A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [76]
Fighting the urge to wiggle my fingertips at them in farewell, I left them to their uncomfortable love. Two weeks or so in a Scottish hunting lodge would drive them either into each other’s arms or at each other’s throats.
I made my way to a public telephone and asked for Scotland Yard’s number. While waiting for the connexion, I glanced through the article, “An Epoch-Making Event—Fairies Photographed,” coauthored by Arthur Conan Doyle, to all appearances written in utter seriousness. It was illustrated, as the title said, by photographs of vapid-looking female children gazing right through the images of stiff fairy figurines, the artifice of which was so blatant that I should have taken it as a joke (a rather sophisticated one, considering Conan Doyle’s usual heavy-handed style) had it not been for Watson’s reaction. It seemed that the world in general did not regard it as a joke. Conan Doyle’s fascination with the supernatural had been growing over the past years, particularly after the loss of his son in the war. Spiritualism had until now mostly been kept out of the stories he published about Holmes (with the occasional flight of fancy that caused the real Holmes to growl) but to have a piece of sensational literature such as the fairies article published, not only under the Doyle name, but in the very magazine the Holmes stories appeared in, was thoughtless, to say the least. Holmes blamed an American influence for the Doyle eccentricity, and as I read the article, I had to admit that his disgust had not been without justification.
The telephone crackled and the woman told me I was connected to Scotland Yard. It took a short time to reach the Criminal Investigations division, but once I was through, I put on a voice.
“Good afternoon,” I cooed. “I should like to speak with Inspector John Lestrade, please. He’s not? Oh dear, that is too bad. Could you tell me then—” I waited, and when the voice had stopped, I paused in silence for a moment, then applied a layer of ice to my voice. “No, there is not ‘something you can do for me,’ my dear man. The duke would not care for that in the least. Could you—” This second interruption I greeted with a lengthy silence, then dropped my voice and froze the man’s ear. “Young man, if you wish to attain higher rank in your chosen profession, might I suggest that you learn to kerb what is obviously a deep-seated tendency towards ill manners? Now, as I was saying. Could you kindly tell me when the good inspector might be present to receive a telephone call? And before you are driven to ask—no, it would not be convenient to have him telephone me, or I should have suggested it in the first place.”
The man on the other end cleared his throat and spoke in strangled tones. “Yes, mum. You’ll understand, mum, I can’t be positive about his schedule, but I know he has a meeting here in the Yard at four, and he’ll for sure come to his office afterwards, around five.”
“Very well. You will tell him to expect my call at ten minutes past five.”
“Mum? If I could just tell him who’s—” I gently rang off. Good. Five o’clock gave me plenty of time to dress myself, for Lestrade and for my debut at the Temple.
I spent the afternoon at the Turkish baths, being steamed, pounded, powdered, and perfumed, then manicured, plucked, coiffured, and dressed in clothing brought at my direction by Mrs Q, until finally, polished and gleaming, I was escorted carefully out to the pavement, a moving work of artifice, a monument to the skills of beautician and couturier. All I wanted was a brace of Afghan hounds. Taxis slavered at my feet.
I chose one whose leather work did not look as though it would put ladders into my stockings.
“Scotland Yard, please. And I’d like to approach it from the Embankment side, not from Whitehall.