Femme Fatale (9 page)

“Why now?” I asked.

“Because of us. She is safe now, Nell. She can rely upon us to stand by her no matter what, as we can rely on her. If that old maestro was all she had of a father, perhaps she needs to be sure that there is still not a lost mother somewhere in America.”

“Why should anyone need a new mother at this late date?” I grumbled, tossing Messy another grape.

The clever little creature caught the tidbit in her front paws while standing erect on her hind legs. She was better than catlike in her ways, being much less lazy than Lucifer.

“You know Irene. What is her greatest strength, and greatest weakness?”

This time I had to concede. “She cannot leave an incongruity, an unanswered question, a mystery, alone. And, like most people who consider themselves solvers of any of the universe’s conundrums, minor or major, she most enjoys
being
mysterious herself. I am amazed by the contradictions in the human character and Irene is not immune to any of them. Yet, Godfrey, if there is one area of inquiry in which she has most violently refused all advances—and I have known her longer than you, if not better—it is in the matter of her origins, her own history, her past. I believe not even Sherlock Holmes could make an accurate deduction on that score, although . . . I should really like to see him try.”

This was the first time such an idea had occurred to me and I spent a few happy seconds considering a confrontation of that sort.

“Your wish is too late, Nell, by a day,” Godfrey observed. His voice was tart enough that I gathered that he was not entirely happy with Mr. Holmes’s visit. Unlike Irene, he did not underestimate her innate ability to charm even the resistant.

“He was too interested in that crackled old violin,” I said.

“You sound as if you resent it.”

“I suppose I resent anything that implies a bridge between two people who are opponents under the skin, if one of them is Irene.”

“You see why you must go with her? You are her shield. She may need one more than ever if there is any truth that a mother remains to be found.”

“Godfrey, you talk as if she has reversed course and decided to answer Nellie Bly’s impertinent summons. Irene’s will is an ocean
liner. It will not be diverted from its mission by a . . . cheeky little tugboat.”

Godfrey laughed so uproariously that Casanova lofted, squawking and fluttering his wings and Messalina scampered into the rhododendron bushes to hide. The mongoose was valiant when a cobra was in sight, but found the daily domestic hullabaloos of human life annoying.

“Nellie Bly would not appreciate that comparison, Nell,” Godfrey observed when he could speak again, “but I do. I wish I could be there, I really do, when these two meet again on Pink’s home ground.” He sobered. “But the affair in Bavaria is too urgent to abandon.”

“As bad as matters have been in Bohemia of late?”

“Worse. I cannot say more, only that these small, so-called fairy-tale kingdoms spawn more intrigue than Sarah Bernhardt.”

Mention of my bête noire had me rustling my figurative feathers as violently as Casanova his genuine ones. Godfrey swiftly passed over mention of Irene’s friendship with That Awful Actress.

“At least Irene cherishes no deep or deluded affection for Pink,” he said, “so she will be skeptical of extravagant claims.”

“She does not disapprove of her as much as I do,” I warned Godfrey.

“Well, who could?” He smiled beneath his neatly trimmed mustache as a conspirator does. “You are not a person to be taken in by anyone, which is why you must accompany Irene to America. I fear that the matters she may encounter there could . . . impair her judgment.”

“Judgment is my bailiwick, that is true, Godfrey. I suppose I can sacrifice my domestic comfort and moral unease to accompany her on yet another foray into foolishness.”

“You know, Nell, I was sure that you would see it that way.” He seemed pleased.

“We are united in our desire for only the right things for Irene.”

“Indeed. As she is determined to desire only the right things for us. I believe I can convince her to go, for she will not be a whole woman again until she has laid this question to rest, and admitted as much to me last night, most reluctantly.” He sighed and stared at the fading lilacs. “I wish I could go, too. I’d like to see America, actually. Perhaps another time.”

“I sincerely hope not, Godfrey! We will settle this vexing if unspecific matter on this trip and then have no need to set foot on that uncivil continent again.”

“As we have put Bohemia behind us, this third and last time.”

“Exactly.”

Godfrey leaned past me to retrieve a grape and loft it toward the bush that hid Messalina. She darted out, dark and lithe, and captured the treat as if it were prey. “As we put all past matters behind us,” he said, “if we are lucky. Permanently.”

Once he returned inside I gazed at my remaining companions. Messy had come to my hem, as she was wont when we were alone. Her bright animal eyes watched me, waiting for the next grape, or even a head pat. Casanova settled down on his perch and edged to my side, cocking his head and watching me as vigilantly as Messy.

Lucifer was nowhere in sight, a cause for worry in the wise.

“Well,” I said. Their heads lifted at the sound of my voice, a not unpleasant reaction. “There is more to this reversal of course regarding America than anyone is telling me. I imagine that is what married people do: make mysterious decisions behind closed doors. I do think that Godfrey, or even perhaps Irene
and
Godfrey together, also have concluded that an ocean voyage would do me good after the unhappy events of the past spring. Their maneuvering is pathetically transparent. They wish to remove me from my more recent unhappy memories. Will you get on without me for a few weeks, my little friends?”

They did not answer, of course, but their eyes were bright upon me, and I realized that I would miss them, whether they would miss me or not.

At that instant I felt other eyes upon me. I turned to find Irene poised on the stoop, watching me and my menagerie. I couldn’t be sure of how much of my monologue to the animal congregation she had overheard.

While I flushed with guilt, trying to recall what I had blathered about, she found her voice.

“I have decided I must go. Godfrey says you have agreed to accompany me.”

“Well, yes, certainly. If you must go. Must you?”

“I don’t wish to, but I fear I would regret it if I didn’t. I am not about to leave my history to explication by the likes of a stunt reporter like Nellie Bly. Consider this a mission of self-defense, Nell.”

“I consider that acting in one’s self-defense when it comes to Pink’s actions is not only necessary, but wise.”

“Then we both have reasons to go to America and stop her before she does us harm.”

“My cause may be lost,” I said, “but I think yours may still be saved.”

She came over to me and twined her arm in mine. “Nothing is lost unless we allow it to be.”

“Cut the cackle!”
Casanova screeched, edging down his perch to bawl the order almost into our very ears.

Irene grinned at the parrot. “Good advice. It’s time to act. A pity we cannot import the parrot to America. He would give our forthcoming voyage a piratical flavor. I have always fancied wearing an eyepatch.”

“An eyepatch, no! The small cigars and cigarettes are enough!”

“This we can debate on shipboard,” Irene said, turning and escorting me back into the house. “A week at sea should do very nicely to settle the matter.”

4.

Calling Cards

“Let me see,” said Holmes, “hum! Born in New Jersey in
the year of 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala! Prima
Donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—Yes! Retired from
the operatic stage—ha!”

—SHERLOCK HOLMES, “A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA,” 1891,
THE STRAND

F
ROM THE DIARIES OF
J
OHN
H. W
ATSON
, M.D.

“There are gentlemen waiting,” Mrs. Hudson informed me when she admitted me to the Baker Street foyer.

“Holmes expected to be back from his Continental wanderings by now.”

“He did, and he is, Doctor, but he is not back from an errand about town. If you like, you may wait in my parlor.”

“No, I doubt that’s necessary. Whatever their business, I can hold the fort, as they say in America.”

I started up the stairs, certain that Holmes would not mind my entertaining his clients until he arrived.

“Oh, Dr. Watson!”

I paused and looked back. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“One of them is . . . rather colorful.”

Thus forewarned, and mildly intrigued, I made my way to the door at the top and knocked, not wanting to take Holmes’s guests by surprise, though these rooms had been my home as well.

A tall, strapping man with a full red beard meticulously trimmed opened what had once been my own door.

A redhead. Was that what Mrs. Hudson had meant by colorful?

“I am Dr. Watson, an associate of Mr. Holmes’s. Since I too expected to visit him tonight I thought I might wait with you. I often assisted him on his cases, and it’s possible that he intends me to do so again.”

“Wonderful to meet you, Dr. Watson,” the red-beard said with a hearty handshake. “Come in, of course. We welcome any friend of Mr. Holmes.”

“But we are not a ‘case,’ ” came an amused drawl from beyond him in the chamber. “Nor do we require containment. That quite makes us sound rather more precious than any innate value we could ever have, like the family silver.”

I stepped over the familiar threshold to behold a sight more exotic than any I had ever before encountered in those rooms.

Mrs. Hudson’s “colorful” gentleman also stood over six feet tall, like Red-beard. His long, clean-shaven jaw was emphasized by the middle part in the wavy brown hair that was allowed to fall to either side like spaniel ears.

He wore pale trousers and an olive velveteen vest with a violet cravat. While tall and relatively young, he was already running toward fat in his midsection, which not even his vivid dress could distract from.