Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  Inside, the plump and severely dressed madam broke away from a group of scantily clad lovelies. She walked directly to Ramsgate and cagily asked if this was an “official” visit. He shook his head “no” and instantly the lovelies giggled and crowded around him. The madam asked in relief, “Which one?”

  With the air of a man making the ultimate sacrifice, he simply said, “None.”

  As the amazed girls walked away indignantly, the madam understood. “Eliza?”

  “How long has she been here?”

  The madam led the way up the grand staircase. “Five days. She hasn’t stopped. She’s in the Cunard room, though Victoria Station would be more appropriate to the way gentlemen come and go. Doesn’t she ever tire?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Only heard. Pity. She’s an odd one. She pays me and picks her own people. Never heard the like, but a quid’s a quid no matter how it comes.”

  They approached a door with a ship’s bell affixed to the wall near the doorframe. The madam hesitated, “She’s with Captain Crocker.”

  “Seafaring man, eh?”

  “It’s all pretend—you know that.”

  They put their ears to the door and from inside they heard a deep voice yelling, “Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! By God Liza, you’re bloody marvelous!” Then he started singing—off-key—“Blow, blow, blow the man down!”

  Ramsgate reached for the bell, and with determined energy, clanged it several times. Inside, the man’s voice yelled, “Blast! Sail clear, you scurvy bilge rat. Prepare to repel boarders!”

  “This is Commissioner Rushworth Ramsgate, Scotland Yard!”

  Ramsgate opened the door and stepped in. The room resembled a fanciful pirate ship. Plaster “cannons” pointed to the ceiling and the bed resembled a crow’s-nest. “Captain Crocker”—a big man with a ruddy complexion, in his long underwear and sporting a captain’s hat—gulped in genuine panic. Ramsgate offered him advice, “Abandon ship!”

  “Every man for himself!” yelled Crocker as he grabbed his clothes, including a very land-lubbery top hat. He ran to the French window, threw it open, dashed to the balcony and leapt over the side. There was the sound of splashing water.

  Ramsgate went to Tasha, who appeared a bit dissipated as she lay in bed, under the covers, but wearing a pirate hat and eye-patch. Save for her state of undress, Mother would have fit onstage at the Savoy’s revival of The Pirates of Penzance. She smiled and placed a toy cutlass in her teeth. Ramsgate could only sigh; she was simply so charming. He gently removed the cutlass.

  “Shall I take you home, Tasha?”

  She quietly answered, “Yo ho ho.”

  These little escapades weren’t Mother’s only antidote to boredom.

  The Penbrokes’s elegant house, the crown jewel of the fashionable and exclusive Park Lane, radiated wealth.

  Tasha, dressed in her tight, black cat-burglar outfit, silently opened the upper-floor bedroom window. There were few buildings that Mother couldn’t scale. All she needed was the slimmest of handholds and, even under a new moon, she could scurry silently up the side of any domicile that was otherwise secure.

  The two elderly Penbrokes were asleep in bed. Mr. Penbroke, his moustache hidden under a moustache-presser, clutched his teddy bear—an object, it was said, he’d be lost without.

  Even if they’d been awake, Tasha, clad in black, would have blended into the shadows. She efficiently found the jewellry box and tossed a gigantic diamond into a little pouch. Just as she was about to make her escape back through the window, something caught her eye …

  Lady Penbroke’s tiara, glittering in the faint moonlight, rested on the night table. Tasha reached toward it, but went past the diadem, and snatched the teddy bear. She deftly slipped it from Mr. Penbroke’s embrace. As she left, Tasha thoughtfully closed the window so the crisp night air would not give them colds.

  I used to love looking out our front window to the busy thoroughfare. I still do. I reside in the same house on Brook Street today, just between Hanover Square and Grosvenor Square (and not far from a house where George Frideric Handel once lived), though so much else has changed (the American Embassy is now nearby).

  I would often try to emulate Mother’s methods and deduce the occupations and lives of passing people. It was a great exercise in observation and imagination. Of course, I had no way of verifying my deductions, but with the certainty of youth I was confident in my accuracy. That day, as I hugged my new Teddy Bear and practised my vigil at the window, I saw Ramsgate striding furiously toward the house. I always adored Ramsgate; though not really related, he was like a loving and favourite uncle—unless he was angered. And irate he certainly was at that moment.

  I bit my lip as he stormed to the door. Behind me, her head in a book, was Nanny Roberts. I mostly remember her head being hidden by a book. How that woman loved to read.

  “He looks upset,” I said. “Mother must have stolen something again.”

  The house nearly shook as the doorknocker slammed against the door.

  “Something expensive,” I added.

  There was another very loud crash.

  “Very expensive,” I concluded gloomily.

  Nanny Roberts lowered her book, and we exchanged knowing glances. “The Crown Jewels again?” I asked. Nanny raised her eyebrows. The possibility could not be dismissed.

  Wickett, our butler, opened the door, but before he could even wish Ramsgate a good morning, the Commissioner entered and informed him that this was an “official call.”

  “Oh, dear. She is in the gymnasium, sir. I shall announce you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Ramsgate as he strode toward the gymnasium.

  “Oh, dear.” What else could Wickett say?

  As Ramsgate walked past, I popped up from behind a vase and as brightly as I could, “Good morning, Uncle Ramsgate.”

  “Good morning, Laura.” He nodded and turned determinedly to carry on with his mission.

  “Are you going to try to arrest Mother again?”

  “I’m going to do more than try!” He continued his march.

  “Will you still take me to Madame Tussauds Saturday?”

  He stopped, sighed, and dully nodded as I walked away. “Laura, I’ve come to arrest your mother.”

  “Oh, you never do. If you did, who would solve your cases for you?”

  He pointed to Teddy, “Where did you get that?”

  “Mother gave Mr. Teddy to me this morning, Commissioner Ramsgate. He’s my best friend.”

  Ramsgate drummed his fingers on the stair railing for a few seconds as he thought that over, then sighed and continued purposefully to the gymnasium.

  Ramsgate boldly opened the door and marched in. “Tasha, my dear. Here’s the warrant!” He produced the document from his pocket and waved it in triumph. “And here’s the darbies!” He whipped out the handcuffs—then noticed that he was talking to an empty room. It was the largest room in the house, and in a more conventional establishment the prodigious area with its high ceilings might have even sufficed as a small ballroom. Mother had little use for soirées—but a keen interest in sweat. She replaced the crystal chandeliers with ropes and trapeze. He wandered in looking for Tasha among the amazingly rugged equipment. Along with dancer’s barre, parallel bars, and rope, there were large weights, fencing foils, and a high-wire. Ramsgate leaned against the safety net bewildered, when he heard:

  “You should not have left your office before the morning post.”

  He followed the direction of the voice and there was Tasha, suspended above him, effortlessly hanging from the rings, supporting herself with the strength of her arms in the grueling iron-cross position. She had designed her own exercise attire and it not only allowed complete freedom of movement, but was exceedingly revealing, displaying her shapely and well-muscled arms and legs.

  “I haven’t been at the office all morning,” he said, trying not to show how impressed he was with her strength and overwhelmed by
her figure. “I’ve been at …”

  “… the Penbroke Estate,” interrupted Mother, “vainly looking for clues regarding the disappearance of the Watusi Diamond.”

  “You are the absolute limit! It’s not the diamond. It’s the Teddy Bear!”

  As I perched myself back at the window, I spotted a rough looking bruiser on the sidewalk observing our house. He was big, clad as a workingman, and in desperate need of a razor. He was scowling. “I think we have another caller—he’s going ’round to the side.”

  Nanny didn’t bother glancing up from her book. “He means ill for your Mother, doesn’t he?” she said placidly.

  I sighed and leaned on the windowsill and nodded. She just kept reading, commenting, “The poor innocent … elbows off the windowsill, dear.”

  I made a face and removed my elbows.

  Mother, still on the rings, practised her gymnastics while continuing with Ramsgate. “You can’t arrest me.”

  “Why not? Come down here.”

  “No evidence,” she said as she twirled on the rings. I believe the distraction of her gyrations was why she failed to spot the brawler at the French doors of the gym. He cracked his impressive knuckles and gave an evil grin.

  Ramsgate was still trying to pin down Mother. “But the diamond! The Teddy Bear!”

  “I will not discuss the Teddy Bear. As for the diamond, I don’t have it.”

  “Who does?”

  Before Tasha could answer, the bruiser made his entrance by kicking open the doors and barging in. Ramsgate spun as the huge man strode in menacingly and pointed to Mother. “You Lady Tasha Dorrington?”

  “I consider the question highly personal.” And she continued on the rings.

  The thug grabbed Ramsgate by the collar and made a fist. “Come down!” Ramsgate nodded in agreement. Tasha slid down a rope suspended from the ceiling into the net and then somersaulted herself to the ground with an aerialist’s fluid grace. The thug let go of Ramsgate and stomped over to Tasha, who had started curling a large weight.

  Pleased at anticipating this novel variation of her training, she announced, “Allow me to introduce Animal Rosencrantz, who could best be described as a ‘for-hire’ practitioner of physical persuasion.”

  “Charmed,” said Ramsgate, dryly.

  “Now employed by … let me see … Lord Carlfax.”

  Animal exhibited no surprise. Perhaps he simply wasn’t bright enough to be surprised. “Right! ’e was none too chuffed about ’is wife discoverin’ ’is addiction. Said to give you something.” He grinned and loudly smashed his ham-hock-sized fist into his calloused palm.

  Mother smiled and said, “Here,” while tossing him the weight. He instinctively caught it and was thrown backward off his feet. Tasha continued to exercise and stretch while speaking to Ramsgate. “What were we discussing?”

  Ramsgate couldn’t keep his eyes off Mother. Seeing a figure like hers, taking exercise, was simply an opportunity almost unknown for a gentleman of 1906. “The Watusi Diamond.” He replied at last. “You were about to tell me who has it.”

  As they talked, Animal regained his footing and attacked Tasha. She kept exercising and dodged every blow—all without breaking her conversation.

  “You do.”

  “Me? The morning post!”

  At this point, Mother went on the attack, using the movements of her exercise to trip and hit Animal, while otherwise ignoring him. “It was mailed to you. Disguised handwriting.” A kick sent Animal hurtling into a heavy punching bag as Mother added, “Suburban post office—impossible to trace. So you really haven’t much of a case.”

  The brutish Animal picked himself up and, in a rage, once more continued his futile offensive. He kept swinging; she kept dodging. He was nearly in tears.

  “Stop movin’! You’re like a bloody jack-rabbit!” he screamed.

  “Oh, all right. Go ahead. Hit me.” She stood still. Animal gawped at her dubiously.

  “You won’t stop me?”

  “I promise,” Mother said encouragingly.

  Animal positively beamed.

  Ramsgate watched in apprehension. Tasha stood nonchalantly while Animal, using all his body-weight, threw a fearful blow to her stomach. Tasha didn’t even wince. Ramsgate’s mouth dropped open while Animal massaged his stinging hand. Tasha shook her head sadly at him.

  “That was pathetic,” she admitted as she turned her back on Animal and walked to Ramsgate. “The criminal element of this city is not what it used to be—but then perhaps it never was.”

  “How … how did you do that?”

  Tasha answered Ramsgate, without so much as a glance at Animal—who barreled at her like a maddened bull. “Muscle control I developed when with the circus.” She then back-kicked the charging Animal, sending him flying across the gym. She finished explaining, “The trapeze builds great strength, and belly dancing does wonders for the stomach.”

  Animal had fallen in a heap across the net. Ramsgate watched in growing amazement as Mother tossed the massive brute over her shoulder, carried him to the corner and dumped him on the floor. With little effort, she picked up a large weight—unlike a modern barbell, the weights at either end were permanently attached, sand-filled iron spheres—and placed it astride the unconscious man’s chest. As his arms were pinned between the big iron balls and his body, there was no way he could extricate himself.

  “I shall deal with this disappointingly incompetent opponent and his opium-addicted employer after my exercise.”

  Tasha started a challenging routine on the parallel bars, while musing, “When there are no criminals, no mysteries … well, I use the police as opponents. It’s the best I can do.”

  Ramsgate wandered closer—not entirely unsympathetic. “Someday, you’ll crack one crib too many, slip up, and I won’t be able to help you.”

  She did a handstand on the bars, bringing her face-to-face, upside down, with Ramsgate. She gave him her most disarming smile.

  Despite the grin, Ramsgate thought she seemed very, very bored. He sighed in resignation. “Cheer up, Tasha. It’s a big city. Something gruesome will happen soon.”

  “One can always hope.”

  Chapter Two

  St. James Park

  A small, well-dressed boy appearing to be about five or six was searching the crowd. A brass band in resplendent uniforms (it was an era of uniforms) was giving a summer concert and making a lot of noise. The little boy scanned the people with an intense concentration exceedingly rare in a child, at last spotting what he was after.

  A naval commander approached briskly toward him, through the throng—St. James Park was, even then, very popular. Clutched in the officer’s hand was an official Royal Navy attaché case. Whitehall and the Admiralty bordered the park, and it was not uncommon for members of His Majesty’s government to cut through the park, making their stroll more pleasant.

  The commander was enjoying his walk and could see the scaffolding set up for the construction of the massive Admiralty Arch just bordering St. James. The officer smiled in satisfaction. Aston Webb’s elegant design would contain two residences for the Sea Lords, but more importantly, greatly expanded office space that the new, twentieth century Royal Navy desperately needed, even with the addition of its newly completed Queen Anne-style extension now called “The Old Admiralty Building.” The new First Sea Lord’s reforms were shrinking the fleet while at the same time doubling the staff work. The palatial building, with its three distinctive arches, would be an impressive sight when completed. As if the monumental architecture weren’t enough to remind everyone of the importance the navy played in Britannia’s life, the Admiralty Arch would also form part of the ceremonial approach to Buckingham Palace. The commander noted with pride that Aston Webb had also designed the front of the royal residence.

  The commander’s attention was diverted as the little boy burst into tears and ran toward him. To an onlooker, it was just a child sobbing out some tale of woe to a man in uniform.

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry you’re lost, little man, but I’m not a constable,” said the commander sympathetically. No doubt the child had mistaken his uniform for that of a policeman.

  That produced more wailing and sobbing.

  “All right,” said the embarrassed commander. “Enough of that boo-hooing. I’ll help you find your mates.” The commander took the child by the hand, and they started to scour the park. Not far from the hard-working brass band, they came to a large curving hedge—it’s still there, even today—and the child suddenly got excited, pulling at the officer’s hand, yelling, “This way!”

  The boy broke away and ran through a crack in the bushes. The officer shook his head and followed.

  Inside was a small area, confined all around by tall hedges. The isolation might have been a warning, as was the sight that greeted the officer. The little boy had run to a slim Nanny, who was gently rocking a perambulator. There were three more little boys standing obediently in line, like the Nanny, their backs to the commander. The boy pointed to the officer and the Nanny turned around.

  She was hauntingly beautiful, but in an almost mask-like kind of way, with large, aware, and intelligent dark eyes that held an intense gleam that was disturbingly sinister. She coolly appraised the officer—who stared in apprehension—and she said softly to her charges, “We must thank the gentleman.”

  The little boys turned around. One of them was smoking a cigar. They were midgets and, pulling out revolvers, they shot the commander. The noise of the gunshots had been covered by the overture to Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Princess Ida” played by the brass band.

  The “Nanny” snapped her fingers and ordered, in German, “Abrufen der Kunststoffgehäuse!” Which meant, “Fetch the attaché case.” One of the midgets pulled it from the officer’s hand. As he did, the woman asked sharply, “Ist er noch am leben?” The midget checked the officer’s pulse and said, “Ja.”