The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 6
“And that is why she was exonerated, or at least why the evidence damning her was never brought to light. Prince Ali Kamel Fahmy Bey was not the first prince she’d snared.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Mrs. Roberts. I leaned in eagerly to hear as well.
Holmes seemed to find it distasteful to go further. But he had led us thus far. “The Prince of Wales.”
“You mean he—?” Mrs. Roberts could not finish the indictment.
“And what was monumentally stupid, he penned her letters. Which she very judiciously kept by her.”
“My word, it’s the scandal in Bohemia all over again,” I uttered.
“With the important distinction that you shall not be writing up any accounts of it.”
“How came you to hear of it?” Mrs. Roberts asked.
Holmes fell silent.
“By Jove, you negotiated for the return of the letters!” I cried.
“Very good, Watson. That onerous task fell to me, yes.”
“I wonder if all royals are such ninnies when it comes to women,” Mrs. Roberts mused.
“All men are. The royals simply make the morning edition,” I answered firmly.
“Oh, please,” said Mrs. Roberts rather haughtily. “Next you’ll be saying that all women are bloodsuckers.”
“Not necessarily just women. We shall be crossing into Monaco soon, where we’ll meet with Evelyn Herbert and her new husband, the Baronet Brograve Beauchamp. Another wastrel wed for money and no doubt burning through her fortune as quickly as ever he can get hold of it,” I said with profound distaste.
“You’ve grown a prickly hide in your old age, Watson,” said Holmes reprovingly. “The baronet served in the Life Guards with distinction during the war. It’s Lady Evelyn who has the itch for gambling. She inherits it from her father, I’m sure. He was the real wastrel who married for money.”
“Any man who marries for aught but love is a bounder,” I fumed.
“Really, Doctor, would you refuse the woman you loved just because she had money?” chided Mrs. Roberts.
Holmes could not keep silent at that. “John Watson has already passed that test with flying colors, my dear. He would not have proposed to the love of his life save that her fortune sank into the Thames.”
It was true that the sight of a chest full of fabulous gems going into the drink had made my heart light and freed my tongue. For how could I, a virtual pauper at the time, have dared to ask for the hand in marriage of an heiress? But I shot a warning look toward Holmes, and he wiped the mirth from his face. If Mrs. Roberts was waiting for a story, she would not get one. My darling Mary’s name was not to be bandied about.
“Speaking of gambling, Lady Evelyn’s wagered a thousand pounds that I would find no proof of a curse,” Holmes said.
“A thousand pounds! He should rein her in,” I remonstrated.
“It should mean a nice little nest egg for me—or my ruin.”
“You mean you took her up on it? Good gracious, man.”
“According to your lights, it should be easy money for her. After all, that’s why she insisted you come along. She has complete faith in your probity.”
“Then I’m to officiate?” I blanched at the thought.
He gave a nod. A brief smile flickered across his face.
That shone a whole new light on the endeavor. True, I longed with all my heart for Holmes to abandon spiritualism, but I had no wish to humiliate him publicly, much less ruin him. Backing him up in a dangerous situation was one thing, but this put me in virtual opposition to my old friend. It was an uncomfortable position, especially knowing Mrs. Roberts would be whispering in his ear every minute, trying to fill his head with her Pandora’s box full of superstitions. And there was the revelation that Holmes had not insisted on me; Lady Evelyn had. I felt that the earth rock beneath my feet.
The sun was just cooling its toes in the wine-dark sea when we chugged into Monte Carlo, the easternmost bastion of Provence (though officially part of the dollhouse city-state of Monaco, the tiniest in the world). It’s a charming town that climbs from the water’s edge to the high hills guarding it from prying eyes like a player guarding his cards from blacklegs. Of course, we saw none of this. The Monte Carlo train station, for some inexplicable reason, lies underground, so we were greeted upon alighting by dim lamps and concrete floors, walls, and ceilings, which created a deafening echo. We might as well have been in the Marylebone tube station toward the end of the workday.
Except for the dress, of course. Everyone in the corridors was outfitted to the nines. Holmes had dropped the news on me at the last minute that evening wear was de rigueur at the casino. No exceptions. At which I dropped the news on him that I had brought no evening wear, since I had not been informed that we would be going anywhere within a hundred leagues of Monte Carlo. At which he pulled another one of his conjurer’s tricks, saying that he had foreseen that eventuality, and produced a tuxedo “in your exact size” on the spot.
Well, it was not my exact size. I suppose I had put on a few pounds since Holmes had last sized me up, so it was a tight fit. I cut quite a dashing figure, however. Holmes looked rather like a scarecrow in his, I thought.
But the real eye-opener was Mrs. Roberts. I am not unaware that ladies’ dress styles have changed rather drastically since the war. Outfits that would have been considered scandalous before the war were now commonplace, and bustles, petticoats, and corsets had all vanished as if they were candy floss. But Mrs. Roberts had always presented herself in a matronly fashion, which I thought very becoming to her years. So you can imagine my shock when I saw the evening gown she had selected for the casino. I’m no good at describing women’s clothes these days, but it—plunged—well, everywhere, back and front, with no sleeves at all, sort of a Greek affair, very loose and low-waisted, except it had a sash at her hip, and the color of it was, well, I don’t recall.
When he set eyes on her, Holmes said, “Mrs. Roberts, you look ravishing,” which made her blush—all over—and frankly set me back, since Holmes was not in the habit of meting out compliments to the fairer sex. I mumbled something in agreement, but I was really thinking that she must have known all along about our coming to Monte Carlo, as well. (Or do women always pack their finest gowns when they go abroad, on the off chance they might be invited to a royal wedding? Perhaps they do.) It occurred to me, too, that mediumship must be more remunerative than I had deemed. That dress was worth a pretty bit of pounds, shillings, and pence, if I was any judge.
We stepped away from the train into the churning sea of humanity. We were nearly swept along with the crowds making their way eagerly—to what? I couldn’t spy the exits for the crowds pulsing toward them. We held our ground with some difficulty, trying not to become either flotsam or jetsam, waiting to be rescued by Baronet Brograve Beauchamp. He was promised to meet us here if all things had gone as scheduled—that is to say, if he had sailed into Port Hercule yesterday or this morning at the latest. He always moored the yacht at Monte Carlo for the winter, or at least the yacht was always moored there by its owner—most recently Lord Carnarvon, I presume. Rarely does one moor a yacht in the dead of winter, but I suppose he had been delayed by two deaths in the family and his own nuptials.
Holmes relayed all this to me above the hum of the crowd as we tried to locate Beauchamp. But if he were there in the crush of excited gamblers streaming away and dejected losers waiting to board (though probably not on le train bleu), he was nowhere to be seen. If he had encountered rough seas anywhere along the way, he could be days behind, especially if he were not a skilled sailor. Anticipating just such a scenario, and finding that Holmes had no way of contacting the Lady Evelyn in case of a snag in our plans, I had made sure to ask a steward about nearby hotels, and he had jotted down a few. I started looking through them.
“There is the Hotel de Paris, the Hotel Metropole,” I began reading aloud, not that anyone paid me the least attention, “the Hotel Hermitage—that one sounds your cup of tea, Holmes.” No response. There was a time when I could expect that Holmes had planned for any eventuality, but these days he seemed to drift along serenely, expecting everything to work itself out. Mrs. Roberts assured us that we would be met. Small comfort. I don’t know whether she had consulted her Indian on the subject or not.
We were foundering in the tide of humanity, surrounded by our bags. Porters swarmed around us, but there was no one to meet us. I was about to consult my list of hotels once more to discover which was nearest when Mrs. Roberts said, “Wait,” and strode away purposefully.
She approached a singular young woman with blinding blonde hair, dressed in a grey tunic and trousers, leaning against a pillar smoking a cigarette. This was obviously one of the light women we had been warned about by our steward on the train, creatures of ill repute. Monte Carlo was infested with them, he had warned. I should have gone after Mrs. Roberts and stopped her, but I will admit that I didn’t much mind her looking a bit foolish. She marched right up to the girl and barked out, “Are you with Baronet Beauchamp?”
The girl gave her an icy look. She had delicate, porcelain features, yet somehow there was a mannish air about her. I am not used to seeing a lady in trousers. She dropped her cigarette and stamped it out, rather viciously, I thought.
“Ja.”
“Well”—Mrs. Roberts seemed as disconcerted by the answer as I was—“I’m here with Sir Sherlock,” she said, pointing back to us as proof.
The blonde flipped her long, straight hair out of her face, peered in our direction, and nodded. “Ja, ja, ja,” she said in a rat-a-tat tone. She snapped her fingers and issued rapid-fire orders in what sounded to me like especially guttural German (it was Dutch, I was later to learn). A cloud of porters congealed around her. She collected our baggage tickets from us and dealt them out to the porters like so many aces. They pounced on them.
“But . . . where is Beauchamp?” I asked.
The girl looked at Mrs. Roberts quizzically. She repeated the question more slowly.
“Ah! Boven,” she said, pointing to the ceiling.
Mrs. Roberts looked back at us helplessly.
“I believe she means up,” Holmes supplied, amused.
The girl nodded energetically, took Mrs. Roberts by the shoulders, and pointed out the way to the escalators, which were now visible since the crush of people had thinned out a bit. Who on earth was this woman? Beauchamp’s first mate? The Lady Evelyn’s duenna? She gave Mrs. Roberts a little shove, then headed off in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” I cried. “Aren’t you going with us?”
“Nee, ik ga naar de auto,” she said, pointing at our fleeing bags and giving me a look she obviously reserved for idiots.
“I believe she’s seeing to our bags,” said Holmes, who had apparently added Dutch to his repertoire in the last five minutes. So we left her behind—I hoping she wasn’t simply an opportunistic thief—and followed the dwindling crowd to the escalators.
Here we came up against an unexpected obstacle. Mrs. Roberts refused to ride. She had never been on an escalator before, it seemed, but she had heard hair-raising stories of innocents eaten by the monsters beneath. No amount of cajoling could induce her to set foot on one.
“Elevator’s to the right,” slurred an American fellow who had seen our predicament. He had also seen the bottom of a whisky bottle. But we acknowledged his suggestion with relief and made our way to the lift, which Mrs. Roberts seemed to be on friendlier terms with. It was probably better that we had been delayed, or we would have been packed into the lift like herrings in a barrel. As it was, we had little breathing room, although a great miasma of alcohol fumes rose about us. Our fellow passengers had apparently begun imbibing on the train.
The lift doors opened, and the entire company in the elevator let escape a gasp as one. We had arrived at the casino terrace at the setting of the sun, and it was magical. We found ourselves gazing on an immaculate greensward, a courtyard dotted with dainty cocktail tables, a colorful promenade, and a sparkling purple sea crowded with ships like swans. The facade of the casino could have passed for the prince’s palace. I stood blinking in the red-gold light while others pushed past me, grumbling, till Holmes laid a hand on my back and I stepped out onto the terrace of the Casino de Monte Carlo.
The casino at sunset was a powerful crowd magnet. The lights were just blinking on as all the world strolled past in the glorious fashion of the jazz age, light skirts fluttering about bold knees, straw boaters being chased in the sea breeze, the lovely laughter of young ladies without a care in the world. Oh, to be twenty-one again. (Although I recall when I was twenty-one, I was freezing in Edinburgh, studying for my degree.)
And, of course, no Beauchamp. Or at least—well, Mrs. Roberts was leading the way, and since she had become our bloodhound, we followed obediently.
And sure enough, she led us straight to him—a man whose face was burned by the sun and the wind, who had a trim military moustache, not a hair out of place, a straight-backed military frame, but deeply asleep at one of the small tables, shaded by a giant umbrella. He was dressed to kill, in his white tie and black satin collar, but his open mouth took some of the shine off him. The journey must have taken the wind out of his sails, literally. At least he wasn’t snoring.
Holmes rapped on the table in front of him with his stick. I will admit that I have never seen a man go from a semirecumbent position to standing ramrod straight at attention so swiftly. Nor seen him relax and put a frown on his face so speedily when he recognized the interrupters of his dreams.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, casting a weather eye on him but not extending his hand. “I trust you had an enjoyable trip.”
Holmes nodded in that curt military manner he had picked up from dealing with officers during the war. He had never got in the habit of saluting. “More restful than yours, I deem,” he replied.
Baronet Brograve Beauchamp did not acknowledge me nor even Mrs. Roberts. We were merely entourage, or perhaps peonage. Status hath its privileges, if not its manners.
Mrs. Roberts was having none of it. “Why weren’t you there to greet us?” she snapped. “Your girl had no idea who we were.” Here was the face of a lion tamer she hadn’t evinced before. I liked it.
“Anna? With your reputation as a mind reader and Mr. Holmes’s as a detective, I had no doubt you would find her out.”
I wondered how often Mrs. Roberts was tested in this way. I did not dwell on the fact that she had identified the girl. That was merely . . . well, fortune.
“And your bride?” inquired Holmes.
“Is inside, losing my shirt at the roulette wheel.”
“Shall we join her?” I asked, tired of being ignored.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to fill out these forms first, old man.” He held up a sheaf of papers.
“What’s this for?” I objected. “I have no intention of gambling.”
“Dr. Watson, is it not? Have you ever been in a casino before, Doctor? No?” he asked scornfully. “Then don’t say you’ll not gamble. Famous last words and all that. But these papers are simply to be admitted, even if you’ve sworn to dear old mater never to give in to the devil. Monte Carlo is extremely security conscious. I had to use all my pull just to be allowed to bring these out here for you. There’s quite a queue inside.”
I did not feel the urge to disabuse him of the notion that I was such an innocent as he thought. It was none of his business that I was at one time a heavy plunger on the turf. I had put that devil to rest long ago.
So we sat down and proceeded to fill out forms. They were simple enough: name, birthplace, place of residence. I was relieved to find that they didn’t ask for an estimate of my wealth. I might have been barred forthwith. I tried to steal a peek at Sherlock’s; after all these years, I still didn’t have the foggiest where he was born. Did it say “Montpellier, France”? He put his hand over his answers. So many secrets, still. And now one more: Who was his real father? Could he be French? After all, his mother was. To think that this most English of Englishers might be pure-blooded French was—well, parbleu!
Beauchamp rose. “Are we all finished? I’m anxious to rejoin my wife. Depending upon how much she’s lost at the roulette wheel, we shall either continue on to the hotel or I shall have to abandon you on the side of the road and let you make your way home as best you can.”
If he were joking, I did not appreciate his sense of humor, and I decided to close my ears to any further harangue and get on with filling out my form, which I had not finished, as we had only one pen between the three of us and I had been waiting my turn. Lady Evelyn was certainly known for taking a flutter, though not to the extent that her father had. Was Beauchamp worried about his bride exhausting his fortune or her own? He would not be the only baronet to marry with money in mind. With the shocking taxes imposed after the war, every young nobleman with a country estate had been packed off to America to fish for young heiresses. Beauchamp simply had not had to go so far afield.
He was still droning on. “Monte Carlo is well on its way to recovery from the war, largely due to the steady guidance of René Léon, who’s transformed it from a winter resort to a year-round playground. Villas sprouting up like mushrooms in the hills crowding the old city. Money feeds on money, you know, and then all the frills that come with money. Now, Evie prefers the older casino, the Casino de Monte Carlo, and I don’t much blame her, although I prefer the Sporting Club for its baccarat tables. But I’m sure you’re all fagged out, and I’m a tad bit gassed myself. So we’ll kidnap her away to the Reine d’Azur, which is not only a well-appointed hotel but safely off the main drag, so that she can’t scratch the old itch to gamble if it comes on her sudden in the night. Unless she bribes Anna, of course.”
“Anna?” questioned Mrs. Roberts.
“Anna van V., our driver. Bit of a pet.”
The baronet seemed to have rather free and easy way of speaking about women, even his wife, but I refrained from mentioning it. I’ve learned that oftentimes it’s the couples who quarrel the most that are the most steadfast. And from what I knew of Lady Evelyn, she could hold her own.
