The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline (11 page)

Yes. It was as I thought.

Still I waited.

The elderly loiterer, having completed a circuit of the Whimbrel grounds, nevertheless limped back along the front of the property, covering the same ground again. Apparently, as I had suspected, he intended to stay in the neighbourhood for a while.

I had good reason to feel afraid. Very afraid, indeed, of what I was about to do. Yet, as he approached, a rueful warmth swelled my heart and made me smile.

Then, straightening myself like a soldier and holding my head high, I stepped forward. Across the street directly in front of the greybeard I strode, swinging my satchel and making sure that he saw me, although I did not look at him. Progressing up the pavement to Whimbrel Hall, boldly I mounted its marble steps, crossed the flambeaux-lit apron, and knocked at the massive mahogany front door.

 

The butler, opening this portal, regarded my solitary and spinsterish merino-clad personage with rather less favour than he might bestow upon an encroaching insect. He did not speak.

In very decided tones I declared, “I am here to see Lord Whimbrel,” adding before I could be refused, “and I feel quite certain that he will wish to receive me.”

The butler’s eyebrows arched dangerously high, but my erect posture and crisp aristocratic accent somewhat reversed his first impression of me. As an aside, let me state that, while a talented mimic such as my brother Sherlock—or, dare I say it, myself—can ape a lower-class accent with ease, the opposite—a lower-class person speaking with an upper-class accent—is quite impossible, or at least to my knowledge has never been done.

Because of the quality of my aitches, then, the butler condescended to speak. “Your card, miss?”

“I carry no card and I bear no name.” This pre-rehearsed line I flung out with quite an air of drama. “If you will allow me to compose and send a brief note to Lord Whimbrel, he shall see me.”

The drama was part of my plan: I maintain that butlers, although they show none, do possess humanity, including curiosity. The man simply had to wonder what I was all about, and therefore stepped aside, waving me into Whimbrel Hall.

So large was the marble-floored entryway into which I stepped, and so cold, and so wallpapered, as it were, with elk skulls, samurai swords, Egyptian sarcophagi, elephant-foot umbrella-stands, odalisques, and bas-relief cupids and curios of every kind, that it might as well have been a museum. There were no chairs, nor did the butler offer me a seat in the library, but left me standing along with the statuary as he went off to fetch writing materials.

I took the opportunity to examine the outgoing post that had collected on a silver tray near the front door—and, yes! Amongst the letters I saw some addressed in black-inked, vicious, club-and-javelin-styled handwriting I could hardly mistake.

The sender:
The Honourable G. Whimbrel.
Geoffrey.

Repressing a shiver, I hoped I would not need to meet him.

Other letters, from
Lord R. Whimbrel,
displayed a rather pedestrian hand. Rodney appeared to be—well, one could not say for sure, especially as, being a Lord and Peer, he might have a secretary to address his post for him.

Hearing the butler returning, I transferred my gaze to a whatnot displaying cups made of ostrich eggs.

Approaching without a word, the servant presented to me a writing-stand furnished with good-quality paper, pen, inkwell, and its own candle, already lit, to provide light by which to write. But I scowled at these arrangements. “Bring me sealing-wax,” I told him imperiously and also with an air, I hoped, of mystery.

“Of what colour, my lady?” I heard resentment and retort in his tone—resentment because he knew I was asserting myself over him, for plain candle-wax would have sufficed to seal the missive. Resentment also because its being sealed would prevent him from reading it as he bore it to his master. And retort because colour was symbolic; he was challenging me to show my intentions.

But at the same time, I noticed that I had been promoted from “miss” to “my lady.”

“Why, red, of course,” I told him. “Scarlet, rather than crimson.” And let him make of that whatever he would.

As he went off to get the wax, I took pen in hand, concentrated on making my script large and strong, and wrote:

 

Leaving this unsigned, I blotted it dry and folded it so as to conceal its content before the butler, returning, had a chance to peek over my shoulder. Accepting from him the stick of red sealing-wax and lighting it at the candle, I dripped a blood-coloured puddle onto the paper’s fold, where it congealed. Wishing I had a signet ring or something similarly dramatic with which to press it flat, I made do with the heel of my hand. When I was sure the seal had quite hardened, I gave the missive to the butler.

Off he went to deliver it to his master, leaving me standing beneath the carved wooden stare of several African war-masks.

For quite some time. I began to worry whether I had perhaps miscalculated. Should I have formulated my message in roses and daisies; would that have made a stronger impression? But no, it would not have been understood at all, for if Lord Rodney knew anything of the code, he—or, rather, his errand-boy, Geoffrey—would have recognised it on the crinoline.

I quite wished I knew a bit more of Lord Rodney. Was the namby-pamby handwriting his? Perhaps, because he seemed quite dependent upon Geoffrey.

Oh, dear. What if he were consulting with that villain right now?

Alas and indeed, such proved to be the case, for when the butler eventually returned and silently beckoned me to follow him, he escorted me into the shadowy, smoke-filled billiards-room—a place no proper lady would ever willingly set foot—and there, across the expanse of the green felt-topped gaming table, I found myself facing both young Whimbrels at once.

LOUNGING WITH CIGARS IN HAND THEY RECEIVED me, leaning upon their cue-sticks, their attitude so insulting that I began to fear Lord Rodney might prove to be just such a villain as his younger brother. So similar were their oval, symmetrical faces and democratically blunt, pleasant features that one might have taken them for twins. I found no difficulty, however, in telling which was which simply by the expression of their eyes; Lord Rodney’s gaze was open and anxious, whereas his brother Geoffrey’s was hooded like a cobra.

I did not speak for a long moment. To tell the truth, I
could
not speak; in the terror of the encounter, all the words I had prepared turned coward and fled my mind like conscripts deserting a battlefield.

But I managed (I thought and hoped) to keep my spine stiff and my head high, and facing them I tried to glare rather than stare; I hoped my silence therefore seemed like scorn.

I hoped, also, that I seemed considerably older than my fourteen years. Such usually seems to be the effect of my height, my figure-augmenting underpinnings, and my sharp features.

Lord Rodney, I noticed, put down both his cue-stick and his cigar at once. And nervously he broke into speech. “So, you are the nameless one who sent in such a mysterious note, of which we understand nothing? I assure you, you are acting under some absurd misapprehension, my lady.”

“Lady? That’s no lady,” Geoffrey corrected his brother with quite a preening air of indifference. “That’s the lodger.”

“Aha!” I cried. Bless Geoffrey’s callous comportment and deplorable manners; he infuriated me, and instantly I found my voice. “And you say you know nothing of this affair? How dare you trifle with me.” Although Geoffrey was the one who had aroused my ire, nevertheless I spoke straight to Lord Rodney, as if his younger brother were of no account—so better to irk
him.
“Kidnapping is a serious matter. Police and press can be hushed up with money, of course, but not Florence Nightingale. How do you think she would react if she knew what you have done? To whom do you think she would address her first hundred letters? And she
will
know if you do not act promptly to set the situation to rights. She has hired the famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes—”

“Bosh and wind,” broke in Geoffrey. “How can this girl possibly know anything of—”

I turned on him. “Florence Nightingale received me in her chamber, as you would know if you had followed me there the
second
time I visited her. And if you were not so busy abducting a defenseless, respectable, elderly woman—”

“I am not responsible for that!” Lord Rodney cried out in a tone that would have been more appropriate emanating from Mrs. Tupper. “I never expected—”

“Shut up!” Geoffrey barked at him.

But at the same time I looked upon Lord Rodney with a far more kindly gaze, reassuring him, “I quite believe you never expected the matter to go so far, or I would not be here talking to—”

“Balderdash!” the hot-blooded Geoffrey exploded. “He told me to get the message any way I had to. So I did what needed to be done. And now he will not let me dispose of the old woman. He thinks we can just let her go, and you, too, I suppose. Well, at least
one
son of our father has some guts.”

With which coarse utterance, in a single moment, not giving even so much warning as a coiling snake might have done, he darted to seize me.

Were it not that the billiards table stood between us, he would have had me. But he needed to go around that obstacle, giving me just enough time to whip out my dagger and menace him with its stiletto-like eight-inch steel blade.

He stopped.

“You are not to lay hands on me,” I told him softly between my teeth as he froze, staring, “for two reasons. This is one.” I cocked my uplifted dagger so that the gas-light shone more prettily upon its blade. “The other is that my brother has seen me enter this house, and is waiting near the gate to see me come out again.” By my fickle luck, arguably either good or bad, this was true; Sherlock Holmes had come here, presumably by following the same reasoning as I had, although arriving at his conclusions a bit more quickly: the greybeard loitering in the street was the great detective in disguise.

And, I realised rather to my own amazement, I
did
trust my older brother, with my life, although not with my freedom. “If I fail to appear within a reasonable time, he will take action, and I assure you, you will find him a most formidable adversary.”

Silence followed, and there we stood like a tableau, I with my back to the wall and my dagger raised, Geoffrey poised a mere two paces from me with sheerest evil in his eyes, and Lord Rodney on the other side of the billiards table—I did not of course chance a look at him, but I imagined he might be wringing his hands.

Everything depended on Lord Rodney.

And with that thought, the essence of my planned appeal came back to me, and I addressed him with it, although necessarily in a very abbreviated form. “Lord Rodney,” I said levelly, “yours is the title of Lord Whimbrel; yours is the seat in the House of Lords; yours is the authority.” With my left hand I reached into the pocket centred under the front drapery of my dress, where I had at the ready what I needed. I drew it out and—feeling at the wire hanger on its back to make sure I had it upright, for I could not look away from the dastardly Geoffrey, not even for an instant—I held it up, facing it towards Lord Rodney: confronting him with a small portrait in silhouette.

His father.

“Lord Rodney Whimbrel,” I addressed that peripheral individual, “I show you the likeness of a great statesman. His place deserves to be held by a worthy scion. How much longer—”

Geoffrey shouted at him, “You fool, don’t just stand there! Hit her with your stick!”

“How much longer are you going to allow your brother’s regrettable impulses to shame your father’s name?”

He did not answer either of us, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him move, reaching for something. Stiffening, I put the silhouette down upon the billiards table lest I need both hands to defend myself—but no, he was not hefting a cue-stick. Rather, he had grasped the bell-pull, summoning a servant—probably the butler.

Another tall, strong, and most unprepossessing man.

Oh, dear.

The billiards-room door opened, and indeed so, I glimpsed a black-suited, poker-straight looming form, but I did not dare to look away from Geoffrey, not even for an eye-blink to see whether the butler had managed to remain expressionless.

And how long the moments seemed, how the silence stretched as I held my ground, waiting to see what Lord Rodney would do.

I am sure the butler quite wondered the same thing, although his voice sounded no less wooden than usual as he inquired, “You rang, my Lord?”

He addressed Lord Rodney, of course, but Geoffrey burst out, “For God’s sake, Billings, fetch the footmen and a rope so we can quell this ugly wench—”

“Silence. I give the orders.” Lord Rodney’s voice wavered; nevertheless, his were the words that mattered. “Billings, kindly escort the Honorable Geoffrey to his chambers and have him remain there.”

“What!” Geoffrey roared, turning on his brother and making towards him as if to attack him much as he wished to attack me. But Billings strode in and caught him by both arms from behind. Geoffrey shouted and flailed as if he intended to create considerable unpleasantness; Lord Rodney rang the bell again as he retreated. “By all means have the footmen assist you if necessary,” he told Billings, and gesturing for me to come with him, he exited the room by another door.

“Do please put that frightening thing away,” he told me the moment we set foot in the corridor.

I sheathed my dagger, but he seemed unwilling to turn his back on me, having me walk ahead of him as we made our way—upstairs? I had expected he would take me to a parlour or library or some such quiet place where we could sit and negotiate terms, mutually agreeing how to exchange my message for his hostage. But instead, up three flights of stairs we went without a word—wide and gracious stairs in the front of the house, not narrow back ways, so I did not begin to feel afraid until he led, or rather herded, me towards what I realised must be the top of one of the mansion’s white marble towers.