Spider Dance (60 page)

“Quite so,” said Holmes, taking us both by the elbow to hurry us up the steep expanse.

There were no handrails to hold on to, and I suddenly saw this great house as the glass mountain from the fairy tale, all slick surfaces that no one could climb with any certainty.

The stair to the third floor was far less grand. We almost immediately encountered the door to the so-called gymnasium. Although the shining wood floor offered opportunity of all sorts of endeavors from fencing to games, and even roller skating, it would also serve well as a ballroom, I noted.

The sharp scent of wax and polish was like a refreshing whiff of hot tea to my nose. I resolved to remain alert, for Irene had been here, incontrovertibly. Why and how? And in what state? Why would she abduct this docile child of privilege . . . unless that child were in worse danger where she was than where Irene would take her?

“Where did you stand, Miss Bristol, and your charge, and the new dancing instructor?”

Holmes didn’t cross the threshold, so neither did I.

Miss Bristol pattered to a place near the door. “Here was I. Conseulo beside me. We had just donned our brace, for it was paramount to wear it during dance and deportment instruction. Only instead of M’sieur, this woman appeared in the doorway.”

“The woman dressed as a man,” he said.

“It didn’t seem as strange as that She seemed like something . . . oh, out of a Punch and Judy play in the park. Which of course Miss Consuelo would never have seen, never have being allowed out to see such a thing.”

“And the woman allayed your fears, dismissed you?”

Miss Bristol frowned. “No, I didn’t leave. I just didn’t see much after she appeared. She had . . . a watch. A round gold watch like a little sun, and it spun so. Her voice was sweet, mellow. I was reminded of a cello. I was reminded of honey in my tea, this afternoon at four, when all my duties
are done until five. Consuelo seemed quite enchanted by her. They went off, and I remained. It all seemed quite natural.”

I sighed and shut my eyes.

“Yes?” Holmes asked.

The admission stuck in my throat, like a bit of bread that will not go down, or back up again.

“Irene has hypnotized,” I admitted, “Irene has been hypnotized.”

“Some regard that as fraud and delusion.”

“I hypnotized her once.”

“Did you? Quite a bold step, Miss Huxleigh. Quite a responsibility.”

“I suppose,” I said, meeting his glance, “the hypnotic state might be considered similar to that of deliberately taking an opiate drug, as the writer De Quincey did. Only, with hypnotism, no opium, no poppy flower, no cocaine would be required. There are some, nursemaids, who doctor infants so, with cocaine.”

“Ha! You waste your breath, and not for the first time. I believe in Mesmerism as a science, and an art. We in our benighted day don’t understand its full usage. Not at all. So I’m not surprised Madam Irene is not unfamiliar with its uses. You, however—”

What he was about to say, I never heard, for Miss Bristol gave out a keening wail.

“I thought I saw them leave, sir, hand in hand, as happy as water-babies on a wave. I never thought any harm would come to Miss Consuelo. I’d never seen her face as open, like a flower. I never thought that strange lady would harm her, or I’d have given my life to stop her, save her.”

Holmes lowered his head and frowned. “Shades of the Hamilton case. How many dramas in upper rooms can New York society stand in a single season?”

“Hamilton case?”

“Ask your Mr. Stanhope, when we have a moment, which we won’t for many weary hours. Now.” He bowed to inspect the floor, then produced thick magnifying glass and suddenly
stretched himself full length—which was considerable—on the polished wooden floor.

Miss Bristol’s eyes met mine. I shrugged.
Mon Dieu!
I was becoming French!

We gazed down upon Holmes’s outstretched six-foot-plus frame, two governesses observing an eternal boy at his eternal boy pursuits: making the world into a scientific puzzle for the human brain instead of a conundrum for the human heart.

We smiled thinly at each other, as women who don’t count often do.

“Where will I go?” Miss Bristol murmured.

“I have friends who will find you a place.”

Her usual modestly lowered gaze suddenly fixed on me with raw intuition. “One of these friends is the woman who took my Consuelo.”

“Yes. I hope so. I hope we find them both.”

“I trusted her. Otherwise I would have never stood there silent, whatever strange aura I felt.”

I nodded. “I trust her too. Even when she is not quite herself.”

“This man,” Miss Bristol said, nodding toward Holmes. “Should I trust him?”

A good question. He had been hired to work for the Astors, then the Vanderbilts. He hadn’t wanted to cross Irene’s path, nor had she intended to cross his.

Yet now they were on the opposite sides of a shocking abduction.

“Tell him all that you know,” I finally advised her.

And I will listen to every word
.

By the time Miss Bristol and I had descended to the back stoop at the rear of the Vanderbilt “castle,” Sherlock Holmes had crawled every step of the way.

Never would I make light of his investigative zeal again. That man had examined every shred and splinter and dust mote en route. Needless to say, by now his attire was no better
than any Street Arab’s when it came to dirt and disarray.

Thus he could pronounce from the back stoop, to an audience of Godfrey, Quentin, myself, and Miss Bristol, that Irene and Consuelo had exited the house by this very route. That Irene had worn men’s clothing. That her boots bore traces of—his eyes flicked away from us—interesting, even telltale—substances. That Consuelo had gone willingly, under her own power, and perhaps the lulling power of hypnotism.

And that sixty feet from the house, in the forecourt to the stables area, they had both been picked up by a hansom cab.

“A cab?” Godfrey repeated.

“These villains have discovered that the bold approach is the least observed, something Mrs. Norton mastered in her teens.”

“You’re not saying—” I began.

“No.” He had whirled and struck out at me like a poisonous snake. “Nothing is as it seems. Nothing in this entire case.”

He straightened and pocketed the magnifying glass in his ulster, which reminded me of Professor Marvel’s coat of many calling cards for the large number of items it could conceal.

“Enough of crawling around the haunts of the rich and infamous,” Holmes said. “We’ll find what we seek in less elevated locations. Miss Bristol—?”

“I’ll arrange a room at your hotel,” Quentin said quickly.

Holmes nodded. He looked at me, and Godfrey. “We’ll need to dress for the occasion. Not well. Tonight will determine the fate of everyone we know, and a good many we don’t know. Miss Huxleigh and I will tackle the Episcopal Club late this afternoon, just as the city fills with evening shadows. Mr. Norton, you will rendezvous with Mr. Stanhope and precede us to the club. Establish yourselves to watch the premises and those who enter and leave it.”

“And what will this expedition gain us?” Godfrey demanded.

“An answer to a great many questions, and your wife back, along with little Miss Vanderbilt.”

Who could argue with that?

It was not that Holmes merely changed his costume.
His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary
with every fresh part that he assumed
.
—
DR. WATSON IN “A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA”

Of course, as all men know, brave talk is one thing. Brave action is another.

By an hour past teatime, I was in a tizzy. I was “walking out” not in men’s clothing but in my feminine self, with Sherlock Holmes, who would no doubt be judging each move and syllable of my performance as I introduced him to Bishop Potter and the environs of the Episcopal Club.

Neatly attired in my new checked coat-dress, I was ready at the hotel when he knocked upon the door.

Godfrey answered, for he knew my nerves were as frayed as a ball of yarn Lucifer the cat had mauled. Oh, dear. Can nerves be both frayed and fevered? My cotton gloves touched my face, and came away warmed.

Well!

Here was my escort: a “gent” wearing a bowler hat and a checkered suit, neither new, with a cigar rampant on a field of teeth.

“’Afternoon, ma’am,” this lanky fellow greeted me. “I’m fresh from the Windy City of Chicago and eager to see that a lady like you gets the answers she deserves. Mr. Artemis Conklin, at your service, but you can call me Artie.”

Godfrey laughed. “Your American accent is astounding. Pinkertons are respected here, no matter their tailoring. Nothing could be more natural than that Nell should employ a private detective to trace her missing friend. Have you a pistol?”

Holmes revealed a large wooden-handled gun.

“These American inquiry agents,” he said, “may be effective, but they’re not gents of the old school. I’m sure Miss Huxleigh appreciates the difference between her homeland and the Colonies. There we go, ma’am, ahead of me out the door, for a gentleman I am when it suits me.”

I sallied out as he suggested, amazed by the just-right blend of crude courtesy he exuded.

In fact, the American Sherlock Holmes was a far more palatable escort than any version I had met before.

Quite a revelation it was. As long as Sherlock Holmes was playing a part—in this case the Pinkerton operative obliging a lady client—he was quite the gallant, if clumsy, escort.

“Irene always said that your profession was half acting and half deduction,” I told him on the horse car we took to the lower area of Manhattan.

“She is mighty generous, ma’am,” he answered in that amazing Yankee twang.

“Not really. Irene is merely exacting. She’s a seasoned stage artist. She doesn’t bestow praise lightly.”

At that he gave a potbellied Yankee chuckle.

“And I am a ‘miss,’” I added. Purely in character.

“I could hardly miss that,” he retorted. “Now pay attention. I’ll say what I need to alert any loitering observers that I might know more about the events than we do. You must play the naive innocent, no matter what I say.”

The “naive innocent”? “That will be a ‘stretch,’” I told him, “but Irene has often discussed the necessity of playing against type.”

“Has she? Let’s hope that she finds us up to her standards, when we in turn find her.”

“Will we find her?”

“You may not, but I will. I don’t approve of Norton’s insistence
on involving you tonight. I doubt Mrs. Norton would approve. Try to remember that the well-being of both your friend, Madam Irene, and the Vanderbilt girl depend on your being coolheaded.”

“This is not my first time for such concerns, Mr. . . . Pinkerton.”

“Good. Just be yourself and stay out of my way, and all will be well.”

This was the last time during that journey that the usual Sherlock Holmes arrogance peeped out of his new Pinkerton persona.

As we alighted on Broadway, the streets still thronged with conveyances. The electric streetlights were just coming on, but not quite needed as we walked the short distance to the club. Yet I thought we would never get there!