the thanks, surprised me perhaps more than it did her. Hospitals did odd things to one’s personality, even if one were only passing through.
Fighting the urge to wiggle my fingertips at them in farewell, I left them to their uncomfortable love. Two weeks or so in a Scottish hunting lodge would drive them either into each other’s arms or at each other’s throats.
I made my way to a public telephone and asked for Scotland Yard’s number. While waiting for the connexion, I glanced through the article, “An Epoch-Making Event—Fairies Photographed,” coauthored by Arthur Conan Doyle, to all appearances written in utter seriousness. It was illustrated, as the title said, by photographs of vapid-looking female children gazing right through the images of stiff fairy figurines, the artifice of which was so blatant that I should have taken it as a joke (a rather sophisticated one, considering Conan Doyle’s usual heavy-handed style) had it not been for Watson’s reaction. It seemed that the world in general did not regard it as a joke. Conan Doyle’s fascination with the supernatural had been growing over the past years, particularly after the loss of his son in the war. Spiritualism had until now mostly been kept out of the stories he published about Holmes (with the occasional flight of fancy that caused the real Holmes to growl) but to have a piece of sensational literature such as the fairies article published, not only under the Doyle name, but in the very magazine the Holmes stories appeared in, was thoughtless, to say the least. Holmes blamed an American influence for the Doyle eccentricity, and as I read the article, I had to admit that his disgust had not been without justification.
The telephone crackled and the woman told me I was connected to Scotland Yard. It took a short time to reach the Criminal Investigations division, but once I was through, I put on a voice.
“
The man on the other end cleared his throat and spoke in strangled tones. “Yes, mum. You’ll understand, mum, I can’t be positive about his schedule, but I know he has a meeting here in the Yard at four, and he’ll for sure come to his office afterwards, around five.”
“Very well. You will tell him to expect my call at ten minutes past five.”
“Mum? If I could just tell him who’s—” I gently rang off. Good. Five o’clock gave me plenty of time to dress myself, for Lestrade and for my debut at the Temple.
I spent the afternoon at the Turkish baths, being steamed, pounded, powdered, and perfumed, then manicured, plucked, coiffured, and dressed in clothing brought at my direction by Mrs Q, until finally, polished and gleaming, I was escorted carefully out to the pavement, a moving work of artifice, a monument to the skills of beautician and couturier. All I wanted was a brace of Afghan hounds. Taxis slavered at my feet.
I chose one whose leather work did not look as though it would put ladders into my stockings.
“Scotland Yard, please. And I’d like to approach it from the Embankment side, not from Whitehall.”
“Right you are, miss.”
I could, of course, have asked Mycroft to retrieve a more complete account of the police investigation into Iris Fitzwarren’s murder, and in fact I did think about it, for perhaps five seconds. I had become involved in this whole affair through a friend, and if there was a case here, it was mine, not Holmes’. Veronica’s safety was now a personal responsibility, and I had no intention of allowing Holmes to talk me out of carrying it through in my own way.
My goal for the evening was Inspector John Lestrade, the only person I knew to any degree within Scotland Yard. Holmes knew Lestrade professionally, had worked with his father numerous times in the Baker Street days, and I had met Lestrade two years before when he had been “in charge” of the investigation into the attempted murders of Mr S. Holmes, Miss M. Russell, and Dr J. Watson. (Needless to say, Holmes and I had solved the problem; Scotland Yard took the credit.)
Unfortunately, Lestrade was not involved in the Iris Fitzwarren case. Even if he had been, I could hardly ring him up casually and expect him to answer my questions for the sake of some dubious old times. Indeed, considering the impression I’d left him with, I knew that if he were told that Mary Russell was waiting outside his office, he very probably would go out the back entrance. No, a subtler approach was required.
When the hideous building was in sight, I tapped on the glass and signalled the driver that I wished to stop on the river side of the road. He stopped beneath a streetlamp and came around to speak with me.
“Driver, we need to wait here for a few minutes. I wish to intercept a friend who will be coming out soon, but I… I cannot go in to meet him, his… colleagues might not approve. Do you take my meaning?” I met his eyes, and by the dim light, he gave me a grin, though not the knowing leer I was braced for.
“Yes, miss. Will he be expecting you?”
“My good man, you have a ready grasp of the essentials, I see. No, he is not expecting me. Would you mind awfully…”
“Just tell me what your friend looks like, miss, and leave it to me.”
Something in my description changed his knowing expression to one of discreet puzzlement. (Lestrade’s height, perhaps, compared with mine? Or was it the phrase “like a ferret, or rat”?) However, he took up his lounging position readily enough, and when Lestrade appeared (at 5:20, not 5:15, as I had estimated, but with the resentful irritation I had expected to see in his shoulders, from the ducal telephone call that had not come), the driver pushed away from the wall, looked towards the car for my white flag of confirmation, and dodged across the heavy bridge traffic to approach the inspector. Captions were unnecessary in the pantomime that followed, and it ended with Lestrade, puzzled and wary and still irritated, following the driver to the cab.
He put his head in and ran an experienced eye over me.
“Now, miss, what’s all this your driver’s been telling me about?” His eyes had reached my face again, and this time they stopped there. He leant forward, squinting, and then his ill-shaven jaw dropped. “My God. You’re—Miss Russell, I never expected to see—is Mr Holmes—” He jerked his head back out the door, leaving his hat inside, but when the now frankly baffled driver failed to metamorphise into the
“Why, Miss Russell, I doubt I’d have recognised you on the street. You’ve, er, you’ve changed.” Such acuity had led Holmes to his renowned high opinion of the official police. I had to admit, however, that the colourful flapper in the dark taxi did bear only a passing resemblance to the gangly, ill-dressed nineteen-year-old he had last seen.
“Full marks, Inspector, although I believe that the first time we met, I was in evening dress. But I agree, it has been quite a while.” I held his hat out to him.
He took it, glanced a last time at my silken ankles, and withdrew his gaze to my face and his thoughts to my presence.
“You wanted to see me, then?”
“I should like to buy you a drink, Inspector.”
For some reason, this did not seem to meet with wholehearted enthusiasm. On the contrary, his habitually cramped features tightened into open suspicion.
“Why?” he asked bluntly.
“Or dinner, if you have the time.”
“Why?”
“You will become uncomfortably damp if you persist in that position,” I commented mildly. It was drizzling.
“You’re right. It’s time I took myself home.”
“Just one drink, Inspector, and a few questions. And, I may have some information in return.”
“About?”
