by Barry Day
“Ah, the good old ‘commonplace’! Take my word for it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace, eh, Watson? And as for feminine intuition, over the years I have come to the reluctant conclusion that a woman’s ‘impression’ can often cut to the quick of a problem with greater precision that the mental scalpel of the analytical mind. Pray continue.” And to encourage her to do so, he settled back with languid ease, his finger tips together and his eyes apparently fascinated by the ceiling.
Seemingly reassured by Holmes’s words, our guest also settled back in her chair for the first time. Then she began to speak.
“You have to comprehend, Mr. Holmes—and you, too, Doctor …” the magnificent eyes flashed all too briefly in my direction—“although he was my mother’s only brother, I never knew John Moxton well. I was a small child when my father died and my mother took me to Europe to start a new life. Oh, my uncle would write regularly and I have no doubt—even though my mother never referred to it—that he would send her small sums of money when he sensed things were difficult for us. In fact, I am virtually certain that it was he who somehow found the money to pay for my time with your friend, Madame Solange.”
In anyone but Holmes I would have sworn I saw the suspicion of a blush. Alicia continued …
“Then one day the money stopped—or so I assumed. Certainly, I had to find myself a paid occupation as a governess in Paris. That was no problem for me but my mother’s health was. I think she felt she should have been able to do more and that made matters worse. Then one day, through some friends from home who were passing through, we heard that the reason for all of this was that Uncle John had somehow been taken ill. Although she had not seen him for some time, my mother had always felt close to her brother and, frankly, Mr. Holmes, I think the news was the final straw. A few weeks later she was taken ill and died. The French doctors said it was pneumonia but the real reason I believe was that life had worn her out.
“For me life went on in the same old way. Naturally, I was lonely. The reason for being there was gone and really, I belonged nowhere and to nobody. When the lawyers told me that Uncle John was now recovered and was to be my guardian by my mother’s wish, I was overjoyed. Three months ago I came to London to join him.”
“And …?”
“And he wasn’t the same man. Oh, he looked the same as I remembered from all those years ago and from all the pictures—but something was very wrong. At first I put it down to the fact that I was very young when I’d last seen him but, then I began to notice that he got things wrong—family details, things like that.”
Holmes looked at me reflectively. “The last thing our friend had expected was to have to deal at close quarters with a member of the immediate family. The best laid plans, eh, Watson? But pray continue. I shall not interrupt you further.”
“Oh, he was clever, I must grant him that. He explained that his breakdown had affected his memory but that it would come back in time and he asked for my understanding. With anyone else I would have felt immediate sympathy but there was something about him that made me feel …” And here she shuddered at the memory, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as if a sudden chill had passed through the room. “For weeks I tried to reason with myself, then one day a week or so ago—I don’t know what made me do it—I asked him if he recalled a particular incident involving him and my mother. I painted it in glowing detail and, anxious to please me—and, as I now see it, to reassure me—he claimed to remember it all. The only thing was—I’d invented the whole story there and then.
“There must have been something in my expression that gave me away, for he ended the conversation soon after and began to keep his distance from then on. He made sure there were other people around, so that we had no need to be alone—which suited my purpose, too, for I was now beginning to be deathly afraid of … I knew not what.”
“Who were these ‘other people’ you spoke of?” Holmes asked quietly.
“Oh, there were a whole series of them who came and went and spent their time closeted with my guardian in his study. A few seemed to be regulars, almost like members of his staff—particularly that Professor James, a loathsome, oleaginous man, always toadying to him.”
Holmes and I exchanged a covert glance at the name.
“Several of them were European. Sometimes when the study door opened and closed, I would hear snatches of French or German. I think to begin with he forgot that my French was fluent but he must have recalled the fact, because recently the conversation stops completely when someone enters or leaves.”
“What did you hear them say?”
“There was talk of une affaire incroyable … it was trop dangereuse. Someone was arguing about une détente globale, une guerre totale. Some seemed to be excited by whatever they were planning but others were extremely frightened by it.” She relaxed a little and her hands returned to their normal position in her lap. “I didn’t know what to do, Mr. Holmes. I had no one to turn to. Sometimes I thought I was imagining it all but my ‘feminine intuition’, as you call it, told me I was not. That was how things stood when the three of us first met up at Loch Ness.”
As she spoke, I recalled the moment with total clarity. If one can have a vision of a ‘vision’, then that is what I experienced. Then Alicia’s tone changed and she looked from one of us to the other in obvious distress. “It was then I realised that in some way you, Mr. Holmes, were involved in all this. Oh, not as part of whatever devilish scheme this man ‘Moxton’ …” She almost spat the word—“is hatching but in some complex, interwoven way I don’t begin to understand. This man is obsessed with you. You are the only subject on which I have seen him less than icily calm. On the way back from Inverness he could talk of nothing else. Even the abominable Steel, who hangs on his every word, was losing his patience by the time we reached London.”
“Tell us about Steel,” Holmes prompted. “From your tone I take it that there is little love lost between you?”
“That, I’m afraid, is the whole point,” Alicia replied. “My arrival was clearly something he had not anticipated but as the weeks went by, he began to see how he could use my presence to advantage. I am not a vain woman, gentlemen, as my sex are apt to be. On the other hand, I know I am not unattractive.”
She did not pause for comment and inwardly I blessed her for it.
“To cut a long story short, I detect that my ‘guardian’—for I know not what else to call him—has decided that I would be a fit consort for Mr. Steel and has taken every occasion to throw us together on social occasions. You asked me to tell you about Steel …” She paused, as if what she was about to say would take an extra effort.
“Steel is Moxton’s creature, Mr. Holmes, nothing more or less. Perhaps his Trojan Horse would be a more fitting description. What Moxton wants said but not attributed Steel says for him. He is present for most of these clandestine meetings and when he leaves at the end of the day, he struts out of there like a bantam cock. If Moxton could appoint him Prime Minister tomorrow, I believe that’s precisely what he would do.”
“And I believe that’s precisely what he intends to try to do …” Holmes interjected. He then proceeded to fill in for Alicia most of the gaps between her story and what we had ourselves deduced of Moriarty’s schemes. Frankly, I was surprised that he confided so much in someone he had met so recently but I have never known my friend to err in judgement on such matters. As he spoke I watched Alicia Creighton’s face open like a morning flower and the sight was every bit as beautiful, as her premonitions began to make sense at last.
“But Mr. Holmes,” she whispered, when he had delineated recent events with his usual precision, “this monster must be stopped at all costs. What can I do to help?”
“You have helped by coming here in the first place,” my friend replied, “and you can help still further by returning there for a little while longer, while we gather the evidence we need to bring this man to book. And that, as you may surmise, will be no easy task.
Moriarty is far too clever to soil his own hands and there is the further complication that he is now ostensibly an American citizen. One wrong move and the authorities will find themselves cocooned in diplomatic red tape. No, Alicia, at this moment you are our best and perhaps our last hope.”
“But Holmes,” I expostulated, “knowing what we now do, you can’t ask this young lady to put herself into further danger. Now that Moriarty suspects.”
“He may suspect, old fellow, but I fancy he is more preoccupied with his master plan and, besides, in some small but significant way, Alicia is now part of it. Can’t you see the Clarion trumpeting the doings of this glamorous first couple, once he has succeeded in placing Steel in the position of ultimate power? No, for the next few days at least we need her in the heart of the enemy camp—as your old Army friends would call it—gathering whatever intelligence she can of what Moriarty intends.”
“You mean—a spy?”
For the first time I saw the playful schoolgirl inside the grown woman.
“Something of the sort,” Holmes replied with a smile, “but I beg you most earnestly to take the utmost precautions. This man is more dangerous than you can possibly imagine. Your life will mean nothing to him, if he feels it poses the slightest threat to his plans. Watson or I will manage to keep in contact with you and, if you are in any doubt, call the nearest police constable for assistance. I will have Inspector Lestrade alert his men. One other thing, Alicia …”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”
“I think it is highly likely that you were followed here today. Whatever you do, when you leave, do not appear furtive or nervous in any way and, if your so-called guardian should challenge you, you simply came here to confirm our invitation to this evening’s party.” With that he rose and shook her firmly by the hand. “You are a brave woman and together the three of us will prevail.”
I followed Holmes’s example and tried to communicate through the subtle pressure of my hand on her how much I admired her spirit. Was it my imagination or was the pressure returned?
A few moments later the sound of the outer door closing signalled her departure. We resumed our chairs and sat in silence for a moment before I found my voice. “A woman of spirit, eh, Holmes?”
“Indeed,” he replied. “I can only think of one other who compares.”
A pause and then he caught my eye. “Under normal circumstances, old fellow, I would feel it my bounden duty to lecture you on the need to regard the client as strictly an objective element in the greater puzzle. I should probably elaborate on the danger an emotional involvement posed to proper reasoning, go on to warn you of the particular dangers posed by the female of the species and end by telling you how the most charming woman I ever encountered was taken to the scaffold for poisoning three small children for their insurance money … However, under the circumstances I see all too clearly before me, I shall refrain …”
Then, after another moment’s thought, he picked up his pistol and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “So now we have another reason to bring this business to a speedy conclusion.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The house in Chester Square was illuminated like a stage set as the hansom dropped me at the front door that evening. And indeed, the press of people in their various costumes streaming in through the elegant front doors had all the appearance of a pantomime curtain call.
I saw numerous ‘Alices’, complete with long blonde hair and I reflected that the town’s wigmakers must have been doing a roaring trade all day to cope with the demand. I was not as familiar with Carroll’s book as Holmes clearly was but I could recognise several March Hares, White Rabbits and Duchesses with pig babies, a good sprinkling of Mad Hatters, Kings and Queens of Hearts as well as various other ambulant playing cards. I myself, having never had much of a taste for making more of a fool of myself in public than I can help, had settled for what I hoped was a fairly discreet Red King. With Mrs. Hudson’s aid I had swathed myself in some red material she had found in one of her many bottom drawers, kept for who knows what eventual purpose. A cardboard crown from a local fancy dress emporium and an old assegai some Army friend had left me completed my wardrobe. To say that I felt foolish would be putting it mildly. Just as Mrs. Hudson had put the finishing touches to this rather outré ensemble, Holmes had emerged from his bedroom still wearing his old dressing gown. Seeing the expression on my face, he raised a placatory hand.
“I know what you’re thinking, old fellow, but I shall be there, you have my word on it. However, something has just come up which requires my attention and, since it is imperative that we observe this evening’s events most carefully, I would consider it a great personal favour if you would precede me …”
Having been left to storm more than one citadel single-handed in the past, I was naturally sceptical, but the expression on his face was enough to convince me of his sincerity so, with a certain amount of huffing and puffing—and Mrs. Hudson’s assurance that she’d never seen anything quite like it, really she hadn’t—I allowed myself to be escorted down to the cab.
Now here I was—feeling, I must admit, a little more comfortable in the company of dozens of others who were clearly feeling equally ridiculous—walking up the steps to the front door, where liveried servants wearing frog masks—(the Frog Footmen, what else?) were waiting to receive them.
No sooner had I passed into the main hallway than I felt a hand on my arm and a voice hissed: “Over here, Doctor” in my ear. As I was pulled behind a convenient pillar I saw that I was being addressed by an insignificant little man wearing a large walrus moustache.
“By George Lestrade!” I exclaimed, “that’s an incredible disguise!”
“But I’m not wearing a disguise,” he said, looking puzzled for a moment. Then, fingering his upper lip, “Oh, you mean this? Yes, it is rather subtle, isn’t it? Less is more, Doctor, less is more. The Walrus, see? All I need now is a Carpenter … and a few oysters, of course!” And he laughed so much that he almost choked on his facial hair.
Then, sensing that I was in no mood for such half-baked pleasantries, he added seriously: “Mr. ’Olmes coming along later, is he? You don’t surprise me. He’ll want us to act as an advance guard to distract ’em like. Very much like he did in that case of …”
“I don’t think Mr. Holmes’s actions need concern you, Lestrade. As you should know well by now, Mr. Holmes has his own way of doing things.”
I was about to enlarge on my friend’s eminently successful modus operandi and compare it with Lestrade’s own pedestrian methods when there was a single stroke on a gong and the room fell silent.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Wonderland!”
At the top of the sweeping staircase stood one of the most remarkable figures I can remember seeing and not for the first time in recent days did I have the feeling that we were all characters in some strange fantasy of someone else’s creation. Moxton—as I had to think of him for this evening at least—had dressed himself as Humpty Dumpty. Through the costume maker’s art he contrived to look like a perfect oval with a smiling face peeping out. Despite the bulk of it, his costume was made of some pliant material that allowed him to move about freely. There was no doubt that if he intended to dominate the proceedings, he had certainly succeeded. I remembered the exchange between him and Holmes by the loch side and Moxton quoting the line—‘The question is … which is to be master, that’s all.’ There was no longer any question.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Frog Footmen will lead you in to dinner.”
With that he began to navigate the staircase with some care and, as he moved from the landing, I could see standing right behind him a young couple.
Had their expressions matched their appearance, they would have been nothing less than spectacular but Royston Steel’s lips were set in the rictus of a smile for public consumption and Alicia’s face could have been carved out of alabaster. As they descended in Moxton’s wake he tucked her arm und
er his in a manner that brooked no resistance.
He was dressed as the Knave of Hearts in a sort of doublet and hose with a playing card woven into the front of it and a flat vaguely medieval hat. I was sure, on reflection, that my description was doing him an injustice. Mr. Steel’s costume would have been designed with Sir John Tenniel’s Alice illustrations firmly in mind.
Alicia might have stepped out of the very same engraving. The only difference was that her hair, instead of being blonde, was raven black and brushed straight back from her forehead to fall to her waist. The child’s dress with its puffed sleeves and layered skirt made her look like a mirror image of the girl who had inspired this whole dream world we were all now inhabiting.
“Quite a looker, eh, Doctor?” It was the peasant Lestrade at my elbow. I was about to address him in no uncertain terms when I remembered the delicacy of Alicia’s situation in this house. The last thing any of us needed was to call undue attention to ourselves. I bit back my reply. Just at that moment a Frog Footman who was obviously high in the pecking order—if frogs can peck—appeared at our shoulders. “Gentlemen, if I might conduct you to your places. Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade, if I am not mistaken? This way, gentlemen.” And then to Lestrade—“An elegantly understated costume, if I may say so, Inspector. So few people know when to leave well alone.” I had no need to look at Lestrade to know that he was puffing himself up with pride.
“Y’see, Doctor, what did I tell you?”
I did, however, glance at the Frog Footman and noticed that he had a particularly patrician appearance. Possibly a butler earning extra money on an evening off. Portly in bearing with a nose that would have done duty on a Roman coin. Precisely the sort of chap that always makes me feel I’ve forgotten to do something vital. I tried to convey a degree of hauteur by the set of my shoulders as we entered the dining room, where by now most of the other guests were already seated. Lestrade and I found ourselves seated on either side of a formidable Queen of Hearts, who was clearly enjoying every minute of her new incarnation. Her small talk was negligible—not that mine is anything to write home about—but whenever the conversation flagged, she would cry—“Off with his head!” and collapse into hysterical laughter. I found it increasingly difficult to join in until I heard her ask Lestrade—“And what are you supposed to be?”