The Baker Street Translation (28 page)

Lady Asthon-Tate was the guest of honor and so had some dispensation to arrive fashionably late—later than intended, due to Laura, admittedly—but you can only keep a duke waiting for just so long, and his introductory speech was already in full stride.

“What more can one say about Lady Ashton-Tate? What can one say about the woman who coined the famous phrase ‘The invading American gray squirrels are like our American cousins from years ago—oversized, oversexed, and over here'?”

Lady Ashton-Tate disembarked from her limo now and began walking—smiling and nodding along the way to well-wishers—toward the table at the front, nearest the bandstand, and nearest the water and tall reeds of the lake.

And now the duke himself, having seen that Lady Ashton-Tate was finally present, picked up an unopened Fleur de Lis birthday card and held it aloft. And so did every one of the celebrators at the picnic tables.

Laura jumped out of the car and began running toward the bandstand.

She knew she would not get there. She knew the Scotland Yard security detail would stop her before she quite got there, that she would attempt to warn them, to explain—and that by the time she could persuade them, it would already be too late. Time was already up.

“And now,” said the duke—the crowd all hushed—“let us all open our cards and render a rousing Happy Birthday song to our red squirrel guest of honor, Lady Ashton-Tate!”

With the uniformed bobbies moving to intercept her now, Laura began waving her arms wildly, as if to frighten a murder of crows. She could think of nothing else to do.

The thought crossed her mind that when the bomb went off, this would be the last anyone would ever know of her—a wild woman running across the lawn at Hyde Park, waving her arms for no apparent reason.

Oh well. Perhaps they'd eventually suss it out.

“Don't do it!' screamed Laura, just as two bobbies caught her in front of the bandstand. “It's a bomb!”

All the guests opened their cards.

“Happy birthday to you” rang out in tinny unison from thirty-six individual detonating devices.

And then—nothing.

Laura stopped.

“Oh,” she said.

She disentangled herself from the bobbies. She looked about.

“Already opened them, did we? Very sorry. My mistake. Sorry.”

From the crowd, there was a puzzled silence for just a moment—and then the beginnings of murmurs and titters.

Lady Ashton-Tate came right over to help. “Laura, dear,” she whispered in Laura's ear, not unkindly, “the plan is that we will do our jog first, and then drink the champagne after. This is exactly why it's best not to mix up the order of things.”

“Yes, I know, you do have a point, but you see…” Laura paused and looked toward the lake, just some twenty yards away.

White ducks were floating everywhere.

In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Laura. All the real ducks should be able to fly away. Anything left behind would be the bomb.

Laura charged toward the lake.

“Fly! Fly!” she shouted, waving her arms once more.

There was a sudden rush of wings, a clamor of cackles and quacks, and the lake erupted in a glorious spectacle of beating wings.

And then—nothing.

More murmurs.

Well, thought Laura. At least this is better than if I had helped end the world as we know it.

But now—with all eyes on Laura, who was standing by the reeds at the edge of the lake—something stirred in those reeds. Something in the muddy ground moved.

A heavy iron plate pushed up from the mud, like a hatch opening on a submarine.

A man in a Royal Parks uniform climbed out.

The crowd stared. How clever; whatever it was, it must be part of the celebration.

Fully out of the access tunnel now, Aspic—the man in the uniform—stood and blinked once or twice to focus his eyes.

And then he began to run as fast as he could for Carriage Park Road.

And now a second man came out of the tunnel. The crowd gasped.

No uniform on this man. And though he was a little worse for wear, his expensive dark suit and his girth were well known and easily recognized: It was Lord Robert Buxton.

Buxton didn't even bother to look around. He got his feet on solid ground, staggered just for a moment, and then ran full speed after Aspic.

Someone in the crowd began to applaud the spectacle, and it rippled through from one table to the next. Buxton had always claimed to everyone that he was fit. No one had ever believed him—until now.

“Bravo!” The duke applauded.

The ground sloped upward between the lake and the road, and it slowed Aspic's progress; Buxton gained ground.

And then Aspic slipped.

In an instant, Buxton was on top of him, hammering the man's back and shoulders and head with his fists, and shouting.

“A bloody sewer? You hold me in a bloody sewer? As if you have no clue who I am?”

More murmurs from the crowd. Perhaps this wasn't part of the planned festivities. The duke began to look concerned, and three members of the Scotland Yard Royal Protection Detail now ran over—and not a moment too soon for Aspic.

Laura remained standing by the lake. This was all well and good, so far as it went. She began to consider the possibility that they might all live through the day.

But where was Reggie?

She walked over to the sewer-maintenance opening, got down on her hands and knees, and peered in. It was very dark, but she saw movement.

“Can you use a hand?” she called out, not entirely sure who it was she saw below.

“I bloody well can” was the response. And it was Reggie's voice.

In another moment, he had climbed far enough on the ladder to be visible to Laura, though not yet to any of the crowd.

“Take this,” he said.

With one hand, he pushed the plastic duck up toward Laura. She took it, set it on the grass behind her, and then reached back in to pull Reggie out onto solid ground.

They were both just sitting there on the ground now. Most of the crowd was still focused on the tangle of Buxton and Aspic, and for a moment, for Reggie and Laura, it was almost as though they'd just come out on a sunny day to lounge a bit on the lawn and have a picnic.

Laura pointed at the duck.

“Is it—”

“Completely disarmed,” said Reggie. “I don't think it will even quack. Broke my thumbnail unscrewing the damn thing.”

Now Reggie stood, and he helped Laura off the ground.

She started to brush the water and mud and slop off the sides of his pants with her hands.

Then she stopped. She felt something hard in a pocket. Hard and perfectly square.

“What's that?” she said.

“You know me,” said Reggie. “I'm just happy to see—”

Laura reached into his front pocket.

“Laura, everyone could be watching—”

She grabbed the jewelry box and pulled it out.

Then she leaned in to Reggie and whispered something in his ear.

40

On Monday morning, just a few minutes before ten, Reggie and Nigel sat in the conference room in Baker Street Chambers. Several copies of a newly prepared legal agreement were spread out on the table before them.

“Do you think the Americans will go for it?” asked Nigel

“I think they'll be thrilled.”

“Any second thoughts yourself?” asked Nigel. “I mean, granted, it would be a long shot, but if you prevailed, it would be an incredible amount of money—life-changing.”

“I like my life in the direction it is changing already,” said Reggie. “I would just like this thing to go away.”

Nigel nodded. “Me, too. Let's get it done. It's time for me to head back. Mara said my bar results have come in, and she wants me home to celebrate.”

“She's already opened them?”

“No,” said Nigel, smiling. “She just assumes I passed. She's like that. Just always thinks I'll get it right. Doesn't know me that well yet, does she?”

“Here they come,” said Reggie, pointing at the conference room door.

The two Americans had arrived; Stillman, the lawyer, entered first, looking confident; Darby, the potential billion-dollar heir of the Clemens fortune, entered second, looking angry.

Then Rafferty entered, looking unfathomable.

They all took their seats. Now Reggie stood, and Nigel pushed copies of the legal document across to everyone at the table.

“This document, “said Reggie, “states that, on behalf of myself, and on behalf of Sherlock Holmes, whether he is fictional or otherwise, and on behalf of whatever connection I may have to Sherlock Holmes, whether he is fictional or otherwise, and any connection I may have to the letters written to him, whether they were intended for a fictional character or otherwise, I give up any and all claims on the estate of Mrs. Clemens. I will sign this document as tenant of 221B Baker Street and on behalf of Baker Street Chambers and all employees thereof. And Mr. Rafferty will sign on behalf of Dorset Leasing and all occupants of Dorset House.”

Rafferty jerked his head up on that last part. He looked across at Reggie, but Reggie was focused on just the two Americans.

Darby looked at Stillman, who was mulling it over.

“I believe our proposal is considerably better from your perspective than simply the return of the document you were looking for,” said Reggie.

“I should say so,” said Rafferty, so softly that the conversation continued as if he had not.

Stillman nodded. “That will work.”

“And in return,” said Reggie. “You will agree to renounce any and all civil or criminal claims against Baker Street Chambers and all employees, and Dorset House and all employees, and specifically including Mr. Hendricks and my brother and Miss Rankin, regarding any and all incidents that have taken place since your arrival in London.”

“Now wait a minute—” said Darby, starting to rise out of his chair. But Stillman immediately pushed him back down.

“Agreed,” said the lawyer. “Let's get it signed.”

There were sighs of relief all around the table. Almost everyone began to stand.

“No,” said Rafferty. He had not stirred. “It is not agreed.”

Everyone else now froze in place. And then Rafferty brought out a document of his own.

“Regarding the events that took place upstairs,” said Rafferty, “any possible civil suit would cut both ways. It would be presented to an English jury, and although English juries are the most fair-minded and least provincial in the world, I would not take it as a given, Mr. Darby, that they would accept your word over Nigel's. And as to injuries—well, Mr. Hendricks, who bravely hurried upstairs despite his advanced age, has yet to see his physician. I, for one, am worried about his heart.”

Reggie raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. Laura had told him once that she frequently encountered Mr. Hendricks in her runs around the lake, Hendricks jogging and muttering along in the opposite direction.

Rafferty continued. “And most important, I am not absolutely convinced that Mrs. Clemens did not, in fact, intend to bequeath her fortune to Sherlock Holmes in a way that will be upheld. As you know, the document has been recovered. I have it here with me. And I call your attention to the last line.”

Rafferty now pushed forward onto the table the will that had gone missing—that had been rolled up by Buxton along with other letters and tucked away into the shelves behind Lois's desk.

Everyone leaned forward to read the last line.

Nigel read it aloud: “‘I therefore bequeath my entire fortune and all my possessions to Reggie Heath, as custodian and recipient of the letters to Sherlock Holmes.'”

The American lawyer glared and said, “What's your point?” just as though he didn't know what the point was.

“My point,” said Rafferty, “as I'm sure everyone at this table knows, is that the bequest is not merely to Reggie Heath. It is also to the custodian and recipient of the letters to Sherlock Holmes.”

“No,” said Stillman heatedly, “it is to both, but only as long as they are one and the same. And Heath has already said he will sign it over.”

Rafferty looked across at Reggie and then Nigel. “Mr. Heath? And Mr. Heath? What are your opinions?”

Reggie shrugged. “Arguable.”

Nigel nodded. “Arguable.”

“We had a deal,” growled Stillman.

“And I believe we still do,” said Rafferty. “But there is just a minor modification.”

“Let's hear it,” said Stillman.

“An offer has been made for the purchase of Dorset House. Dorset National Building Society does not wish to sell, but great pressure has been brought on them to do so.

“The current offer can be thwarted, if it can be shown that another bidder would be capable of making a competing offer. If another bidder—one with very substantial funds, such as the heirs to the Clemens Copper fortune—were to express an interest, I believe the current hostile offer would be withdrawn, and Dorset House would remain as the recipient and custodian of the letters to Sherlock Holmes.”

“You're asking us to buy Dorset House?” said Stillman.

“Absolutely not,” said Rafferty. “I'm assuming you have no interest whatsoever in the building. Is that correct?”

Stillman looked at Darby, who nodded.

“It is correct,” said Stillman.

“Then all I will need from you,” said Rafferty, “is your commitment that, should the time come, with the vast funds that you will receive from the Clemens inheritance, you will be prepared to threaten such an offer. I believe that threat will be sufficient to discourage any other unwelcome bidders.”

Stillman looked over at Darby again, and then at everyone else at the table. Darby nodded.

“Then we have a deal,” said the American lawyer. “We're willing to trade one fiction for another.”

41

THE NEXT DAY

It was Tuesday, and Reggie wanted to get back to some routine work, but he could not do so quite yet.