Spider Dance (58 page)

“I work alone,” Holmes said. “Except for Dr. Watson on occasion. One couldn’t ask for a more stout-hearted fellow. However, he isn’t here.”

“But you are,” I said, suddenly inspired. “You all are. Irene couldn’t ask for finer champions. You are the three musketeers.”

They did not seem impressed by my literary allusion.

“And who are you, dear Nell?” Godfrey asked with a glint of fond humor amidst the anxiety.

I thought. “D’Artagnan,” I said boldly, invoking the young swordsman from the provinces. After all, I had something that they didn’t have, firearms or not.

I had a foot-long steel hatpin.
En garde!

While Godfrey, Quentin, and I exchanged notes at the Astor House, Sherlock Holmes returned to his hotel to costume himself as the character in which he would make the best target for the mysterious men who were dogging Lola Montez’s long-dead footsteps.

But Mr. Holmes did not return to the Astor House as agreed.

About two hours later, just as we were getting restive at his overlong absence, a knock on the door had us all rushing to answer.

The young hotel messenger boy blinked at our united front.

“Urgent telephone message for Mr. Stanhope,” he said, holding up a folded sheet of paper.

Quentin snatched it, Godfrey tipped the boy, and I began to read its telegraphic phrases aloud over Quentin’s shoulder as Godfrey closed the door.

“‘Disastrous turn of events at Six-sixty Fifth. Come at once. Present Stanhope as agent of Her Majesty’s foreign service, Norton as Rothschild agent. I don’t know what they’ll make of Miss Huxleigh, but bring her anyway. This supercedes any current concerns. Stop for nothing. Holmes.’”

“Surely,” Godfrey objected, “Irene’s disappearance supercedes any new mischief at the Vanderbilt mansion.”

Quentin frowned. “One would think so. As least
we
would. Holmes is employed by the Vanderbilts, not us, and his first obligation is to them, of course.”

“A pity he must go haring off after his own business just now,” Godfrey said. “I for one am going down to the area where Irene was last seen, by God.”

“Agreed.” Quentin sounded like a second Musketeer chiming in.

It was all very blood-stirring and gallant, but . . .

“No,” said I.

They both stared at me as if I were mad.

“I wish Irene safely recovered as fervently as you,” I told Godfrey. “But I have known Mr. Holmes—if anyone indeed may know such a man—longer than you. He revels in working alone and needing no one. He wouldn’t summon us unless the disaster at the Vanderbilt house involves Irene’s disappearance. We must go.”

“And waste more precious minutes,” Godfrey said, “in which Irene may be subjected to unthinkable torments? No!”

“Then I’ll go alone, though I am the least wanted or useful person on his list.”

“Nell! Make sense,” Godfrey pled. “We can’t worry about you dashing off on your own when Irene is already missing from just such an intemperate action.”

“I’ll accompany Nell,” Quentin offered. “Once she’s safe with Holmes, I’ll join you at the Episcopal Club.”

Much as I hated to discourage Quentin from any course that involved our mutual participation, I quickly pointed out an objection. “Quentin has been in New York City longer and knows it better,” I told Godfrey. “You would be lost on your own.”

“Then I’ll go to the damned Vanderbilts with you, Nell. Quentin, you can explore the area Holmes was discussing.”

“I don’t care for us separating like this,” Quentin said. “That’s how Irene disappeared in the first place.”

“All for one and one for all,” I said. “Has it been lost upon you that Mr. Holmes requested that you represent yourselves in the most impressive professional terms, as agents of the two most potent powers in European affairs today?”

“We are hardly such elevated figures,” Godfrey said with his usual modesty.

I could hardly keep myself from stamping my foot. “But you will be useful in that guise, Holmes says. He even thinks
I
may be useful, which will give you some idea of how truly desperate the situation is. And it involves Irene’s . . . disappearance”—I would not say kidnapping—“or he wouldn’t presume upon us. I know
the
man. I may detest him, but I don’t underestimate him, and neither should you.”

Godfrey shook his head as if to dislodge the awful fears that must be buzzing around his brain like gnats, invisible but inescapable.

“If we find the situation unproductive for our first concern,” Quentin said, “we can leave directly. Another hour—”

“Another hour.” Godfrey’s voice was grim, and his hands had curled into fists.

“Irene,” I told him, reminded him, “was not beaten by the Ripper. We have to believe that she can survive another brush with the unthinkable.”

Godfrey nodded.

I snatched my hat and steel pin from the table as they, now utterly converted, rushed me out the door.

I installed the hat once we were ensconced in the Gurney Quentin had run into the middle of the street to engage. I thought for a moment he would have to vault upon the lead horse’s back to dragoon it, but flashing a two-dollar half eagle gold piece worked wonders.

Certainly it encouraged the current passengers to get out then and there, and he tossed a second such coin up to the driver.

I rather would have liked to see him vault upon a Gurney horse in the middle of Fifth Avenue, but had to admit that gold was just as quick and effective in this instance.

“What can have happened?” Godfrey speculated as we rattled along at that smart equine pace that is faster than a trot and just below a canter.

“It is only ten-thirty in the morning,” I noted, consulting my lapel watch. “What so dire can have happened?”

Quentin, sitting on my side of the facing seats, touched his finger to my small timepiece. “It was clever of you to have loosened this pin to leave a trail of your own kidnapping last spring,” he said. “I’m glad we recovered your bauble, but you deserve a finer one for your travails.”

“This has served me well for many years.”

“Perhaps an outing to Tiffany’s with Irene when we reunite with her—?”

I caught my breath. Not at the promise of Tiffany’s but at the assumption of a reunion with Irene.

“You really think so, Stanhope?” Godfrey asked.

“You remember that Holmes suggested Irene was not a captive but a hunter. I would bet upon it.”

I bit my lip and nodded to encourage Godfrey, but still couldn’t explain why she would not at least find a way to send us a message, were that the case.

Quentin squeezed my elbow in acknowledgment that he knew my anxiety. There are a great many liberties the truly
ingenious gentleman may take in even the most public circumstance.

Godfrey, his dear forehead a roadmap of worry lines, didn’t notice this byplay. He sat slapping his undonned leather gloves on his palm, as if they were reins exhorting the horses’s back to further speed.

The springs jerked back and forth as we stopped, and we three stormed the white stone steps to 660 Fifth Avenue in a solid line, myself whisked up the stairs with boot barely touching stone, my elbows in close custody between my two escorts.

It occurred to me that neither man was eager to lose a woman under his protection.

Quentin thumped the huge knocker like a blacksmith.

The white-faced butler who answered merely had to raise his eyebrows.

“Mssrs. Stanhope and Norton,” Godfrey said, “calling at Mr. Holmes’s request, with Miss Huxleigh.”

“Gentlemen, yes. And Miss. I’ll take your things, then this way, please. Right here. The master and Mr. Holmes are in here.”

He opened a door that was but twenty steps past the huge entry hall.

I was dazzled by the sight of huge expanses of pale stone carved with medieval intricacy. Had I not been so worried, I might have been impressed by the surrounding magnificence. Yet all I longed to see was Irene’s familiar and dear face.

It was not within the rich library into which we were ushered. Smoke wafted upward like incense. My first sight was Mr. Holmes pacing, pipe cradled in his palm, thinking furiously and smoking to match the physical and mental motions he made.

“Ah!” He turned on our entrance. “Mr. William Kissam Vanderbilt, may I present Mr. Quentin Stanhope of Her Majesty’s foreign service, on assignment in New York City. Mr. Godfrey Norton, international barrister and key agent
for the Rothschild interests in Europe. Miss Nell Huxleigh, their associate. Gentleman and lady, Mr. William K. Vanderbilt, the wealthiest man in America.”

“And now the poorest,” Mr. Vanderbilt said sadly. He eyed Godfrey hopefully. “You are acquainted with August Belmont, the Rothschild emissary in America?”

“Not yet, sir. I just arrived from Bavaria, but I carry letters of introduction to Mr. Belmont, and others.”

Mr. Vanderbilt nodded, obviously impressed (although anyone who saw or heard Godfrey would have been impressed no matter what letters he bore).

“I’m most grateful that gentlemen of your position and experience are here in the city to advise in this most . . . tragic circumstance.”

We directed expressions of polite, if urgent, inquiry to Holmes, who immediately complied with one of his thorough, if unemotional, précis.

“Mr. Vanderbilt has been receiving extortion notes from unnamed parties regarding the personages we’ve already discussed,” Mr. Holmes restated to us for our host’s benefit. “These allies are aware,” he added, turning back to the millionaire, “of the atrocious death your blackmailers have engineered in your own home.

“Therefore,” Mr. Holmes went on quickly, as if racing to apprise us of the situation before we should unwittingly make some awkward comment, “it will not surprise you, my colleagues, to learn that Mr. Vanderbilt’s only daughter, a child of twelve named Consuelo, has been kidnapped by these dastardly schemers.”

We stood stunned.

Each of us imagined a child of tender years in the hands of this band of proven monsters.

It didn’t matter that young Consuelo was a millionaire’s daughter. We’d have felt the same to learn that the most anonymous Street Arab had fallen into such brutal hands.

“When?” Godfrey asked in the sharp inquiring fashion of a barrister.

Mr. Vanderbilt answered in the dead tones of one who had
pushed the incredible facts through his mind again and again.

“Her absence was discovered first thing this morning, by her deportment tutor.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Holmes suggested, “it would help if those involved reported to my associates, who have various areas of expertise and knowledge on such matters.”

“Even Miss Huxleigh?” the millionaire asked doubtingly.

“She is associated with the Pinkertons in America, Mr. Vanderbilt, yet last spring was instrumental in bringing down a cadre of international spies that threatened the crowned heads of several smaller but vital European kingdoms, which remain on the map today almost solely due to her efforts.”

Well! Irene Adler was not the only one to twist facts into fancy to support a position.

As Mr. Vanderbilt left the room to summon his witnesses among the family and staff, he left me with the memory of his awed departing regard.

“I glimpsed the child,” Holmes said the moment Mr. Vanderbilt exited the library. “A waif as thin-faced as any London Street Arab, though a million times more privileged. She was peering pensively down through the balustrade of the grand stone staircase as her mother left the house. Now. Listen to the testimony of the household, including the child’s mother.”

Godfrey seemed about to speak, but Mr. Holmes forestalled him.

“This incident has the most appalling reference to your closest personal concerns, Mr. Norton, rest assured. I would that it did not.”

So we waited, we three, in considerable anxiety and confusion. Dreadful as the abduction of a child was, given what we knew of these men, it shed little light on the issue dearest to our hearts, our own abducted, or at least vanished, Irene.

How do you think I learned the gentle art of Mesmerism, Nell? He hypnotized me, to free my voice of my conscious control, and he taught me to do the same to myself, and, incidentally, others. It has proved a most useful skill, as you may remember from an adventure or two we have shared
.
—
IRENE ADLER NORTON IN
FEMME FATALE
BY CAROLE NELSON DOUGLAS