I couldn’t restrain myself. “The child is twelve?”
“Little time left for her training. She must make her debut here in five years and must be introduced quickly in England. She is an heiress unparalleled. She’ll be snapped up at her fresh peak by the most titled man in England, save the royal family, of course. I do recognize that an American will never wear the crown.”
“Can you speak of her character?” I pressed on, for the men in the room appeared reluctant to address this lady for some reason. I’m only a humble former governess, but I am never too intimidated to speak up in the cause of a child, and in this case, a puzzled, frightened child surely, even if in Irene’s company, for Irene did not sound herself at all. “Can you say how she would respond to confusion and fear?”
“She will do as she is told. I provide a strict daily routine of self-improvement for her. She wears a steel brace, for instance, for several hours a day to improve posture.”
Here I felt my spine stiffening more in outrage than in sympathy.
“What sort of . . . appliance is this?”
“A rod up the spine, affixed by a bracket to the temples and chest.”
And we were worried about Consuelo in the hands of foreign torturers! “Was she wearing this, this Iron Maiden when she disappeared?”
“Yes. But she didn’t disappear. She was taken.” Alva, who had been addressing the mounted head of an African antelope on the wall behind me, snapped her gaze of agate to Mr. Holmes.
“Surely you will serve the Vanderbilts with more zeal and dispatch in the matter of a missing heiress than you did the Astors in the trifling forgery of a chess set.”
“I will bend my every asset to it. First, I must see the gymnasium where Miss Vanderbilt was accosted and taken.”
“Reede will show you upstairs, and Miss Bristol will answer all your questions, even if she can’t satisfy mine as to why she left Consuelo to the care of this extremely odd creature. When you are done with her, she may leave with your party. Her employment here is over.”
Miss Bristol in her corner started. “My things—”
“Will be found packed on the servant’s back entrance stairs.” Alva looked last to her husband. “I suppose you’re to be congratulated for having been so swift in procuring the services of this English snoop. He apparently has some little reputation. I want my Consuelo back within hours. Her reputation must not be compromised.”
I couldn’t remain silent, though all reason demanded it.
“Surely the woman who took her wouldn’t betray a child to such a fate.”
“Children are sold every day on the streets of New York. Don’t you read the newspapers? Haven’t your heard of the Hamilton case? It’s imperative that no hint of scandal attaches to my daughter. I will give my diamond-and-pearl parure to the one of you who claims credit for her swift, safe, and discreet return. Otherwise, none of you will see a penny of Vanderbilt money.”
At his desk, Mr. Vanderbilt’s face turned ashen, which was a good indication of just how costly his wife’s pearl parure was.
48
WHAT THE GYMNASIUM REVEALED
Our mother dominated our upbringing, our education,
our recreation and our thoughts.
—CONSUELO VANDERBILT BALSAN, THE GLITTER AND THE GOLD, 1952
It was swiftly decided, after Mrs. Vanderbilt left, that Quentin would interrogate the servants (and see to the worldly goods of poor Miss Bristol, who was trembling on the brink of tears). Godfrey remained to discuss financial matters, i.e., ransom, with Mr. Vanderbilt, and Holmes would see the gymnasium and trace the path from there to outside the house.
“Miss Bristol, you will assist,” he said, fixing the poor woman with a gaze at least as stony as Mrs. Vanderbilt’s. “Along with Miss Huxleigh.”
I cast appealing glances to Quentin and Godfrey, but they were already turning away on their separate quests.
I can’t say why Mr. Holmes desired my company, except perhaps to keep Miss Bristol from the brink of hysteria on which she teetered. So I took her arm and we both led him up the grand white stone staircase to the house’s upper regions.
Halfway up this mountain of laddered stone, he stopped to regard Miss Bristol.
“The first day I visited this house,” he said, “I glimpsed a dark-eyed nymph at the top, peering down at me. She seemed quite . . . shy.”
Miss Bristol spread her fingers on her no doubt palpitating breast. “Oh, sir, she is the sweetest, most docile child. She had a terrible fear of this very staircase. It’s so wide and long. From the top, it looks like a mountain slope.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes, taking us both by the elbow to hurry us up the steep expanse.
There were no handrails to hold on to, and I suddenly saw this great house as the glass mountain from the fairy tale, all slick surfaces that no one could climb with any certainty.
The stair to the third floor was far less grand. We almost immediately encountered the door to the so-called gymnasium. Although the shining wood floor offered opportunity of all sorts of endeavors from fencing to games, and even roller skating, it would also serve well as a ballroom, I noted.
The sharp scent of wax and polish was like a refreshing whiff of hot tea to my nose. I resolved to remain alert, for Irene had been here, incontrovertibly. Why and how? And in what state? Why would she abduct this docile child of privilege . . . unless that child were in worse danger where she was than where Irene would take her?
“Where did you stand, Miss Bristol, and your charge, and the new dancing instructor?”
Holmes didn’t cross the threshold, so neither did I.
Miss Bristol pattered to a place near the door. “Here was I. Conseulo beside me. We had just donned our brace, for it was paramount to wear it during dance and deportment instruction. Only instead of M’sieur, this woman appeared in the doorway.”
“The woman dressed as a man,” he said.
“It didn’t seem as strange as that She seemed like something . . . oh, out of a Punch and Judy play in the park. Which of course Miss Consuelo would never have seen, never have being allowed out to see such a thing.”
“And the woman allayed your fears, dismissed you?”
Miss Bristol frowned. “No, I didn’t leave. I just didn’t see much after she appeared. She had . . . a watch. A round gold watch like a little sun, and it spun so. Her voice was sweet, mellow. I was reminded of a cello. I was reminded of honey in my tea, this afternoon at four, when all my duties are done until five. Consuelo seemed quite enchanted by her. They went off, and I remained. It all seemed quite natural.”
I sighed and shut my eyes.
“Yes?” Holmes asked.
The admission stuck in my throat, like a bit of bread that will not go down, or back up again.
“Irene has hypnotized,” I admitted, “Irene has been hypnotized.”
“Some regard that as fraud and delusion.”
“I hypnotized her once.”
“Did you? Quite a bold step, Miss Huxleigh. Quite a responsibility.”
“I suppose,” I said, meeting his glance, “the hypnotic state might be considered similar to that of deliberately taking an opiate drug, as the writer De Quincey did. Only, with hypnotism, no opium, no poppy flower, no cocaine would be required. There are some, nursemaids, who doctor infants so, with cocaine.”
“Ha! You waste your breath, and not for the first time. I believe in Mesmerism as a science, and an art. We in our benighted day don’t understand its full usage. Not at all. So I’m not surprised Madam Irene is not unfamiliar with its uses. You, however—”
What he was about to say, I never heard, for Miss Bristol gave out a keening wail.
“I thought I saw them leave, sir, hand in hand, as happy as water-babies on a wave. I never thought any harm would come to Miss Consuelo. I’d never seen her face as open, like a flower. I never thought that strange lady would harm her, or I’d have given my life to stop her, save her.”
H
olmes lowered his head and frowned. “Shades of the Hamilton case. How many dramas in upper rooms can New York society stand in a single season?”
“Hamilton case?”
“Ask your Mr. Stanhope, when we have a moment, which we won’t for many weary hours. Now.” He bowed to inspect the floor, then produced thick magnifying glass and suddenly stretched himself full length—which was considerable—on the polished wooden floor.
Miss Bristol’s eyes met mine. I shrugged. Mon Dieu! I was becoming French!
We gazed down upon Holmes’s outstretched six-foot-plus frame, two governesses observing an eternal boy at his eternal boy pursuits: making the world into a scientific puzzle for the human brain instead of a conundrum for the human heart.
We smiled thinly at each other, as women who don’t count often do.
“Where will I go?” Miss Bristol murmured.
“I have friends who will find you a place.”
Her usual modestly lowered gaze suddenly fixed on me with raw intuition. “One of these friends is the woman who took my Consuelo.”
“Yes. I hope so. I hope we find them both.”
“I trusted her. Otherwise I would have never stood there silent, whatever strange aura I felt.”
I nodded. “I trust her too. Even when she is not quite herself.”
“This man,” Miss Bristol said, nodding toward Holmes. “Should I trust him?”
A good question. He had been hired to work for the Astors, then the Vanderbilts. He hadn’t wanted to cross Irene’s path, nor had she intended to cross his.
Yet now they were on the opposite sides of a shocking abduction.
“Tell him all that you know,” I finally advised her.
And I will listen to every word.
By the time Miss Bristol and I had descended to the back stoop at the rear of the Vanderbilt “castle,” Sherlock Holmes had crawled every step of the way.
Never would I make light of his investigative zeal again. That man had examined every shred and splinter and dust mote en route. Needless to say, by now his attire was no better than any Street Arab’s when it came to dirt and disarray.
Thus he could pronounce from the back stoop, to an audience of Godfrey, Quentin, myself, and Miss Bristol, that Irene and Consuelo had exited the house by this very route. That Irene had worn men’s clothing. That her boots bore traces of—his eyes flicked away from us—interesting, even telltale—substances. That Consuelo had gone willingly, under her own power, and perhaps the lulling power of hypnotism.
And that sixty feet from the house, in the forecourt to the stables area, they had both been picked up by a hansom cab.
“A cab?” Godfrey repeated.
“These villains have discovered that the bold approach is the least observed, something Mrs. Norton mastered in her teens.”
“You’re not saying—” I began.
“No.” He had whirled and struck out at me like a poisonous snake. “Nothing is as it seems. Nothing in this entire case.”
He straightened and pocketed the magnifying glass in his ulster, which reminded me of Professor Marvel’s coat of many calling cards for the large number of items it could conceal.
“Enough of crawling around the haunts of the rich and infamous,” Holmes said. “We’ll find what we seek in less elevated locations. Miss Bristol—?”
“I’ll arrange a room at your hotel,” Quentin said quickly.
Holmes nodded. He looked at me, and Godfrey. “We’ll need to dress for the occasion. Not well. Tonight will determine the fate of everyone we know, and a good many we don’t know. Miss Huxleigh and I will tackle the Episcopal Club late this afternoon, just as the city fills with evening shadows. Mr. Norton, you will rendezvous with Mr. Stanhope and precede us to the club. Establish yourselves to watch the premises and those who enter and leave it.”
“And what will this expedition gain us?” Godfrey demanded.
“An answer to a great many questions, and your wife back, along with little Miss Vanderbilt.”
Who could argue with that?
49
IN THE PINKERTON
It was not that Holmes merely changed his costume.
His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary
with every fresh part that he assumed.
—DR. WATSON IN “A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA”
Of course, as all men know, brave talk is one thing. Brave action is another.
By an hour past teatime, I was in a tizzy. I was “walking out” not in men’s clothing but in my feminine self, with Sherlock Holmes, who would no doubt be judging each move and syllable of my performance as I introduced him to Bishop Potter and the environs of the Episcopal Club.
Neatly attired in my new checked coat-dress, I was ready at the hotel when he knocked upon the door.
Godfrey answered, for he knew my nerves were as frayed as a ball of yarn Lucifer the cat had mauled. Oh, dear. Can nerves be both frayed and fevered? My cotton gloves touched my face, and came away warmed.
Well!
Here was my escort: a “gent” wearing a bowler hat and a checkered suit, neither new, with a cigar rampant on a field of teeth.
“’Afternoon, ma’am,” this lanky fellow greeted me. “I’m fresh from the Windy City of Chicago and eager to see that a lady like you gets the answers she deserves. Mr. Artemis Conklin, at your service, but you can call me Artie.”
Godfrey laughed. “Your American accent is astounding. Pinkertons are respected here, no matter their tailoring. Nothing could be more natural than that Nell should employ a private detective to trace her missing friend. Have you a pistol?”
Holmes revealed a large wooden-handled gun.
“These American inquiry agents,” he said, “may be effective, but they’re not gents of the old school. I’m sure Miss Huxleigh appreciates the difference between her homeland and the Colonies. There we go, ma’am, ahead of me out the door, for a gentleman I am when it suits me.”
I sallied out as he suggested, amazed by the just-right blend of crude courtesy he exuded.
In fact, the American Sherlock Holmes was a far more palatable escort than any version I had met before.
Quite a revelation it was. As long as Sherlock Holmes was playing a part—in this case the Pinkerton operative obliging a lady client—he was quite the gallant, if clumsy, escort.
“Irene always said that your profession was half acting and half deduction,” I told him on the horse car we took to the lower area of Manhattan.
“She is mighty generous, ma’am,” he answered in that amazing Yankee twang.
“Not really. Irene is merely exacting. She’s a seasoned stage artist. She doesn’t bestow praise lightly.”
At that he gave a potbellied Yankee chuckle.
“And I am a ‘miss,’” I added. Purely in character.
“I could hardly miss that,” he retorted. “Now pay attention. I’ll say what I need to alert any loitering observers that I might know more about the events than we do. You must play the naive innocent, no matter what I say.”
The “naive innocent”? “That will be a ‘stretch,’” I told him, “but Irene has often discussed the necessity of playing against type.”
“Has she? Let’s hope that she finds us up to her standards, when we in turn find her.”
“Will we find her?”
“You may not, but I will. I don’t approve of Norton’s insistence on involving you tonight. I doubt Mrs. Norton would approve. Try to remember that the well-being of both your friend, Madam Irene, and the Vanderbilt girl depend on your being coolheaded.”
“This is not my first time for such concerns, Mr. . . . Pinkerton.”
“Good. Just be yourself and stay out of my way, and all will be well.”
This was the last time during that journey that the usual Sherlock Holmes arrogance peeped out of his new Pinkerton persona.
As we alighted on Broadway, the streets still thronged with conveyances. The electric streetlights were just c
oming on, but not quite needed as we walked the short distance to the club. Yet I thought we would never get there!
Mr. Artemis Conklin had to stop every few yards to gawk about like a country bumpkin. Then he had to search his pockets, pull out a large cigar, and light it.
He again peered intently around the neighborhood, which was decorated with the usual peddlers and loungers. Then he ostentatiously took my arm (it was all I could do not to unceremoniously jerk it away), and said loudly, “So you last saw this Father Edwards at the club, you say.”
“Edmonds!” I corrected before I could stop myself.
“Don’t worry, miss, we Pinkertons always get our man. Or woman.”
At this he chuckled and we again preceded toward the club.
I heard a furtive jingle, like coins, and jerked around to look behind us. But the street was quiet. The loiterers were growing invisible in the shadows of the looming six- and seven-story offices. Night was falling with a thud here, along this narrow street hemmed in by these towering buildings.
Again the clinking sound. I observed a peddler’s cart across the street, attended by a man slouched against the wall as if asleep. Somehow the wind must be moving among the clutter of goods.
A gas lantern glowed alongside the steps ahead on our left. The farther one got from Broadway, the more old-fashioned gaslights were still in use. Once again I broached the doors of the Episcopal Club. I was beginning to feel like an American member of the congregation!
Despite my unlikely escort, I was recognized by the attendant and we were allowed in.
The dinner hour found Bishop Potter in. He greeted us in the parlor, listening with a kind, worried face as I explained the disappearance of my friend, and implored him to assist this fine detective, Mr. Conklin of the Pinkertons, in finding her.
“Such a shock, Miss Huxleigh,” the bishop said. “Do you know we haven’t been able to find Father Hawks? And Father Edmonds, such a fine young priest, has also gone missing. Now you say our revered donor, Mrs. Norton is not to be found. Appalling! Of course I will do anything, Mr.—?”
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