The Case Of The Cryptic Crinoline Part 8

"Oh, my stars and garters!" I whispered, realising that however preposterous it was, yeta"yet it had to be. "That's what started this imbroglio!"

A few minutes later, in the Professional Women's Club library, I found myself quite thoughtful as I replaced Boyles upon the shelf and pocketed the address I had copied out of that useful reference book upon the members of the peerage.

My thoughts were manifold, astonished, and terrified. Such being the case, I also found myself contemplating with dark amus.e.m.e.nt the eighteenth-century philosophers, Alexander Pope and his ilk, who insisted that "everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds"a"in other words, if the baby dies, one must tell oneself that things would have been much worse had it lived; if thousands of orphans are starving in poorhouses, surely it is for some higher purpose, anda"in my casea"if I found myself hunted, on the run, unable to go home and sleep in my own bed, well, then, wasn't it wonderful that I had somewhere else to go tonight?

I had learned, amongst other most interesting revelations, the address of the Whimbrels' town house, where I quite hoped to find Mrs. Tupper.

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

WHIMBREL HALL STOOD, A LORDLY, WHITE, four-towered mansion, in Mayfair only a block away from Florence Nightingale's house. At nightfall, still carrying my old brown leather satchel and still dressed in the same dark frock I had thrown on that morning, standing across the tree-lined street in the shadow of a friendly oak to study Whimbrel Hall, I wondered whether its address might have been the one, written upon a card, that Florence Nightingale had given to Mrs. Tupper amidst the horrors of Scutari so long ago.

The Italianate mansion, with its multiple quoins and brackets, looked temptingly simple to climb. But climbing, I had to remind myself, is not the answer to everything; even if I could scale the fence, evade the inevitable watchdog, swarm up the mansion, find entry, avoid detection or capture, and succeed in locating Mrs. Tupper, what then? I could hardly expect her to clamber out of a tower window and down its wall along with me.

Hmm.

Generally I managed to accomplish whatever I wanted either by stealth or by bribery. But in this casea"as these people had quite enough money without any help from mea"neither would do, and I needed to steel myself to try something I had never done before.

I had discovered, you see, from Boyles, that Lord Sidney Whimbrel had been survived by two sons, the elder of whom, and the new Lord Whimbrel, was named Rodney, and the younger of whom was named Geoffrey.

Now, now, the conversation I had chanced to overhear in the Professional Women's Club a.s.sumed utmost importance in my mind. Rodney? Geoffrey? Surely not coincidence, especially as the former had recently taken a seat in the House of Lords, providing reason to be gossiped about.

As Rodney, according to the ladies, was the good-hearted brother, I had decided my best course would be to appeal directly to him for Mrs. Tupper's release. If the younger, less scrupulous Geoffrey had not despatched her already! While I hated to think that any son of the revered Lord Sidney Whimbrel could be capable of such infamy, still, once he had kidnapped her and attempted to extract information from her, thena"

Confound logic, anyway. It made my heart ache. And what if it had led me utterly astray? What if I were to sashay up to the door of Whimbrel Hall and either make an utter fool of myself, ora"or never come out again?

Enola, you must be quite sure of yourself, or you will never pull it off. Now go over it all again. One step at a time.

And as I did so, in my mind, I noticed that I was not the only loiterer on the street. Puttering along, investigating the gutter as if he hoped to find something of value there, came a genteel greybearded sort of poor soul, not quite a beggar, his threadbare clothing that of a gentleman, cadaverous yet walking with a cane, tall but greatly bent by age, his un-trimmed whiskers hiding most of his face while a truncated top-hat shadowed the rest. One should explain that when a top-hat becomes soiled by the wearer's perspiration and relegated to the secondhand clothing shops, the crown is removed, the stained part cut away, and the shortened crown reset on the brim. The greybeard's hat was a testament to this process, having undergone it at least three times.

Once before, on a freezing winter night, beside a fire made in a washtub to warm the homeless, I had seen such a hat. Indeed, I had seen the same greybeard, in only slightly different clothes. I recognised this interesting person, and as he approached, my heart began to pound in a most irrational manner, and I stood quite still in the shadow of the oak, terrified lest he see me.

Luckily, he hitched past me on the opposite side of the street without turning his head my way. Once I felt reasonably sure that he had not observed me, I breathed out.

Heavens. What next?

Never removing my gaze from him, I watched as he turned the corner, picking his way along the wrought-iron fence that surrounded Whimbrel Hall.

Even after he had pa.s.sed out of sight, I did not move from the shadow of the oak. I waited to see whether I might work him into my plan, meanwhile reviewing my case as I had reasoned it out: Lord Rodney Whimbrel takes his seat in the House of Lords.

He worries (or perhaps is induced by Geoffrey to worry) that a long-ago message his father never received may surface to embarra.s.s him.

Geoffrey quite plans to handle Rodney's career however he pleases, perhaps to enrich himself, perhaps simply for the pleasure of wielding power.

Therefore Geoffrey, evidently a man with low companions and a taste for illicit action, undertakes (along with a thuggish friend) to retrieve the troublesome missing message.

Failing to find the message, Geoffrey and friend kidnap Mrs. Tupper.

Lord Rodney Whimbrel, a "pleasant, well-meaning gentleman," is probably quite upset by this turn of events, but "lacking in backbone" has not done anything about it.

Perhaps I, Enola Holmes, by confronting him, might be able toa"

Almost as if on cue, the genteel if impoverished greybeard reappeared at the far corner of Whimbrel Hall's wrought-iron fence.

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 ap.r.o.n, and knocked at the ma.s.sive 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 Sherlocka"or, dare I say it, myselfa"can ape a lower-cla.s.s accent with ease, the oppositea"a lower-cla.s.s person speaking with an upper-cla.s.s accenta"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-rehea.r.s.ed 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 doora"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 bea"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 tonea"resentment because he knew I was a.s.serting 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: I have the message for the Bird.

Will exchange for Mrs. T.

without further ado. If turned

away, I will go to the police.

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, hea"or, rather, his errand-boy, Geoffreya"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-rooma"a place no proper lady would ever willingly set foota"and there, across the expanse of the green felt-topped gaming table, I found myself facing both young Whimbrels at once.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

LOUNGING WITH CIGARS IN HAND THEY RECEIVED me, leaning upon their cue-sticks, their att.i.tude 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 a.s.sure 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 accounta"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 Holmesa""

"Bosh and wind," broke in Geoffrey. "How can this girl possibly know anything ofa""

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 womana""

"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 expecteda""

"Shut up!" Geoffrey barked at him.

But at the same time I looked upon Lord Rodney with a far more kindly gaze, rea.s.suring him, "I quite believe you never expected the matter to go so far, or I would not be here talking toa""

"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 coa.r.s.e 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 c.o.c.ked 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 a.s.sure 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 tablea"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 t.i.tle 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 anda"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 instanta"I held it up, facing it towards Lord Rodney: confronting him with a small portrait in silhouette.

The Honourable Sidney Whimbrel, at Embley, Summer 1853.

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 longera""

Geoffrey shouted at him, "You fool, don't just stand there! Hit her with your stick!"