FEMME FATALE

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “And from the design, obviously quite old, perhaps mid-century.”

  “Design. Oh.” I had been a governess, but never a nursemaid or a nanny. “It’s a perambulator.”

  “A very old, somewhat shabby perambulator, perhaps the very one that wheeled around Madame Restell’s only daughter, later converted to a planter. And, even later, deemed a suitable receptacle in which to conceal the very private listing of clients who gave up children for adoption.

  “This book has been sitting here, interred, for over a decade. Mina and no one else ever considered that a vehicle for moving infants might conceal a book of ‘moved’ infants.”

  “Gracious! Do you think Sherlock Holmes would have discovered this hiding place?”

  “Never, my dear Nell, in a million years. Infants and perambulators are yet another area that is outside his bailiwick. He would certainly find the disrupted dirt worth investigating, though. Let’s tidy the area like good little gardeners and whisk away our prize before we court discovery.”

  So we left that splendid mansion that had been the death of two women so oddly related. We left dingy but triumphant and in need of baths that had no chance of being fatal to anything but dirt.

  45.

  Social Secretary

  I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little

  choice in a white wine—Watson, you have never yet

  recognized my abilities as a housekeeper.

  —SHERLOCK HOLMES, “THE SIGN OF FOUR,” 1890

  SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Code!” Irene cried the next morning.

  “Code!” I echoed.

  Our victory was short-lived, for the book we had obtained, while obviously what that misdirected creature Mina had sought for so many years, was arranged into an assortment of letters and numbers that passeth understanding.

  “What one person can devise, others can decipher,” Irene decreed.

  I was not so sure, but the debate was dropped when a page boy from the hotel knocked on our door with Sherlock Holmes’s London card in hand.

  “Show him up,” Irene instructed, casting a quick glance around our parlor to ensure that no trace of betraying potting soil remained.

  “Your nails, Nell,” she said as severely as any governess.

  I extended my hands. “A nail brush will erase any trace of . . . nasty natural things.”

  She extended her own hands to me. “Clean as a Whistler,” she noted with a low vaudeville wink.

  The book she slid into the desk drawer. “It is too bad we have nothing to offer Mr. Holmes.”

  “Not a scone or a cup of tea,” I noted.

  “Not a lost book or a fern frond.”

  And we were still laughing mischievously when his knock sounded on the door.

  He himself looked quite unruffled. From his formal city dress it was impossible to imagine that he had plummeted like a bird of prey from high above to pluck a dying woman from drowning in a bathtub only the night before.

  “I regret that we have nothing to offer you,” Irene said, sweeping her hands around the room, “although we could adjourn for tea in the hotel dining room.”

  “I have, in fact,” he said, “a social occasion in mind.” He set his gloves in his doffed hat and lay them beside his cane on the desk near the door, right atop, as a matter of fact, the concealed book.

  “Oh?” Irene sounded most intrigued. “I didn’t think social occasions were something you would much care for.”

  “It’s true that I prefer select company to grand occasions, unless they are concerts, but I think you will agree that this social occasion is one none of us can afford to miss.”

  “And what is the necessary event?”

  “The post-funeral luncheon for the Dixon sisters that you will sponsor at Delmonico’s restaurant this very Thursday.”

  “A most thoughtful notion,” Irene said, “but hardly of interest to you.”

  “It will be of paramount interest to me, for among the guests may be the person who assisted Mrs. Gilfoyle in her murderous mania, the person, in fact, who . . . performed . . . the earlier slayings. Mrs. Gilfoyle, like too many gravely demented individuals, was best at destroying herself, not others. She had a confederate for that.”

  “A confederate,” I breathed in an unintended echo.

  “A confederate, as Sophie had?” Irene asked quickly.

  “Indeed, and perhaps the very same one at that last séance,” he said. “May I rely upon you and Miss Huxleigh to be the hostesses?”

  “I presume you will draw up the guest list.”

  “With your assistance, ladies.”

  “Shall the murderer’s identity not be obvious from the very composition of the guest list?”

  “No, Madam, that it shall not. A confession is called for in this case, and only a confrontation with the past will aid that, which is why I must presume upon your courtesy and also request to be a guest.”

  “Why, Mr. Holmes, do you suspect that I would leave you off such an important list?”

  “No, but I am sure that Miss Huxleigh would. Now I have things to attend to, as do you.”

  He turned to retrieve his things before leaving. His fingers paused on the desk drawer, which I noticed was ever so slightly open.

  “Wait!” Irene moved so speedily that she held his hat, gloves and cane momentary hostage at the door before he could reach it. “What happened last night after we left?”

  “I called the police, such as they are. The house remained deserted. Apparently she had dismissed every last servant, and the police are busily looking them up today. I told them how I discovered Mrs. Gilfoyle in her bath, dead by her own hand. I explained who I was. You will be pleased to know that the name of Nellie Bly gave me some credibility with the authorities. There will be no investigation because she was a society matron and a rich man’s widow, and no scandal must taint her class. No one can doubt that the cause is suicide. Even the newspapers will hesitate to touch the story, except to echo the similar death there eleven years ago. Mrs. Gilfoyle’s hand in that shall remain unrevealed. Madame Restell will still, and erroneously, be considered a suicide. It may not be fair, but it is convenient to all involved.”

  “You are right. Convenience rules Society: marriages of convenience, adoptions of convenience, deaths of convenience. Somehow I feel I was born to be inconvenient.”

  “I also, Madam,” he said with a last bow, collecting and donning his property. “It is an honorable profession, perhaps the only honorable profession nowadays.” He turned suddenly to me. “Save that of governess.”

  I could swear The Man was laughing at me.

  That was impossible. He had no sense of humor whatsoever.

  It is fortunate that I do have one. Sometimes.

  46.

  The Delectable Detective

  I like people who have a cannibalistic streak in them and say

  when they come for lunch: “I am hungry.”

  —HENRI DE TOULOUSE-LAUTREC

  Irene had engaged a private room at Delmonico’s with no difficulty.

  Apparently she was not recognized as the disreputable unknown who had recently caused Nellie Bly’s abandonment by an English lord at this very establishment.

  Or perhaps she had been so identified . . . and thereby gained cachet because of it. No doubt Delmonico’s reveled in being the talk of every tongue, whether the reason was sublime cuisine or some succulent society scandal.

  If that was the case, my friend Irene was tailor-made for their clientele. Irene had given me to understand that Delmonico’s had been the scene of some of the most lavish events the city of New York had ever yet witnessed, involving such legendary rascals as “Boss” Tweed and Diamond Jim Brady.

  Yet I believe that in its fifty-some years the restaurant had never seen the likes of the guest list for the memorial luncheon honoring Sophie and Salamandra, and even the unworthy Mina. Besides the invited individuals, Irene had suggested, and Sherlock Holme
s had concurred, that we place a discreet notice of the event in the newspapers, mentioning the names of the honored dead. We did not expect any of Mina Gilfoyle’s society friends to attend, though some performers who had known her and her long-dead sister might, and might prove enlightening.

  Irene and I surveyed the dining chamber an hour before anyone was expected. It was a long rectangle paneled in rich woods that smelled faintly of the finest lemon curd, though it was no doubt a citrus polish I detected. Fans of large and exotic greenery swooned against the gleaming walnut, seemingly left behind by patient native servants just departed. Above the wainscoting, gilt-framed portraits and mirrors created an upper world as fascinating as any actual people who could gather at floor level.

  I was reminded of heaven looking down on earth, or, in this case, overseeing the survivors of a very specific hell.

  “This event may be partly a charade, Nell,” Irene said, “but I regret that it took Sherlock Holmes to remind me that I owe these amazing people I grew up among some formal tribute, especially to those who have died at the behest of that madwoman who lived in Madame Restell’s former house.”

  “Would you be content,” I asked her, “if you found no further trace of your true parents, but only these folk?”

  “I would be more than content. I would be proud. What phenomena they are! To earn a living on the stage is not easy. To turn adversity into acclamation is astounding. To adapt to every craze even more demanding. They are hardy, like plants that thrust through earth every spring for the simple reward of being seen and appreciated. I learned more from them than I was allowed to remember.”

  “I feel the same about the villagers in Shropshire. I had no mother, but I had the whole village entire. I may never see any of those people again, indeed, most of them must be dead by now, but I can never forget them. They are my soil.”

  “And so the adopted babies in Madame Restell’s book, whoever or wherever they may be, have mother earth to grow in. Hard as it was for the actual mothers to lose them—and I can’t say that I entirely agree with what happened—at least other mothers elsewhere welcomed them.”

  “Can you be sure their future was always benign?”

  “No. But was ours, Nell? Is anyone’s? I believe that meaning well goes a long way. As for those who don’t mean well . . . I believe that is what retribution is for.”

  “Who’s to say which is which?”

  “Exactly.” Irene gazed at the long empty table, set with delicate gilded china and silverware that blended rare woods with lavish vines of sterling silver. Exotic floral arrangements marked the length of a central runner of the richest Chinese silk and embroidery. Oil lamps gleamed on the side tables, making day into the eternal twilight of great dining. “Today I imagine that Sherlock Holmes will.”

  “You’re willing to cede him the central role at your luncheon party?”

  “I’m willing to leave to him the ugly task of naming a murderer.”

  “And if it is someone you knew and loved?”

  “It is certain to be so, Nell, or he would not want this particular stage and this specific cast of characters present. Nor would he usurp my right here. Like it or not, my history has become a matter of crime and punishment, and I would much rather be a supernumerary at such a harsh debut than a playwright.”

  “Irene, I don’t think I can stand the suspense. I like everyone we’ve met.”

  “Do you, Nell? Do you really?”

  “Yes, of course. Although they are eccentric, still, they seemed quite warm and honest. Except—”

  “Except?”

  “Except for . . . Nellie Bly.”

  Irene’s smile was relieved. “Nellie Bly is a pseudonym, Nell. She is not a real person at all.”

  “Whatever she is, I don’t much like her,” I said stoutly.

  Speak of the Devil and he, or she, will appear forthwith. At least on stage, and certainly the event unfolding at Delmonico’s was stage-directed, by several people.

  We had arrived early, but not earlier enough than Pink to suit me. She bustled into the room with its long empty table, nattering on about Sherlock Holmes.

  “Sherlock Holmes for lunch and revelation. What a red-letter day for the World!” She began teasing off the tips of her tight pink kid gloves as she addressed Irene and me rather like a visiting lecturer. “You do realize that this will be the first occasion that Sherlock Holmes will solve a case in public, with a member of the press present, not to mention a New York City police detective. It will be a far greater sensation than the Lambs Club death of Washington Irving Bishop just last May.”

  “A pity,” Irene said, “that the most recent victims did not suffer from catalepsy and that there is no prayer of resurrecting them. I do hope, Pink,” she added, “that the police detective will be discreet until—or if—his services are required.”

  “Of course he will be needed. Mr. Holmes has promised to reveal the murderer of Sophie and Salamandra, and very possibly Abyssinia, and who knows who else?”

  It was clear that Pink knew nothing whatsoever of the macabre suicide we three had witnessed last night, which was the true sensation and the true solution of the case.

  “Mr. Holmes should sit at the head of the table,” Pink decided, standing behind the very chair, her bare hands curled proprietorially over the back strut, as if The Man were already in possession of the location.

  She was, I admit, a vision in cream and blue-plaid voile, with a very smart ivory silk jacket decorated in blue braid like an officer’s coat.

  “I will sit here.” She airily indicated a chair only two seats down from the great man.

  “Perhaps you would care to make place cards while we await the guests,” Irene suggested.

  “Shan’t be necessary,” Pink responded with cheery seriousness, not for a moment suspecting Irene’s irony. “Mr. Holmes is our anchor. Once he is properly placed to direct the proceedings we’ll have nothing more to worry about.”

  “Except a possible killer in our midst, suddenly exposed and perhaps violent,” Irene pointed out.

  “Surely even a murderer would know better than to make a scene at Delmonico’s!”

  “I think you overestimate the social nicety of most murderers. But it is all right, Pink. I am armed, and Mr. Holmes may be as well. As surely the New York detective is. I assume he will be in the guise of some serving man until the moment he is called upon to get out the manacles. Delmonico’s, in fact, may make its debut today as a target range.”

  “Now that would be exciting, like a Wild West shoot-out! You had best hide under the table, Nell, if any bullets start flying.”

  “I believe we had all better hide under the table if any shooting starts,” I said. “Pink, you may be a daredevil reporter, but you are remarkably ignorant about some matters.”

  “We shall see who is ignorant when all is said and done here,” she replied.

  At that moment some of the serving staff entered the room to finish the table settings and we were forced to withdraw to the paneled walls to watch our stage being dressed for the imminent debut of its new melodrama. Pink remained center stage to order the centerpieces rearranged for some reason known only to her.

  “She is becoming quite insufferable,” I whispered to Irene. “She has no idea what a horrible crime we uncovered completely without her help or knowledge.”

  “Yet without her aid we would have never learned so much about Madame Restell,” Irene answered. “She is indefatigable. She has an inbred taste for misdeeds and also a bent as strong for revealing them. That is all admirable, Nell.”

  “I suppose so. Were I . . . we . . . not so personally involved in these revelations, perhaps I would be more ready to applaud.”

  “And if Quentin were not, also,” she added both gently and pointedly.

  There was no answer to such a delicate barb, except to privately extract it and hope it left no scar. I doubted Quentin would appear here today, but I also doubted that he had left the shores o
f America or even the city of New York. Oh! That sounded so English: New York. Or New Jersey, for that matter. But such nomenclatures were deceptive. From what I had seen of these shores, there was nothing English here but past glories and associations and a few paltry place names. It was a brave new world, as the Bard had said once, and not the sort of place where I would ever be at home. I could not wait to return to the Old World, and, I was amazed to realize, to the civilities and comforts of Paris.

  While I watched, a new round of waiters entered the room, these not bearing huge silver compotes of fresh fruit or tall wine stands, but . . . very elegant easels.

  Amazed, I saw them place the stands around the fringes of the room, including on either side of Irene and myself by the wall.

  “Is this some new liberty of Pink’s?” I asked Irene.

  “No, it is some new liberty of mine, for a change.” She smiled as the waiters left, and then quickly returned bearing placards they distributed to the easels, one by one.

  “Ah.” I enumerated the placards as they were placed on the easels. “There is Salamandra’s recent playbill . . . and one, a very old one, celebrating ‘Gemini Burning.’ And there is Professor Marvel! And . . . Merlinda. And handsome young Washington Irving Bishop, who was a walking dead man, only no one knew it. Little Rena and Tiny Tim, the Little Drummer boy. Madame Zenobia, mistress of the mantic arts. The Pig Lady. The Great Malini!? A magician? Not one of our acquaintance?”

  “No. I am importing an entire era, without prejudice.”

  “Oh.” I leaned forward to see if the next set of female twins were Sophie and Salamandra, but they were Wilhelmina and Winifred Hermann, darling little girls with full starched skirts and curls as tight as pigs’ tails.

  “That is when you first knew them.”

  Irene nodded, then lifted her chin to indicate a new placard being settled into place on its easel.