'Wait here, please,' he said. They were the first words he had spoken.
Doyle nodded, removed his hat, and took a seat. The man left the room.
He heard her footsteps first, a slow, stately rhythm of heel to parquet, then her voice, imperious, golden, asking something of her companion, the man who had escorted Doyle. Doyle heard his name mentioned.
The door opened. Doyle rose as she entered. There was a shock at seeing her in the flesh at such close distance. She was smaller than he'd imagined, not much more than five feet tall, but she projected a stout presence that flowed across the room, closing the distance between them. The familiar face—plain, doughty, as familiar to any English boy as that of his own mother—was nowhere near as stern and adamantine as he had so often seen it depicted. The gray bun of her hair, her simple, matronly black woolen dress, the white linen collar and mantilla, were all talismans as intimate to him as the backs of his own hands. She smiled at the sight of him, an animation never hinted at in pictures, and her smile was dazzling, a diamond in a field of posies.
'Dr. Doyle, I hope this has not proved an inconvenience,' said Queen Victoria.
'No, Your Majesty,' he said, surprised at the sound of his own voice. He bowed, hoping to offer some semblance of the proper protocol.
'It is very good of you to come,' she said, and took a seat. quite informally. 'Please.'
She extended a hand, indicating the chair to her right, and Doyle sat there. He remembered reading somewhere that she had grown nearly deaf in her left ear. She turned to the man who had served as Doyle's guide. 'Thank you, Ponsonby.'
Henry Ponsonby, the Queen's private secretary—that's how I know him, from the newspapers, thought Doyle—nodded and left the room. The Queen turned back to Doyle, and he felt the intensity of will in her pale gray eyes turn their full attention to him. They sparkled with warmth at present, but woe to be whosoever feels their wrath, he thought.
'It seems you and I have a very good friend in common,' said the Queen.
'Do we?'
'A very good friend indeed.'
She's speaking of Jack, he realized. 'Yes. Yes, we do.'
She nodded knowingly. 'We've had a visit from our friend recently. He has told me how you proved such a very great help to him in a matter of no small importance to myself and to my family.'
'I hope he hasn't overstated—'
'Our friend is not generally given to inaccuracies of any kind. I would say he has a great fondness for precision. Would you not agree?'
'I would. Most certainly.'
'Then I would have no reason not to take him at his word, would I?'
'No, ma'am—Your Majesty.'
'Nor you any reason to disavow the free expression of my most heartfelt gratitude.'
'None whatsoever, Your Majesty. Thank you. Thank you so much.'
'Thank you, Dr. Doyle.'
She nodded. Doyle bowed his head in return.
'I've given to understand that as a result of your generous assistance, you have experienced some difficulty with our London police.'
'Sadly, yes—'
'Let me assure you that you may consider this a cause for no further concern.'
'I am ... most deeply appreciative.'
She nodded again and was silent for a moment, regarding him with what seemed to be a benign fondness, if not coquetry.
'Axe you a married man, Doctor?'
'No, Your Majesty.'
'Really? A vigorous, handsome young man such as yourself. And a doctor? Why, I can't imagine.'
'I can only say that the appropriate ... situation has not presented itself to me.'
'Mark my word,' she said, leaning forward and raising a royal finger. 'Someone will come along. The married state is not often what we expect it to be, but we soon discover it is most definitely what we require.'
Doyle nodded politely, trying to take the words to heart. She leaned back, moving immediately to the next item on her agenda.
'How do you find my grandson's health? I mean the Duke of Clarence.'
Having been so effortlessly disarmed, Doyle was set back by the directness of the question. 'Without having had a chance to thoroughly examine him, I—'
'Your opinion only, Doctor, please.'
Doyle hesitated, choosing his words carefully. 'I would respectfully advise Your Majesty that the Duke should hereafter remain under close if not constant supervision.'
The Queen nodded, digesting the full implication of his statement before moving on. 'Now. We will demand of you, Doctor, your oath never to speak on any of what you have heard or witnessed, to any living soul, as long as you may live.'
'I do so swear, my most solemn oath.'
'And nary a word about our mutual friend and his friendship to us. On both these points, I am afraid, we must absolutely insist.'
'Yes. Upon my life.'
She looked at him, found satisfaction in the sincerity of his answer, and relaxed her scrutiny. Doyle sensed the audience was at an end.
'I find you a most impressive gentleman for your years, Dr. Doyle.'
'Your Majesty is too kind.'
She rose to her feet. Doyle preceded her, extending a hand, which she accepted, instantly fearing that he'd committed some dreadful faux pas. If so, the reassuring squeeze she gave before letting go set his mind at rest.
'You bear closer examination. We shall have our eye on you. And if we find just occasion to call upon you again, be fair warned we will not hesitate to do so.'
'I only hope I shall not disappoint.'
'Of that, young man, I have precious little doubt.'
Queen Victoria smiled once more—the unexpected radiance dazzling again—and turned to go. For the moment, the weight of the world truly appeared to rest on those improbable shoulders. She hadn't taken two steps before Ponsonby, telepathically, it seemed, appeared in the doorway.
'If I may be bold enough to ask . . .' said Doyle.
The queen stopped and looked at him.
'Did our mutual friend give Your Majesty any indication of where he might be going?'
He wasn't certain at first if the question—or the interruption itself—had violated some invisible line of propriety.
'With regard to the movements of our mutual friend,' said the Queen in measured tones, 'we have found it advisable ... never to inquire.' Victoria raised a sly eyebrow: Courtesy of
Jack, a moment of unprecedented intimacy passed between them. Doyle smiled and bowed slightly as she passed from the room, Ponsonby falling in alongside like a tug escorting a clipper.
I'm a man who's been for a ride on a comet, thought Doyle: I know I'm back on terra firma now, but, for better or worse, it will somehow never look or feel the same again.
Ponsonby returned moments later, and they retraced then-steps through the private corridors of Buckingham Palace back to the waiting carriage. The secretary opened the door for Doyle, waited for him to take his seat, and handed him a small, rectangular package.
'Her Majesty's compliments,' said Ponsonby.
Doyle thanked him. Ponsonby nodded, then closed the door, and Doyle rode back to his hotel alone. He waited to open the package until he was again inside his room.
It was a fountain pen. A sleek black fountain pen. It lay as delicately balanced in his hand as a feather.
chapter twenty BROTHERS
