The Case of the Missing Marquess (15 page)

“
What?
But I thought the workhouse was supposed to
help
the unfortunate.”

“I thought that, too. I went there to ask for shoes, and they . . . they laughed at me and hit me with a stick. Drove me away. And then . . . that nasty man . . .”

His memories of Squeaky made his eyes water. He ceased speaking.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to go home,” I said after a moment. “Your mother will be overjoyed to see you. She’s been crying, you know.”

He nodded, accepting without question that I would know this, as I seemed to know everything else.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to make her understand you can’t wear those Lord Fauntleroy clothes anymore.”

He said very softly, “Whatever kind of clothes, it doesn’t matter. I never knew . . .”

He didn’t finish. But I believe he was still thinking about the dosses, poor half-alive old women who crawled. Or perhaps about bare, sore feet, and the waterfront, and Squeaky, and being kicked like a dog.

Two days in London had made me aware, too, of much that I had not known before.

And now that I did know, my own ill fortunes seemed small enough.

I stood up and hailed a cab. An open, hansom cab; I wanted us to go in style. Tewky gave me his hand like a gentleman as I climbed in, as I directed the driver, “To Scotland Yard.”

QUITE ASIDE FROM ACCOMPANYING TEWKY, I had my own errand at Scotland Yard.

“This is lovely!” exclaimed Tewksbury, scanning London from the hansom cab as the horse trotted along, harness jingling, directly in front of us.

I paid attention only to my own thoughts: Something needed to be done about Cutter and Madame Laelia Sibyl de Papaver, Astral Perditorian. I had no proof, but the more I turned matters over in my mind, the more I considered they might be involved in a kidnapping ring together. Inference: She had told him about me. Who else could have done so? The lodge-keeper, the duchess, her maids? Most unlikely. Of all those whom I had encountered at Basilwether Hall, only Inspector Lestrade and Madame Laelia had heard me describe the whereabouts of Lord Tewksbury. One of those two had contacted Cutter to have him wire Squeaky to take Tewky prisoner. Surely it had not been Lestrade. Conclusion: It must have been Madame Laelia.

Tewky said, “I never understood why they put the driver way up top in back, so far from the horse. Now I see. It is so that nothing obstructs one’s view.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmured, continuing my dark thoughts of Madame Laelia. While appearing to be on the side of the angels, the woman had actually allied herself with the devils: Cutter and Squeaky. They kidnapped a victim, I conjectured, and then Madame Laelia was called in for her dubious services, so that while Cutter and Squeaky collected ransom, Madame Laelia was paid handsomely for her spiritual insights into the missing person’s whereabouts. They all profited, and they were all in their foul business together. In Tewky’s case, although initially he had run away, Cutter and Squeaky had seized the opportunity to kidnap him afterward.

While unsure how to notify the authorities without putting myself in jeopardy, I knew I had to do something to put a stop to this villainy.

Tewky said, “How pleasant it is to feel the wind in one’s face on a hot day.”

Annoying boy, must he chatter like a magpie? Without replying, lips pressed together, I reached into a skirt pocket and pulled out a pencil and a folded piece of paper. Hastily and rather angrily, laying the paper in my lap, I sketched an exaggerated portrait of a man. When Tewky saw what I was doing, he ceased his chitchat to stare.

“That’s Cutter,” he said.

Without comment I finished the likeness.

“That
is
Cutter, right down to the hair in his ears. You astonish me. How do you draw like that?”

Without answering, I turned over the folded paper, and on the fresh surface I sketched another person. Because I found myself in the proper frame of mind, wrought and energetic, I was able to do so without hesitation, without conscious memory, without thought, the pencil strokes coming swiftly to hand from some source deep within my mind.

“Who’s that?” Tewky asked.

Again, I did not answer. Finishing the portrait of a large, imposing woman, I unfolded the paper and looked at both sketches at once. The caricature man and the caricature woman stood side by side.

At that moment I knew.

Of course. To be a woman, all that was necessary was to put on false hair, various Patent Amplifiers, Enhancers, Improvers, and Regulators, and the necessary concealments: dress, hat, gloves. I of all people should know.

Tewky saw, too. He whispered, “It’s the same person.”

The bright red wig, I thought, to hide the hairy ears and distract attention from the face. And some enhancement of the lips, eyelashes, and eyes, easy enough—face paint. No respectable lady would ever admit to the use of such artifice, but I had heard it was done. Not that this person was either respectable or a lady.

Tewky demanded, pointing from one drawing to the other, “If that’s Cutter, then who is
that
?”

I told him, although the name meant nothing to him: “Madame Laelia Sibyl de Papaver.”

 

“I don’t care if yer the Prince of Wales,” said the sergeant at the desk without so much as lifting his eyes to take a look at us, “ye’ll wait yer turn like everybody else. Have a seat.” His gaze still on his papers and blotter, he flapped a meaty hand towards the hallway behind him.

I smiled at Tewky, who, having just introduced himself as Viscount Tewksbury Basilwether, seemed inclined either to laugh or cry. “I’ll wait with you,” I whispered.

And somehow in the course of our visit to Scotland Yard I would accomplish my own business there. As when I had ridden my bicycle away from Kineford, my best plan now seemed not to plan.

Tewky and I sat on one of many benches ranged along the dark wood-paneled passageway, benches of a singularly adamant uprightness and rigidity, worse than any church pews I had ever experienced. Perched beside me, Tewky muttered, “You’re lucky with all that padding.”

What a shocking thing to say. “Hush!”

“Don’t tell me to hush. Tell me who you are.”

“No.” I kept my voice down, for all along the passageway on other benches sat people waiting to speak with the police. Intent on their own conversations and problems, however, none of them had given us a second glance.

Tewky had the sense to lower his voice. “But you’ve saved my life, maybe. Or at least my honour. And you—you’ve done so much for me. I want to thank you. Who are you?”

I shook my head.

“Why do you want to look like an old maid?”

“Shocking boy, do mind your tongue.”

“Shocking girl, am I never to learn your name?”

“Shhh!” No, I hoped not, but I did not say so. Instead, I said “Hush!” again, gripping his arm, for just down the passageway from us a door was opening, and I saw a familiar man stepping out.

Two familiar men.

For a moment I truly felt as if I might faint, and not due to any corseting, either.

Heaven help me.

One of the men was Inspector Lestrade. But I had realised, deciding to accompany Tewky into Scotland Yard, that I might encounter Lestrade, and I felt sure he would not recognise me as the black-veiled widow he had met briefly at Basilwether Hall.

No, what made me weak with alarm was the sight of the other man: Sherlock Holmes.

Mentally I willed myself to keep breathing, to sit naturally, to blend in with the dark woodwork and the hard bench and the framed etchings on the walls the way a hen partridge blends in with brush.
Please, they must not notice me.
If either of them recognised me, my few days of freedom were over.

Slowly they paced towards us, deep in conversation, even though my brother stood so much taller than the ferret-like Lestrade that he had to stoop to put his head close to the lesser man’s. After my first startled look at them, I turned my eyes to my lap, let go of Tewky, and hid my clenched, quivering hands in the folds of my skirt.

“. . . can’t make head nor tail of this Basilwether case,” came Lestrade’s strident voice. “I do wish you would have a look at it, Holmes.”

“Holmes?” gasped Tewky, sitting bolt upright at my side. “Is that
him
? The famous detective?”

I whispered, “Do please hush.”

I am sure he heard strong emotion in my voice, for he actually obeyed.

Sherlock was saying to Lestrade, “Not nearly as fervidly as I wish you would assign more officers to finding my
sister
.” My brother’s voice, while well in tune, sounded as taut as a violin string. Something in his voice, something unspoken, made a butterfly of emotion flutter painfully in my heart.

“I would like to, my dear fellow.” Sympathy in Lestrade’s voice, but also a note, I thought, of gloating. “However, if you cannot give me more to work with . . .”

“The butler confirms that Mother has had no portraits taken of herself or Enola for ten years or more. Confound the woman.”

“Well, we have that sketch your sister drew of her.” Unmistakably I heard a glint of glee in the Scotland Yard inspector’s voice.

My brother’s hand shot out and caught him by the arm, halting him; the two of them stood directly in front of Tewky and me. Thanks perhaps to providence, perhaps to blind luck, Sherlock stood with his back to me.

“Look here, Lestrade.” My brother did not sound angry, not exactly, but his tone, nearly hypnotic in its intensity, made my heart swell with admiration for him and commanded the other man’s fullest attention. Sherlock told him, “I know you think it’s a great blow to my pride, that both my mother and my sister have gone missing, I cannot find a trace of the former, and I have you to thank for information of the latter. But—”

“I assure you,” Lestrade interrupted, blinking, his gaze sliding to one side, “I have thought nothing of the sort.”

“Bosh. I am not blaming you for being no worse than your betters.” Brushing aside that perplexing statement with one black-gloved hand, Sherlock riveted the inspector anew with his gaze. “But Lestrade, I want you to understand: You may cross Lady Eudoria Vernet Holmes off your list. She knew what she was doing, and if she has come in harm’s way, she has only herself to blame.”

Pain roused in my heart again, not a butterfly ache, but pain of a different sort. At the time, I did not know of my brilliant brother’s one crippling weakness; I did not understand how melancholia might make him utter such harsh words.

“However, Enola Holmes is a different matter entirely,” Sherlock was saying. “My sister is an innocent. Neglected, uneducated, unsophisticated, a dreamer. I feel much at fault for not staying on with her, instead of leaving her to the care of my brother, Mycroft. Despite his fine mind, he has no patience. He never could understand that it takes time, not just harness, to train a colt. Of course the girl bolted, having more spirit than intelligence.”

Underneath my false bangs and pince-nez, I scowled.

“She seemed intelligent enough when I spoke with her,” said Lestrade. “She certainly deceived me. I would have sworn she was twenty-five, at least. Poised, well-spoken, thoughtful—”

My scowl smoothed away. I quite approved of Lestrade.

My brother stated, “Thoughtful and imaginative, perhaps, but certainly no stranger to the weakness, the irrationality, of her sex. Why, for instance, did she tell the lodge-keeper her name?”

“Perhaps out of sheer daring, to get in. She was sensible enough, afterward, to take herself straight away to London, where it will be very difficult to find her.”

“Where anything could be happening to her, even if she
were
twenty-five. And she is only fourteen.”

“Where, as I was saying earlier, anything could be happening to a young person of yet more tender years: the Duke of Basilwether’s son.”

At which moment Tewky cleared his throat, said, “Ahem,” and stood up.

So, you see, I had no chance to think and, it seemed to me at the time, no choice.

I fled.

As the inspector and the great detective turned to gawk at the commonly clad boy, as they blinked and stared, as recognition dawned, I stood up and walked quietly away. I caught only a glimpse of my brother’s face, and had I known how rare a treat it was to see Sherlock Holmes so astonished, I would have enjoyed the moment more. But I did not linger, just took a few steps down the hallway, opened the first door that presented itself, and went in, closing the door softly behind me.

I found myself in an office with several desks, all of them empty but one. “Excuse me,” I said to the young constable who raised his head from his paperwork, “the sergeant wants you at the front desk.”

In all likelihood assuming I was recently employed at the Yard as a shorthand transcriber or something of the sort, he nodded, got up, and went out.

I went out also, by the window. Lifting the sash, I hopped over the sill as if mounting a bicycle, alighting on the pavement as if getting off the other side. There were people passing, of course, but without a glance at any of them, as if it were perfectly normal to exit a public building in this manner, I removed my pince-nez and tossed it into the street, where a large horse promptly trod upon it. Standing straight, I walked away briskly, as befit a young professional woman. At the corner, an omnibus was just stopping. I got on, paid my fare, took a seat among many other Londoners upon the roof, and did not look back. Likely my brother and Lestrade were still questioning Tewky as the big bus trundled me away.

 

However, I knew it would not take them long to pick up my scent. Tewky would tell them how he and a girl dressed like a widow had escaped Cutter’s boat together. A girl named Holmes. Probably by now Tewky had turned to me, wanting to introduce me, but finding nothing except two sketches—I hoped Lestrade, after talking with Tewky, might realise the significance of the sketches—two caricatures lying on the bench along with a hideous green parasol.