“No, I would not. But the thing we seek is by no means guaranteed. It may be beyond everyone’s reach.”
Irene extracted a Turkish cigarette from her reticule and lit it daintily. “Go back to Paris, Monsieur,” she urged, her words wreathed in a film of smoke. “You clutter up an already overpopulated landscape. Go back to Paris and clear your wife’s name, tell her of Louise’s safety. Comfort the poor woman, and hope for future fortune.” ’
“I may have business—”
“It is likely that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is investigating Louise’s disappearance at the request of the Paris detective force. He is in Monte Carlo. You have heard of Sherlock Holmes? He will not overlook your actions in this affair; he has no reason to be wary of Louise’s feelings. Go back to Paris.”
The gilded greyhound at the top of the cane received one last wrenching as Édouard Montpensier lifted his hat from his knee and stood. “Very well, Madame. I can see the field is too crowded for a mere uncle,” he said bitterly. “Messieurs. Mademoiselles.” Erect as a flagpole, he left the terrace.
Irene turned to Louise. “Really, generous child? You would admit your uncle to some share of your portion of the treasure?”
Louise smiled. “I said I would share with the one who had reared me. That was my Aunt Honoria. If Uncle wishes to partake in her good fortune, he shall have to earn her good will.”
“A Solomon come to judgment!” Godfrey proclaimed. “Whether he goes or stays, your aunt will be well treated in any case.”
I squeezed Louise’s hand encouragingly as she withdrew it from beneath the table.
Irene frowned and extinguished her cigarette in the crystal dish provided. “No one can raise the treasure without the aid of the prince’s expedition. We can only openly enlist His Highness’s cooperation. The treasure will have to be shared with the government of Crete, with the prince, with the world of wonder seekers who uproot the past. There may be little left.”
“Fine by me, Mrs. Norton,” Caleb Winter said stoutly. “All I ask of Louise is her hand in marriage and that she be willing to accompany me home.”
“To America? Really, Caleb?” Louise sounded delighted.
“It’s where I earn my living, Louise. We make our own way in America.”
“So I have seen,” Godfrey put in under his breath, with an amused glance at Irene.
I spoke at last. “Do you think Louise’s uncle will leave merely because you have asked him to do so, Irene?”
“He will leave because matters have been taken out of his hands,” she replied. She turned to the young couple. “And it would be best if you followed his example. We shall have less to worry about, including Sherlock Holmes discovering that Louise is alive.”
The pair exchanged a glance.
“I reckon you’re right, Mrs. Norton,” the young man said. “I’ve pushed my stay as it is. My editor isn’t about to swallow a Paris assignment that becomes an extended jaunt to the Blue Coast. Besides, I’m eager to show Louise the other side of the Atlantic. We can always come back for a visit when things settle down.”
“Excellent sense!” Irene said. “I recommend a speedy wedding—Alice will help, I’m sure—and immediate departure for Paris, then London, then to America by ship. I cannot wax too extreme in my recommendation of impetuous nuptials,” she finished, a twinkle in her demure brown eyes.
As witness, I stood the next day beside Louise in Alice’s buttercup-yellow parlor while a local priest performed the marriage ceremony in sonorous Latin. Luckily, Caleb Winter was of the Roman Catholic faith, and so there was no barrier to the couple’s swift coupling, as Monaco did not require civil ceremonies first.
Louise had chosen myself as her attendant over my protestations that Irene would better serve. Godfrey upheld the groom. I wore one of Irene’s gauzy tea gowns, as did Louise. Hers was arranged in multiple shades of pink, and she bloomed like a brunette rose in a pastel garden. Mr. Winter bore a more serious demeanor than I had ever seen in the young, energetic American, and so it should be when a man pledges his life and future to a woman.
Having missed Irene and Godfrey’s nuptials, I avenged myself by shedding copious tears at this ceremony. In fact, I had become exceedingly fond of Louise. I was not untouched to see her jet-black eyes glaze as we made our farewell embrace and promised to write each other faithfully. (A promise I kept to a greater degree than we had then imagined, since so much transpired after the new-wed pair left the Blue Coast.)
Alice served a dainty tea afterward. Then her coachman drove the handsome young couple to the railway station.
“Well,” said Alice, her blue eyes misted, “ ‘all’s well that ends well.’ Forgive my repetitiveness, but I am much relieved to have Louise and her suitor safely married.”
“And safe,” Irene added, brushing tart crumbs from her rose, Nile-green and brown-striped changeable silk skirt.
“You think real danger remains?” Alice sounded doubtful. “I have persuaded Albert to sail to Crete at the time demanded. Surely that will satisfy the blackmailer. Since you know the object of the voyage, you and Godfrey can arrange to have the authorities intervene in time to end the conspiracy.”
“I would rather it ended before the voyage begins, my dear Alice. We will all rest much easier.”
“But how, Irene? You say that many loose ends remain.”
“Then we must gather them all into one knot and start from there.”
“How?” Alice repeated.
“I don’t know,” Irene replied, “but something will come to mind.”
Chapter Thirty-one
A DIVINE VISITATION
Finally allowed to return to my map tracings, I was startled that evening when the maid brought yet another missive, this one for myself.
“You were not in your chambers, Miss Uxleigh,” she said in English, handing me the envelope with a curtsy. All of the maids at the Hotel de Paris were polite, efficient and pretty.
My envelope bore no sealing wax. Irene passed me a long, rather lethal hat pin and I slit the flap.
“It is from Dr. Hoffman! He wishes to call with news of interest to us. This was clearly meant for you.” I handed the note to Irene.
“But it is addressed to you, dear Nell. Perhaps the good doctor wishes to ensure your presence.”
“Surely not. He must misapprehend my importance in the affair.”
“Surely not,” Godfrey echoed me with a smile. He pointed to the innumerable pieces of tracing paper floating like flotsam on the map-laden table. “This is exacting work, Nell.”
“Yes, Nell is most exacting,” Irene said with fond regret, “as I have cause to remember. But the good doctor arrives within the hour. Perhaps, Nell, you should set your pince-nez aside and tidy up.”
I looked down. India-ink archipelagoes spotted my hands. I knew that two red depressions from the spectacles bracketed my nose. And no doubt ink smudged my face so I resembled an overdevout churchwoman on Ash Wednesday.
“I am busy,” said I, “and I do not intend wasting precious time preening for the advent of some... scandalous physician.”
“I said nothing of preening.”
“Primping, then.”
“Primping! Certainly not.” Irene sounded shocked. “I would never advocate primping. It sounds so schoolgirlish.”
“Exactly.” I bit my lower lip as my pen point wound around a small peninsula that curved suspiciously like the left descender of the tattooed “E.”
And so I was situated when the doctor arrived, hat in hand and looking most distracted.
“So delighted to find you... all... at home,” said he, with a glance to myself.
I nodded and continued my work. Possibly I should have stopped to take notes, but Irene’s assumption that the doctor’s visit was personal had irritated me. I dare not abandon my project; it would look as if I had hopes in a direction to which I never intended to turn.
She invited him to sit down and Godfrey offered him a brandy. They were as cord
ial as two parents receiving a suitor for an ugly-duckling daughter.
“Alice tells me that you are lightning with a fencing foil,” he said to Irene.
Godfrey’s eyebrows raised. He had heard nothing of our earlier exploits, as far as I knew.
Irene’s head tilted modestly. “I enjoyed testing myself at Alice’s class.”
The doctor nodded nervously, as if pleasantries were over. “Any clue to the blackmailer?” he blurted.
“Our efforts have been distracted in other directions. Have you heard more?”
“No.” Dr. Hoffman turned his brandy glass around and around by its narrow stem, a gesture that seemed unlike a precise man of medicine. “Look here. I think—I know—someone is following me.”
Irene came to attention. “For how long?”
“The past day or two. Or three.” Dr. Hoffman rubbed the bridge of his nose, leaving it as ruddy as mine. “Rough-looking sort. One-armed and a limp. Why would anyone want to follow me?” he demanded.
“For good reason,” Godfrey told him. “You are the link between the blackmailer and his object. The blackmailer might wish to make sure that you are still in contact with the duchess, and thus a useful tool.”
Dr. Hoffman looked unconvinced.
“The day of the prince’s departure draws near,” Irene said. “The blackmailer may be uneasy; it is a nerve-wracking business, blackmail; not for the faint of heart. A victim may suddenly become an avenger; promised cooperation may mask an attempt to expose the blackmailer. One should never attempt even the most innocuous blackmail unless one is willing to pay the consequences, Doctor.”
“But what if it is not the blackmailer?” He raked his hand through his beard. “Can’t you tell me how your investigation is progressing, so I may judge who the devil is hounding me?” He coughed self-consciously, then murmured, “Beg pardon, ladies,” for his forceful expression.
“Truly, Doctor,” Irene said with compassion, “there is nothing solid to report. We cast our nets in many directions, any of which may prove fruitful or not. Nell is painstakingly studying the geography of the island. Godfrey reads his eyes red in the newspapers and the law offices. I thrash in many directions. Perhaps if you described your pursuer in more detail?”
“Around sixty. A long nose, or longer than average. Seaman’s clothing, you know the sort. Limps. For heaven’s sake, I have not turned and stared at the man! How many one-armed men can there be in Monte Carlo?”
“Many,” Godfrey observed with the wisdom of the bistros. “We sit on the selvage of a vast, inland sea. Sailors have lost life and limb since Jonah. One-armed men abound near the water.”
The doctor made a sound of disgust, then gulped down his brandy.
“We can be especially watchful,” Godfrey said, “now that we know one of us has drawn untoward attention.”
Dr. Hoffman glanced at me, or rather at the maps spread before me. He cleared his throat. “I would feel more secure if one of you could observe the man. If Miss Huxleigh would care to walk out with me tomorrow, surely no one would suspect her of... of being an inquiry agent. She could either confirm my suspicion or dismiss it.”
“Me?” Words failed me beyond that opening squeak.
Irene bounded to her feet. “An excellent notion, Doctor! You could ask for a no more acute judge of human nature than Miss Huxleigh, besides which you will find her company most engaging. And Nell desperately requires a respite from her labors. Say no more; she shall be assigned to you for the day. I am intrigued by this one-armed man with a limp. The infirmities seem most excessive.”
“Then you agree that there is something sinister in this man’s presence?” the doctor asked.
Irene’s tented fingers tapped thoughtfully. “Too soon to say, my dear Doctor. We must rely upon Nell’s keen powers of observation and discrimination. And you must make early targets of yourselves—shall we say at ten o’clock? You may call for her here; what you do with the rest of the day is up to you two. We will gather here at five in the evening to report on the day’s doings.” Irene shrugged happily. “Ah, there is nothing so gratifying as a pot that is bubbling, and I do believe that these events are coming to full boil.”
She smiled happily from Dr. Hoffman to myself to Godfrey.
When Irene and I were alone later that evening, my pleas to be excused on the morrow went unheeded. We were on the balcony, where I sometimes let Oscar slither among the vines to collect what prey he could. I had found that if I left his basket open, he would return to it after such a sojourn as meekly as a mouse retreating to its hole.
“I am no judge of limping, one-armed men,” I protested as I followed my ward’s sinuous progress.
“You have seen me and Godfrey in disguise; surely that has given you some insight.”
“But what if the fellow simply is that way? That does not prove or disprove that he follows Dr. Hoffman.”
“And why, why should he follow Dr. Hoffman?” Irene mused. “After all, the blackmailer already has the doctor’s address. A most interesting development.”
“Besides, Irene, you have saddled Dr. Hoffman with me for the whole day. Surely such a long commitment is not required.”
“The odd-armed limper may not appear until afternoon. And I did not saddle Dr. Hoffman with you; he requested you.”
“That’s just it. Why?”
Irene smiled almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps he craves your company.”
“I am not vain, Irene. No, there is more to all this. Something is afoot.”
“Indeed it is. The Indian tattoo artist is dead; Jerseyman is likely to be so if we do not discover who is eliminating the Quarter members; and now another sinister seaman is lurking about. You must determine if he is to be reckoned with.”
“What of Godfrey?”
“He is scouring the records for likely shipwrecks and a list of the passengers and crew on the doomed vessels. He is in no danger. And neither shall you be, Nell, with Dr. Hoffman. I really think it a good idea at this juncture that our party be in pairs, in public places.”
Her words gave me pause. While I indulged in it, Irene leaped in for another foray.
“What will you wear tomorrow? Lilac is a most flattering color. You may borrow my lilac lace parasol. It is excellent for viewing bounders without seeming to stare. Remember, it is not important where you go with Dr. Hoffman, merely that you are seen publicly.”
“Mayn’t Alice become angry?” It was my last argument.
“Alice has far bigger fish to fry now than Dr. Hoffman. She will be grateful to you for taking him off her hands.”
So I went to bed, my head spinning at the turn events had taken. It was no wonder that my dreams were filled with lilac parasols; or that I spied a dark-clad, limping man scurrying like a rat through the shady mazes of Monte Carlo, while Dr. Hoffman, suddenly shrunken and sprouting white hair and beard, handed me a yellow rose; or that the sea around us pounded angrily and a great golden man with the head of a bull walked stiffly from the waves.
We broke fast early, Godfrey absorbed in the local paper and bound again for the Office of Maritime Records. Irene chirped like a linnet despite the early hour, a mood of hers that always aroused my suspicions. Godfrey left with a kiss to her hand, a bow and a smile to me.
“I will help you dress,” Irene told me as we left the breakfast room.
“I am not a child,” I began.
We were crossing the cavernous lobby. Abruptly we became aware of a commotion near the entrance. A longhaired hound came racing toward us on delicate, spidery legs, trailing a golden lamé lead. Immediately after came a hotel porter, calling “Arretez! Arretez!”
Irene frowned. “That is no way to gain obedience from a Russian wolfhound.”
A figure followed dog and porter, trailing a cyclone of scarves and foaming red-blonde hair.
“Irene!” this vision rumbled in an arresting voice. “My delightful Miss Uxleigh!”
We were engulfed in clouds of heavy perfume as the
brocaded figure embraced us in turn.
“Sarah!” Irene sounded delighted.
“You stay in this hotel, yes? How wonderful! I am ready for amusement.” Sarah Bernhardt turned impatiently as the porter approached, panting, the wolfhound in hand. “Take him to my suite; he has been naughty and shall have no caviar tonight.” She turned to us again, her pale face floating above a maroon marabou muffler. She resembled Ophelia after her death scene, if looking decadent implies perishing. “You must come to my suite and tell me all your doings.”
“I’d be delighted,” said Irene, “but Nell has an engagement with a gentleman today.”
“A gentleman?” The actress turned on me like a wolf upon fresh meat. “Rich?”
“No,” said I.
“Handsome?”
“Not really,” said I.
Sarah Bernhardt frowned, then her face lit up again. “Scandalous?”
“Long ago,” said I.
She was silent for a moment. “Perhaps you can do something about that, my dear Nell. It will make the gentleman so much more interesting—but then, you do not want to make him too interesting when I am on the premises. Speaking of which, Irene, how is that adorable Godfrey of yours?”
“Adorably busy and far from the premises,” Irene replied.
Sarah sighed, a long and exquisitely shaded process that ended in a small smile that became a pout. “I shall have to content myself with very dull fellows, I see. I could not even bring my darling Panache with me. He is such an awkward size for train travel. You do remember my darling Panache, Miss Uxleigh?”
A daring solution to one minor problem I had encountered in Monaco had suddenly occurred to me. I nodded my remembrance of the odious python as the actress’s monologue babbled on.
“Save for the casino, there is so little to do here, except to create scandal of course, but I have been busy with that in Paris.”
“Oh, I think not, Sarah,” Irene said. “There may be something very amusing to do, if we put our minds to it. Your arrival has given me the solution to a vexing difficulty.”
Irene smiled at Sarah and Sarah smiled back, slowly at first and then more brightly, until the soberly elegant lobby seemed lit by twin chandeliers. The last thing I heard as I went to my room to prepare for a day with Dr. Hoffman and his unknown lurker was the sound of their laughter rising up to the high, ornate ceiling and sparkling like crystal.
The Adventuress: A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes Page 28