Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (13 page)

They climbed to their feet.

The Arab addressed Holmes in Arabic. “European…French?”

“English.” Holmes replied.

“Ah, that is good. My French is atrocious,” the Arab replied in beautifully spoken English. “You must forgive the informality of my attire. I was bleeding like a stuck pig and had to have it seen to.”

“May I know why you have detained us?” Holmes asked.

The Arab smiled. “I am Sullah Muhammad Zia-ad-din Ahmad. It is my miserable skin your friend there saved. I merely wished to thank you and return the debt if I could.”

“Your methods are somewhat violent,” Holmes pointed out.

“Ah, yes. I told my men I wanted you alive and unhurt. You must understand they had witnessed your skills in the square and were worried as to how they could approach you without being misinterpreted. They do not speak the Arabic of Constantinople. So they were forced to be a little more direct.”

“Then you are not Arab?” Holmes asked.

“Allah be praised!” he said with a mighty shout of laughter. “I am Persian.”

Holmes relaxed, pushing his hands into his pockets. There was the beginning of a smile on his face. “You’re a long way from home,” he said.

“As you are, my friend,” Sullah replied. He pointed to Elizabeth. “Does your companion speak English?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied.

Sullah addressed himself to Elizabeth. “I am grateful for your intervention this morning, friend. Never have I seen such ferocity. It would please me to look upon your face so I might recognize a friend in future, as I have allowed you to look upon mine.”

Elizabeth glanced at Holmes for guidance. He nodded reassuringly. “Reveal yourself,” he told her. “It is an insult if you do not.”

Elizabeth pulled the folds aside and her hair tumbled down about her face. She brushed the locks aside and found Sullah staring at her, dumbfounded. Then the tanned, wrinkled face creased into folds of mirth. He began to laugh, a low silent chuckle that quickly became a long loud peal of hearty guffaws that left him shaking and helpless.

The doctor stepped back until Sullah had himself under control and Elizabeth glanced at Holmes uncertainly. He was smiling, thoroughly enjoying Sullah’s surprise and merriment. She felt a small smile pulling at her own mouth. Sullah’s bellows were infectious.

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

Sullah was a Persian merchant who traded in anything of value. Horses were his joy, and he found a constant demand in Persia for any Arabian horses he could lay his hands on. He followed the trade routes on the east coast of the Mediterranean for most of the year and almost every spring he would arrive in Constantinople with carpets to sell to the rich European merchants, raising funds for the rest of the year’s living expenses and for his hunt for the best of the Arabian breeds.

He had been educated in England, for his father foresaw the advantages to a man that could speak as an equal to the men he wished to trade with. His head wife was English, courted and married whilst studying. As a consequence his households were a strange mix of east and west.

He had a small house in Baghdad and a very large country establishment just outside of Mashhad, on the foothills of the Elburz Mountains where he pastured his horses. He was a wealthy man and he was in love with life, living each day with a gusto and enthusiasm that might have been naïve had it not been complimented with a worldly shrewdness.

Once the initial mirth over Elizabeth’s identity had passed they exchanged names. Holmes cautiously used Sigerson as he had throughout their journeys. Sullah insisted they remain as his guests until either of them left the city. He was planning on staying for another two weeks only before setting out on the long slow journey back to Persia. He did not wish to find himself still travelling when the harsh Persian winter arrived.

People of the east regard the debt of life a serious matter. Because it had been Elizabeth who had saved his life, Sullah found he could treat her as his equal. He’d had experience with this concept of feminine equality from his time in England. He was helped by his admiration for her skills, which was boundless.

He finished their interview in the throne room—as it transpired to be—by organizing for their luggage to be collected at the hotel and graciously inviting them to dine with him that night, after they had rested and recovered in the rooms he had put aside for their use.

A young girl in a simple white tunic came forward. “My daughter, Tayisha,” Sullah explained while the girl bowed deeply toward them. “She speaks English well. She will show you to your rooms and can assist you with any questions you have.”

Tayisha smiled at Elizabeth. “This way, please.”

Their rooms, all seven of them, were richly furnished in silks and carpets and the vast terraced windows looked out over the straits. The deep terrace and intricately carved latticing was designed to catch any stray cooling breezes, yet still maintain privacy. Tayisha explained the working of the amenities and clapped her hands. A woman in harem trousers and halter stepped forward and made obeisance to Tayisha. The girl explained that this was her mother’s servant and Elizabeth was to consider the servant her own while under Sullah’s roof.

Then both withdrew, allowing them privacy.

Holmes threw himself on a wide, low divan, lit a cigarette and lay on his back, smoking.

Elizabeth checked the view from the windows, then carefully explored the extent of the room before turning back to Holmes.

“How much of what Sullah told us do you believe?” she asked.

Holmes smiled. “All of it, once you have interpreted it properly.”

“He very carefully didn’t say what he was doing in the square,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“Neither did we,” Holmes replied. He turned his head to look at her. “Which is why we are guests in his household. We are at this moment engaged in a game of bluff. He knows we know that he is not telling the precise truth. He knows that we know that he knows we are not telling the exact truth, either. Who’s truth eventuates as the least harmless will be the injured party.”

“Do you mean that literally?”

“Not quite. He will not harm a hair on your head. He owes you the life debt. My head can be more easily disposed of.” He shrugged. “Once he realizes you made a mistake of identity and I was merely dealing with the third to finish the affair, he will be satisfied…I hope.”

Elizabeth shivered. “Eastern people are never what they appear,” she said softly.

“No-one is.” Holmes smoked for a few moments in silence. “But I like him,” he said to himself, sounding surprised.

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

Dinner was a formal affair suited to the best dining rooms in England. The serving girl, whom Elizabeth discovered was whimsically called Sheba, arrived nearly two hours before the appointed dinner hour and took Elizabeth off to prepare her for the occasion. Elizabeth was bathed, dried and pampered with an exotic hot oil massage before dressing in one of three evening gowns presented for her inspection. Her hair was dressed skillfully by Sheba, who explained she had learnt from her Mistress who was “English like madam.” Elizabeth assumed she meant Sullah’s head wife.

Feeling gloriously feminine after weeks of rough living, Elizabeth entered the room to which she was shown, to find a small group of guests had gathered. She was somewhat taken aback for she had not been expecting a party. She sought for Holmes amongst the strangers and was relieved when he appeared by her side.

“I know,” he said in answer to her expression. “It appears Sullah is entertaining his western business associates tonight. We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

“Holmes, I
can’t
,” Elizabeth breathed quietly. “I have never been to a dinner party before.” The confession made her blush a little.

Holmes looked at her panicky face. “Never?” he repeated.

She tried to explain swiftly. “I’ve no family or friends who would invite me to such an occasion.” She touched his arm and her own trembled. “You know what my life has consisted of.”

Holmes looked at her blankly, astonished. He abhorred social functions and expended a great deal of effort to avoid them. His was not an unfounded dislike for he had, in his opinion, attended far too many social affairs of one sort or another.

Elizabeth had attended none. Not one. She was probably more terrified now than she had been during any of the dangerous adventures in which he had embroiled her.

Holmes was amazed to hear himself saying gently; “Just be yourself, Elizabeth, and you’ll charm everyone here.” He smiled reassuringly. “I will stay by you.”

Sullah moved toward them, a European woman on his arm. Dressed in a quite normal evening suit, he could have passed as a well-tanned Englishman. He welcomed Elizabeth and introduced his wife.

Mary smiled at Elizabeth. “I thought one of those dresses would fit you,” she said, drawing her to one side. Holmes was led away by Sullah, to be introduced to the other guests in the room.

Mary kept Elizabeth by her side with idle and frivolous chat, the other women joining in. Elizabeth withstood it for only a few minutes before panic overtook her completely. She excused herself abruptly, picked up her train and crossed the floor to where the men stood by the fireplace. Holmes made room for her in the circle he stood in.

“My soul for a brandy,” she said in an undertone.

“Try sherry,” Holmes suggested, handing her his glass.

She sipped and saw the women watching her and whispering amongst themselves.

Holmes picked up another full glass of sherry from the tray on the sideboard. “You seem to have stopped the conversation on this side of the room.”

“Sigerson, is this beauty your wife?” The question was directed from Elizabeth’s right, the tones hale and hearty country English.

“Elizabeth, may I introduce you to Lord Barrington Edgewater. My wife Elizabeth, Lord Edgewater.”

Elizabeth held out her hand politely toward the dewlapped, portly lord. Edgewater, after the minutest of pauses, took it in his own podgy hand and shook firmly. “May I call you Elizabeth?” he asked, extracting his hand and mopping his gleaming face and shining, hairless head.

“I would prefer it,” she replied pleasantly.

“So, you have actually traveled on foot all the way from France?”

“Yes.”

“A remarkable feat,” Edgewater replied, studying her from top to toe.

“For a woman?” Elizabeth finished coolly, sensing his unspoken qualification.

Edgewater’s brows rose. “You’re not one of these damned suffragettes, are you?”

“Why? Does it make a difference?” Elizabeth asked with genuine puzzlement. She perceived she was falling foul of various unspoken etiquette rules.

“I should imagine it would,” another man said to her left. His accent was vaguely Italian. “At least to Edgewater here. He has been fighting them off for the ten years he has been in the House.” He smiled at Elizabeth. “Carlo Ricco, at your service.”

“Elizabeth Sigerson.” She felt her hand being shaken.

“I wouldn’t be offended by Edgewater,” he continued. “He is a bit sensitive in that area. Your husband has been telling me about your journey here. It sounds like a good adventure. Did you have much trouble over the Alps? Some of the passes there are difficult, even in summer.”

“We came via the coast,” Elizabeth lied cautiously, maintaining the fictitious origins of their journey as Holmes and she had concocted weeks previously. “Through Monte Carlo.”

“Ah! Monaco. That is a fascinating place. I am from Turin myself, but I have spent a lot of time up that way. Did you visit Grasse while you were there?”

Elizabeth cast about for an answer, lost.

Holmes turned to him. “You’re on a commission for the Royal Family, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Carpets, for the palace in Monaco…which is why I am here.”

“It is why we’re all here,” Edgewater replied. “Except you, Sigerson, I believe. At least, I’ve never heard your name around the traps. I thought I knew all the importers in England.”

Elizabeth found herself relaxing a little. Holmes had deflected the conversation neatly from her and onto himself.

As promised, he stayed nearby, parrying all conversational openings directed toward her, giving her time to restore her confidence. She listened as he told the most outrageous lies with a perfectly sincere face.

He was deep into a discussion on the more intricate aspects of elephant herding in Africa—a subject Elizabeth knew for a fact he had no practical experience with—when she saw him cast a quick glance in her direction. There was a message in that glance, but it took her some time to interpret it, for Holmes had been spinning tale after scandalous tale since she had arrived. Elephant herding seemed no more or less extraordinary than any other conversation he had held.

But then she focused on Lord Edgewater and suppressed a smile as Holmes’ message became clear. He was twisting their tails. He was dismantling their bombastic manners before her very eyes, and taking the essence of their insipid attitudes and throwing it back at them in hugely exaggerated proportions. He was telling her;
here, this is their substance. It is nothing
.