“At your service, Mr. Tiffany,” Irene said, extracting one hand from her muff to shake hands with him. “This is my secretary, Miss Huxleigh.”
Mr. Tiffany bristled a bit at her bold greeting, as I must admit did I. Yet Irene looked so charming in her blue brocade suit and bonnet with the cobalt ostrich feather dipping toward her dimpled cheek that we both forgave her at the same instant.
“I had not expected an American,” Mr. Tiffany said next. “Pray be seated, ladies. The hotel has set out a repast, as I am a busy man and must meet over the meal hours.”
“How delightful,” Irene commented, seating herself before a tea table burdened with delicacies and a porcelain teapot in the likeness of a well-fed rabbit. “Perhaps you would do the honors, Nell, while Mr. Tiffany and I discuss business.”
I accepted with alacrity. If I had mastered one duty of a parson’s daughter—and beautifully, I might add—it was the preparing, pouring and serving of tea.
The old gentleman flipped aside the skirt of his black frockcoat and settled a trifle uneasily in a wing-back chair.
“I must confess, Miss Adler,” he began with a frown, “that despite Pinkerton’s highest recommendations I remain hesitant to consign my matter into your hands. You are so young—”
“As were you when you founded your firm. Five-and-twenty years, was it not?”
The puckers at the bridge of Mr. Tiffany’s imposing Roman nose faded momentarily. “And the nature of my business is confidential, extremely so.”
“I keep confidences, extremely so. Miss Huxleigh is a parson’s daughter and the soul of discretion.”
“That may be. Yet there could be some... danger... involved.”
“Capital!” Irene accepted the first cup of tea I extended and beamed over its dainty lip at Mr. Tiffany. “If danger is involved, then the object of the assignment must be worth a great deal. What jewel is it?”
“I did not say the matter involved jewels.”
“You did not need to; your name alone makes that plain.”
“But I could be seeking aid in a personal matter—”
“You would not allow yourself to be forced to use an untried agent like myself for a truly personal matter, no matter the circumstances.”
“You are quick, Miss Adler, I’ll say that for you.”
“Then perhaps my wit will persuade you to reconsider hiring women clerks in your New York establishment, Mr. Tiffany”
The gentleman looked apoplectic for a moment, his color warming far more than my cup of milk-mild tea called for.
“My establishment presents an image of impeccable dignity, like a bank, Miss Adler. You also overlook the fact that Tiffany’s, among city stores on either side of the Atlantic, was the first to provide retiring rooms for women clients and their children. Women, no matter how charming in the parlor or the salon—”
“Or shop,” Irene interjected.
“Women clerks would... disrupt the surroundings,” Mr. Tiffany said in final tones.
“Yes, your gentlemen clerks do dress like a convening of undertakers,” Irene murmured into her tea cup.
“You have visited my Union Square establishment?”
“When I lived in America.” Irene smiled. “But only, like most passers-through, to gawk at its glories.”
“You are a forward young woman! I half think you mock me. Perhaps these very qualities are required to do what I propose, though I admit myself still highly dubious of employing a woman for such a delicate task.”
“Which is?” Irene asked pointedly.
He glanced at me as if reassured by my plain English demeanor in the face of Irene’s full-blown confidence. His voice lowered.
“I seek not a single jewel, but a string of them.”
“Pearls!” I couldn’t help crying out. They both regarded me with pity and returned to their negotiations.
“Nothing so predictable,” Irene murmured to me.
Mr. Tiffany nodded and went on. “These gems are large, matched diamonds, linked one after the other until they circle a dainty waist—and then fall to the floor. You frown, Miss Adler. Do you by some chance recognize my quarry?”
Irene shook her head. “Not at all, but the setting sounds quite... antique.”
“If one considers the end of the last century antique—and at your tender age I imagine you do.”
“And the piece is lost?”
“Indeed.”
“Then if it were to be found, there would be none to claim it from the finder?”
“No.”
Irene smiled suddenly. “No. Any of her relations are entangled in years, lost records and court battles beyond redeeming by now.”
“ ‘Her’, Miss Adler?”
“The original owner of your missing belt, Mr. Tiffany: the late Queen Marie Antoinette of the late, antique French monarchy.”
“How—how did you know?” The old gentleman’s high color drained from his cheeks and nose.
“I did not know, I guessed, for you could not resist giving me a hint. A piece as valuable as you describe could only have belonged to a royal house; it is now fair game, so with the French crown jewels rumored to come on the auction block some day not too distant, interest would naturally revive in such a missing piece.”
“Egad, you are well informed for a humble avocational agent! I fear I underestimated you, young woman. Pinkerton’s said you were quick and clever, but I begin to think you would seek to outdo me at my own game and take my prize for yourself.”
“My knowledge springs from common sense, not secret information. I know nothing about your business, Mr. Tiffany, but I do know fashion. A belt of the type you describe could only belong to a queen, and a profligate one at that. As for the French crown jewels, I will never wear a stone from them, but cannot resist any rumor of them. Most women are highly intrigued by precious stones, but you long since have learned that from your business, no?”
“And should I trust such unnervingly precocious enterprise as you display?”
“Indubitably. Pinkerton’s has recommended me. If I find your treasure while acting in your interests, wild stallions could not persuade me to retain it.” :
Like Jefferson Hope not many days past, Charles Lewis Tiffany leaned forward and stared into Irene Adler’s magnificent dark-gold eyes. She accepted his regard with regal indifference, as cat-calm in the certainty of her integrity as Marie Antoinette must have been in her queenship.
“Very well.” Mr. Tiffany sounded winded, like a man who had just climbed a higher flight of stairs than he had anticipated. “The piece is called the Zone of Diamonds. It has not been seen since it vanished from the Paris Tuileries in 1848 as the Paris mobs overthrew Louis Philippe. Word is that it found its way to London. Later, in the upset of 1870, the Empress Eugenie fled with many of her jewels, and her confidant, Comte de Montglas, and took them to the Bank of England.”
“Surely we are not to wrest this wonder from such a peerless institution?”
“The Empress’s jewels are accounted for. I mention them merely to point out that imperiled French royalty have a historical habit of fleeing to England, and vice versa, which makes it even more likely that the Zone is in London. I’ve hired other inquiry agents to pursue it, but there is a subtler path that you may be ideally equipped to follow. A Wealthy collector may have been keeping the Zone for his anonymous pleasure. Chances are high that he cannot resist showing his prize to an impressionable female now and then—”
“An impressionable female not his wife,” Irene put in.
Mr. Tiffany nodded, relieved that she had spared him from outlining a sordid situation. “Very quick, Miss Adler. Since you are familiar with, the theatrical world—”
“Where such impressionable females are most often to be found...”
“Quite so. It was felt you would be well placed to make discreet inquiries. I could offer such a gentleman an attractive profit. Perhaps the joys of private ownership have palled by now.”
Ir
ene considered, sipping tea. “I must tell you honestly, Mr. Tiffany, that this avenue of inquiry is unlikely to lead to your Zone of Diamonds. Hiring me may be a waste of your money and my time.”
“I know it. But I am intent on leaving no possibility unexplored. It is true that a woman’s delicacy could best elicit the information I seek, but I also hesitate to submit a woman to such an indelicate business.”
“I perform indelicate businesses on the stage at every opportunity I am given, Mr. Tiffany, though I must admit my performing career wanes more than it waxes, which is why I undertake such assignments as yours.”
“Still, to set you prowling about the unseemly underbelly of society—”
(I, taking frantic notes, nodded vigorous agreement.)
“Nonsense, Mr. Tiffany! One who has sung grand opera knows the artistic underside of seemliness intimately. I will do my utmost to uncover your diamonds; all it will take is a bit of persuasion. As you know, women are well supplied with that quality, for is it not their persuasive power that feeds your business? How else did Miss Lillian Russell persuade Mr. Diamond Jim Brady to bestow a pair of garters in the shape of spiders with emerald bodies and diamond and ruby legs upon her not insignificant... person... only last year?”
“Again you are exceedingly well informed,” he conceded. “And you are yourself, if I may be so bold as to say so, Miss Adler, a terrifyingly persuasive example of your sex. How is it that you accept such assignments as mine when you could no doubt persuade some wealthy admirer to buy the Zone for yourself?”
“Because there is no satisfaction in buying anything, not even beauty, with other people’s money,” Irene said quickly. “Wealthy admirers are worth nothing if they are poor in honor—or seek that which is.” Irene stood, extending her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Tiffany, for your commission. I will be able to reach you at Morley’s until...?”
“The twenty-eighth. There is not much time.”
“I do not need time for such an endeavor; I need luck. Let us hope I have more of that quality than unhappy Marie Antoinette, who has lost not only her head, but apparently her best belt as well—a tragedy in the long history of attire.”
Mr. Tiffany laughed at her parting shot, extended a cheque and bowed us both out. I consulted my lapel watch outside the door; it was not even eleven o’clock, yet I felt as if I had lived through an entire day, and a long one at that
“How will you do it?” I demanded.
“Do what?” Irene was striding through the hotel lobby with the confidence of a long-time guest, though I could barely recognize where we had entered.
“Find this”—I lowered my voice—”missing object.”
“I will inquire after it in elevated theatrical circles.”
“You travel in no such circles.”
“I soon will.”
“How?”
She stopped beside the doors leading to the street. “How now, brown cow! We will resolve that as we go.”
“We?”
Irene held Mr. Tiffany’s cheque up to the daylight spilling through the leaded-glass panes. “Ah, generous. This will cover any expense and far beyond.”
“How?” I repeated.
Irene whisked out the doors. In the square, Charles the First sat on his horse in bronze splendor. A chill spring wind darted through the steed’s frozen legs and straight for us. I mulled beheaded monarchs, fabulous jewels, the spoils of war and revolution, honor, danger and death.
Irene paused to draw something from the dark reaches of her muff.
“What is that?” I demanded, though I would not have been surprised had she extracted Miss Lillian Russell’s ghastly arachnid diamond garters. The object was even worse. “Oh, Irene, you didn’t? Not Mr. Tiffany’s crumpets!”
“And his scones and muffins as well!”
“How?” I wailed.
“While you were busy taking notes and he was busy speaking. People seldom watch one when they speak, have you ever noticed that, only at the beginning and end? Mr. Tiffany spoke a great deal.”
“Oh, Irene, what about your vaunted honor?”
“Honor is too grand to extend to such trivia as teacakes. Besides, we must eat until I accomplish Mr. Tiffany’s commission and these are the tastiest pastries I’ve ever had. I couldn’t bear to leave them and neither of us had time to consume much—”
“No, I was rather occupied with taking notes.”
“So... I took muffins.”
I looked at her. She looked at me. Morley’s teacakes were sublime ... I laughed first, but Irene laughed longest.
Chapter Six
A WALK ON THE WILDE SIDE
Part of the money Mr. Tiffany advanced paid my tuition at a typing academy, on Irene’s insistence. I’d fastened on the notion of taking such instruction as a surer means of earning my living than the genteel occupation of governess.
I did not relish doing daily battle with the black beast whose stiff keys required me to acquire the dexterity of a pianist while converting spidery copperplate texts into neat, printed letters. However, as my skills improved I came to take satisfaction in making the contrary machine perform to my demands.
While I was occupied in the hard-fingered pursuit of knowledge, Irene disappeared from our lodgings for long hours and in varied garbs. One day she looked to be a charwoman, the next an exotic foreign noblewoman. I never knew when I glanced up from my “study” chair what figure should appear before me.
“Is it Carmen?” I asked one afternoon. Irene, her hair intermarried with rats and false pieces until an architecture of ebony obscured her natural chestnut shade, had paused to study herself in the cracked glass over the mantel.
I had meant to be sarcastic.
“Clever Nell,” she said. “It is Carmen in contemporary street dress. Nothing like updating the classics, eh? Well, do I look the part of a disreputable actress past her first bloom?”
“Well into her petal-shedding phase, I should say.” I took in rouged cheeks and soot-blackened lashes. “Is it safe to go out so attired?”
“Safe, yes. I have combed the theatres, taking care to disguise myself so that I am not recognized, and it has become clear that only among the crème de la crème will I have any opportunity of unearthing the Zone of Diamonds.”
“And this is how you attire yourself to go among the crème de la crème? My good father was well advised when he urged me to shun the theatrical.”
“This is how I dress to hear when the crème decide to meet and make clotted cream. No one knows better when the best social events are to take place than those never likely to be invited. I hobnob with the chorus and the supers these days.”
“Supers?”
“Supernumeraries. Those poor souls paid a sixpence to speak no lines and provide a background presence— spear-carriers and vestal virgins, the unsung legions upon whose mute service modern operas and plays depend to achieve their glorious voices... Well?”
“You look dreadful, Irene, if that is what you are asking.”
She glowed as if gifted with high praise.
“One more foray, dear friend, and I shall be ready to mount my true attack. You must help me.”
“I will do all I can—if it is not dishonorable.”
“No more dishonorable than muffins, I promise,” Irene said gaily. “And much more fun.”
With that she slipped out the door.
In time, I would come to recognize this phase of Irene’s investigations as the emotional peak from which she launched the dangerous execution of her schemes. Her mood invariably soared as she neared the moment of truth—would her plan prove itself or not? Perhaps, like a soldier, she welcomed the thought of action—however perilous—over the dull daily minutiae of preparation. Perhaps she simply enjoyed her charade of costumes and relished performing the final act of her self-written drama.
At any rate, she returned home flushed beyond the offices of her rouge and told me that evening what she required of me. Uncustomarily, her approach was
circumspect.
“You pour tea divinely, good divine’s daughter that you are,” Irene began complimentarily.
“My father was a humble country parson, not a ‘divine.’ But I do pour well.”
“Then that is all you need do. I have obtained you a position.”
“A position? Typing?”
“No, pouring!”
“Pouring?”
“At Mrs. Abraham Stoker’s Sunday salon in Cheyne Walk. Surely even the most blasé pourer could not object to a debut at such a fashionable address, very near the street of Carlyle et cetera.”
“I don’t care if... if Oliver Cromwell had lived there! I cannot go anywhere under false pretenses. I am not a maid.”
“But you do pour beautifully.”
“That, yes. But—”
“If you do not go, I shall have to carry on alone.”
“When have you not?”
“Oh,” said Irene, leaving her chair to kneel beside mine and turn her most plaintive expression on me, “I admit I was foolish. I was... so counting on your part in my plan. Perhaps I have misjudged—”
“Yes, you have. I will not go among strangers pretending to be other than I am.”
“But you need only be yourself, and pour beautifully. Everyone will be there—Ellen Terry, Henry Irving, Jimmie Whistler, Oscar Wilde.”
“Oscar Wilde! He is... abominable.”
“Yes, and he will be present, with long hair and a lily, I’m sure. And”—Irene paused as an expression I can only describe as diabolical touched her angelic features—”and also, I believe, Mrs. Edward Langtry. Lillie Langtry.”
“Why would I wish to see an immoral woman like that?”
“I have no idea, dear Nell, but I do believe you do.” She sat back on her heels and waited, Cheshire Cat-complacent.
“Oh, very well. My head is aching from studying the keyboard positions, at any rate.” I set the textbook aside. “In what role will you be?”
“Darling Nell, I knew you would do it!” Irene was not demonstrative, but she actually embraced me, I began to regret my rash commitment, but I knew not how to retract it. “It will be a rare evening, believe me,” she promised.
Good Night, Mr. Holmes (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) Page 7
