Good Night, Mr. Holmes Part 7

"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-gla.s.s 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 m.u.f.f.

"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 m.u.f.fins 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 m.u.f.fins."

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 n.o.blewoman. 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 gla.s.s over the mantel.

I had meant to be sarcastic.

"Clever Nell," she said. "It is Carmen in contemporary street dress. Nothing like updating the cla.s.sics, 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 creme de la creme will I have any opportunity of unearthing the Zone of Diamonds."

"And this is how you attire yourself to go among the creme de la creme? My good father was well advised when he urged me to shun the theatrical."

"This is how I dress to hear when the creme 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 hobn.o.b 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 m.u.f.fins, 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 circ.u.mspect.

"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 blase pourer could not object to a debut at such a fas.h.i.+onable 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, Ches.h.i.+re 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.

I had no doubt on that score at all.

After that, Irene closeted herself in her room, sewing. I wondered what costume should emerge.

"Lillie Langtry has already used black," I reminded her, "and black is your best color, although that may seem a contradiction in terms."

"Never mind," her voice would sing out.

I could have intruded into her bedchamber during the days that followed and satisfied my curiosity, but was too proud to display it. On Friday she produced her plainest black bombazine gown, now accoutered with fresh white collar and cuffs, and held it against me.

"Most fetching in a sober-sided, Puritan sort of way," she p.r.o.nounced, and vanished again.

Sunday afternoon came round. I donned her adulterated gown along with a martyred air that came more readily and waited for Irene to reveal herself.

A rustle from her bedchamber made me turn. She emerged, clad from head to toe in white silk, but not the opposite of black, not pure and simple white. No, this gown had been festooned like a wedding cake in layers of tulle, lace and paste stones until Irene's figure glimmered like an opal.

"I believe," she said modestly as she accepted my gawking tribute, "that we must hire a hansom. I will let you off early. Remember, 27 Cheyne Walk. Do not be surprised by anything I might do, and when you see me, you must not recognize me."

"I will not-and do not," I commented rather acidly, and thus began my brief employment as a domestic servant.

Cheyne Walk was a fas.h.i.+onable street extending behind the Thames Embankment, valued for the river view it offered residents.

I walked to No. 27, having been duly put afoot several doors away, and went to the tradesmen's entrance, as behooved a servant. Here, much to my surprise, I was greeted as if a guest and a welcome one at that.

"I've come to pour," I announced to the harried cook garnis.h.i.+ng platters of tidbits.

"You must be Huxleigh, the parson's daughter!" she hallooed as though hailing the Second Coming. "Saints be praised! Mrs. Stoker will be relieved to see you."

"I don't know how my arrival can relieve our distinguished hostess," I began modestly.

'Tut, tut," the buxom cook hushed me. "Amy!" she called to a maid. "Tell the Missus that Miss Huxleigh's here, and in good time, too. What a jewel," she concluded, pinching my cheeks until they burned.

A pretty, rather cool-mannered woman rustled in shortly after, her taffeta train sweeping the kitchen stones.

"You've come to pour-Miss Huxleigh, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank G.o.d! Is there anything you require?" she asked, her pale hands wringing prettily with all their rings a-winking.

"Only a seat and the proper equipment."

The lady laughed. "You must think us mad. But the maid who poured last Sunday cast a cupful of hot tea over Mr. Whistler's hand. Such an uproar! Think what symphonies in pigment have not been fas.h.i.+oned this week because of it. Come, I'll show you the table."

She pivoted sharply so her train would properly follow and led me upstairs into a handsome drawing room where an even handsomer silver service stood guard over snowy linen and a regiment of empty cups and saucers.

"Irene-Miss Adler, that is-explained that you have the steadiest hand in London, having poured for a Shrops.h.i.+re parson, and we do know how clumsy country gentry can be." Mrs. Stoker beamed happily while I ensconced myself behind the white linen and a.s.sumed my most competent demeanor. "Is there anything you require, my dear?"

"Nothing at all, save that the samovar be kept filled and hot."

"Oh, the maid can manage that. It's the handling of the china and its contents that are needed."

She pivoted and fluttered off as a towering, red-bearded gentleman paused in the archway, leaving me to regard an empty room.

It was not to remain so. As the clock struck three guests began to arrive. I had never seen such an a.s.sortment in my life. Each seemed to have stepped from some garish theatrical poster. I sat among these milling strangers, dispensing tea as I had been taught, my only words a dulcet "Milk?"... a tart "Lemon?" ... and a simpering "Sugar?"