Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  We watched the men advance, both of us taut with anticipation of a fight, both of us hoping the men would pass us by and leave us undetected. What troubled me now was the fear that this might be a blind alley, so that the men would have to come back this way in order to continue their search, which would double our risk and increase the likelihood of discovery. I would have said as much to Miss Gatspy, but even so little sound was fraught with hazard. I contented myself with securing her hand in mine and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

  The nearer of the two said something to his fellow in a language I did not recognize, but I suspected must be Czech or Hungarian, given the nature of the sound of it, and the spiky endings to words. It was neither Polish nor Russian, for I knew those tongues when I heard them. The second man gave an abrupt answer; by the way he delivered it, he was ordering his companion to be silent.

  At the far end of the alley there was the sound of a closing door. Both men swung toward it, and one of them laughed.

  Seconds went by with the slowness of glaciers moving. It would have pleased me to scream or swear or protest this situation in some more drastic way. As it was, I distracted myself by counting my heartbeats, and memorizing the characteristics of Miss Gatspy’s hand in mine.

  At last the two men moved away from our hiding place, continuing down the alley toward the next alley, which I trusted led back to the street.

  “Keep low,” Miss Gatspy advised under her breath as she peered out from our hiding place. “We will try to make it through to the Brompton Road. I doubt they will be able to pursue us in so busy a thoroughfare.”

  “Or so we pray,” I added for her as much as for myself. Then, keeping low and moving quickly, we rushed out of our hiding place and down the alley. I hated the dragging of my foot, afraid it would be loud enough to bring the two men down upon us again.

  To my astonishment we reached the street without mishap. I did what I could to neaten my appearance, and then stepped from the kerb to signal a cab while Miss Gatspy kept watch for our enemies. My first two attempts to halt a cab failed, but the third proved successful.

  The ancient jarvey handled the ribbons expertly, drawing up smartly and opening the panel with the butt-end of his whip. He almost balked when he saw Miss Gatspy rush up to join me, but shrugged as I tossed him a shilling. As we climbed in, the two men we had seen in the alley rounded the end of the street, and with a cry hurried after us.

  “White slavers,” I explained mendaciously to the jarvey. “I’ve only just released my cousin from their clutches. We must escape them.”

  “White slavers! And in the Brompton Road,” said the jarvey with utter condemnation as he put his vehicle in motion, directing his horse into the stream of traffic with the ease of decades of practice. “Fine thing it is, when white slavers can kidnap English girls off the street!”

  Behind us the men made a futile attempt to reach the cab, but were shortly left behind.

  “And where are you going?” asked the jarvey when he was satisfied the two men were lost behind us. “Just name the train station, and you’re safely out of London before they know you’re gone.”

  “We have friends in town.” I gave him the number of Mycroft Holmes’ flat in Pall Mall.

  “Friends indeed,” said the jarvey with an appreciative whistle. “Pall Mall friends. Those white slavers had best look to their futures in the lockup.”

  “Amen to that,” I said, and leaned back against the squabs, my bones feeling fragile after the heady rush of excitement that had filled the last half hour.

  “Thank you, Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy,

  “I rather think the shoe is more on the other foot,” I responded at once. “It strikes me that I have the greater debt.” My emotion was sincere, though I did not like the suspicion that filled me, that the driver of the cab I had found with his throat cut had been dispatched by Miss Gatspy herself.

  “Nonsense, Guthrie,” she said in a rallying manner, but with an underlying sternness. “I was doing nothing more than what I am trained to do, what I am sworn to do. You, on the other hand, have been willing to adapt your needs to mine without any preparation, and with nothing more than your senses to go on.” She frowned as she looked out into the street. “I am sorry that it has all been so . . . hectic. First the attempt on Sutton and now the one on you.”

  “But neither succeeded,” I pointed out, taking more satisfaction in saying this than perhaps was wise.

  “Both came too close, if you ask me,” said Miss Gatspy, and her frown deepened. “I don’t know what I shall do if those men are not apprehended. They represent a terrible threat to the peace in Europe. To have such dangerous assassins abroad in England . . .” She looked back as if worried that they might be behind us, preparing to renew their predation.

  “That’s as may be,” I said to her, wanting to reassure her, and myself, that we had got free of danger. Apparently my confidence was well-founded, for we arrived in Pall Mall without further ruction. I gave the jarvey an extra half-crown for his efforts, and he tipped his battered hat as he left Miss Gatspy and me standing before the entrance to Holmes’ building.

  “I will be grateful when all this is over,” Miss Gatspy said as we began our climb up the stairs. “Those men are frightening, even to me.”

  “They do seem unusually dedicated to their cause,” I agreed, wanting to match her sangfroid, and almost achieving my aim.

  “With the Brotherhood to aid them, as we of the Golden Lodge know they do, they are probably the most dangerous group in all of England and Europe at present. Your Mister Holmes must share my conviction.” She had put her arm through mine and I could feel her indignation as acutely as if she had grabbed me by the lapels.

  My leg was sore again by the time we reached Holmes’ door. I rang the bell in a spirited style, as much to hide my exhaustion as to summon Tyers with all due alacrity.

  “We have been expecting you this last twenty minutes,” said Tyers, unruffled as ever. “Inspector FitzGerald is expected to return momentarily.” He stood aside to admit us, and to take the cloak and hat Miss Gatspy held out to him.

  “Thank Mister Sutton for me,” she said with a dazzling smile. “I should have never been able to manage without it.”

  Tyers only nodded. “Mister Holmes is in the sitting room,” he said, bowing slightly in that direction. “He has opened the port against your return. The Twenty-one.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, for Mycroft Holmes had an enviable cellar, and that vintage was one of his rarer treasures. I allowed Miss Gatspy to enter the room ahead of me, thinking as I did that I had enjoyed her company in spite of all we had endured together.

  Holmes was sitting in his preferred chair, his back to the large oaken table. I noticed that his secretary was standing open, and from this I surmised he had recently dispatched a letter or memo; I wondered to whom it might be. He smiled, his profound grey eyes glinting with what I believed to be satisfaction. “In buon’ punto, as the Italians say,” he greeted us. “And not a moment too soon. Good. Guthrie, dear boy, you appear to be limping again. I trust you have suffered no permanent injury?”

  “My ankle is troubling me a bit,” I conceded, making a show of testing it. “Nothing to mention.”

  “And Miss Gatspy. I am truly grateful for your timely concern on Guthrie’s behalf. I must suppose you prevented any misfortune?” He gestured to chairs as his way of inviting us to sit down.

  “I doubt the false jarvey thought so,” I remarked as I chose the more over-upholstered of the chairs.

  Holmes turned an inquiring glance in Miss Gatspy’s direction. His tone was light, but his eyes were serious. “Why is that?”

  She shrugged, but I saw that she was a little pale. “He had to be stopped. I attended to that.” She brushed at the front of her dress in an unconscious display of repugnance. “Luckily his coat absorbed most of the blood.”

  “Ah,” said Holmes with a nod. “Then you will be in need of this,” he went on as he
leaned forward toward the butler’s table where the decanter stood waiting, flanked by good crystal. He poured out a fair portion for Miss Gatspy and handed it to her. “Here. If you will permit us to have the first toast?”

  She accepted the glass and bowed her head. Her fair, rosy hair shone like the crown of an angel. “If that is your wish.”

  “Most certainly,” said Holmes, handing me my glass, and then taking care of his own. He held the port up to the light. “Marvelous color. I think you will find this quite worthwhile.” He offered his toast. “To Miss Gatspy. Without her, this whole case might have had a far less desirable conclusion.”

  I raised my glass in salute, and then Holmes and I drank. When we were done, Miss Gatspy took her first sip, and then said, “You speak as if you think the case is concluded.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Holmes. “I should think it is. Unless matters go sadly awry, Inspector FitzGerald should be bringing the principal culprit back here even as we speak.”

  “And who would that be?” I asked, thinking that more than one of the participants in the drama might qualify for such a position.

  “Why, Mister Jeremiah Hackett.” He looked startled. “I realize you have had much to do in the last few days, but since you are the one who put the crucial information in my hands, I was certain you knew—” He stopped. “I supposed you had the whole of it.” He had another taste of port. “Dear me.” He contemplated his port, twirling the stem of the glass between his thumb and fingers. “But then, you were not here when Inspector FitzGerald arrived, were you?”

  “No. But Miss Gatspy has told me some of what transpired.” I lifted my glass to him. “And you have managed once again to save the day.”

  “With your help, my dear Guthrie. Without you, I should not have been able to salvage the agreement.” Holmes dismissed my half-spoken protestation with a wave of his hand. “It should not have taken so long. I blame myself for the delay in finding out the whole.” He sipped his port. “When Jeremiah Hackett is brought here, we will learn the whole at last.”

  “Did he kill Lord Brackenheath?” I asked, still trying to piece together all I had learned in the last hour.

  “Good Lord, no,” said Holmes. “That was done by Mister Minato.” He scowled as he spoke. “And I fear he will answer for it.”

  “Mister Minato?” I repeated, and was gratified to see Miss Gatspy looking as stunned as I was.

  “Certainly,” Holmes said with a suggestion of sadness. “He discovered that Lord Brackenheath was to have smuggled out a copy of the agreement—I must suppose that Mister Hackett had made one—”

  “That he did,” I said, recalling the observation that the ink was wet and much reduced shortly before the ratifying of the agreement. “Or someone did.”

  “Hackett is the likely choice,” Holmes said, and went on, “Hackett must have passed the copy to Lord Brackenheath, who then planned to leave the reception for an hour or so. He planned to leave through the garden so his absence would not be missed. He was to have hidden the copy of the document in the upholstery at his house, the which his fellow-conspirators were to discover and to conceal with the appearance of burglary. But because Lord Brackenheath was killed before he could do this—and you may believe that the men sent to this task have excoriated Lord Brackenheath for allowing himself to be murdered—the document was not in place.”

  “But there was no such document found on the body,” I reminded him.

  “And we must thank Mister Minato for his foresight in removing it. He is a most astute young man, with a clear sense of duty.” He cocked his head. “You are wondering how I am certain it was Mister Minato, aren’t you?”

  “Well, Mister Banadaichi might also have done it,” I said, and saw Miss Gatspy nod in support of my remark.

  “But Mister Banadaichi was with me and Ambassador Tochigi in the Terrace Suite for more than half an hour before you found the body.” Mycroft Holmes did not have to say anything more; theirs was an impeccable alibi.

  Miss Gatspy had a sip of port, then said, “I suppose there is no reason to suspect Lajos Pecs, the Hungarian masquerading as a Grodno Hussar? Might not he have killed . . .” She stopped. “No. He was in the ballroom. I saw him.”

  “Yes. But he is not entirely blameless in this affair. He had arranged for the carriage to take Lord Brackenheath back to his town house, and to return him to the reception. He was also the one who arranged for Lord Brackenheath to be paid for his treason.” Holmes’ expression was severe. “I have had word from Yvgeny Tschersky that he has apprehended Pecs and will be holding him for the crime of imposture of a Russian officer. Franz Josef will be outraged, but he will not dare say anything, for that would expose Austro-Hungary’s role in all this.” He looked up as the doorbell sounded. “Ah, excellent. FitzGerald at last.”

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Mister Hackett has just been taken away in restraints, All but raving, declaring himself a patriot and a defender of England He would seem to be proud of all he did to bring the naval agreement with the Japanese to ruin. He insisted that his years living in the Orient made him aware of the danger they represented to the world.

  Inspector FitzGerald has agreed that the man is to be charged with his fellow conspirators, but that the Hungarian men sent to assist them are to be captured as quietly as possible and sent back to Vienna under armed guard, for to put them on trial would bring about a compromise of the Japano-English agreement that would render it useless.

  Miss Gatspy has assured M H that the Golden Lodge will render all the assistance they can in this endeavor, and M H has said he would welcome this assistance.

  Sutton is feeling well enough to join M H and G at dinner. Miss Gatspy has also been persuaded to remain, so it will be a celebratory occasion. I have put a rack of lamb to cook, and must now attend to the peas and onions.

  DRIZZLE MARRED THE morning as Ambassador Tochigi presented himself at Mycroft Holmes’ flat two days later. He furled his umbrella, handed it to Tyers, and bowed to Holmes, holding out a long, narrow box wrapped in elegant silk of a mottled, dark reddish-brown color. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, he said, “Mister Holmes, you are to be congratulated for your handling of this entire investigation.” He was in Occidental dress, his swallowtail coat correct to the most stringent demands, his waistcoat a dark-grey, his trousers black with the required stripe. His coat, which Tyers had offered to take, was of good Scottish wool, and tailored in Bond Street.

  The weather had made my ankle ache, and so I was a few paces behind Holmes as he went to greet the unexpected arrival.

  “Why, thank you for saying so, Ambassador,” said Holmes, indicating the door to his study with a thrust of his jaw. He held the box with both hands, not wanting to appear unmindful of the gift. “If you wish we may be private here.” He and I had just come from the sitting room where Holmes had been going over Inspector FitzGerald’s most recent arrest reports.

  I heard Edmund Sutton move about in the parlor, and hoped that he would not let his curiosity get the best of him. It would be unwise for the ambassador to meet him, no matter how much Sutton wanted to thank him for the kimono the ambassador had sent yesterday as a token of gratitude. It struck me forcibly that this visit could not be for the same purpose, and I had to suppress a qualm.

  “It will not be necessary. I have only a few matters to discharge, and I am not apprehensive about the reliability of your staff.” He indicated the package. “It was Minato’s wish that you be given that.” He bowed again. “I am told those responsible for the attempt to subvert the agreement have been detained.”

  “Most of them,” said Holmes. “All those in Mister Hackett’s organization have been taken in charge as of last night. There are fifteen in all, thirteen men and two women.” He said this with a confidence that surprised me, for when we had reviewed FitzGerald’s report not ten minutes since, he had expressed grave doubts as to whether all the culprits were in custody.

  “I will so in
form the Emperor. He will be most pleased to know that England is so willing to protect her agreements.” His face remained grave.

  “We are also investigating a few other groups of similar goals to the one Mister Hackett belonged to, in case Franz Josef has plans to turn them into Austro-Hungarian dupes,” said Holmes, his voice growing stern.

  “Very good. This will be welcome to the Emperor.” Again he bowed, and said, “It was a good death. His honor is restored.”

  A stricken expression crossed Holmes’ face. I could not fathom why, but he seemed truly appalled by this last remark. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly, and bowed, Japanese style, to the ambassador. “I am sorry it had to happen.”

  “Yes. Honor must be vindicated, no matter how unworthy the cause. A most inauspicious necessity.” With that he turned back abruptly to the door, his umbrella at the ready, and departed.

  Holmes continued to stare at the box in his hands.

  “Holmes,” I said, beginning to feel some consternation at the solemnity of his face. “What is it?”

  He shook his head once, and with an expression more dazed than thoughtful, he went into his study. A moment later, he called out, “Come here, Guthrie.”

  I made haste to join him, for I was increasingly troubled by his sudden change in demeanor. “What is it, sir? Shall I have Tyers fetch you—” Suddenly my afternoon engagement to take tea with Miss Gatspy, about which I had been half-thinking most of the morning, did not seem at all important. Whatever had caused Holmes such distress required my immediate and full attention.

  He held up his long hand. “No. I will do.” His voice, a low rumble at the best of times, became so deep it was nearly inaudible. “But keep me company; sit down while I open this.”

  The silk fell away, and I noticed that the color was mottled, like a large stain on white. I disliked the suspicion that was coming over me.