The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes (33 page)

“It's a good idea to work my own name into an alias,” said Carter, as our cab rolled away from the printer's. “That way there's no suspicious delay when someone I know calls it out unexpectedly.”

Holmes said, “That is wisdom. Wherefore Oliver?”

“A tribute to Oliver Wendell Holmes, a famous jurist in my country. I don't suppose he's a relative.”

“I've been asked before, but I know rather more about my French roots than any other.”

Carter tapped the pocket containing the leather case into which he'd placed all ten cards. “Best to have extras, just in case. Say, that was decent of him not to charge me a cent. What was it you did for him?”

“I prevented him from innocently reproducing a harmless-looking document that would have landed him in Reading Gaol.”

“When can I look forward to reading about it, John?”

I winced still at the American's habit of making free with my given name. “That's up to fate. I promised Holmes I wouldn't send it off until ten years after a certain party is deceased.”

At Holmes's instruction, we stopped before Claridge's, that magnificent edifice on Brook Street that had brought French splendour to London hotel life nearly a century before.

“I think it best to establish residency immediately, in a place commensurate with the quality of your stationery,” Holmes said. “It's dear, I'm afraid. I trust Sir James isn't niggardly when it comes to financing his menials.”

“He says I can write my own ticket. Will you send my bags round from Charing Cross station?” He pressed the necessary ransom into Holmes's hand.

“We'll bring them personally. We still have a strategy to map out.”

“Even better. There's a trunk and a valise, both crocodile.”

“Dear me. You must specialise in well-to-do clients.”

“I'm not the snob you think. I shot the rascals myself in the Florida Everglades.”

“Everglades,” I echoed. “It sounds a placid retreat.”

“Does it? I must have you join me sometime for a visit.”

On that amiable note we parted. As we made our way to Charing Cross, Holmes lit his pipe. “Interesting fellow; but then, so are most Yankees. He puts me in mind both of the cattle herders of Texas and of that Pinkerton chap, Birdy Edwards.”

“He's rather familiar for my taste, but I like him well enough, up to a point.”

“Identify the point.”

“‘How much of what this fellow says he can do can he do,' indeed. I might ask the same of him. It wouldn't surprise me if those bags of his turned out to have been shot in a shop in Philadelphia, with dollars for bullets.”

“He's the genuine coin, and no mistake. I may be no hand at stalking ferocious reptiles, but I can sniff out a charlatan with the wind at my back.”

At the station we redeemed the trunk and valise, striking in their scaly exteriors, and when we returned to the hotel were directed by the clerk to an upper-storey suite with a balcony overlooking most of Westminster. The linens were impeccable, and the rugs Persian. Holmes inspected the view, then pushed his way back inside through the heavy velvet curtains. “An inspired choice.”

“Thanks.” Nick Carter had begun to unpack. “Let's hope the lady doesn't insist on taking the air.”

I witnessed the transfer of item after item from bags to drawers: a crossbow, a set of tails, several pistols and revolvers, Chinese pyjamas, a knife as big as a hand axe, a collapsible silk hat, a cosh, various cravats, and a twin-barrelled fowling piece no longer than a man's forearm. “Great Scott! Are you going on safari?”

“I was, in a way.” He worked his fingers into a brass device that turned his fist into a bludgeon. “Sir James's cable caught up with me in Peru, just as I was set to go down the Amazon. It was blind luck I'd brushed up on both my Spanish and my Portuguese. Fate's a funny old girl.” He flexed his fingers, then slid the contraption off his hand. “Cannibals. They say you never see them till they're right on top of you.”

“I should keep it within reach,” I said, “especially if Osbert is in the picture. He looks meek enough, but my wife is no frail creature, and his arms held her as fast as iron bands.”

“So it is with any man who works with his hands.” Carter crushed the oval of heavy brass all out of shape in one fist. “I brought along two sets, if you're interested,” he said to Holmes.

Smiling grimly, Holmes held out a palm, accepted the mangled weapon, and, using both hands for leverage, prised it back into its former configuration.

Carter whistled, then looked at me. “John?”

I took my revolver from my pocket and showed it to him. “I need my fingers to stitch up cuts and tie bandages.”

“It seems we're loaded for all manner of bear,” said the American.

Holmes said, “Two talented writers are the best weapons in our arsenal. Should we flush our game, we'll need a description of La Dona Cristina that no white slaver could resist.”

“Who needs words?” Carter took a cloth-wrapped parcel from a pocket of the trunk and undid the string.

Holmes and I admired the framed likeness of a comely young woman with black hair and lashes so long they cast shadows on her dusky cheeks. “Christine's uncle was a famous Jewish sculptor. That's where she got her colouring. Wherever I go, she goes with me.”

“I see now how you arrived so quickly at a Spanish lady,” said Holmes. “Would she not object to being used in such an enterprise?”

“Unfortunately, she's dead. She committed suicide when her uncle objected to her courtship by a Gentile.”

I felt a rush of sympathy. “My dear fellow!”

“Water under the bridge. Had we married, I'd never have become a detective. She wanted me to enter the bar.”

“That explains the Blackstone.” Holmes consulted his watch. “The editor at
La Lengua
promised our advertisement would appear before the afternoon post, which has run by now. Watson, would you do the honours?”

I agreed to go to the post office, although none of us expected results so soon. Holmes and Carter were surprised, then, when I returned bearing an envelope with a City postmark.

Carter examined the envelope. “A woman's hand. I've never known a man who could forge it convincingly.” He gave it to Holmes.

“I've known two. One is deceased, the other transported to Australia.” After a cursory glance, Holmes slit it open with his clasp knife. He translated the letter aloud:

Holmes clucked his tongue. “She's gone back to her earlier alias.”

“Perhaps she thinks enough time has passed,” I suggested.

“Either that, or she's run out of Spanish synonyms for the firmament,” said Carter.

“Well, a thorn by any other name is just as treacherous.” Holmes looked at the return address. “The sly thing took a box in the same post office we did. You might even have passed her in the foyer, Watson.”

“I passed no woman inside or outside the building.”

“Even so, we'll ask Oliver Nicholas to post our reply. Anyone might be expected to walk into so busy a public facility, but criminals are wary by nature, and prone to take flight upon encountering a face connected with an unpleasant memory.”

“Any more Spanish and I may have to ask for my fee in pesetas.” Nick Carter drew a chair up to the writing desk and dipped a pen.

“Hadn't we better suggest a meeting in the restaurant?” I asked. “She is less likely than most women to agree to an assignation with a strange man in his suite.”

“And twice more likely to dodge our net, with only one man to stop her,” said Holmes. “There is no place for you and me to conceal ourselves in such an open place.”

We were silent for a moment. Then our partner spoke up. “We'll take the bull straight by the horns and invite her to bring a male escort.”

“Capital,” said Holmes. “We may ensnare her accomplice as well. Dona Cristina, of course, prefers that her representative discuss the delicate negotiations in private.”

“We're a fine trio of liars.” Carter wrote, placed one of Oliver Nicholas's cards in the envelope, and dashed off to catch the last post.

That night, rather than return to our own respective quarters, Holmes and I made ourselves comfortable in the sitting room. He gallantly offered me the relative comfort of the settee. “Twaddle,” said he when I protested. “We shan't have your old wound impeding our success.” Whereupon he fashioned himself a bed using two chairs.

In the morning we breakfasted in the suite, then smoked on the balcony to avoid offending our expected guest with the lingering odour of tobacco. We had an excellent view of Hyde Park, with its strollers in light summer clothes carrying parasols and swinging sticks, and Carter regaled us with comparisons to the Central Park in New York City, where he'd once “nabbed a mug,” in his colourful parlance.

A knock came to the door just as the mantel clock struck the hour suggested for the meeting. Carter slipped a Norfolk jacket on over his waistcoat and went inside to answer it, carefully closing the curtains behind him and concealing us both. He had no weapons concealed on his person, lest a suspicious bulge tell the tale. Holmes and I took turns peeping through a crack between the curtains as our drama unfolded.

The housemaid I had known as Gloriana bore small resemblance to the glamorous creature who stepped in from the corridor, wearing an emerald-green frock becoming to her slender waist and a fashionable hat with a short black veil pinned to it. Under normal circumstances, I might not have recognised her had we passed on the street. Carter, visibly impressed, held the door for her as she entered, followed closely by a man whose face I would have known anywhere.

“Holmes!” I whispered hoarsely.

Gloriana/Celeste's escort wore the clothing of a boulevardier: grey bowler, patterned jacket and waistcoat, elk's-tooth fob, grey flannels and all, gripping a bamboo cane; but these things could not dissemble his true identity. Holmes and I had met him as Osbert, the ice-cream parlour proprietor. My Mary had known him as the loathsome cabman Snipe.

He had, to a degree, taken other steps to alter his appearance. A monocle clung to one eye, its ribbon attached to a lapel, he'd dyed his fair hair dark brown, and a mole I had not noticed before drew one's attention away from the rest of his features towards his left cheek. The unnatural ruddiness which Holmes had attributed to an allergic reaction to greasepaint (encountered in his role as Snipe) was absent, but I had no doubt as to his identity. In his present role he looked like a cross between a circus barker and a racetrack tout; and, as the three made small talk, it developed that he had adopted the pose of Celeste's somewhat inglorious uncle. Hinkel was the name he gave.

In preparation, we had ordered an extra pot of tea with our breakfast and two additional cups and saucers. “Mr. Nicholas” bade them sit and poured for all.

“I'd hoped La Dona Cristina would be present,” said “Hinkel,” in a tone of mild disappointment.

“I wanted to conduct the interview myself and report,” Carter replied. “Her most recent travelling companion proved to be unsuitable, a fact that cast a shadow on her judgment.”

“You are American, are you not?” Celeste's accent was more pronounced than when I'd known her as Gloriana.

“I am, miss. I studied law in Philadelphia and finished at Oxford.” This was the story he and Holmes had collaborated upon to explain Carter's unorthodox British inflection.

“What sort is the lady?” asked the man who called himself Hinkel.

“The very best. She attended the finest finishing school in Barcelona at a young age. She's learning English, and plays the harp like an angel.” Carter's smile was disarming. “She almost hired Miss Flores sight unseen when she found out she spoke the language. Any objection to adding ‘tutor' to your other responsibilities?”

“I should be glad to assist in her education.”

“Let's not put the cart before the horse,” said her escort. “I should like to visit my niece from time to time, and I don't mind telling you I'd rather spend the day with two good-looking women. There's a deal of humpbacks and warts among these inbred continental nobles.” The leer he wore during this confession seemed worthy of Snipe.
O, what a studied villain is this
, thought I.

Carter affected not to disapprove. “I can settle your worries on that score.” From an inside breast pocket he drew the photograph of the late lamented Christine, removed from its frame.

It was my turn at watch. A spark of naked greed flew from “Celeste's” face to Osbert's as the picture passed between them.

Osbert returned it. “Well, sir, I'm satisfied. One doesn't want one's prize foal trotting about with a donkey.”

I couldn't decide whom I despised more, this crude Herod or his Lady Judas, who betrayed members of her own gender to her foul profession.

My impatience was growing. I wanted to lay hands on them both, and let the devil take the hindmost as to my position regarding the fair sex. But as Carter took command of the conversation, drawing one genteel lie after another from Celeste about her background and education, I realised that he and Holmes had charted out this very course, to lull our “victims” into laying aside their highly developed sense of suspicion.

Although I had missed this particular conference, I recalled with clarity the signal they had worked out to draw Holmes and me from hiding. Carter had surreptitiously locked the door to the outside corridor after letting them in. The only other exit was by way of the balcony, four storeys above the street, and we would stand before it.