The Case of the Left-Handed Lady: An Enola Holmes Mystery Page 4

  Sitting and listening, I concealed my impatience with difficulty, for it was all jugglery and rot, of course; Mesmerism had been discredited years ago, along with dead bodies electrically “galvanised” into the appearance of life, incorporeal table-turning, spiritualist slate-writing and all sorts of nonsense masquerading as science and progress.

  “. . . invited us to come up and test the trance. One gent pinched ’er, and ’is wife passed smelling salts under ’er nose, and me, I run a ’atpin into her an’ she never so much as twitched. Then after we was done the Mesmerist made more of them magnetic passes with his hands, and up she jumps, all smiling, an’ we give ’em both a real big clap of our’ands as they went out. Then, the next thing, there was a Phrenologist – ”

  Oh, no. More pseudo-scientific dust of the past.

  I interrupted. “Is it true,” I asked, “that the Queen once shaved her head for a Phrenological reading?”

  They could scarcely believe it (no wonder, as I had just made it up, thereby, I am sure, spawning a rumour) but anything was possible: Lady This and Lady That had held séances, Duke So-and-so somnambulated, several young Honourable Lords had experimented with laughing gas, et cetera. I had succeeded in changing the subject to the fascinating foibles of the upper classes – about which, like most domestics, these two knew everything. Scandal might be “hushed up” in the newspapers, but no event in any London household was secret so long as there were servants to whisper with other people’s maids and footmen. Accepting a second cup of tea, I waited for my opportunity. It came when a member of the peerage was mentioned.

  Coughing for attention and sympathy, I asked, “Would he be acquainted with Sir Eustace Alistair?”

  “ ’Im? I doubt it!” declared Mrs. Fitzsimmons.

  “Sir Eustace is just a baronet, don’t ye know,” said the cook.

  “And disgraced, to boot,” said the housekeeper with a hushed voice and zestful eyes.

  I reacted with satisfactory shock and interest. “Disgraced? How so?”

  “By ’is daughter, Lady Cecily! Shameful affair.”

  “ ’Orrendous for ’er parents,” said the cook. “One’ears Lady Alistair is quite prostrated, she is.”

  The housekeeper replied, the cook interjected, and during the next several minutes between the two of them the story took form, in my mind at least, like a structure emerging from a fog:

  The Honourable Lady Cecily Alistair, Sir Eustace’s second oldest, just sixteen years of age and not yet presented at court, had gone missing Tuesday of last week, on which morning a ladder had been found at her bedroom window. Upon being questioned by police authorities, girl-friends of Lady Cecily admitted to her having been approached last summer, while in their company (“ ’ardly never no chaperones anymore, and them girls ’orseback riding, bicycle riding, shopping on their own, wot’s the world coming to?”) by a young “gent,” that is to say, a man of dandified attire but doubtful pedigree. Further inquiry and a search of Lady Cecily’s desk revealed that she and the young man had been corresponding, quite without a proper introduction or the knowledge of her parents. It had taken the police, who had only a first name to work with, four days to locate this impertinent male, who had turned out to be a mere shopkeeper’s son with no proper sense of his place, very likely with aspirations above his station in life; by then, of course, it was Far Too Late (“ ’orrible if she married ’im, an’ even worse if she didn’t”). But as it turned out, she had not been found with him. The young man had protested in the strongest terms his innocence of any wrongdoing. (“Rubbish. Men wants only one thing.”) He had been watched and followed since, but no sign of Lady Cecily had been discovered.

  “More tea, Miss Meshle?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No, Mrs. Bailey, thank you very much. I think – I believe I must go attend to business now.”

  Returning to the front of the establishment, I withdrew from my own outer office into Dr. Ragostin’s, instructing Joddy that I was on no account to be disturbed. I often napped in Dr. Ragostin’s office during the days, after I had been out all night as the Sister. Judging by Joddy’s impertinent grin, which I ignored, he thought I intended to spend a few hours swaddled in “Afghans” on Dr. Ragostin’s comfortable chintz sofa.

  This was what I wished him and the other servants to think.

  Aside from the aforementioned sofa facing the hearth, Dr. Ragostin’s inner sanctum featured a rather grandiose desk I had provided for that fictitious personage, leather armchairs for his clients, and the resplendent Turkish carpet upon which those furnishings stood. Between heavily draped windows stood a tall bookshelf, and other bookshelves lined the three remaining walls entirely, except of course that gas sconces upon long mirrors (to reflect the light) separated them. Such plenitude of bookshelves had been left behind by the previous occupant – a so-called spiritualist medium. This had been the séance room.

  After locking its door from the inside, closing the thick serge drapes for privacy, and turning up the gas-jet chandelier to illuminate the resulting gloom, I walked to the first bookshelf on the inner wall. There I reached behind a stout volume of Pope’s essays, released a silent latch, then pulled the left edge of the bookshelf towards me. With only fingertip pressure, and utterly without sound – for the hinges were perfectly hung and lavishly oiled – the entire shelf swung open like a door to reveal a small room behind it.

  Here, I felt sure, the medium’s accomplices had hidden.

  I, however, used the closet-sized space to hide items of another sort.

  Which I now needed. In order to be received at the baronet’s residence, I could not go as Ivy Meshle. I needed to effect a transformation.

  I lit a candle. Then, shivering with cold – for there was no fire laid on in this room – I pulled off Ivy Meshle’s cheap flounced-poplin dress, along with the bulbous brooch she always wore – with a purpose. Welded to my dagger hilt, this brooch looked like an ornament pinned to my dress-front, but actually allowed my weapon’s handle to protrude between my buttons. Grasping the “brooch,” I drew the dagger from my corset with a flourish, admiring its shining, thin, razor-edged blade a moment before laying it aside.

  I laid aside also Ivy Meshle’s false hair, earbobs, et cetera, until I stood in my underpinnings, the most essential of which, ironically, was my corset.

  Yes, despite my opinion of corsets, I wore one always – but as my protective friend, never tightened to become my tormentor. For me, a corset provided not constraint, but the freedom it gave by furnishing defense, disguise, and supplies. Aside from sheathing my dagger, the corset supported my Bust Enhancer (where I concealed many useful items, including a small fortune in Bank of England notes) by which, along with Hip Regulators, I maintained a figure quite different than that of the unembellished Enola Holmes.

  Undressed, then, except for padding, protection, and petticoats, I bent to a basin and washed away my rouge, grimacing, for the water I kept in the closet was all but freezing, then looked at a mirror. My own long, plain, sallow face, framed by my own long, plain brownish hair, looked back at me.

  The hair was a problem. In order to pass as a woman, you see, I had to wear it up. Girls wore their frocks short and their hair long, but women had to wear their dresses long and their hair “up.” While almost every other inch of a gentlewoman must be covered during the daytime, her ears, it seemed, must be always bared.

  Today I needed to pass as a gentlewoman. Such ladies, however, had maids to arrange their hair for them, and I had none.

  I will spare the gentle reader the details of the struggle. Suffice it to say that nearly an hour later a gentlewoman with her hair up – and mostly hidden beneath a formidable hat – emerged from behind a bookshelf. I wore a grey day-dress custom-made of the finest worsted, yet discreet, almost dowdy, in its styling. And yes, with a brooch centered upon its bosom – this time a tasteful oval made of mother-ofpearl. I possessed, you see, more than one dagger.

  I put on quite a lovely fur
cloak, with a dainty little muff to match, before closing – and concealing – my “dressing-room.” Then, approaching a different bookcase, the one that stood by the outer wall, I reached behind another stout tome (Pilgrim’s Progress), manipulated another hidden latch, and slipped out of Dr. Ragostin’s office by the secret door.

  CHAPTER THE FIFTH

  MY CRAFTY PREDECESSOR HAD PLACED THIS exit well. I emerged behind a bushy evergreen that grew in the narrow space between houses. From there, I was able to make my way to the street satisfied that no one could possibly have seen me leave, not even that sharp-eyed Mrs. Fitzsimmons, who had probably verbally dissected me with Mrs. Bailey the moment my back was turned: Poor dear, with more’n enough nose and chin but barely anything else, a woman can tell; if any man ever marries ’er ee’ll find ’imself sorely deceived.

  Dealing with my miserable hair – the colour of bog mud, and as limp as the rotting vegetation thereof – had put me in a bad humour. Once safely in a four-wheeler cab, I pulled paper and pencil from one of my pockets and drew a quick, rather rude sketch of Mrs. Fitzsimmons and Mrs. Bailey with their old-fashioned white ruffled house-caps bent together in gossip, their shrewd baggy eyes, their lipless gabbling mouths – rather like a pair of turtles, actually.

  Then, having got temper out of the way, I more calmly sketched a picture of a young gentlewoman in a fur cloak and muff and a brimmed velvet hat trimmed with grebe feathers. Beneath this elegant headgear she peered nearsightedly, for no lady, however faulty her vision, will wear glasses. So gently reared as to be nearly helpless, she walked with her head bent and her shoulders drawn in, very plain despite her fine clothing.

  Dr. Ragostin’s shy child bride, Mrs. Ragostin.

  By drawing this, I reminded myself who I was being today.

  When the urge to sketch seized me, I could have drawn Ivy Meshle if I wanted to, or Mum, or Sherlock or Mycroft, or just about anyone I knew except Enola Holmes. My true self I could not quite capture on paper. Odd.

  The cab took me to a fashionable street. As it pulled to a halt, I stowed my papers deep in a pocket; on two occasions Sherlock Holmes had seen my drawings, and I must be careful never to give myself away by leaving any behind. When I returned to my lodgings, I would burn the sketches.

  Alighting at the corner, with both silk-gloved hands tucked into my muff I waited until the cab had driven away. You see, while only dowagers wore bustles anymore – mercy be thanked, their clumsy bulk was going out of fashion – still, a gentlewoman must trail a train. The hem of my long cloak and back of my even longer skirt dragged upon the icy cobbles, indicating the social class of one who rode in carriages. So I stood where I was until the cab had departed. Dr. Ragostin, I knew, really ought to keep his own little brougham and pair, but there were limits, however generous, to the funds Mum had provided me.

  Fortunately, I seldom needed be Mrs. Ragostin.

  Very fortunately, as I wore my own unaltered face for this purpose. Ivy Meshle could hide behind rouge, fair-hued hair additions, and cheap baubles, but no lady could do so.

  As I stood on the corner, two top-hatted gentlemen strode past me with glares of disapproval. “My wife stays at home where she belongs, none of this peripatetic nonsense,” grumbled one to his companion. “That young lady will bring trouble on herself, wandering about alone,” the other agreed, “and ’twill be her own fault.” I ignored them, and tried not to let their comments darken the day, which was quite gloomy enough already; although the clocks had just struck one in the afternoon, a lamplighter climbed his ladder, for with the London sky thick with smoke, fog, and soot it might as well have been evening. All over the rooftops of the city, chimneys stood like dark candles spewing smut. Workmen and cleaning-women walked past me coughing; someone would die of the catarrh today.

  A ragged little girl with a broom approached me; at my nod the child hurried to sweep the crossing for me, banishing from my path the muck of soot, stone dust, mud, and horse droppings that always coated the street.

  Following the child to the other side, I tipped her generously – a penny, not just a farthing – then, myself willy-nilly “sweeping” the pavement with my train, I progressed towards my destination: the residence of Sir Eustace Alistair.

  Upon the massive front door I found a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Remembering to strike timidly, as befit Mrs. Ragostin, I employed it.

  Presently the door was opened by a maid all shining in afternoon black, behind whom stood an equally resplendent butler.

  “Her ladyship is not receiving visitors,” the butler told me, his manner as cold as the winter day.

  “Her ladyship is not feeling well? If you would just take up this card, and my sympathies,” I said in the voice of an exceedingly well-bred mouse.

  Balefully he fetched his silver tray, upon which I laid the card of Dr. Leslie T. Ragostin, Scientific Perditorian, on which I had penned “Mrs.”

  “I sent the carriage away,” I murmured. “One must be discreet.” This to explain the absence of a footman or any other accompanying servant. Stepping inside, for they could hardly leave such a welldressed lady freezing upon the doorstep, I added, “I will just warm myself by the fire.”

  The maid was good enough to take my cloak and muff – not my hat; a lady’s hat and hair, once arranged, remained inseparable. Hatted and gloved indoors, I could not have looked more absurdly upper-class.

  Still, loitering in the rather grand parlour, I had no idea whether Lady Theodora – that was the wife’s name, Theodora; I had looked up “Alistair, Sir Eustace, Baronet” in Dr. Ragostin’s copy of Boyles to find the address – as I say, I did not know whether the lady would condescend to see me. She might find my unexpected arrival a straw worth grasping at. On the other hand, depending on whether pride outweighed desperation, she might consider such presumption to be the last straw.

  Trying to imagine the dialogue taking place upstairs, I could only hope the lady understood what perditorian meant, and that the butler had been sufficiently impressed by my apparel and demeanour.

  “Ahem.” The butler reappeared at the parlour door, and while he looked as disapproving as ever, he told me, “Lady Theodora is not dressed to receive you in the morning-room, but she wonders whether you would care to step into her boudoir for a few moments.”

  Ah. Just as I had hoped. Although I must now proceed with the greatest delicacy.

  Following the butler upstairs, I heard youthful voices issuing from a nursery on the floor above, where a nanny, or perhaps a governess, attempted to civilise the Alistair children. The Honourable Lady Cecily, according to Boyles, had no less than seven brothers and sisters.

  Such being the case, it is amazing how youthful in appearance Lady Theodora turned out to be. Or perhaps such was the effect of her grief plus her perfectly lovely, lacy tea-frock. A recent fad instigated by the artwork of Kate Greenaway, tea-frocks allowed one to go without a corset when receiving (female only!) visitors in one’s personal rooms. In the high-waisted, comfortable, very pretty garment, Lady Theodora appeared charming and almost childlike, whereas I would have looked a proper stork in one.

  She did not immediately turn to me as I stepped in at the door. With maids in fluttering attendance, fussing with her long curls of auburn hair, she remained upon a dainty chair facing her dressing-table, powdering her tear-stained face, so that I saw her first in the mirror.

  Our eyes met in a glass darkly, as it were.

  Remembering to be bashful, I glanced away.

  I am sure she took a good long look at me while I stood gazing up and around like a tourist in a European cathedral. Actually, the room was rather similar to Mum’s at home – light and airy with Japanese screens and furniture carved in the delicate Oriental fashion. Not so grand. But I must seem awed. Timid, I reminded myself mentally. Married young, naïve and terribly plain. No threat to anyone.

  “That will do.” Turning, Lady Theodora shrugged off a filmy combing-jacket and shooed the servants awa
y with her hands. “Mrs. Ragostin, please sit down.”

  I perched on the edge of a settee. “My, um, apologies for intruding upon you in this, um, that is to say, unseemly manner, quite without a proper introduction, Lady Alistair, and at such a difficult . . .” I allowed my barely audible murmurings to trail away in a pretense of confusion because I, a stranger, was not supposed to know that this was a difficult time for her. Although she knew perfectly well that I did know; why else would I be there?

  She spared me further pretense. “Your husband sent you, Mrs. Ragostin?”

  I lifted my lowered eyes to Lady Theodora’s pretty face – no, beautiful: This was a beautiful woman. Somewhat square of jaw and full of mouth, but with brilliant eyes, her expression remarkably cultured and sensitive. A society lady who was not usually so direct, I imagined. Much more the type to play the game of social dissembling to its fullest, dealing in hints and intimations and coyness. Only extremity could drive her to be so blunt.

  “Um, yes,” I faltered. “Dr. Ragostin felt that it would be indelicate for him to – to venture here himself, you know . . .”

  Once more the stumbling halt, allowing her the choice, whether to speak of that which the whole world knew but was not supposed to know.

  Lady Theodora stiffened for only a moment before she nodded. I have often noticed how a proud and beautiful woman will find a friend in one who is plain, quiet, and humble. “Yes,” she said in a low voice, “my daughter, Lady Cecily, seems to have – that is – I, or rather, we, her parents, don’t know where she is. Am I correct to understand that your husband finds persons who have gone missing?”

  “Yes, quite so.”

  “He is offering his services?”

  “If you wish. But with no expectation of reward, my lady.”

  “Indeed.” She did not believe this; she thought it more than likely that Dr. Ragostin was opportunistic and a sham, but at the same time –

  She said it. “I am desperate, Mrs. Ragostin.” Watching my face, she spoke with deliberate control, but I could see her trembling. “There has been no news of my daughter – none! – for a week, and the authorities seem utterly ineffectual. Surely your husband can do no worse. No doubt I am being a fool, for I am under orders to summon no one on my own, but I can hardly be blamed if you have come to me. I cannot help feeling that a providential God may have sent you here, however self-serving – not you personally, I mean, but your husband – no offense intended.”