Embassy Row

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

I was glad to be away from the body, but I said as I prepared to go, “Shall I return here with the . . . helpers, or shall I—”

  “Make your way back to my flat and put Tyers at ease. We will not see Sutton until quite late. He is rehearsing tonight.” He waved me away as if everything were settled, which I knew was not the case. “Do not trouble yourself about Missus Moss,” he called after me. “I will explain all to her satisfaction.”

  “I will see you later,” I said loudly enough to be heard, and went down the dark alley as quickly as I could without once again running.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  I have just returned from handing a private memorandum to Yvgeny Tschersky at the Russian embassy on behalf of M H. I was told there would be a reply as soon as possible.

  MH came back from the Admiralty but an hour ago, pleased that secrecy of the evening’s events seems secure. He informed G that he could go home, but he would be expected at six-thirty in the morning, earlier than usual. G said he would be on time and departed soon after.

  A private communication from the PM arrived not ten minutes ago, informing M H that there is to be a greater diplomatic display for the Japanese. M H is not best pleased with this news, to which he is even now writing a protest. I will carry it to Downing Street before I retire for the night.

  “THERE’S NO GOOD to come of this: mark my words. These negotiations should be done clandestinely, not in this ... haphazard way, half diplomacy and half politics. We’ll never be able to keep the agreement quiet now,” said Mycroft Holmes as he stood before his mirror in his dressing room attempting to fix his cravat in place over his stiff collar. “And the cut of this coat makes me look like a pouter pigeon; Shakespeare’s ‘good capon line’. Why should the uniform of diplomats be so unflattering to its officers, or the tailors so incompetent? My everyday one is handsomer. Where necessity rules . . .” He turned to me with an exasperated expression. “Thank God I can rely on your discretion. And Tyers’ too, for that matter. I am singularly fortunate in my staff and my manservant. I only wish, Guthrie, I could have you at my side to record our discussions, but none of us, save the Japanese, has been permitted to bring his own staff. Never have I had greater need of all your considerable skills, dear boy, and never have I been more systematically frustrated. This was supposed to be a private negotiation, but with Cecil determined to have all the political spectrum represented, men like Lord Brackenheath and that Irish scoundrel Parnell are involved, in order to prevent any claims of underhandedness—” It was apparent he expected no response. He touched the black waistcoat under the deep-grey coat which so annoyed him. “Where did I put my watch?”

  “Beside the ewer, sir,” I said, used to his curmudgeonliness on this topic now. The first time I heard him complain in this manner I was alarmed, for Holmes was a man prepared to go to any lengths for his duty, as I knew from experience. But that was nearly a year ago now, and I was no longer dismayed. I now understood that he would rather be chased by lunatic occultists and their soldiers than appear publicly in any official government capacity. It was his belief that his effectiveness was compromised every time he was required to present himself in any formal manner.

  “Just so,” he grumbled, and slipped it into the watch-pocket of the waistcoat, then set the fob in place. It was May, and in the nearly eleven months I had been in Mycroft Holmes’ employ as his private secretary and personal assistant I had not known him to enjoy any of the ceremony of diplomacy. It was his contention that by making certain clothes more important than what was being discussed, men were attracted to the diplomatic life for all the wrong reasons. The government was filled with men wanting to undertake the diplomatic life for the grandeur it offered rather than the service. He had, in fact, a marked distaste for all of what he called the “flummery” of court functions, so I was not surprised to hear his animadversions on the one that would begin in an hour. I held my notebook at the ready, prepared to continue with the letter he had been dictating to me. “It shouldn’t be necessary to parade about in mufti in order to reach an understanding.”

  “You might have insisted on less noticeable dress, to keep the meeting—” I reminded him, recalling the three high-ranking officials who visited yesterday afternoon to apprise him of the change in arrangements.

  He paid no attention. “Worst of all,” he said when he was satisfied with the set of his watchfob, “officially I am not to be there at all. All the Germans or Russians or Austro-Hungarians, or the Americans, for that matter, need to do is wait outside the Swiss embassy and watch for arriving carriages. They will easily recognize half the men involved. These discussions are supposed to be sub rosa, though they are starting to look like a military parade, what with Sir Richard King, Sir Garnet Wolseley, and Sir Evelyn Wood for the British Army, Admirals Seymour and Hewett for the Royal Navy. All the more reason not to kit me, or anyone, up this way. We might as well hire a corps of drummers and pipers. But the Prime Minister has decided that we must manage this way, so—” He fixed his stickpin in his cravat and reached for his tall hat. “End the thing with thanks for the discretion that has been shown in regard to this young person; lapses of this sort must be expected of hotheaded young men. Unfortunately. Of course, you need not add my observations, Guthrie,” he went on, returning to the letter lying open on his dresser.

  I could not hide a wry smile. “I did not plan to.”

  “A veritable prince of secretaries, as I have maintained from the first,” he told me, his aggravation fading a bit. “Make two copies of it, and have it ready for my signature this evening. I should be back before midnight.”

  “And the files?” I asked, watching him inspect himself in the mirror. “What do you want me to do with them?”

  “Reseal them and hand them over to the Admiralty messenger when he arrives. Tell him that it is to be kept available while the negotiations are continuing with the Japanese. Incidentally, I trust your new bootmaker is proving satisfactory.”

  I had become used to these unexpected and acute insights and so I no longer marveled at them. “He is, sir.”

  “Excellent. The Italians have a way with leather, have they not?” He smiled slightly. “The glaze on your shoes is Florentine, or I know nothing of the matter.” He lifted his head at the sound of the sharp rap on the rear door which Tyers hastened to answer. “Just in time. A useful thing in an actor.” With that he turned toward the hall and prepared to meet the new arrival. He strode through his bedroom to the hall door.

  “Mister Holmes,’ said Edmund Sutton, coming through the door as if expecting applause. He paused just over the threshold to be recognized.

  “My dear Edmund,” said Mycroft Holmes. “How good of you to come again.” He put out his hand to the younger man.

  Seen side-by-side in this context, I was once again astonished at the actor’s skill that transformed him to a double for our employer: Edmund Sutton was as tall and long-headed as Holmes, but a good dozen years younger and four stone lighter and slighter; his thatch of fair hair made his periwinkle-blue eyes more noticeable. Yet with padding of his own invention to make him appear portly and squarer of frame, a wig of grey-shot dark hair cut in the same style as Holmes’, and makeup skillfully applied, he would soon present the same appearance as Holmes, and his eyes would somehow have taken on the profound grey color that marked those of Mycroft Holmes. Most remarkable to me, however, was the way in which Sutton would take on Holmes’ mannerisms, from his characteristic stride to the way he toyed with his watch-fob or held his cigar. All his own easy flamboyance and gregariousness would vanish once he took on the role he had been engaged to play—the role of Mycroft Holmes.

  “Hallo, Guthrie,” said Sutton, offering me his hand now that he had greeted Holmes. His smile was open and sincere, his splendid voice pitched to carry only a short distance. That was another of his accomplishments—the way he could change his ringing tones for the soft-spoken rumble of Holmes’ voice. Of all the changes he made, Sutton cl
aimed this was the most difficult for him to sustain.

  “Good to see you, Sutton,” I said. Originally I had found his broad theatrical manner a bit off-putting, but in the last year I had come to like the man and to respect his abilities. In his way, he was as necessary to Holmes’ work as Tyers and I were.

  “Shall we do the usual routine today?” Sutton asked, nearly laughing, since an essential part of his disguise was the strict maintenance of Holmes’ schedule.

  “We had better,” I answered, finding it less worrisome to jest about his work than I had at first. “So you will take his place in either the study or the sitting room, whichever you prefer.” Then I asked what would be a pressing question that day. “What role are you learning now?” since he would fill his hours of going about Holmes’ life with the memorizing of a role he was engaged to understudy.

  “Just at present, I am memorizing Sir Peter Teazle, from Sheridan’s School for Scandal. I think you will find it amusing.” He looked once more at Mycroft Holmes. “An important affair?”

  “It was supposed to be circumspect, and unofficial,” said Holmes. “But the Japanese are such sticklers for form.”

  “The Japanese, is it?” marveled Sutton, adding eagerly, “You might do me a service, should the opportunity come to hand. If you can find a way I might procure one of those magnificent kimonos, with all the layers, I would appreciate it more than I could say.” He lowered his eyes. “Not that you haven’t better things to do, but in case an opportunity should present itself.”

  “A full court kimono is a very complicated series of garments,” warned Holmes. “The Japanese regard them as treasures.”

  “Yes, as well they should,” said Sutton. “That’s why I want one. It is almost impossible to assemble one from other parts, the way I can do with other costumes. The silks alone are unobtainable, and a full garment is beyond my skills to duplicate.” He said this in so workmanlike a manner that there was no hint of boasting in it. “It took me almost three years to get a full djellaba, and, you know how useful it has been.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Holmes with a burst of amusement. “I probably wouldn’t have got out of Munich without it. Very well, my friend. I will do what I can about the kimono.” He set his hat upon his head and motioned to me to follow. “Bring my case with you. I will need the documents we discussed.”

  “I have it prepared,” I assured him, and made my way in the general direction of the front door. I noticed once again the strange stain on the framed map of northern India, and wondered if it was, in fact, strong tea, as Holmes claimed, or something more sinister. It was flanked by maps of the Kazan region of Russia and western China, and nine other maps of the Orient. Two of the maps were torn and mended, but only the one of northern India had that ominous, dark stain.

  “Look after Sutton,” Holmes said in an undervoice as we reached the front of his flat. The large brass Arabian urns had recently been polished and they gleamed softly in the early afternoon light. “This whole negotiation is precarious—more than anyone wishes to admit. If my role is discovered, I fear he may be made to answer for it. That would not be . . . acceptable to me.” He put his hand on the latch, not quite looking at me, a sure indication his request was important. “I will not require it, but I would appreciate your remaining here until I return.”

  “Certainly,” I said, and nodded to him to show I was willing to comply.

  “If there is any development you believe requires my immediate attention, come yourself to the Swiss embassy. Carry my documents case, so that it will be assumed you are a messenger.” He glanced down at the bustle of Pall Mall, indicating the long descent from his second-floor flat. “Make sure you watch Sutton from here when he goes across the road in my stead this evening.”

  “You are afraid that something might happen,” I said.

  “Not in any way I can define empirically. But in time one develops a sense of trouble. And these dealings with the Japanese have trouble writ large upon them. There are too many threads in the knot.” He shook his head. “What concerns me the most is that the matter should be a simple one—that of establishing the number of Japanese who may attend the Britannia Royal Navy College at Dartmouth—but it is proving to be a vastly more complex problem, and that gives me pause.” He saw the hackney cab pull up on the street below. “Well. That will be Sid Hastings for me.” The jarvey had almost become Mycroft Holmes’ private driver, able to go about the city as anonymously as any cab; he was also a reliable source of information. “I will see you this evening, Guthrie. My thanks to you for all you have done.”

  “Not needed, sir,” I said, and watched as he went down the stairs and into the waiting cab. Satisfied that the vehicle was on its way without incident, I then returned to the spartan bedroom where Edmund Sutton was in the process of taking on the character of Mycroft Holmes. He sat in the single straight-backed Restoration chair, half-dressed, in his padding, trousers, and an open robe while he worked in front of the shaving mirror, a brush in one hand, a small tin in the other, applying a purple-brown paint to the lines of his face to deepen them. He spent a great deal of care in doing what he called “feathering”, softening and blurring the edge of the lines so that they would not appear to be painted at all. Already his features were older, the lines hewn into his flesh, and his demeanor had changed. His fair hair looked oddly out-of-place now.

  “I realize you dislike feeding me cues, Guthrie, but time is pressing me,” said Sutton in a voice far more like our employer’s than it had been only a few minutes ago. “I’m sorry to impose in this way. If you are willing to meet me in the study in ten minutes, we should be able to work until luncheon at one-thirty.”

  Tyers came into the room bearing a tray on which stood. a large cup of hot, black coffee, the one personal preference Sutton would not sacrifice to his Holmes role. He put this down in easy reach of the actor and said, “I have arranged for roast pork, onions, and grilled tomatoes. There is a serviceable eighty-year-old Bordeaux that will complement the meal nicely.”

  “I trust you implicitly, Tyers, and not only because our mutual employer does,” said Sutton, becoming more Mycroft Holmes with every breath he drew. “You have not led me wrong before.”

  Tyers bowed slightly, showing how much he, too, had been convinced by this incomplete transformation.

  I permitted myself the luxury of watching Sutton a few minutes more, then retired to the study, and set about putting certain of Holmes’ things in order before I began the odd task of prompting Sutton’s memorization of lines as Sir Peter Teazle.

  “May I have a word with you, Mister Guthrie?” asked Tyers a few minutes later as I made the final sorting of material prior to putting it away in the appropriate cases.

  “Certainly,” I said, putting one of the cases down on the trestle table where our employer occasionally sat to write out his voluminous notes.

  “It is probably nothing, but I cannot get it out of my thoughts, and I decided to consult you.” He half-closed the door and looked at the tall, gauze-curtained window as he went on. “When I stepped out this morning, into the service alley, I noticed that there was a new delivery man for the butcher. I thought nothing of it at first, but there was something about him that struck me. I would wager my last ha’penny the man’s not English, though I cannot tell you why I think so. He was bringing meat to the two flats below as well as to this one, and he did his work handily enough, but—”

  I heard this and waited for anything more he might have to say, for as a retired soldier as well as Holmes’ longtime manservant, I knew that Tyers was well-versed in the subtleties of Holmes’ work and not given to raising false alarms. When he did not continue, I said to him, “Well, Tyers. Where is the problem?”

  “The delivery man was new,” he said with greater emphasis, then added, “They have always notified us before when there is to be a new driver.”

  “Perhaps their usual driver is ill or injured suddenly, and this man is a substitute, brought to t
he job only this morning; they may have had no time to inform you of the change,” I suggested, and wondered why I suddenly felt so exposed. My thoughts carried me back seven months to those terrifying days in Bavaria.

  “It doesn’t seem right,” Tyers persisted. “It is bothersome that Mister Holmes should be starting a delicate mission.”

  “No,” I agreed reluctantly. “It doesn’t seem right. Yet it may be nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence, and we are only jumping at shadows.” I tried my best to sound convinced of this, and failed miserably.

  “That’s true,” said Tyers in as dismal a tone as I ever hope to hear.

  “What should I do?” he asked me.

  “You could step round to the butcher’s yourself and discover who the delivery man is, if you think it worth the effort. You could address the fellow directly if he comes tomorrow, and discover why he is here. If you are deeply concerned, you could send word to the police and ask if there has been any crime involving butchers’ delivery wagons: theft or other pilfering. I could send for Sid Hastings, and ask him what he knows of the fellow. Cab drivers know every delivery man in London.” I did not intend to sound sarcastic, but I saw that my words were heard that way.

  Tyers nodded. “You’re probably right. I am making too much of this new delivery man. But I am left with a malaise where the fellow is concerned. Took me right back to my days in the Crimea and Ethiopia. Cairo, too.”

  Though I knew little of what actually transpired in Tyers’ years of government soldiering, I had learned enough to realize they had often been harrowing, and had left their marks more upon his soul than his body; I knew it was folly to doubt these sensations of his, yet I was not fully convinced. “This is London. But I understand your apprehension. If Mister Holmes were not embarked on this new mission, you would not be so worried about the delivery man,” I reminded him as gently as I could, hoping I would persuade us both that we had no occasion for alarm.