O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [118]
“Had a good chat, then, did you?” asked one jolly colonel, rising. “Settle the world’s problems with babies and dress fashions?”
I spoke up over the rumble of masculine chuckles. “Actually, we were discussing the Balfour agreement and the progress of the Paris peace talks. Any chance of another drop of coffee?”
I swayed over to the sideboard and took a cup of coffee from the hand of Lieutenant-Colonel William Gillette.
“Just black, thank you,” I told him, and when the voices had risen around us I murmured over the rim of my cup, “I imagine Mr Gillette would be much amused, were he to find that the character he played on stage was in turn impersonating him.” The original William Gillette was an American actor who had cobbled together one of the first stage plays about Holmes, using bits of the Conan Doyle stories and adding a romantic interest. Holmes’ opinion of the production was what one might expect.
“I thought it only fair. What did the gentleman across from you say?”
“He said many things.” I smiled across the room at my young cavalry officer, grown shy when seeing me standing with a lieutenant-colonel.
“Russell.”
“Don’t ‘Russell’ me. If I tell you now you’ll flit out of here and I won’t see you for two days. I did the work; I’m not going to allow you to have all the fun.” I took my cup down from my face and turned my smile at an approaching man. “Governor Storrs, you must be quite pleased with the progress being made in the city—at least I hope you are. I was saying to Colonel Gillette here—do you know Lieutenant-Colonel William Gillette? Yes, he does look a bit like the actor, now that you mention it. What an amusing coincidence. I was saying to him not five minutes ago…”
Twenty minutes of politeness was all Holmes could abide. I had counted on that, allowing myself to be drawn into a silly conversation about rescuing Arab girls from the gutter (Mrs Major’s words, not mine) by teaching them needlework, because I knew that I would not be stuck there for the rest of the evening. The musical portion of the evening was about to begin. Brigadier-General Ronald Storrs, de facto governor of Palestine, had sat down to the piano to play “Vittoria” from La Tosca when Holmes loomed up between Mrs Major and one of my young officers, baring his teeth at me in a tight grimace that passed for a smile.
“You said earlier you would appreciate a ride back to town. I’m going now.”
“Thank you, Colonel. That’s very good of you.” I took my leave of my host and hostess, shook off two of my more persistent admirers, and was nearing the door when the archaeological Jacob came into the vestibule.
“Are you leaving so soon, Miss Russell? What about our excursion into Solomons Quarries? How may I get in touch with you?”
“Er, I—”
“A message left at Government House always seems to reach one, have you not found, Miss Russell?” Holmes said smoothly.
“Yes. Yes, it seems to. I move about so much, you know. I may not even be in Jerusalem next week, but thanks awfully.” Before I could make an even greater fool of myself, Holmes dropped my cloak onto my shoulders and propelled me towards the door.
It was freezing in the car, and I wrapped my inadequate garments about me and shivered. The temperature emanating from Holmes was even colder.
“I had not intended that you make quite such a spectacle of yourself, Russell,” he said in a low, brittle voice as soon as the driver had pulled out of the compound. “This was a simple exercise in gathering information, not an eight-weeks ball.”
“That dress was your choice, Holmes, and in case you hadn’t noticed, there are probably three other English women under the age of forty in the entire city, and those are safely affianced. How could I help being a spectacle? As it is, they will certainly remember me, but not because I asked a lot of questions about tunnels under the city. Which sort of impression