CHIEF INSPECTOR Calvin Somerford set down his sherry, the pony still half-full. “If I drink any more of that, I won’t be able to think during dinner.” He offered a small deprecatory nod. “I don’t have a head for wine?” His habitual upward inflection made it seem he had doubts about it.
“No matter, Chief Inspector,” said Mycroft Holmes, as if remarking on a minor blemish. “Not all coppers have to be hard drinkers.”
“If you ask me,” said Somerford, “too many of them are? You can’t do your work when you’re foxed.”
The old-fashioned expression took my attention. “That’s what my old grandmother would call it,” I told him, glancing at my employer as I spoke.
“So did mine,” said the Chief Inspector. “I think it describes the state of slight intoxication very well, don’t you?”
“It does create an impression,” I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Mycroft Holmes was encouraging these observations.
“Yes. So many of the old expressions are so vivid? Foxed. Disguised. Bosky. Swallowed a spider?” He shook his head. “No. That means got into debt, as I recall.”
“Like being in the River Tick,” said Mycroft Holmes, unctuous as a cat.
“I believe so,” I agreed, curious why Mister Holmes would want us to have such a discussion, for plainly he did, encouraging it in his oblique way and signaling me covertly to continue. “I’d reckon those phrases change quickly to keep in the mode.” It was a safe observation and one that would open more doors to language, if that was what my employer was seeking. “Those phrases serve as a kind of code, to give information to those who have need to know it.”
“Yes, the cant will do that, and occasionally they use it to obfuscate,” said the Chief Inspector. “So many of the terms used by the criminal classes are intended to mislead anyone overhearing them?” He pursed his lips. “That is one of the reason our spies are so useful—they understand what they hear?”
“So you do use spies,” said Mycroft Holmes, as if this revelation were astonishing.
“Of course. We sometimes use other words for it, but that’s what it comes down to? They are men—and very occasionally women—of the criminal class, who are willing to help us in order to preserve themselves; Commander Winslowe has said that we must make the most of any aid we can, and that includes the use of spies. What else would you call them?” He rocked back on his heels, looking more than ever like a lecturer in a good school. “Anyone in my position must find dependable men who can ferret out answers for me where I cannot go?”
For an instant the porcelain prettiness of Penelope Gatspy crossed my mind, and I remembered how well she did her work. I owed her my life, a debt that I began to think I would never repay. Indeed, after that one shameful lapse of three years ago, I doubted she would ever be willing to give me the opportunity to do so, for she lived in that dangerous twilight world of spies and assassins, embracing a life most women did not know existed. My tongue felt like flannel in my mouth, and I could not speak the words that jangled in my thoughts.
“A prudent approach, I would think,” said Mycroft Holmes in remote approval. “And have your ... ah ... ferrets told you anything about the killing today?” His bluntness brought Chief Inspector Somerford up short. “I would think you would have every spy you have ever used on the hunt for this man.”
“I haven’t had time to speak to them all yet, but the word is out, the word is out,” said Chief Inspector Somerford.
“What word is that?” Mister Holmes asked, his attitude courteous without showing inappropriate interest.
“Oh, that we want this criminal, who is not your usual killer. This isn’t some outraged husband, or vengeful rival, or a depraved maniac, or someone seeking to advance his political cause, or an ambitious and greedy fellow, or even a desperate brigand. We have let it be known that this man is the agent of a foreign and hostile power, whose aims are to create trouble for Britain all over the world? That’s a fairly strong argument to use with most of the practiced organizations for crime in London. Most of our criminals are patriots, in their way, and will not help such a man to escape.” A smile slipped over his face. “It is true. Many criminals are very proud to be British? They look down on criminals in other countries.”
“I have heard something of the sort. It strikes me as odd,” said Mycroft Holmes with an hauteur that would have been more appropriate to a Royal Duke.
“Oh, yes,” Chief Inspector Somerford declared, “criminals have pride, just as any man with a trade does?” He put a finger to his lips. “Too much sherry.”
“Would you like something else?” Mycroft Holmes asked, as solicitous as if he entertained royalty. I was growing more and more puzzled. “A glass of porter? A cup of tea?”
Chief Inspector Somerford shook his head. “No. Thank you, what I want, Mister Holmes, is a spot of food. That will do the trick?” He smiled a bit, though it took concentration.
“I will see if Tyers will put the soup on now,” said Mycroft Holmes, and to my amazement left the room to speak with Tyers. What on earth was he playing at? I did my best to mask my confusion as I studied Chief Inspector Somerford, continuing our conversation as best I could. “About your spies? Can you tell me anything about them?” I was beginning to sound like him, every statement an implied question.
“I can’t. Not very much? They are engaged in dangerous work, don’t you know? Not at all like what you and Mister Holmes do.” He made a sloppy wink. “I told Superintendent Spencer himself that we are too trusting of our informants, but when one works on the streets, one sees things others do not.”
“I would think it must be dangerous,” I said, hoping he would vouchsafe more information.
“Well, it is,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “We lost one of our ... spies earlier today, in fact?” His face was drawn and he was white around the mouth.
“Oh, dear. On top of the trouble at Saint Paul’s. How dreadful for you.” I realized that he was very upset, and for the first time I suspected that his distress was as much a part of his sudden drunkenness as the sherry was. “I would imagine this has been difficult, dealing with so much.”
“That it has,” said Chief Inspector Somerford flatly. “We could not afford to lose this one. Well, we can’t afford to lose any of them, but this one ...” He shook his head repeatedly.
“I am sorry to hear it,” I told him with feeling. “If you depended upon him, it must be doubly hard to have him go.”
“It was.” He steadied himself. “He was found drifting? in the Thames not far from Blackfriar’s Bridge. His ... his fingers were burned to blackened sticks and ... and they’d blinded him? The eyes were gone?” He turned away, his hand covering his face. “I’m sorry,” he said after a long moment.
“No need,” I assured him. “When something like that happens, anyone might be knocked off his pins.” Without intending to, I touched my face where the footman’s blood had spattered. I would have offered him the rest of his sherry, but I supposed he would refuse it; as it was, I tossed down the last of my own, mentally drinking to Penelope Gatspy, wherever the Golden Lodge had sent her.
“I’ll be myself again in a moment?” he said, his voice muffled. Then, abruptly, he raised his head and looked at me; his face was a mask of pain. “There. You see? I’m over my funk.”
“Whatever you say, dear fellow,” I said at once, hoping that my employer would appear again quickly, for I knew I was floundering in my dealings with this man, what with the resurgence of the blood spatters this morning making me feel a trifle ill. Right then I would have rather been rushing down that alley in Constantinople with the four Turks after me than sitting here with this distraught policeman.
He made a visible effort to steady himself. “You’re supposed to grow accustomed to these things, being a copper? But I never have.”
I noticed a spot of blood on his cuff—not unlike the ones on my own clothes from the morning—and I suppressed a shudder. “The attempt on the Prince and the discovery of that body all in one day. I don’t see how anyone would get used to it.” My voice shook a bit, too, and I made no apology for it.
Whatever Chief Inspector Somerford might have said was stopped when Mycroft Holmes came to the door and announced that supper was served in the parlor. His manner was so obsequious he would have done the most important butler proud. “The soup is hot and Tyers is bringing it just now. We may have to wait a bit for the lamb, but I am certain none of us will mind.” He led the way grandly, and we tagged along behind him like schoolboys trying to be as grown-up as the master.
The parlor was set up for dining, the drop-leaves of the table having been raised and a cut-work linen tablecloth I did not know Mycroft Holmes possessed laid upon it. The service was bone china and the glasses were cut crystal, the napery fine linen. The lay-out was worthy of a diplomatic retreat; and though Mycroft Holmes could be a stickler for form when required, he rarely demanded such punctiliousness in his ordinary conduct. Why was my employer trying to overwhelm this Chief Inspector of police? As we took our seats, Tyers came in and put the tureen in the center of the table, between the two silver candelabra. He proceeded to ladle out the soup in silence while we settled ourselves in place.
“Isn’t the aroma wonderful?” Mycroft Holmes asked no one in particular, as he inhaled the fragrant steam rising from his bowl.
Chief Inspector Somerford allowed that it smelled delicious and did not wait for Mister Holmes to take a first spoonful. He reached for a French crescent roll, broke it in half, and thrust the larger piece into the soup, then, when some of the savory liquid was sopped up by the roll, bit it gratefully. “Excellent,” he said as he chewed.
If Mycroft Holmes thought this gauche, he said nothing of it. He used his spoon very correctly, sat as if he were in attendance at Windsor, and punctuated his performance by making wry comments on the change in the weather.
“They say we can expect another storm in a day or two, but who can tell?” Mycroft Holmes said as if this were significant information. “I have always thought the spring to be a most changeable time of year.”
Trying to behave as he wished, I did my best to pick up this conversational ball. “So it is,” I agreed. “It can make planning difficult.” I was given a quick smile of encouragement, so I went on. “They say the signs are for a wet spring.”
“Ah,” said Mister Holmes, “that would account for it.”
Somerford had finished his crescent roll and was almost finished with his soup. “Sorry. I’m not much good at small-talk at the best of times, and today I can’t manage it at all?”
Again Mycroft Holmes nodded sagely. What was he playing at? I continued to wonder. He was as bad as the most hidebound bureaucrat in Whitehall. “Not in the police requirements, I suppose.”
“Small-talk? Not usually, no,” said the Chief Inspector. “It’s not what we’re about.” He saw that Tyers was about to pour claret into his wine-glass, and he put his hand over it. “No, thanks. I’m half-sprung as it is.” Another one of the phrases from seventy years ago. “Water will do me.”
“Would you like some more soup?” my employer inquired. “There is a bit more in the tureen, and our supper isn’t lavish.”
Chief Inspector Somerford shook his head as if recalling himself from unwelcome thoughts. “No. It would be wasted on me? I have had a most taxing day and the night isn’t yet over, is it?” He allowed Tyers to fill his goblet with water. “I have a meeting later tonight? I should be alert for it.” He took another crescent roll from the covered bread basket. “These are very good?”
“Thank you. They come from that little French bakery three streets away. Tyers fetches them fresh in the morning.” Mycroft Holmes spoke so smoothly that had I not known it to be a lie, I would have believed him utterly.
“I know the one you mean,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “If this is any sample of their wares, they must be very good?” He broke the roll into two parts and buttered the stub of one end. “Strange, how danger can increase and decrease hunger at the same instant.”
“I suppose that is true of many things,” Mycroft Holmes agreed, his hand moving slightly to signal me to speak.
“Yes, indeed,” I said, hoping I would find the words I needed. “Exhaustion can be like that—it sharpens hunger as quickly as it takes hunger away.”
“True enough,” said Chief Inspector Somerset. He moved so that Tyers could remove the soup bowls and chargers, leaving our dinner plates unencumbered. “I miss the simple pleasure of dining with one’s family.”
“You are unmarried, are you not, Chief Inspector?” Mycroft Holmes observed.
“I am a widower,” he answered, “and my work has become as demanding as a mistress?” He chuckled at what I supposed was an old joke with him. His face became more somber. “I don’t envy you your present task, speaking of demands. You must be working through the night, looking for safe passage home for Prince Oscar.”
“The coordination of various steamship lines is a headache,” Mycroft Holmes confessed, saying much more than I would have thought prudent, even to a Chief Inspector of police.
Tyers put the platter of lamb on the table, the standing rack looking like temptation itself, the smell reminiscent of Constantinople. A relish of apples and onions had been put in the center of the roast and was turning pink from the juices of the meat. “Mister Holmes,” he said, presenting the carving knife and fork to his employer. “I’ll bring the rest.”
“Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Oh, and Tyers—will you be good enough to find out if the Prince finds the club to his liking when you’re finished serving?”
I had to work not to appear stunned. How could Mycroft Holmes be so lax? It was feasible that he was laying a trap, of course, but why should he want to trap the Chief Inspector? Was there someone among his men who might be dealing with the Brotherhood or one of the more obstreperous Irish groups? Much as I was inclined to doubt it, I could not wholly rule out the possibility.
Tyers offered no change of expression. “Of course, sir,” he said, continuing to look after our wants, his demeanor correct to a fault. Only when he was done did he bow slightly. “I will take a few minutes to cross the street, if that is suitable?”
“Fine, fine,” said Mycroft Holmes, waving Tyers away as if dismissing a dairyman or some other menial; I had to resist the urge to bristle on Tyers’ behalf.
As Tyers withdrew, Chief Inspector Somerford looked aslant at Mycroft Holmes, his expression bordering on smug. “Been with you a long time, has he?”
“Oh, years and years and years,” said Holmes making this truth sound as if he were used to enjoying Tyers’ excellent service without question. “Fine sort of fellow, in his way.”
This time my effort to keep silent was nearly impossible. I could feel heat mount in my face as I remarked, as coolly as I could, “He’s proven his loyalty on more than one occasion.”
“As well he should,” said the Chief Inspector, unimpressed. “It is his duty.”
Mycroft Holmes was busy slicing the rack and putting our portions onto our plates, so he did not say anything at first. When all the meat was distributed, he said, “But so many are lacking in duty in these days, Chief Inspector. Think of how many men of Tyers’ position have run off to America rather than fulfill their obligations. They do not go to India or Australia or even Canada, for fear they might have to answer the call of duty if they remain within the embrace of the Empire. So they go to where the raff-and-scaff go. Not that for Tyers. Nor for Guthrie.”
I had to struggle not to stare. “At least in America a man may make his way on ability and industry, not by rank or privilege.” I spoke in response to a slight, subtle pressure on my toe from Mister Holmes’ shoe.
At that Mister Holmes chuckled. “You must forgive Guthrie, Chief Inspector. He has a tendency to leap to the defense of any he thinks may be downtrodden, and he has a high opinion of American principles. A very strong, egalitarian spirit wells in his bosom.” He smirked, looking from me to Chief Inspector Somerford. “We have debated this issue time out of mind but he will not relinquish his commitment. You, having been there, may be able to show him his folly. I may doubt his basis for support of such sentiments, but I do admire his tenacity.”
Chief Inspector Somerford took a long draught of water before he spoke. “You are a most tolerant man, Mister Holmes. Few men of your position would be willing to employ anyone whose opinions were so different from his own.”
“Yes. Well, he is very good at languages. His German is excellent and his French is impeccable. I will put up with a deal of disagreement for such skills as Guthrie has.” He poured wine for himself and absentmindedly filled the Chief Inspector’s glass as well.
“And Swedish? Has he learned Swedish?” Chief Inspector Somerford drank in the same mildly distracted manner that Mycroft Holmes had poured.
“A little,” was Holmes’ reply as he made a small gesture to me to keep quiet. “In time, if we have more negotiations with the Swedes and Norwegians, it may be necessary for him to increase his vocabulary. For now, he knows enough to know when the translators are not being accurate, which is useful.”
I hated being spoken of as if I were not in the room, so it was an effort for me not to protest; I knew my employer was up to something, though I could not guess why he wanted to create a trap for Chief Inspector Somerford. I had seen Mycroft Holmes pose successfully as a Turk, as a Frenchman, and as a Hungarian, but never in Turkey, France, or Hungary, and, I thought with a certain furious delight, I had seen him attempt to play Shakespeare. I managed to curb my rising indignation and attempted to suit my responses to the subtle clues I was receiving from Holmes as part of this outlandish portrayal. This current impersonation seemed more difficult since he and Chief Inspector Somerford were English and in the heart of London; as irritating as I found his behavior, I knew better than to question it. I began to cut my lamb, although I had no appetite now, nor any likelihood of having mine restored at any time soon.
Chief Inspector Somerford laughed aloud. “I’ve thought for some time that would be a problem for diplomats. Having someone like Guthrie there would be an edge?” He sipped his wine again; Mycroft Holmes topped off the glass before he put the decanter aside and went to work on his meat.
I recalled there were side-dishes still to be served; had we been dining alone, I would have gone to the kitchen to fetch them myself. Given Mycroft Holmes’ performance tonight, I thought better of it. “Mister Holmes,” I said a bit stiffly, “when Tyers returns, let us hope that he will finish providing our food.”
“Not so equal when you want your dinner, are you?” Chief Inspector Somerford said, smiling a bit.
The laughter with which Mycroft Holmes greeted his witticism was far more than the remark deserved. I stared down at my plate, hoping to control my temper, for much as I knew that my employer was egging Somerford on, I was unable to keep from feeling much stung by the ungenerous remarks made. “I shall do the work myself,” I announced and rose to go to the kitchen just as Tyers came back into the flat.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said in an undervoice to me, then, more loudly, “I’m sorry to have taken so long.”
“It’s all one to me,” I answered, and returned to my seat at the table.
“So you’re back,” said Mycroft Holmes as Tyers came into the parlor. “How is everything over the way?”
“It’s all in place,” said Tyers. He bowed again and went to get the side-dishes.
“So you’ve put Prince Oscar in your club,” said the Chief Inspector, lifting his glass in a mocking toast. “Under guard?”
“He is protected,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Today’s incident is one too many for us to face the possibility of another.” He shook his head and caught a morsel of lamb on his fork. “It would be worse than an embarrassment to have him harmed now, in any way.”
“What do your fellow members think of having him there?” Somerford asked.
“Each has his opinion, no doubt,” Mycroft Holmes replied with strong indifference. “I do not suppose that a single night can be intolerable.”
“So they were not all for it?” The Chief Inspector managed a lopsided smile; I realized he had told the truth—he had no head for wine.
“Who would expect them to be? Few of the members like to have attention—any attention—drawn to them, even to the extent of having special guards posted to protect His Highness.” Mycroft Holmes sighed. “But these men, like London’s criminals, are patriots and are willing to act to aid the country in this time of need.”
“Commendable,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “Loyalty of that sort is rare.” He finished the wine Mister Holmes had poured for him; his remark was directed at me. “You don’t see much of it in America.”
“With such diversity, how could you have it?” Holmes asked with a derisive turn of his lip. “They are energetic and hardworking, but their lack of tradition is a stumbling block that may yet prove insurmountable.” Of all the remarks I had heard him make about America over the years, he had never before expressed himself in so pretentious a manner in regard to that country. He looked up as Tyers returned with our side-dishes. “Very good. We’ll have our port and cheese in the study.”
“As you wish, sir,” said Tyers, more like a mannequin than I would have thought possible. He bowed and left us alone.
I looked over at Mycroft Holmes as he helped himself to the buttered turnips while he nodded to the green peas in cheddar sauce, saying, “Have some, Chief Inspector.”
“Glad to,” muttered Somerford as he struggled to spoon out some of the green-and-gold onto his plate. He fumbled and dropped a couple of the cheese-slathered peas. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have done that?”
“No trouble. The cloth is going to the laundry tomorrow in any case.” Mister Holmes took the peas away from him and added some to his plate. “Guthrie, have the turnips and pass them on, there’s a good lad.”
I did as I was told, though I knew I would not eat half of what I served myself. If I had been more at ease, I might have enjoyed the peas, but I could not make myself like turnips and never had done so.
“Odd eyes you have, Guthrie?” said Chief Inspector Somerford.
“So I have been told,” I said in my most neutral tone.
“One blue and one green? Don’t see that often.” He used his fork to push the peas up against a piece of roll. “A hundred years ago they might have thought you a witch for having such eyes.”
“Some parts of the world still do,” I said. “And woe betide those who have strange eyes, or scars, or birthmarks.”
“True enough, true enough,” said Mycroft Holmes, indicating he wanted to get away from this digression as quickly as possible. “Tell me, Chief Inspector, are you hopeful that we will identify the shooter any time soon?”
“I would like to do so, certainly?” he replied, doing his best to become serious once more. “But in matters of this sort, one must assume something more than simple aggravation is at work.” He shook his head. “I would not doubt that we will have clues aplenty by tomorrow, but which among them will be worth pursuing, who can tell?” He sighed. “These are dangerous times we are living in, Mister Holmes, make no doubt about it.”
“That’s true, and the danger is many-faceted,” Mycroft Holmes opined.
“I must agree with you,” said the Chief Inspector. “One has to do so many difficult things?”
I recalled what he had told me about the police spy, and I very nearly forgave him his snobbery. I could not imagine what a shock such a discovery would be, let alone the obligation he must now feel to his dead associate. “And today has been more difficult than most,” I said, hoping to convey sympathy to the man.
“And tomorrow won’t be any easier,” said the Chief Inspector, his tone bleak. “There is so much at stake?”
“Isn’t there just?” said Mycroft Holmes, his profound grey eyes filled with determination and unfathomable apprehension.
Watching him, I felt as a swimmer must who has gone out into the sea beyond his strength to return.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
The Chief Inspector left half an hour before Sutton arrived. The CI was still feeling his wine, but had passed from the most inebriated state to truculent recovery. He was surly to the jarvy who picked him up. By the time Sutton came, I had had time to clear away the things in the parlor and ready the flat for a night of work. The sitting room has been turned into the center of activity for the late hours. G has been trying to persuade MH to reveal his purpose in goading CI Somerford more than once with remarks so far from his true character and convictions that G has gone from being perplexed to annoyance at MH’s continuing refusal to explain his intentions.
Arrangements have been made with the Admiralty to have the courier deliver tomorrow’s dispatches to MH’s club across the street, another ploy that has made G exasperated, and who can blame him for this?
A formal message sent round from the Palace and the PM informs MH that the Swedish Ambassador declines, for diplomatic reasons, to make the safety of Prince Oscar his responsibility. He has reminded the government that his country was assured of Prince Oscar’s safety and therefore entrusted His Highness to the British Crown and people, and will hold both accountable if any harm should come to the Prince during his stay. MH was less distressed by this communication than I supposed he might be. All he said was, “Damned Cecil,” and went about his business.