agent—who was not actually within Tibet, but gaoled in a neighbouring kingdom—as well as planting amiable suggestions in certain important ears. I even managed two audiences with the Dalai Lama himself, who was much of an age with Kim, and although he hadn’t young O’Hara’s advantages in the wide world, he was nonetheless remarkably sensitive to nuance and willing to question his advisors’ assumptions about the British threat.
“In the end, young O’Hara left his lama long enough to help me break the agent free from his prison and to secret him into hiding near the border. I tried to convince the lad to come with me back to India, but he stood firm. He was utterly devoted to his lama, and he had given his word: He would not leave until the old man was finished with his
The wistfulness in Holmes’ voice, his faraway gaze over the water, the fact that he had neglected to interject the running Hindi translation for the past five minutes, all gave me the odd, sure sensation that a part of him regretted that he had not remained behind, deep in Tibet with the boy and his lama. It was a peculiar feeling, finding this entirely unsuspected stream flowing within a man I believed I knew so well.
And, as I could not then admit, not even to myself, the knowledge brought with it a faint trickle of jealousy of the apprentice Holmes had taught so assiduously, and come to admire so warmly, nearly a decade before I was born.
Chapter Three
Before the Port Said light grew on the horizon, our new shipboard community was well on its way to becoming an ephemeral village. In many ways, it was a duplicate of the society we had left behind: the aristocracy of First Class on the upper decks, the peasantry of enlisted men, clerks, and their families under our feet, with the true labouring classes either tidily concealed beneath P. & O. uniforms or else thoroughly hidden away in the bowels of the ship. Rigid social custom swayed not a millimetre in the dining rooms: One never spoke to a neighbour at table if one had not been introduced, and since there were few mutual acquaintances to proffer the necessary introductions, conversation was largely nonexistent. Holmes and I attended few of the dining room meals.
Other areas of the boat were less severely bound by the strictures of human intercourse. In the exercise room, for example, it proved difficult to maintain a dignified formality with the woman at the next stationary bicycle when both of you were sweating and panting and furiously going nowhere. And because of the limited population in our floating village, group events such as card games, mah-jongg, or table tennis tended to require a certain loosening of rules in order to maintain a pool of players, which broke the ice sufficiently to permit one to nod to one’s fellow player when one came upon him or her perambulating the deck the following morning.
However, as I used the ship’s gym rarely and played neither mah-jongg nor table tennis, I was permitted, in the brief periods of free time permitted me by my taskmaster, to remain firmly sheltered with my books. I had finished with the archaeology of Mohenjo-Daro and was sitting bundled on a sheltered deck chair with a translation of the massive and hugely complicated Hindu epic called
“So, what are
I blinked up at the voice, which had come from a slim girl of perhaps seventeen who was dressed in an ever- so-slightly garish fur coat, a pleated skirt, a cloche hat over her bobbed hair, and a long beaded necklace. She was standing near the railing, trying to set alight the long cigarette she’d fitted into an even longer ivory holder; the wind was not giving her much joy with it.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked. I couldn’t think what she was talking about, nor did I think we had met.
She seemed unaware of the repressive overtones in my question, unduly taken up with the problem of getting the match to meet the tobacco before the wind blew it out. I thought she had not been smoking long. Come to think of it, her presence on such an inhospitable and deserted bit of deck might not be unrelated to her inexperience: hiding from a disapproving parent, no doubt. “The fancy-dress ball,” she explained, and then bent over the match to shelter it, nearly setting her fur coat on fire in the process. At last—success. With an air of accomplishment she let the wind snatch away the spent match, placed the ivory mouthpiece to her lips with two elegant fingers, sucked in a lungful of smoke, and promptly collapsed in a gagging, retching fit of coughs that left her teary-eyed and weak- kneed. I sat with my finger between the pages, watching to see that she didn’t stagger over the railings, but the fit subsided without my assistance. She hiccoughed once, swabbed her eyes, and tottered over to collapse onto the empty deck chair next to me, glaring accusingly at the cigarette that burnt serenely in its holder.
“Next time just hold the smoke in your mouth,” I suggested, “instead of pulling it all the way into your lungs.”
“Whew!” she exclaimed. “I mean to say, I’ve smoked before, of course, but I guess the wind . . .”
“Quite,” I said, and opened my book again.
“So, what
“Sorry? Oh, the fancy-dress ball. I didn’t realise they had one.” I might have done, had I stopped to consider the matter. Shipping lines invented all sorts of ways to keep their passengers from succumbing to the throes of boredom, and encouraging wealthy men and women to make utter fools of themselves was a popular ploy, not the least because it ate up hours and hours in the preparations. “I shouldn’t think I’ll be going.”
“Oh, but you have to!” she said, sounding so disappointed I had to wonder again if we didn’t know each other. But before I could ask, I noticed her burning tobacco sinking forgotten, dangerously close to her coat.
“Er, watch the end,” I urged her.
“Oh! Gosh,” she exclaimed, patting furiously at the smoldering fur and plucking the still-burning cigarette out of the holder, tossing it into the wind, which I hoped might be strong enough to carry the ember clear of the unsuspecting passengers below. “Maybe I’m not cut out for smoking.”
It was on the end of my tongue to reassure her to never mind, she’d pick it up with practice, but I kept the thought to myself. Why should I encourage the maintenance of a filthy habit?
“Mama wants me to dress as a Kewpie doll, but I was thinking of being an Indian dancing girl—you know, scarfs and bangles.”
A certain degree of negotiation was clearly in store for the girl and her mother. Who was she, anyway?
As if I had voiced the question aloud, she thrust the ivory holder into her pocket and stuck out her hand. “Sorry, I’m being rude. I’m Sybil Goodheart. Everyone calls me Sunny.”
“Mary Russell,” I offered in return.
“And of course, you’re just joking about not going to the ball. I’m so bad, I never can tell when someone’s pulling my leg. What are you going as?”
I gave up; the child was too persistent for me. “Perhaps I’ll just wear my pyjamas and go as the downstairs neighbour, come to complain.”
She clapped her hand across her mouth and giggled, blushing slightly, perhaps at the idea of a proper lady coming in her nightwear. For a Flapper, she was easily shocked.
“You’re an American,” I said. If the accent hadn’t told me, the brashness would have.
“From Chicago. You ever been there?”
“I passed through once, when I was young.”
“It’s
“Er, my husband and I have business there.” Impossible to give the deflating retort a proper Englishwoman would have wielded at the importunity of the question; poor Sunny would have gone behind the clouds.
“Is that nifty old—er, older man your husband?” she asked in astonishment. “I mean to say, Mama and I noticed him earlier when you were on the deck.”
“That is my husband, yes,” I told her. And if she delivered a third rudeness, I would smack her. Verbally, of course. “And you, why are you going out?”
“I’m a little late for the ‘fishing fleet,’ aren’t I?” she said with a most disarming grin. “Actually, we had meant to come out in October, but Mama had a message from the spirits saying it was inauspicious, so we waited, which in the end was fantabulous, because I got to meet Ivor Novello at a party in London.”
“‘The spirits,’?” I repeated carefully.
