“But, Irene, Quentin Stanhope lived here, according to your investigation. Quentin Stanhope—and cobras, assassins? I cannot credit it. It makes no sense. This cannot be the same man I knew in London, though I barely knew him.”
She looked at me, all insouciance fled, and nodded grim agreement as she replaced the revolver in her reticule and drew the strings securely shut. “I know, Nell. I know.”
Chapter Fourteen
SLEEPING SNAKES LIE
“If our main objective, Irene, is to find Mr. Stanhope—and I am not at all sure that it should be—then why are we rattling across the cobblestones of Paris en route to a soiree chez Sarah?” I inquired with what I thought was admirable restraint.
“Because,” Irene answered imperiously, “I wish to meet the Empress of All the Russias.”
“Truly?” returned I. “From your costume, I had concluded that you were intending to play the Empress of All the Russias.”
“That she could.” Godfrey’s smile looked doubly dazzling under the dark portcullis of his mustache. He eyed his wife with an approval I couldn’t fault, for Irene did indeed look fit to hobnob with an empress, if not to be one herself.
“I have renounced thrones for more interesting pursuits,” she said, unfurling her gauze and ostrich-feather fan rather theatrically. Her evening jacket was a transparent affair of black lace and jet that glittered like fairy netting in the soft light from the carriage lamps.
“For the time being,” she added wickedly. “Besides, I am most curious to know why the Empress of All the Russias acquired such a sudden desire to meet me that she would break long custom and deign to visit Sarah’s salon.”
“We know why,” I put in. “The Czar is fond of opera. No doubt he has heard of your private concert in Monaco— Sherlock Holmes himself warned you then that you had become too public for one supposedly dead—and recommended you to his wife.”
Godfrey’s smile had grown dubious, perhaps at mention of Sherlock Holmes. “And for this the Czarina violates her customary refusal to mingle with commoners and begs an invitation to one of Sarah Bernhardt’s notoriously Bohemian soirées? No, Nell. Irene is right. Something more lies behind this invitation.”
“I am always right, except when I am wrong.” Irene regarded me closely. “Why are you so reluctant to visit the boulevard Pereire again, Nell? You know that Sarah is especially fond of you, and, more importantly, all the men in Paris eventually turn up at Sarah’s,” she added with a particularly sly smile.
“I rather doubt that! Even the Divine Sarah’s appetite for novelty must have limits. And the woman barely knows me! How can she be so ‘fond’ of me for so little reason? It is most illogical, even perverse of her.”
“Are you saying, Nell,” Godfrey said with lawyerly patience and a hint of laughter in his voice, “that to like you one would have to be perverse?”
“I am saying that... That Woman persists in paying me more attention than I welcome. And after our adventure in Montmartre today, I am not excessively enthusiastic about encountering any more... serpents.”
“Not even poor little Oscar?” Irene asked.
“Not even Oscar,” I answered. “And I resent that actress treating me as another exhibit in her menagerie.”
“Sarah means nothing by it, Nell. She merely finds you fascinating. She can never resist the exotic, even when it is so merely domestic.”
“I am not fascinating! I am not adventuresome. I am English.”
Too late I saw the corner into which I had painted myself and my entire race. Luckily, my two friends had amused themselves sufficiently at my discomfiture and did not press their advantage.
So Godfrey joined us at last in passing under the engraved S.B. over the door. From the murmur and clink emanating from our hostess’s salon, other guests had already arrived. A manservant took Irene’s lacy jacket and my fitted black silk jacket with the ruffle of black lace under its wide reveres.
“Why, Nell, you look quite empress-worthy yourself tonight.” Godfrey turned me like a top by the shoulders. “I could not see by the dim hall light of the cottage how splendidly you were gowned.”
I flushed, as I always did when a gentleman noticed my attire, which was a bit excessive this evening: Nile-green China crape sashed with black watered silk. A rosy epaulet of flowers decorated my left shoulder and more roses perched at the top right of my coiffure, a most pleasing and subtle touch, Irene assured me.
“Opposing sides, my dear Nell,” she had said while torturing my hair into ringlets with her curling iron. “Flowers or jewelry best play off each other when mounted on opposing sides. It is a question of balance.”
“So are my slippers,” I had complained then, for her own Nile-green shoes and stockings clad my feet. The two-inch heels were more than I was accustomed to, especially if I was to curtsy to an empress.
I still was uncertain that the lily of the valley scent she had sprinkled liberally on me had overcome the lingering singed odor of the curling iron. It did not matter. The Bernhardt rooms sprouted heavy aromas the way they did tropical blooms and exotic wildlife.
The first trophy I glimpsed in the salon ahead was the brown bearskin rug that had nearly devoured me on my first visit. The huge, ferocious head confronted all guests with glassy staring eyes the size of monocles, and bared fangs set in massive jaws a full foot apart. One misstep into the maw of this mighty floor covering, and Irene’s silken Nile-green stockings would be reduced to threads.
“It does pose a problem for trains,” Irene murmured, having followed the, ah, train of my unspoken thoughts. “Luckily, neither of us is wearing one.”
She bearded the bear first, sweeping ahead of the ever-courtly Godfrey and my ever-reluctant self. Into this hothouse of Oriental decadence Irene wore an insouciant gown of Rose Dubarry, the skirt and bodice draped with pink tulle dotted with black velvet and touched at the shoulders, décolletage, waist and bustle with black velvet bows tipped in gold.
The Tiffany necklace of diamonds mounted between opposing rows of pearls circled her neck, and affixed to it was the Tiffany pin Godfrey had given her: the diamond-studded clef and key device, signifying her twin interests of music and mystery. This was Irene’s commoner coat of arms, signifying an aristocracy of wit and talent that no amount of blue blood could contest.
Her dark hair was banded by a narrow fillet of gold over the forehead. A high panache of pink ostrich tips vibrated above her topknot like an amusing crown. Long flesh-pink gloves of undressed kid gave her arms a scandalously unattired look.
She stepped over the snarling bear head in this most dainty of costumes, pink silk slippers with black velvet bows on the toes mincing expertly around the fearsome impediment.
Irene’s entrance was not unobserved by the two dozen guests present, although some were no doubt expecting the Empress. Men in formal black-and-white stood interspersed among a glittering flower bed of pastel evening gowns. Heads turned and lifted, cigarettes paused midway to mouths, conversation faded as Irene became the focus of all eyes. In the hush, I found my gaze focusing on a regal blonde woman opposite us. This commanding creature, as statuesque as a Greek goddess, wore a violet taffeta gown so lavishly encrusted with turquoise, copper and silver beadwork that it formed a rich, Oriental carapace. I wondered if she would crackle when she walked.
For a startled moment, I thought we faced the Empress of All the Russias and fought a mad impulse to curtsy. Then the guests’ chatter resumed and their ranks closed, removing this savagely attractive figure from view. Her presence had not escaped Godfrey’s notice.
“I know,” he bent to confide as he followed me into that crowded chamber of crimson walls and caged birds where scent and smoke mingled into a heady fog, “that you will record every exotic detail of this evening in your diary, including Irene’s ensemble. Do you ever report my mode of dress?”
“Well... not often. It is not so interesting.”
“Thank you.”
I belatedly eyed him
. He looked handsome enough to be a play actor, as usual, the severe black-and-white of evening dress emphasizing his almost-black hair and pale silver eyes. Had he not been my employer, and now my dearest friend’s husband, of course, I might once have cherished illusions on his account. But to record the details of his attire—
“I am sorry, Godfrey, but this is a restrained age. Men dress as they should: with little vanity or display, in unchanging style. You will forgive me if I speak plainly. Men are judged more for what they do than for what they wear.”
“Yet I had to don a horsehair wig and antiquated robes to practice law,” he mused with a glint in his eye. “It seems that when men do really serious things, such as wage war, they must resort to silly attire. And consider that models of uniform dress, like our former military man Stanhope, often adopt the exotic, free-flowing wardrobe of the East. It speaks of male dissatisfaction with dull tailoring. Perhaps you could note that observation in your diary.”
“Perhaps,” said I, making no promises. My diaries were one area in which I was the final judge and arbiter, a deity unto myself on a modest and private scale.
We had maneuvered around the bear and past a buffet table laden with the usual (and often inedible) excesses of French cuisine and spirits. This cornucopia of the unappetizing was implemented with such barbaric fare as raw oysters and mounds of Russian caviar shining like beady black little serpent eyes.
We next confronted the richly carpeted dais upon which our hostess reclined on her famous divan, in a loose gown of Chinese brocade with a great billowing train of heavy smoke-blue velvet. None of the windows were open, for Sarah’s multitude of wild pets might escape, so the atmosphere was warm and soporific.
Madame Sarah herself wielded a massive peach-colored ostrich fan which clashed violently with her masses of red-gold hair. It nearly made me sneeze to look at her, though I did not dare, for fear I should undo my coiffure.
She saw us immediately.
“Irene!” Kisses cheek to cheek, Irene’s delicate ostrich headdress almost colliding with a sweep of Sarah’s intimidating fan.
“My adorable Godfrey!” A kiss (his) on the hand; a kiss (hers) blown over the trembling horizon of the fan.
“And the amusing Miss Uxleigh!” A nod (mine) and a playful, admonishing finger-wagging (hers). “But where is your vanished gentleman?”
“On canvas,” I replied.
She turned immediately to Irene with a shocked expression. “He is one of these brutal pugilists?”
Irene smiled. “Nell means that she has only a painted portrait to remember him by.”
The Divan One turned to me with a conspiratory look. “Sometimes I think that this is the ideal place for men—in oils, preferably burning.” She examined my attire with mercurial speed. “But you look ravishing, my dear Miss Uxleigh, in green. Nile green like a queen. You require an asp for the evening. If I can find Oscar you may carry him for the night—”
She began uprooting brocaded pillows, and I am sorry to say that something long and sinuous stirred amid the patterned cloths. I felt a sudden panic.
“Let sleeping snakes lie,” Irene urged. “Our poor Nell had a rather upsetting encounter with a reptile today.”
“Upsetting? Snakes are the soul of tact. Where is the naughty serpent that has upset my adorable Miss Uxleigh? I shall tie it in a knot until it promises to be good.”
“I am afraid that I cannot produce it,” Irene admitted. “I was forced to shoot it.”
“So sad,” Sarah hissed sympathetically. (Lest any suppose me so prejudiced against the actress that I exaggerate, I must stress that the French word for “sad” is triste, and Sarah lisped it, thusly: trisssste.) The actress made sure that all eyes in the salon were fixed on her before speaking further. “I also was forced to shoot a snake. Otto was eating my sofa cushions. He went quite berserk.”
“This snake did not have a name that we know of,” Irene said, “other than cobra.”
The Divine Sarah sat up amid her cushions.
“A cobra? You shot a venomous snake? Otto was merely a boa constrictor; like most men, he was not dangerous unless one wished to embrace him. But a cobra—again you amaze me, my enterprising Irene. I salute your marksmanship. A cobra is a much smaller target than a boa.”
She pointed to a lengthy pair of loudly patterned serpents as thick as top hats that coiled decoratively around an ironwork torchère and a potted tree.
“The room was dark,” I added.
Sarah fanned herself in agitation. “And in the dark! Even more astounding.”
“Not really,” commented a new voice in impeccable French. “I imagine the lady aimed for the hood, which would be fully fanned if the snake were raised to strike. The head is the only place to shoot a snake.”
We turned to face a gentleman in evening dress. For all his refined garb and perfect French, I should not have judged him a gentleman in the oldest sense of the word. I have never regarded a pair of blue eyes that seemed colder. Despite his fifty or more years, his features were energetic, with a jaw so powerful I was immediately reminded of the bear at our feet.
His white hair had receded from his brow, but baldness did not make him a figure of fun. Rather, it stripped away all softening influences from those pugnacious features, and seemed an affront rather than an accident of nature. His baldness resembled the tonsured sleekness of a fanatical monk.
I’m not often aware of men as men, but this one struck me as wielding an innate power over his fellow creatures, as if he were a law unto himself. His effect on the others was as potent. Irene had not changed outwardly, but I saw that she had gathered her most incisive instincts about her like a cloak. She radiated an air of instantly rising to the occasion, like a hunter who, stalking dangerous prey, suddenly finds it before her eyes.
Godfrey was no less wary, although one who did not know him would not see that fact. His expression grew noncommittal, guarded. He, too, was concentrating all his faculties on this stranger.
“My dear Captain Morgan!” Sarah actually rose, her gown coiling around her in folds of taffeta and velvet, and advanced—rustling in a way that set my teeth on edge—down the dais steps to offer her hand.
Captain Morgan bowed over it like a Bohemian princeling, which breed I have observed, in a stiff salute, though the kiss was perfunctorily proper. Certain recent events had made me newly aware of the nuances that may be hidden in a kiss.
“What have you brought me?” the Shameless Sarah purred deep in her throat.
“If Madame wishes me to present it in the presence of her guests...” He clapped his hands.
Two turbaned servants, their faces the color of cafe au lait, came bearing a great furry bundle over the prone bearskin on the floor.
“This is... magnificent!” Sarah exclaimed when the men knelt to unfurl the bundle at her feet, a mammoth pelt. The three of us edged back to avoid the tide of white fur lapping at our shoe tips. “Extraordinary!”
“No more than the mistress of the world stage deserves,” Captain Morgan said grandly.
As the bearskin foamed over his feet I noticed that he wore black boots with his evening dress—polished to obsidian sheen, but boots, not shoes! I was beginning to revise my notions on the unimportance of men’s dress. Certainly this man’s boots spoke of a disregard for civilized niceties.
The huge white pelt ended in a head larger than that of the brown bear, with even sharper teeth. We all gazed speechlessly at this incredible hide.
“I shot it once,” the captain boasted idly. “Through the eye, so the skin should bear no mark. Of course a glass eye now covers the bullet hole.”
“How clever of you,” Sarah said. “But where—?”
Captain Morgan altered his face in a way that might have suggested a smile to the undiscriminating, revealing teeth as yellow and prominent as his massive prey’s more pointed armament.
“As you know, I hunt the brown bears in Russia. In the northern reaches of that land, where the gla
ciers creep south toward the tents of man’s farthest-flung outposts, the great polar bear rules, virtually invisible against an endless carpet of ice and snow. They call the place Siberia. I donned the hide of a seal, skin-side out, so I wore the bone color of that icy wasteland to stalk these great white bears.”
“You took more than one?” Irene asked quickly.
Captain Morgan bowed his bald head in mock-humble pride. “The Czar permits my Russian hunting expeditions; I am privileged to reward my host.” He turned to Madame Sarah. “This is the only polar bear pelt I have brought further than St. Petersburg.”
“You will be outrageously rewarded,” she promised with a happy pout, “much to the displeasure of my manager, Herr Heine. This is too wonderful to resist. Lay it upon my divan.” The turbaned servants understood French, for they instantly bent to lift the heavy bearskin into place. There it lay in barbaric splendor. Sarah reclined upon it in calculated inches, finally pushing her hands into the thick fur to the wrists.
“To think that I will be honored in the same night with the presence of the Empress of Russia and the emperor of polar bears. You are a peerless hunter, Captain. I quite quiver for your prey.”
He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “And so you should, Madame.”
He withdrew to our side as Sarah’s other guests came to examine her prize, then turned to Irene. “I would be interested in your cobra skin—Madame, is it?”
“It is,” Godfrey answered in French so blandly that the man whirled as if confronted by an enemy from ambush. He was a good judge of character, that hunter, for I have never known Godfrey to be so dangerous as when he is quiet.
“Monsieur—?” the captain began, seeking his identity.
“Godfrey Norton,” Godfrey said sharply in English.
The captain’s strong jaws snapped shut, as if he had been struck an invisible blow. Then the fierce blue eyes narrowed and focused on me. “And Mrs. Norton—?” he asked in a perfectly proper British voice.
“Mrs. Norton is the lady behind you,” Irene said in her impeccable French, “who shot the snake. This is Miss Huxleigh, our friend.”
A Soul of Steel (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) Page 14
