“The man with the monocle.”
“I thought the Rothschild agent wore tinted glasses,” said she.
“He did. There was another man,” said I.
“There always is. Well, whoever... he has made off with the false king, and the fellow still lives, for what it is worth.”
“Irene, don’t you care? And why are you so certain that the British Foreign Office is involved in this affair?”
“Oh, I have contacts—” She powdered her face again, forcing me to close my eyes, a situation all too common between us.
“You are not in secret communication with Sherlock Holmes?” I asked suspiciously when I dared look around again.
“Certainly not! Though an instinct tells me that he was pleased to net the false king, I am sure that he has no idea that I am the one who permitted this to happen.”
I was not so sure, but was not about to say so. “Who was the false king? And why—how—did he bear such an amazing resemblance to King Willie?”
I finally had come up with a query worthy of Irene’s lowering her powder puff.
“A splendid question, Nell.” She eyed me humorously in the mirror. “You have heard that the Czar of Russia, Alexander the Third, is a massive man some six-feet-six-inches tall, like the King of Bohemia?”
“Yes, of course; he is the husband of that petite little woman, the Empress Maria Feodorovna.”
“He is also the father of more than the royal heirs and their sisters.”
“You know that I do not understand these veiled references, Irene. You must make your meaning plain.”
“Very well; you asked for it. The false king of Bohemia was Willie’s very image because he is related to Willie, who is related to the Russian royal house. He is a by-blow of Czar Alexander.”
“By-blow? What an odd expression.”
“Not if one moves in royal circles.” Irene set down her puff and eyed me frankly through the medium of her mirror. “This is one of the rare times when I can assert with utter propriety, Nell, that the substitute was a bastard. A quite genuine bastard,” she intoned with shocking relish, almost as if she were calling the true King of Bohemia by this shocking epithet.
“His given name is Rudolf Some-thing-Russian. Rudolf! Doesn’t it sound like he escaped from the cast list of a Viennese operetta? Too delicious! This escapade ranks among my most intriguing, but I am glad to bow out of the denouement. Politics are so... fatiguing. No doubt Mr. Holmes and his Foreign Office cohorts are extracting reams of boring information about the Czar’s plans of empire from poor, betrayed Rudolf even now.”
“I cannot imagine why you believe that you know so much of Mr. Holmes’s movements.”
Irene waved her arms in that carelessly encompassing manner that only a mistress of the stage can master. “I am an artist, Nell. I use my imagination. I highly recommend the exercise,” she added pointedly.
I sat back on the little metal chair provided for guests, who were not expected to linger long. “Things have worked out quite to your advantage.”
“Yes, they have,” she answered with perfect satisfaction. “The Queen is delighted by her new obsequious King.”
“So she should be.”
A flicker of regret crossed Irene’s face. “I never thought of imprisoning Willie for a few months to make him malleable. There is where the fair Tatyana outdoes me.”
“She didn’t mean to make the King humble, but merely kept him alive as a leash on his duplicate, which she badly needed with the man so prone to jealousy.”
“How astute of you, Nell. I wondered why they didn’t simply kill Willie from the first.” She turned from her mirror with a surge of enthusiasm. “What an operetta the affair would make! It has everything—duplicate kings, a heartbroken queen, a jealous mistress, a duel, an interlude in a graveyard, foreign intrigue, and a famous detective.”
“Is the last element you refer to Sherlock Holmes—or yourself?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “He may get credit for the capture of the dupe, but I resurrected the real King, which is what enabled Mr. Holmes to snag the substitute.”
“You will get no more public acknowledgment of that than you got when you got solved the murder of Willie’s father,” I warned her.
She allowed herself to pout, merely because the expression sat so well on her. “The kingdom of Bohemia is an utter ingrate, Nell, as kingdoms go. But, then, the brilliant in any field are all too often neglected.”
“Taking home a king’s ransom in undiscovered Old Masters is hardly neglect, Irene.”
She shrugged. “They would have languished here, forgotten, as they have been for centuries already. By the way, I must commend you for your self-control in refraining from blurting out that the paintings I requested were more than they seemed. I believe that you are making tremendous strides toward a practical view of the world.”
“Toward larceny, you mean! At least you arranged for the release of that put-upon maid, though she was a murderer.”
Irene smiled and applied the rouged white rabbit’s foot to her cheeks. “Yes. I am quite content about that. Even murderers deserve the opportunity of a public hearing. And Willie knew as well as I did that the girl only did what she was told, without realizing the consequences.”
“A role you often expect me to play,” I noted tartly. “I hope that means that I may expect a commuted sentence in heaven.”
“I am sure that you will speed straight to the pearly gates, Nell, with no aid from me. I will wave from... below.”
“I fear that the heavenly choir will be one contralto short, and you will be let in on a technicality. You always elude disaster no matter how much you court it, Irene.”
“Not always.” Her face sobered. “Godfrey doesn’t know how dangerous his duel really was, who he really fought. Tatyana is capable of wounding and kidnapping him merely to have him to herself. She could destroy her heart’s desire in the acquiring of it.”
I moved uneasily on my chair. “I do not understand, Irene. You and Godfrey are wed. Further, Godfrey has never responded to her approaches. Why would she persist?”
“Why would the King pursue me when it was obvious that I fled him? Such imperious personalities recognize sovereignty in no other being, not even—and perhaps especially not—in those they purport to love. The barbaric painting of Tatyana you described—do you know whom it represents? Salome, who so desired to possess that she devoured instead. Romantic love is not blind possession, Nell; love is liberation.”
“Irene, that sentiment is quite profound, and most moral.”
“Thank you.” Her head bowed the tiniest bit.
“But you never saw the painting I described.”
“I didn’t have to; I know where Madame Tatyana seeks inspiration. She has no doubt danced the role of Salome, and will do so again.”
“Not with... Godfrey in mind?”
Irene was silent for a moment. “She will not forget. Neither will I.”
“How awful! I’d like to think that love is noble and liberating, but so few practice that variety of it. I am content to remain a spinster, if that’s the case.”
Irene smiled a secret smile at the mirror and avoided looking at me. I shook out my skirts, preparing to withdraw, when a knock came on the dressing room door.
“Yes?” Irene called, even that one word a melodious invitation.
“A token, Frau Norton,” came a muffled voice from the other side.
Irene lifted her eyebrows at me and rose to open the door.
In walked a huge spray of flowers in a vase, carried by what little of a man we could see behind the showy stalks.
“Gracious! There on the dressing table,” she directed, moving makeup pots out of the way so the blossoming behemoth could rest there.
“Nell, have you-—?”
Naturally I was expected to supply the change to reward the messenger for his labors. I fished through my worn leather purse and produced a few large, alien coin
s.
The man grinned and tipped his cap, so I must have given him a month’s worth of beer money. Irene had turned her back to the door and was fussing with the flowers, searching for a card.
“Oh, Frau Norton,” he said from the threshold. “There is a box at the mouth of the vase.”
Irene laid down the small white envelope she’d found to search for the additional booty.
In moments, she had drawn a small, foil-wrapped oblong box from the arrangement. “How clever! I must open it.”
“Who is it from?” I demanded. “Mr. Dvořák? Godfrey?” She reluctantly laid the glittering box down to open the card, then her expression fell. “A mere florist’s acknowledgment. Someone has written, ‘By the grace of His Majesty, King Wilhelm.’ ”
“The King! He is indeed grateful to send you flowers for a performance you have forbidden him to see, but require him to pay for.”
She tossed the card aside. “I suppose it’s a nice gesture, but if Godfrey asks, you will say that the bouquet is from Mr. Dvořák.”
“I will say no such thing! You must hope that Godfrey does not ask me.”
“I hope that Willie’s gift is a bit more kingly than the enclosure card.” She picked up the box and began picking at the wrappings.
“Irene! You are not going to accept a gift from him?”
She regarded me with utter amazement.
“Why not, Nell? I have blackmailed the man for a costly performance of a full cantata, not to mention stripping his ancestral walls of a fortune in paintings. Why can I not have one more little gift, a personal memento for the distress he gave me months ago? I hope his taste in jewelry is better than whoever concocted the Bohemian crown jewels—!”
“Irene! Set that foul package down at once! I will not sit here and watch you accept such a token. You are married, and now he is also married. Such an exchange is highly improper, no matter the King’s gratitude—or your greed!”
“I want to know what is in the package, Nell, even if I choose not to keep it, which I may, if it is uninteresting enough. And you do not need to sit here and watch; you can wait in the hall.”
I stood, as angry as I had been with Irene in... months. “I will. And you needn’t bother showing it to me after; I am not interested.”
“Good. Then leave.”
“I will.”
I marched to the door in a fearful temper, hearing foil crushing behind me. As I reached for the knob, it turned in my hand and the door flew open.
Chapter Thirty-eight
THE FABERGÉ FANG
I faced a tall, thin gentleman in a loose traveling cloak and soft cap, with very dark eyebrows and piercing gray eyes.
My mouth dropped.
He rushed past me, nay, brushed past me in the most rude manner possible.
“I am not too late?” he asked without pausing for an answer. “Madam!” he called in an urgent voice. He was not addressing me; he had, in fact, barely seen me.
Irene turned from the dressing table like an actress surprised by a premature entrance. “Mr. Holmes—” she breathed in a tone that defied description.
I will endeavor to characterize it anyway, as every instant of this encounter is emblazoned on my brain: her voice conveyed one part shock, one part awe, and one part delight. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she repeated with more assurance. “Himself. As himself.”
The man wasted no time on conventional greetings.
“What have you done with the flowers?” he demanded.
“Looked at them,” she replied in a daze.
He did so as well, though not in the manner of one appreciating nature’s beauty. No, Mr. Sherlock Holmes bent down to study the vase and flowers as if they were alien deposits, his keen face moving around them in the obsessive manner of a bloodhound on a scent.
He unbent to fix his darting eye on the box in Irene’s hand. “What is that?”
“A... present. From the King. It came with the flowers.”
“Did it? I find that rather suggestive, do you not, Madam?”
"I find it rather... rewarding,” she said, her tone ironic yet amused.
“Put it down.” One long imperious finger pointed to the cluttered dressing table top.
Irene complied, as if being asked to lay a loaded pistol aside. She delicately placed the gaily wrapped package on the wood and stepped away from it.
Mr. Holmes moved into the space she had vacated with the swiftness of a prize fighter. Then he went down on his knees—I tell the exact truth, I swear—braced his hands on the table edge and peered at and around the poor package. “Do you have a button hook, Madam?”
Irene, untroubled by his barked orders, answered sweetly. “No, but I have a small dagger. Will that do?”
He glanced up at her, for the first time, and gave a snort of laughter. “Eminently.”
The dagger was news to me. I watched while Irene bent to the floor, lifted her skirt and petticoats—lifted her skirt, I might add, with that man within immediate viewing distance, and reached into her laced leather boot top to extract something that resembled a rather pointed letter opener.
I give the man credit. He seized the weapon without so much as glancing at its unconventional sheath, and thrust a hand into his cloak pocket to extract a magnifying glass.
Irene sat slowly, her rustling clothes almost whispering, on the chair I’d vacated to watch him.
With the magnifying glass, he examined the dressing table top, the vase, the flowers, and most particularly the package.
Then, focusing on the partly undone paper, he lifted it leaf by leaf from the package. Irene watched this procedure, at first with amusement, then with curiosity, and finally with utter absorption, leaning her elbows on the dressing table and her head on her hands.
I remained by the door, observing this bizarre... dissection of an ordinary package. For Sherlock Holmes approached this commonplace act like a surgeon operating on some deathly contagious patient, as if any gesture might destroy a process that was precious and paramount.
So concentrated was his attention, so precise and delicate his movements, that I found myself holding my breath and almost forgetting to release it.
At last the crinkling paper had been prodded away.
A maroon leatherette jeweler’s case sat before us, its gilt hinges gleaming in the gaslight.
Mr. Holmes eased the tip of Irene’s dagger into the thin line of gilt, like a man opening an oyster in search of a pearl.
“Stay back,” he warned, glancing to Irene, and even to me in the mirror.
Hunched over this humble object like a miser, he lifted one hand to the lid and let his thumb and second finger poise on the lid’s side. His hand hung limp from above, the long, narrow fingers like a spider’s legs.
“For heaven’s sake,” I breathed under my breath, so softly that no one heard me.
Irene did not move. She might have been a portrait of a woman rather than the real thing, and her face was utterly sober now.
With his fingertips bracing the box from the sides, he slid the dagger along the front opening, and down the left side to the back. Then it returned, a thin, sharp gold tongue almost tasting the gold-filled brass.
Something snakelike in this slow, calculated exploration repelled me, but, then, I had never liked Mr. Holmes. Still, I could not keep my eyes off his strange and silent performance; nor could Irene.
When the dagger ran lightly along the right side of the box, he suddenly held it still.
“Ah! Madam, if you will hold the box here—very carefully...”
Irene rose and went to his left side. I did not like the way that she was forced to lean over his shoulder to follow his instructions.
“I will pull up—so, while depressing the dagger and... don’t move, no matter what happens!”
I clutched a hand to my breast despite his orders. Clearly, some dread danger was about to be released into the room. I hoped that it was nothing venomous.
All I heard was a click,
like Irene’s pistol cocking. The lid sprang open, and I gave a small scream. Even Irene jumped back.
Mr. Holmes was as still as death. He finally stood and gazed down at the object now open to us all.
A magnificent blue enamel Fabergé cigarette case bearing the initial “I” in sinuous diamonds lay on the jeweler’s white satin.
Irene’s head drew slowly back from it as if it were indeed a serpent of sorts. “Poison?” she asked.
“A hidden prong on the right side of the lid, where you would rest the fingers of your left hand as you held the container in your right The venom would have gone into your second finger and straight to your heart.”
“Venom,” I repeated weakly.
“I have seen this method before,” Irene said, “but I was not expecting it.”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Holmes, “you have had other things on your mind of late. I take it that you now know the identity of the originator?”
She nodded slowly, then looked him in the face, the bare face. For the first time, no guise stood between them. “How did you—?”
“Poor Rudolf is most disappointed in his erstwhile mistress. He resents her attempt to kill him, but before that he resented her showing that she had other interests. That is why he challenged your husband to a duel. He knew that Madam Tatyana was serious and that she had plans to eliminate you.”
“Eliminate Irene?” I repeated from the door.
Mr. Holmes barely glanced my way. “I will take this tidy trap back to England for further study now that it is disarmed—”
Irene’s hand lifted involuntarily. “Do you need the contents?”
“I doubt that the cigarette case itself has been tampered with. You mean that you actually wish to keep this macabre souvenir?” He regarded Irene as if she were almost as worthy of his full attention as the deadly box had been.
She half-smiled, half-shrugged in that disarming way of hers. “It does bear my initial, and I am fond of Fabergé.”
Mr. Holmes’s thin lips folded, whether in exasperation or amusement I was not close enough to tell.
“I’ll have to study it before I let you have it.”
She stepped aside, gesturing to the dressing table and light, and watched while he examined the inner case with the same exactitude with which he had studied the outer one.
Another Scandal in Bohemia (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) Page 42