A Soul of Steel (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) (44 page)

“This paper is so fine, so sturdy, it has virtually aged like cloth. First it was kept in arid circumstances—some of the fibers are desiccated.”

“That is not so mystifying,” Quentin said, “I obtained it in the Afghanistan steppes in the horrid heat of July.”

Mr. Holmes barely glanced his way. “Since then, I mean... most odd. I would judge it to be on the brink of rotting, having spent most of its span in a cool, damp climate. Where has this been kept all these years, Mr. Blodgett?”

I kept my glance from straying accusingly to Dr. Watson, who had allowed this invaluable document to languish in a London wardrobe, all unknowingly, of course, but ignorance is no excuse.

“Ah,” Quentin was saying as he flailed for an explanation that would not betray our latter-day acquisition of the paper. “With me. In India. I lived in the cooler hill country most of the time.” he lied with such conviction that I listened admiringly. “During the rainy season the climate there can indeed be hideously humid.”

“Hmm.”
Mr. Holmes did not sound convinced. “Certainly little care has been taken with it.”

“I had forgotten much that occurred before the blow upon my head,” Quentin said. “It is a piece of luck that I kept it at all.”

“Yes,” Holmes mused, “luck and coincidence have a great deal to do with this case. As to the characters upon the paper, a language expert could translate them better, but they are written in Cyrillic Russian and list geographical locations. I recognize the Russian word for tiger.” The detective smiled briefly. “I have been invited to contribute to a matter or two in Russia, including the Trepoff murder in ’eighty-eight. You may have heard of it. These Russians are a most... er, assertive people.”

Mr. Holmes suddenly lowered the magnifying glass and strode to the sofa. “I am afraid that I cannot help you. This scrap contains nothing incriminating. There remains only your word that you took it from the belongings of this ‘Tiger,’ whose actual name you do not even know.”

I cannot convey the idly dismissive tone that the detective used, as if all of his interest in the matter had vanished.

“Mr. Holmes!” I said sharply. “For a famous detective you have omitted to ask the obvious. We do know the name of Tiger, for my solicitor has discovered his military records. We even know the name of his London club. Since he is the individual responsible for throwing live cobras into everyone’s path—it is not his fault that they die before they can do damage, thus far—I should think that a person deeply interested in crime in our metropolis could show a little less ennui and a bit more... energy.”

Dr. Watson spoke hastily. “You must overlook the lady’s distress, Holmes. She is remarkably devoted to Mr. Blodgett, as you can see.”

At this the detective leaned forward to sear me with his disconcerting gaze. I bit my lip, unsure whether I should suddenly confess all under that merciless inspection.

“Yes, Watson, a woman’s loyalty is commendable, if often misdirected, as may be her anger.” He turned to Quentin. “Do you have any notion why this Tiger would wait nine years to stalk you and Dr. Watson?”

“He thought me harmless,” Quentin answered promptly. “My memory was gone, and I was marooned in India and Afghanistan. Yet he still might fear that I had raved about the paper, about his treachery, to the good doctor. It was only as I ventured from the East that these attempts on my life began.”

Mr. Holmes softly rapped the paper against his open palm. “The entire affair reeks of the operetta stage. Were Watson not involved I would not waste my time on it, but I will look into your terrifying Tiger, though I suspect that London has tamed him. What is his name?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran. His club is the Anglo-Indian.”

“To your knowledge, Mr. Blodgett, you have not seen him since you arrived in London?”

We shook our heads in unison.

“Watson, does my
Index
list the gentleman?”

The doctor once again rose to do the great man’s bidding, picking a massive volume off the bookshelf above the desk, which was cluttered with much domestic effluvia, such as pipes, vials and other oddities, no doubt including whatever appliances are necessary to the consumption of cocaine.

“There is indeed a reference, Holmes! Colonel Sebastian Moran, here between ‘Morais, Sabato, born 1823 in Leghorn, Italy, expert on Italian straw fabrication; emigrated to the United States in 1851’ and the Countess of Morcar.”

“We need no specifics on Her Ladyship,” Mr. Holmes said. “What are the particulars on Colonel Moran?”

“ ‘Moran, Sebastian, born 1840. Unemployed. Formerly First Bangalore Pioneers. Educated at Eton and Oxford. Heavy-game hunter in India. Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign at Charasiab, Sherpur and Kabul. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville, The Bagatelle Card Club.’ “

Mr. Holmes fixed Quentin with a stern eye. “No mention of Maiwand, then?”

“Tiger was a spy,” Quentin returned. “He did not always say where he was, and neither did the military reports.”

“Hmm.
Anything more, Watson?”

“He is the author of two monographs:
Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas
published in ’Eighty-one, and
Three Months in the Jungle,
in ’Eighty-four.”

“To a hunter used to such prey, one would think a domestic Paddington doctor would be something of a comedown,” Mr. Holmes said with a sudden twinkle in his formidable gaze. “Any threat, however unlikely, to my associate is one I take very seriously,” he added, his eyes again cold and speculative as they fastened on us. “I will look into the affairs of this Moran. Call on me tomorrow at four o’clock.”

“That is wonderful—” I began.

“Four o’clock tomorrow?” Quentin echoed. “Surely that is not time enough to unravel such a mystery.”

“It is time enough for me,” Mr. Holmes said sharply. “I have, in fact, one or two notions about the case that may bear rapid fruit.”

He turned his back on us to rummage among the objects atop the rather crowded mantel. I saw him lift a Persian slipper, the most decorative of the objects to my view, and prod the toe.

Quentin and I had risen in a daze, recognizing our sudden dismissal. Then, to my horror, my wandering eyes found a familiar object among the odious and untidy assortment—the cabinet photograph of Irene in evening dress! It stood near a mass of papers skewered to the wooden manteltop by a large knife.

I may have whimpered during my sudden intake of breath. For whatever reason, Dr. Watson rushed anxiously to my side.

“Now do not worry,” the good physician counseled me. “Holmes can be brisk about his work once he sets his mind upon it, but he has rarely failed to help those in far more desperate circumstances than yours.”

“Oh, I do hope so, Dr. Watson,” I said in perfect honesty.

It was time for Quentin to lead a free life without Tiger’s ominous shadow at hand, and certainly Mr. Holmes should do something to earn the trophy he flaunted from the Briony Lodge Affair. Irene had intended it as a consolation prize for the king; instead this detective, this... commoner... had claimed it.

I had seen the claiming at the time, yet I had not known then of Sherlock Holmes’s cold and cocaine-consuming nature, nor of his apparent obsession with my dearest friend. How fortunate that I had insisted she not come in my stead! No good could come of these two individuals’ further association.

“Be cautious yourself,” Quentin advised the doctor during their parting handshake, as I nodded vigorously. “My tale may sound extravagant, but it is true. You have seen the proof of it on your consulting-room rug.”

“If there is any way to pull the fangs of this human pit-viper whom you suspect of being responsible for the deaths of so many good men at Maiwand, you may be sure that Sherlock Holmes, however reluctant, is the man for the job.”

“Thank you for your assurances,” I told the doctor in farewell, wondering if he would ever discover that his Afghanistan bag was missing, poor man.

“Good day, Miss Buxleigh, Mr. Blodgett. Many happinesses to you both,” he added warmly.

I blushed like a bride at his remark, however well intended, yet it pleased me enormously in an odd way.

Quentin took my arm in a most proprietary manner, all in his role of Jasper Blodgett, of course.

“We will see what the morrow brings,” he said vaguely.

“Thank you,” I added to our good-hearted physician.

I longed to tell him that he would find far more satisfaction keeping to his own hearth than in accompanying his unconventional friend on wild adventures of a criminal sort. Nothing good could come of such an association; certainly his pathetic scribblings would never amount to more than kindling, from what I had glimpsed of them.

But discretion sealed my lips. Instead of endowing Dr. Watson with my honesty, I simply mumbled a cowardly “Good day” and left.

“Oh, it is too delicious! Better than a Punch and Judy show. Are you saying that by four o’clock tomorrow the unenthusiastic Mr. Holmes expects to have done with Colonel Sebastian Moran? That is a contest I should like to witness. You must tell me everything!”

Irene stopped pacing in the salon of her suite and flounced down onto an embroidered ottoman, sitting raptly as a child, staring at Quentin and myself.

We told her what we could, but none of our efforts satisfied her hunger.

“What sort of ‘odd things’ were ‘lying about’ and where, Nell? Do you realize how maddeningly vague such a description is? You should memorize an environment as an actor commits a stage setting to the senses. No detail is unimportant. A man with so little patience for triviality as Sherlock Holmes would tolerate nothing unessential about him.”

“I did notice a gold coin upon his watch chain,” I put in hesitantly.

“Excellent!” Irene’s exuberantly clasped hands showed thanks for any small crumb of intelligence that escaped me. “A gold coin. Not a terribly original watch-charm, but still... an observation.”

“What kind of gold coin?” Godfrey put in with a frown.

“A sovereign.”

Now Irene frowned. “A sovereign? But that is the—” She suddenly stopped speaking.

“Is what—?” Godfrey asked.

“Is the oddest thing,” she finished with a light laugh. “Who would expect Sherlock Holmes to adorn himself with such a commonplace token?”

And she sank into silence even as I stuttered my way through a few more vague and uninteresting details, such as the Persian slipper and the basket chair.

“The most important fact,” Quentin said, “is that this Holmes is willing to pursue the matter despite himself. I sensed that he has other objectives than the obvious.”

“Ah!” Irene revived again, like a puppet whose strings have been pulled. “He always has his own objectives, I fancy. Such a man never fails to be working on a master puzzle. Why else do you two babes-in-the-woods think I sent you to him?”

“Out of perversity,” I answered a bit crossly.

I was not pleased to be found wanting for not having made a mental inventory of the clutter at 221 B Baker Street. Naturally I said nothing of the prominent place accorded to Irene’s photograph. It would encourage an elevated opinion of herself, and Godfrey would fret to hear it.

Irene shrugged blithely. “I really must see this fountain-head of crime-solving for myself. I am determined to go as Miss Buxleigh tomorrow.”

“Irene! You cannot.”

“I most certainly can. You wore a concealing veil, Nell, and I will, too. My acting and camouflaging techniques are sufficient to overcome any discrepancy in our height or hair color. Oh, I am longing to see this den of detection for myself. Who knows when we may be in England again?”

“Irene, I have sacrificed myself and committed several untruths to masquerade as a fictional person’s fiancée. It shall not be for naught. I absolutely will not hear of you interjecting yourself into a plan that is working well only so that you may satisfy your abominable curiosity.”

“I agree,” Godfrey said suddenly. “No matter how well you do it, Irene, you risk the greater venture. Besides, to substitute yourself for Nell treads far too close to exposure. It is one thing to hide behind the unlikely facade of a street urchin or a grande dame; aping Nell would allow for very little disguise and too much risk.”

“Thank you, Constable,” she grumbled in return, for Godfrey was right.

The more out-of-character the guise, the more likelihood of deception. It was the very fact of my never expecting to see Godfrey in the role of a bobby that allowed him to sweep us all into a carriage without Quentin’s or my recognizing him, though he wore virtually no disguise other than the helmet and a false mustache.

“I do not suppose I could wear a false mustache as Nell,” Irene admitted glumly. “Oh, well. Another time.”

We dined that night at Simpson’s in the Strand, a restaurant famed for its rare roast beef, which Quentin savored with the intensity of an exile. That entire evening was a pleasant, almost tranquil time. Our foursome chatted like old friends, as Quentin and I recalled new details of our outing to Baker Street that amused our companions. I truly felt that Quentin and I had been fellow adventurers in a sense, even as I considered with a pang that the necessity should soon be over and our paths would part.