“I will certainly give it my best effort,” Nan told him. “And given what you have told me, I should be able to do as you request. When will this be, do you know?”
“My meeting with him will be the day after tomorrow,” Holmes replied. “I will have you in place before I arrive; I will take my place, and he will approach me. We are to meet at the British Museum Reading Room, where you will certainly have no difficulty in looking busy.” His mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “I cannot imagine that you and Sarah do not have passes to the Reading Room, but if you do not, Mycroft can certainly procure them for you tomorrow.”
“We have passes. I am in greater danger of being distracted by my books than of being unable to look busy,” she admitted. “Tell me where you are to sit; I can arrange to be completely out of sight and out of earshot.”
Holmes sighed a little in relief. “That would be highly desirable. I do not wish him to connect you with me in any way. I am not exaggerating the danger, Miss Killian. The nearer I come to identifying this fiend, the more danger accrues to myself and to anyone associated with me. It is why Watson invented the ruse of living elsewhere, for he is known to be my friend and confidant, and if this monster thinks I am close on his heels, he will not hesitate to strike at my friends. If Mycroft had not given me his assurance that you are as brave as a lioness and just as capable of defending yourself, I would not put you at hazard in this venture, at all.”
Nan inclined her head in acknowledgement, but smiled inwardly. So, Sherlock Holmes himself gave her the compliment of being “brave as a lioness!” And even more important, he acknowledged that she could defend herself. “So. British Museum Reading Room. Where?”
“I am to meet him at the absolute north, at nine in the morning,” Holmes replied. “By which I am sure he means to be at the desk nearest the circumference of the room at due north by the compass.”
Nan knew the Reading Room well; the walls of the great, round room were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and divided study desks ran like the spokes of a wheel from the double circular hub of the catalogue cases and the librarian’s desk almost to the shelves.
“Then I will set myself up no later than eight within easy . . . let us call it eavesdropping distance. If he will be due north, then I will try for north-northwest. You might not recognize me, Mister Holmes, as I shall be in my most formidable bluestocking guise.” She smiled a little.
“All the better. Miss Killian, I am in your debt.” He reached across the space between them to shake her hand. She was pleased that it was the sort of good, solid handshake a man could have been expected to give a man, and she returned it in kind.
“Just leave your surface thoughts open to me, by concentrating on him,” she said. “I will be able to tell who it is you are meeting from that, and I should be able to find his mind in that way, if I have not already sensed him because he is thinking of you.”
“Logical. This Talent of yours follows good, sound logic.” He did not add, Unlike your messy, ridiculous magic, Watson, but she had the notion he was thinking it. He was, at the moment, literally guarding his thoughts, as she had taught him to. That was just as well; she had the uneasy feeling that there were a great many things she did not want to know tucked away in his head. Not about him—about some of the sort of cases that Watson would never even hint about to Conan Doyle.
She hesitated a moment. “Mister Holmes . . . allow me to offer my services in this way indefinitely. I am sure you are perfectly capable of telling when a man is lying, for instance, but I can tell you what he is thinking at the time he is lying. If you are interviewing him, I can tell you what he is not revealing to you. I could be useful in similar ways.”
“Miss Killian, you surprise and gratify me,” Holmes replied, releasing her hand. “I thought that you and Miss Lyon-White were inseparable.”
“We have on occasion divided our forces,” Nan said with a shrug. “And at the moment, she is . . . de-haunting Magdalena von Dietersdorf. As well as undertaking a closer examination of that lady, which may come in handy for you at some later date, if you are still pursuing the case of her missing sister.”
“I am,” Holmes replied. “And anything Miss Lyon-White can tell me will be exceedingly useful. But I am surprised you are not assisting her.”
“The ghosts, bar one or two, are proving more tedious than troublesome to send on their way.” Nan picked her next words with care. “The diva has made it quite clear that she has no need of me, so I have been dispensed with, and would just as soon find more occupation than merely serving as a tutor to our young ward.”
Holmes had snorted at the mention of ghosts, but nodded at the rest. “Then I think when Watson does not require your aid—” He glanced at Watson.
“Oh, I will. But I am a generous friend, and am willing to share,” Watson chuckled.
“Then there are quite the number of occasions when you could be of great assistance to me. But let us get this little adventure out of the way first.” Although Holmes spoke of it lightly, Nan could tell he was not taking it lightly. He was concerned, and clearly considered this as dangerous as any venture in which he would have instructed Watson to bring his pistol.
“Then I will not see you in two days’ time,” she said. “Might I suggest, since you are worried, that you come to our lodgings at around noon in one of your disguises? That way if your quarry has any suspicion that you are close to identifying him, he will not connect the two of us.”
“Excellent. I shall be a curate; an entirely harmless country curate. You do entertain curates from time to time?” He asked the question as if he truly expected her to say “no.”
“You would be astonished to discover that psychical Talent and wearing the cloth are not mutually exclusive,” she replied with another smile. “Nor are magic and the clerical collar.”
“I am relieved to hear it. Until then?” He stood up, and so did she.
“Until then, Mister Holmes,” she replied, and once again shook his hand, with that same firm handshake. I think I would ask him to play chess with me some time, except that I know he would play only to humor me, and probably trounce me within a few moves.
John accompanied her out to the street and obtained a hansom for her. “I was serious about needing your services,” he said as he handed her in. “I’ll come along after this business is concluded, and we’ll discuss it.”
“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” she said, but had no time to say anything else before the cab rolled away.
Checking the watch around her neck, she was relieved to see it was not yet nine. She would be home well in time for Suki’s bedtime; in plenty of time to read her a story, in fact. Is Suki old enough for that amusing American, Mark Twain? I think she might be.
• • •
Nan bent her head over the volume of poetry by Thomas Wyatt, making notes in a leather-bound notebook next to her. She had several more volumes of work by much more obscure Tudor poets next to her; if anyone asked, she was working on a theory that some poetry attributed to others was, in fact, by Wyatt. She had been at this practically from the moment the Reading Room had opened. She and Sarah had passes, of course; thanks to Lord A, that had been one of the first items they’d obtained after they had settled in to the flat. Holmes and Watson obviously had passes as well; it would have been absurd of them not to, given how often Holmes must need bits of obscure information that could not be found in his own archives. As for their quarry, well, if he was as ruthless and clever as Holmes said, he could have gotten a pass any number of ways, including quite legitimately.
Today she had costumed herself to be completely unapproachable, and was dressed in such a severe style that several young female scholars had settled next to her for protection, like more timid hens around the matriarch of the yard. She wore an absolutely plain dark gray skirt without even a hint of bustle, a jacket in the same color cut in almost mathematical p
roportions, and a blindingly white blouse with a plain gray stone brooch pinned precisely at her throat. Her gray hat was a masterwork, absolutely designed to put off any suggestions that it might be “pretty” or “becoming”, and she had wire-rimmed glasses with plain glass lenses anchored to her face. Her hair had been ruthlessly scraped back and contained into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, rather than the soft pompadour she usually sported. Her boots were absolutely sensible, and were, in fact, a pair she had used to hike down country lanes.
What could not be seen was that if, for some reason, from fire in the Reading Room to the attempted murder of Holmes, she needed to run, the severe skirt was split for just that purpose. That jacket had been made of fabric cut on the bias, which would stretch and give her as much freedom of movement as her bloomer suit, and her umbrella was of the same style as that of their formidable friend from Egypt, solid enough to knock a man unconscious, with a sharpened ferrule that could, at a pinch, be used to stab someone.
She had not thought it advisable to bring her pistol in her stout black handbag, although she had considered it.
She was sitting rather nearer to the north than she thought Holmes would have been comfortable with; in fact, she was a mere two desks away from the one pointing due north, but that could not be helped. She had not been the only early scholar here, and it had appeared that several readers had particular places they “always” set up in, and this was the best she could do. At least she had her back to the relevant area; that should ensure their quarry would assume she was not there to spy on him.
So she made her notes on the poetry of the Tudors and kept her mind open, just brushing the thoughts of those around her. Mostly the background murmur was pleasant; the well-regulated brains of eager seekers of arcane bits of knowledge. People who knew what information they wanted and how to find it, if it existed at all.
Not everyone was here on scholastic pursuits, however. It turned out there were a couple of rather embarrassing minds she shied clear of; it seemed the Reading Room was also a hotbed of assignation for the bohemian set. Not all the passion in this room was held between leather covers!
Miss Killian. I am approaching the desk.
The thought blazed across her mind as clearly and sharply as if Holmes had spoken it aloud. She put down her pen and frowned, placing her index finger beneath a line as if something in it puzzled her, and let her thoughts join with those of Holmes.
She didn’t dare delve beneath the surface thoughts; there was so much going on under the surface she knew she would get lost if she did. She was quite used to being one of the more intelligent people in a room; she knew at that moment that Holmes cast her quite in the shade. It seemed impossible that he should be able to think about so many things at once.
Holmes moved into place without spotting the man he was to meet, but the desk next to his was empty, and from his surface thoughts she knew he assumed the fellow was waiting for him to sit down before he himself made his appearance.
And so it was. Holmes had taken the precaution of bringing a magazine from the periodical section so as to appear as if he was not waiting for someone. He had leafed through about a quarter of its pages when he was joined by a tall man who sat at that empty desk.
Nan had had no trouble picking him out of the crowd as he’d approached Holmes; his mind was full of Holmes’ face. But he did not know Holmes by that name; Holmes was in one of his thinner disguises; wearing his own face, but a suit that was several years out of date, a bit shabby but painfully clean, with a shirt with slightly worn collar and cuffs, and an absolutely plain, unpretentious tie without even a stickpin.
Nan surveyed the quarry through Holmes’ sidelong glances. The newcomer was tall, as tall as Holmes. He was what Sarah would have called a “natty” dresser; a very modern brown suit just on the correct side of “showy,” demonstrably expensive. He wore a trilby rather than a bowler that precisely matched his suit, and there was a gold watch chain crossing the front of his vest. Either his hair was very short or he was partially bald; what little of it there was seemed to be a mousy blond.
His face was remarkably bland. In fact, he looked a bit like a waxwork statue with a faint smile sculpted into the lips, a smile that did not reach his eyes. But the thoughts beneath . . . after one look, Nan kept herself to the surface thoughts. First, she was not altogether sure he wouldn’t sense something if she went deeper, because his thoughts were those of a great predator, and every little external signal caught his attention until he could dismiss it as harmless. And second . . . she would have to have a much better reason than helping Holmes to delve into that cesspit of a mind.
“So,” the quarry said, in exactly the sort of low, soft voice that was permissible here in the Reading Room. “You’d be Mister Meier, then?”
“I would, indeed, good sir,” said Holmes. His voice had taken on a Germanic accent, a good bit thicker than Magdalena’s, with a coloring of hopeful cheer. “It is my hope that we can do business together. I have brought sketches of products of the sort you requested.”
Holmes slid over two or three pieces of paper; through the man’s eyes, Nan saw that they held several sketches of what appeared to be common items of furniture—except that each of them had a secret. There were one or more hiding places concealed by sliding panels or false bottoms in each of them.
“Those are our regular line, sir,” Holmes went on. “But if you have something specific in mind, or wish something exclusive, we have draftsmen and craftsmen who can design and build whatever you require.”
The man looked over the pages of sketches. This fellow’s work will suit the boss very well, he thought, and “the boss’s” face flashed across his mind. “We’ll need exclusives,” he replied. “Our clients are very particular, and they wouldn’t be happy to see a piece that they owned duplicated in someone else’s study.”
He speaks like a gentleman, but he has to think out everything carefully before he says it. Well, that suggested his origins were no higher than Nan’s. And when he was carefully choosing his words, behind that, he was still thinking about “the boss,” and again, the man’s face, though not his name, flashed across his mind.
“Our draftsmen have learned their mastery from Chinese and Arabic craftsmen,” Holmes said, with just a hint of servility in his tone now, the sort of thing calculated to appeal to someone who had money and was willing to spend it. “We can put a concealed space anywhere in a piece that you wish, and use a variety of hidden openings. Whatever your clients require, we can furnish. Whatever they wish to keep concealed will remain so, to the most thorough examination.”
The man again thought about how pleased “the boss” would be with this. “May I keep these?” he asked, not giving them back.
“I brought them with that express intention,” replied Holmes, again, groveling just a trifle. “We would be honored to take your commissions.”
The man folded the sketches in half and tucked them into the front inside pocket of his coat.
“We’ll be in touch,” the man said, and offered his hand to Holmes, who shook it. “Thank you for meeting with me here, rather than at your shop.” Because the boss wants no direct contact between the maker of these cabinets and any of us. Good thing for us, he’s ready to turn himself inside out to make a sale.
“Not at all, sir, not at all. I come here often, it was no trouble.” Holmes did not rise when the man did; and at that moment, Nan had to suppress the urge to shout at Holmes not to move. Because as the man strode away, there was another flash of thought.
Exactly what he would do to Holmes if Holmes made any attempt to follow him. Nan was glad she was already bending over her “work,” because the pure, cold, calculated violence was enough to make her feel faint. That anyone would not only consider doing that to another human being who merely looked as if he was following but go so far as to plan out the exact moves and timing was enough to stop
her heart. And she was only too glad to detach herself from the man’s mind and wall herself away from everyone else.
As she had told Holmes she would, she stayed another half an hour by her watch, then got up and returned her books to the return cart at the end of the row of desks—in the Reading Room, mere mortals were not permitted to return books to the shelves, as they could not be counted upon to put them in their proper places. When she glanced over to the desk where Holmes had been, he was already gone.
It was not as difficult as it might have been thought to obtain a cab wearing this guise. She had but to fix her chosen cabby with a gimlet eye, and, cowed, he brought his rig in to the curb for her to enter. She took her place in the middle of the single seat, and although a strange man hurried up to try to join her, another steely, forbidding look made him apologize and run to catch another rig.
She was very glad to get home, and, inside the shelter of her bedroom, take her hair down and put it back up in a more comfortable style. Pulling it back that tightly threatened to give her a headache after too long. She was also glad to change into a more comfortable tea gown.
Sarah, of course, had been fast asleep for hours. The birds were in their own room, playing with their toys, so the flat was quiet except for the sounds of Mrs. Horace doing her housework and the traffic on the street outside.
Once changed, she joined Suki at the table, and together they went over her arithmetic work. Neither of them enjoyed it—but both of them knew it had to be done. On some days, Suki was sullen and resentful when presented with a page full of problems to work, but today, perhaps sensing Nan’s growing irritation with Sarah, she worked dutifully at her task.
A Study in Sable Page 16