Dreaming Spies (27 page)

Holmes, having stopped his intake some hours earlier than I, was in slightly better condition, but even he passed up the noisy salad to concentrate on soup. When I had plumbed the depths of the bowl, I felt almost human. Laying down my spoon, a vague memory pushed to the surface.

“I think I may have agreed to go somewhere with those girls. Shopping, was it?” I frowned, then shook my head—stopping abruptly as it set my skull to spinning. “Can’t remember.”

“ ‘Shopping’ to them would mean dresses and makeup rather than books or art,” he noted.

“Makeup—that’s it!”

“You agreed to accompany two Japanese Flappers to buy makeup?”

“Not quite. One of them—Mina, the one who speaks English”—the other one, Kiko, being merely the proud possessor of many English words—“has a sister who works as a geisha. She thought I’d like to see the process they go through, getting dressed for the evening.” A plate of food had appeared before me, although I couldn’t remember having requested it. I picked up my utensils with a somewhat grim determination.

“You remember we have a meeting with Miss Sato today?” he asked.

“I do—and I did. The problem is, I must have more clothing, if we are going to spend the next few days looking fashionable. I may have to give up one meeting or the other.”

“I will have some free hours, if you wish me to order you some frocks.” My knife and fork paused. Certainly he knew my measurements down to the half-inch, but he was a man—and moreover, a man who had come of age when women wore bustles. “You need not trust my taste,” he added. “Any dress-shop recommended by this hotel will provide the sort of clothing you need.”

“Since it’s more a matter of disguise than of taste, I’m sure that a disinterested
party would come up with more suitable raiment than either of us. I’ll give you a list of what I’ll need. If you don’t mind spending your afternoon among ladies’ fashion,” I added.

“It is a new rôle for me,” he remarked serenely. “That of poodle-faker.”

I nearly spewed a mouthful of peas across the tablecloth.

How one dresses here!

Jewels and silken glitter, or

Blossoms in the hair?

Before leaving the village, Holmes and I had sat down with Haruki-san and her father to design a campaign for the invasion of Lord Darley’s party and a retrieval of the Prince Regent’s book. Specific details would have to wait until we had compiled information—hence today’s meeting with Haruki-san.

Had it been a different sort of party, other members of the Sato clan could have filtered in. However, Darley’s purpose—his ostensible purpose—was to court the Imperial family and a collection of influential Japanese and Western businessmen, politicians, newspaper owners, aristocrats, and what-have-you. The owner of a small onsen in the hills and a young woman with a severely limited ship-board wardrobe held little chance of an invitation. Presentable Europeans, however, might be welcomed, to fill out the kind of amiable, Western setting Darley desired.

We followed Haruki-san’s instructions to the meeting-place, making sure we were not followed. The designated shop appeared to sell nothing but jars in the shape of cats, with minor varieties of size and colour. The
tiny dried-apple of a woman behind the counter bowed, sucked in her breath past toothless gums, and ushered us through a low door half-covered by fabric (also printed with cats).

The back room was marginally larger than the front, and seemed to be the living quarters for the shopkeeper and her family. The old woman’s grandson was hunched before the tiny fire—but no.

“Haruki-san,” I exclaimed. “That’s a very effective disguise.”

She grinned, demonstrating the over-large front teeth beneath the thin moustache, and removed the round glasses of a caricature Oriental, leaving the slicked-back hair, dumpy black suit, and highly polished shoes so ill-fitting, they could only be hand-me-downs.

“You look like a poor student hunting for a job.”

“Would you give me one?” she asked curiously.

Frankly, I thought, as a prospective employer I would avoid a candidate with that much intelligence and mischief in her eyes. “If I did, I would be certain that I had your loyalty for life.”

“Good. Tea?”

We knelt on the thin mats to enjoy the pale, hot drink. When she had poured our second cups, she began.

“There has been an interesting development. I had a letter from Lady Darley yesterday, asking if I might be available to translate at the party.”

“Ah,” said Holmes.

“That puts a rather different light on things,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. The only reason Holmes and I had become involved was because of our chances of finagling invitations. If that had changed …

“Not necessarily,” she said, “although it does simplify matters a little. We had intended to slip one or two of our people inside—as hotel staff of one kind or another. My being invited within means I can infiltrate openly, rather than having to take a position as a maid.”

“Are you assigned a specific person to translate for?” I asked.

“I am there for His Highness the Prince Regent.”

“Do you think that a good idea?” Holmes’ tone indicated that he did not. “You and your father wished to avoid a direct connexion with His Highness during this episode.”

“As we have. My invitation comes from Lady Darley, after two of her planned-for translators fell ill.”

“Convenient. And unnecessary.”

“I agree with my father, that one of us ought to be there. We had considered having His Highness recommend his favourite juggler to entertain the Darleys’ guests, but this is not that sort of a party.”

“Nor is Darley stupid enough to allow free rein to a blackmail victim,” I noted. “Anyone openly requested by the Prince Regent would be highly suspect. One would not want your father handed a poisoned cup the moment he appeared.”

“You have others there,” Holmes said, not a question.

She shook her head. “If we do, it is best you not know.”

“My dear young thing, neither Russell nor I is raw enough to be caught shooting meaningful glances at co-conspirators.”

“Nonetheless, you do not need to know.”

And that was all she would tell us. We agreed to a means of delivering a message to her, if and when we achieved an invitation. Other than that, the next time we saw her would be at the party itself.

I laid down my cup. “Well, I have an appointment with a geisha, and Holmes intends to spend the afternoon investigating Tokyo’s world of ladies’ fashion. We shall see you on Friday.”

In fine new clothing

I feel so unlike myself
,

I am another
.

Bashō’s poem ran through my mind as I stared aghast at the cheval mirror later that evening. “You honestly thought this frock appropriate for your wife?”

“Good Lord, no. But for the young bride of ‘Bobby Russell’? I fear so.” I sighed. “The glasses don’t go with it.”

“It is not the dress of a bluestocking,” he agreed. Easy for him to say:
he had perfect vision, and he could wear the same evening suit every night of the week. “How was your afternoon with the geisha?”

I contorted myself, trying to catch a glance of the garment’s back. I would have to wear shoes with heels. “Surprisingly interesting. One almost begins to suspect that the Floating World contains the most sensible women in Japan.” Certainly the most clever conversationalists. I told him about the Flapper’s sister, who had mastered the traditional arts of
samisen
, dance, and waiting on drunken men, then gone on to do the same with the parallel arts of the twentieth century. “I wouldn’t have thought a person in full kimono could manage a Charleston, but she did. A somewhat constricted version of it, at any rate.” She also knew the words to many American songs, could discuss (in simple, charmingly accented English) the relative merits of Lillian Gish and Louise Brooks, and seemed to have a better understanding of the stock market than I did. She also played a mean game of poker.

“Geisha is all about entertainment, and she’s expanding her realm to the Western world. She seems to be doing very well for herself, too. And that reminds me,” I added, looking around my mascara brush at him. “I bought you a gift. It’s in my handbag, there.”

With considerable suspicion—we did not, in the general course of things, buy each other gifts—he picked up the small bag and worked the clasp. The box inside bore the usual meticulous Japanese presentation, with perfectly folded wrapping paper and a decorative twine designed to complement not only the paper, but the contents and the giver as well. He tugged, unfolded, opened … and winced.

When it comes to evening wear, a man’s options for peacockery are somewhat limited. Unless Holmes were willing to stoop to some shocking heresy—a wristwatch, say, or a cummerbund—that left the width of his lapel, the pattern of braid on his trousers, or the weave of his white silk scarf—a garment generally abandoned at the door.

However, if I were to be a flighty young thing, some degree of iconoclasm would only be expected of my escort. Therefore, my mad addition to his wardrobe.

“Cufflinks?”

“And studs.”

“One cannot wear—”

“Sherlock Holmes cannot wear cufflinks other than the standard black studs. But Robert Russell? Go wild, Holmes.”

He prised one of the objects from its box, tilting it towards the light. It was, in fact, mostly black. However, the parts that were not …

“I do not think I could eat my dinner, looking at these.”

“You won’t be looking at your own cufflinks, Holmes, and everyone else will find them nicely daring.”

“I do not think …”

“Holmes, if I must wear this, you have to wear those.”

His eyes came up, and studied the dress he had … well, I couldn’t precisely accuse him of
choosing
it, but he had approved it to the extent of exchanging money for it.

Where the garment lacked fringe, it had sequins; where it had neither, it was caked with garish embroidery and—to prove money was no object—seed pearls. It looked like an explosion in a haberdashery.

With a matching bandeau for my hair.

The cufflinks I had chosen for him were oval, and two millimetres larger than his usual studs. Their shiny black surface was circled by a pencil-thin line of red enamel, and set with a ruby approximately one millimetre across. The stone had been mounted deliberately off-centre.

He shuddered, then cast another look at my dress. Wordlessly, he proceeded to thread the offending objects through his cuffs. I resumed my work at the mirror. The bandeau resembled a fallen doll-house chandelier.

When I had finished, I tucked my arm in his. We looked at the reflection in the glass, gave identical shakes of our heads, and turned to head for the night life.

The salon was in full swing. Mina, the geisha’s sister, was there, although Kiko had been replaced by half a dozen other Japanese Flappers, wearing more expensive clothing and speaking better English.

A piano was pounding out music that I eventually decided was a string of American songs, although they were either in a different scale or the instrument needed tuning. That didn’t stop the people, however, who shouted merrily over it and occasionally jittered to the beat, although the salon was both carpeted and too crowded for dancing. The cigarette smoke was heavy, the alcohol fumes positively hazardous, and we had no trouble locating our “friends” of the night before.

And this time, their circle included the object of all this folderol: Lord Darley.

The man, as one might expect of a person with grey in his hair, looked somewhat less enchanted with his surroundings than his son did. Even his wife looked amused at the tumult.

I felt Holmes summon a deep breath very like my own. Then we both pasted on expressions of committed gaiety and moved into the crowd.

Twenty minutes or so later, the last intervening clot of individuals shifted away and we found ourselves face to face with the Darleys. The countess was flushed, the earl was drunk, and they were both astonished to see us.

“The Russells! Dear, look, it’s those lovely people from the ship.”

“Old chap!” he exclaimed, sticking out a hand to Holmes, whose hesitation was imperceptible. “Good to spot someone who isn’t twelve years old among this lot!”

“Have you been in Tokyo all this time?” she asked. “Why haven’t we seen you before this?”

Most of that I got by reading her lips, then I leaned forward to shout, “No, we just arrived a couple of days ago. We’ve been seeing something of the country, what a fascinating place! But now we’ve made it here, we’re certainly going to stay for a while. I had an absolutely
spellbinding
time yesterday with one of Tommy’s Japanese friends, her sister is actually a
geisha
, can you believe it? And she invited us to come along and watch her sister get ready for an evening—Lord! I thought dressing for a garden party at the Palace was an ordeal!”