Emperor. Please assure Mister Holmes of that, if you will?” With that he bowed again and paid no more heed to me than if I had vanished in a single clap of thunder. I did not know what next to do and was relieved when Mister Minato plucked at my sleeve. I did my best to bow properly, then all but backed into the hallway.
“You did that quite well,” Mister Minato approved. “If there is any response required, we will make sure it is taken directly to Mister Holmes.” He indicated the door where Mister Banadaichi still lingered, his face set in severe lines. “It has been a difficult time for all of us, has it not?”
“Yes, that it has,” I said, aware that there had been other times that were as difficult during the previous year.
“Let us hope it will be over soon,” he said as we reached the door. He bowed to me, and, after a moment, so did Mister
Banadaichi. “Thank you for all you have done to advance the agreement.”
“And you,” I said, a bit puzzled by his odd affability. I put it up to Japanese customs, which were quite unfamiliar to me. I shook his hand, offered the same to Mister Banadaichi and was rebuffed, so I bowed to them both. “Until we meet again.” That was a safe farewell the world over.
“Dozo. Sayonara,” said Mister Minato, and closed the door on me.
I walked down Standish Mews pondering that exchange, and at the same time doing what I could not to put too much significance into my observations, for in such tense times, behavior could alter a great deal and have no particular importance. Still, I had the definite impression that I had discovered something crucial to the matter of Lord Brackenheath’s death, but I could not satisfy myself as to what it was. I nodded to the Swiss Captain and turned toward the service alley, where the cab was waiting. I lifted my hand to signal the jarvey, wishing I knew his name. I was a bit startled to realize I did not.
The man on the box did nothing.
Alarm spread through me, and I hastened toward the cab and only then noticed that the reins were tightly looped around the break to keep the sweating horse from bolting. The jarvey remained in his box, unnaturally erect.
Little as I wanted to, I reached up and tugged on the hem of his coat, already knowing what would come next.
He listed, and would have toppled from the box had I not sprung to the boot and held him in place. I smelled the blood before I saw it, and the terrible wound which had been concealed by his muffler until his head lolled back toward my shoulder.
“Lord,” I whispered, and forced myself to think so that I would not remain exposed for one instant longer than necessary.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
Mister Shotley has come again, and now M H is shut in his sitting room, the whole of his concentration fixed on what he has found in his perusal of the records provided. He has declared that only G or an emergency is to interrupt him. “For I have almost got it, Tyers,” he exclaimed after he had looked through the new material.
Edmund Sutton is feeling much more himself. He has asked for a copy of Coriolanus with the intention of learning the play while he is recovering. In a few more days he will want me to read it with him while he fixes the role in his head.
G should be back by now, though he is only ten minutes later than M H assumed he would return, and that is not significant at this time of day.
GATHERING MY WITS, I got myself into the driving box and, propping the corpse against my shoulder, I reached for the reins with the intention of moving the cab into the street. I had just released the brake and put the sweating horse in motion when a figure in a vast cloak and floppy-brimmed hat appeared beside the cab and grabbed for my trouser-leg.
Not again, I thought, and positioned myself to kick the dastard’s head.
The cloaked figure looked up, the rim of the hat falling back to reveal familiar features. “Get down from there!” whispered Miss Gatspy. “Now!”
I stared at her, wondering how she came to be here, and at the same time fearing that the jarvey’s untimely demise might be laid at her door. But why would she do such a thing? “What on earth?” I exclaimed.
“Guthrie!” she expostulated, “this is no time to . . . That man was sent to kill you and then to make it appear the Japanese had followed you and murdered you. He has one of those ritual daggers with him, the same kind that killed Lord Brackenheath. He would have used it before you reached the end of the block.” Her tugging became more emphatic. “He has some of his fellows on the street. You are not safe. They will try to—” She broke off as the crack of rifle fire cut through the rumble of traffic. The dead man lurched as the bullet thudded into him.
I had all I could do to hold the horse. Thoughts of Edmund Sutton’s wound came unbidden to my mind.
“Guthrie!” Miss Gatspy insisted. “Get down! Now!”
For an instant I had an inclination to take the time to bestow the dead man with some dignity, for I thought it callous to abandon him in the street. But then a second shot came, and the horse lost all patience and broke into an uneven canter that laid the jarvey out in the box. As we hurtled into the crush of traffic, I realized I could do nothing more that would not lead to greater danger. I scrambled out of the box, braced myself as best I could, and leaped free.
On landing, my ankle all but gave way, and I could tell it would once again mean using a cane for a few more days. I cursed myself and the shooter angrily, and was still condemning the world at large when Miss Gatspy hurried up to me, her arm raised imperiously to halt the clarence heading directly for me. She seized my arm and pulled me out of the road and into a doorway.
“What is going on?” I demanded.
“I told you,” she said with remarkable calm. “That man was sent to kill you and make it appear you were a second victim of Japanese treachery. He is part of the group who have dedicated themselves to ending all agreements between East and West.” She glanced over her shoulder, and then took a firm hold of my arm. “We can’t remain here. They will be looking for us directly.”
“To finish the job?” I ventured, then said, “The jarvey said Sid Hastings sent him. He knew my name and . . . he had a description.” An unwelcome notion intruded. “You don’t think that Sid Hastings—”
“Inspector FitzGerald’s men have just been to Sid Hastings’ house and discovered his daughter was being held captive by the same agents who ambushed you and Mister Holmes. They had promised to kill the child if Sid Hastings did not aid them.” She shook her head. “The poor man was beside himself.”
“Small wonder,” I said, and tried to imagine how I should feel in his situation.
“The men they caught talked. Boasted, in fact. They were certain that they had succeeded and that nothing could stop their agents now. They are precisely the sorts of fanatics the Brotherhood turns to its purpose, all but blind with their own purpose. But Mister Holmes thought there might be time enough to thwart their plans and save you. That is why I came after you, to keep them from reaching you. Had you delayed your departure by ten minutes, you would have learned of this as I did.” She quickly darted out from the doorway and hurried after a group of carters taking their leisure at the corner of the street. I followed after her as quickly as I could, my hands thrust deep in my coat-pockets in the hope of making it appear I carried a pistol.
We reached the corner of the street and I heard the sound of rifle fire again, but few others did—I must suppose it was because they were not listening for it. I half-expected to feel the lead tear into my body.
“This way,” ordered Miss Gatspy, and slipped down the alley twenty feet beyond the corner.
As I continued in her wake, the hairs on the back of my neck once again settled down. I had not realized until then that they had risen. I was not able to run, my ankle being too much put upon for that, but I did achieve a shambling sort of skip that allowed me to keep up with her. “You say these men confessed?” I asked, short of breath but filled with curiosity.
Her voice was low, but loud enough to carry to me. “According to FitzGerald they were eager to tell all they had done, congratulating themselves on their achievement. He said they showed no evidence of shame or remorse. They revealed their entire conspiracy, smug in the certainty that you would be killed and the Japanese implicated in your death. They were confident that they would be condemned for their role in all this, but they were satisfied to die if it would end England’s agreements with Oriental countries. In fact, Inspector FitzGerald reckons they want to be martyrs to their cause.” She moved along quite handily, the cloak flapping around her, hiding her sex and making her appear larger than she was.
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Are these the men Lord Brackenheath was consorting with?”
“Apparently so,” she said. “FitzGerald had not learned the whole from them, and Mister Holmes pines that they will cease to speak when they learn they have failed.”
We were at the junction of another alley. Both seemed equally dark and unpromising. Miss Gatspy indicated the backstairs of a three-story establishment, motioning me to sit there in the deepest shadows. “Come. Quickly. They are following us.”
I was not as certain of that as she, but I was glad of any excuse to recover myself somewhat. “As you wish.” I let myself be led away into the under-stairs hollow, behind the dustbins, to crouch there, trying to breathe through my mouth so my panting would not give me away, and so I would be less cognizant of the odors around us.
“Be very still,” Miss Gatspy whispered into my ear; I felt the brim of her hat brush my face. “These men are relentless in their pursuit.”
For an answer I nodded, and waited, while numerous questions burgeoned in my mind, not the least of which was—who of these men was responsible for the death of Lord Brackenheath, and why had they killed him, since he was part of their company? What made them willing to kill him? Perhaps they believed they needed a body to convince the English of Japanese perfidy. But if that were so, why should they need to kill me? Lord Brackenheath’s death was a far greater scandal than ever mine would be. Every time I thought I had it sorted out, I found out I had not.
About two or three minutes after we found our hiding place, I noticed a pair of men in dark, nondescript clothing coming along the alley in a cautious-but-lethal manner. I had had no inkling that they were so close. Both of them carried pistols. This observation did not offer any reassurance of safety, and I was relieved now that Miss Gatspy had been so particular in selecting our hiding place, however noisome.
“Here,” Miss Gatspy breathed, and I felt her slip a stiletto into my hand. Though I doubted it could do much against a pistol, I accepted it, certain that to have some weapon was better than having none.
Embassy Row Page 33
