|
Part One: Jonathan Daniels
“Come in,” I called out,
answering the knock on the door that led to my cramped dressing room. Not that I
was complaining about the tight quarters, mind. The room was a luxury for this
little theatre—and at least my portrayal of the ruthless and cunning Prince Hal
rated some privacy.
A tall man with a keen pair of grey eyes stepped
inside. I stared at him through my mirror as I removed the last of that ghastly
rouge I wear on stage. He wasn't a member of our company. Had he sought me out
to compliment my performance?
I swiveled in my chair to face him—but
stopped cold as I recognized the fellow. Of course I recognized him. How could I
forget him? I had given my greatest performance, to date, in his rooms at Baker
Street. Sadly, it had been a private performance: he and that doctor friend of
his were the only witnesses.
But did he recognize me? I had been dressed,
convincingly, as a little old woman when last we met.
“Mr. Jonathan
Daniels?” he asked.
He knew. His eyes were sparkling with amusement and a
hint of respect. Oh yes, he knew. He had seen me perform on stage tonight—and
something must have given me away.
“The same,” I said, favoring him with
a warm smile. “To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Holmes? Have you come to
chastise me for making off with that ring and leading you on a wild goose
chase?”
“On the contrary, I came to congratulate you on a fine
performance,” he said with a small bow that was somehow ironic and good-natured
at the same time. “May I have a seat?”
“Please,” I said, indicating the
only other chair that would fit in the room. “I'm not in legal difficulties, am
I? Will you have me hauled off to prison for helping a man who turned out to be
a murderer? I didn't know of his crimes—I assure you of that. Not that I blame
him entirely, given the circumstances.”
But Holmes waved a hand to
silence me. “The matter is settled,” he said, “and your friend's early death
assured that he would face a higher Judge than any England could have
provided.”
I nodded at that. “True enough,” I owned, remembering my
friend with a pang. “Now, what gave me away? Really, I thought my portrayal of
Mrs. Sawyer was pitch-perfect.”
I paused, transforming my voice and
mannerisms to that of an old crone. “It's this as has brought me, good
gentlemen,” I said, pointing to an imaginary advertisement, “a gold wedding ring
in the Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time
twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he'd say
if he come 'ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think, he
being short enough at the best o' times, but more especially when he has the
drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night along
with—”
Holmes threw back his head and laughed. “You still have your lines
memorized, I see,” he said, once he recovered.
“I bloody well should,” I
said, grinning. “They were damn fine lines.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, nodding
amicably.
“But you haven't answered my question,” I persisted. “What gave
me away? I was well disguised—hardly the handsome young man you see before you
now.”
He smiled at my lack of modesty as he shook his head. “It had
little to do with your appearance, apart from one or two mannerisms. It was your
voice. Yes, yes—I know. Of course you disguised your tone and your accent that
day on Baker Street. Nonetheless, there was a familiar ring to it. It didn't
take me long to place it.”
“Well, I can't say I'm sorry,” I said, holding
out my hand to him. “It's good to meet you, ah, legitimately.”
He took my
hand and shook it. “Likewise."
His hand was warm, his handshake firm—and
there was something damn enticing about those penetrating eyes of his. Very
little must get past him...and that made my victory over him all the sweeter.
But I was unlikely to enjoy another such triumph. In fact, I suspected that he
had already taken stock of me and my cramped little dressing room.
I
released his hand, but I let my own dark eyes stare into his grey ones a moment
longer than necessary. He didn't break off in embarrassment. That was a good
sign.
A good sign for what? To be honest, I wasn't sure yet. But I
already knew that I wanted to keep all possibilities open.
Holmes leaned
back in his chair, regarding me thoughtfully. “You are not quite what I
expected,” he said. “Although I should have guessed that he would turn to a
fellow American for help.”
I sighed at that. “Damn—was it my voice again?
I thought I had purged all traces of my native Brooklyn from my
accent.”
He shook his head. “It's dozens of little things—things that few
people would notice. I couldn't begin to name them all.”
“What else can
you guess about me?” I asked.
He slit his eyes at that. Apparently
'guess' was the wrong word to employ. Nonetheless, he deigned to answer
me.
“You come from a large family—you have at least four sisters—but you
are estranged from your parents. You are a member of the Israelite faith, but
you do not much practice it. Despite your reference to your 'native Brooklyn,'
you were not born in America. You did, however, emigrate there when you were
quite young. No more than three or four years of age, I should say. And although
your command of the English language is masterful, it is not your native tongue.
You are not married, you smoke only a clay pipe—and that rarely—and you never
drink to excess.”
He paused to pull out a cigarette case. “Jonathan
Daniels, I need hardly add, is a stage name. I hope you don't mind if I
smoke?”
“Not at all,” I said, grinning at his accurate assessment of my
past and my habits. “I've never tried to hide the fact that I'm a Jew,” I added.
“And you're quite right—I'm not in the least observant. I can understand how you
guessed that much. But how did you know that I have four sisters? Or that I
wasn't born in America? Or that I'm estranged from my parents? Did you
investigate me before you came here tonight?”
“No. Why should I have?” he
retorted. “I didn't realize that you were the mysterious Mrs. Sawyer until I
heard your voice this evening. But you have dozens of tokens here that are
clearly gifts sent to you by sisters—the gifts sent by an admirer or paramour
would be of quite a different stamp. As for the rest...well, it would take too
long to explain.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “At least tell me how you
knew about my parents.”
Those grey eyes were sympathetic as he answered.
“It would be remarkable parents indeed who would happily watch their son abandon
their religious practices and tight-knit community in order to pursue a life on
the stage.”
I had to smile at the truth of that, but I was still
unsatisfied. Did he know that there was even more to the story? If so, he gave
no hint of it.
I took a deep breath as I continued to stare at him. I
felt as if this man had just uncovered a part of my soul and left it bare and
open for dissection. And yet, some part of me wanted him to continue the
operation.
“Why did you seek me out?” I asked at length. “Merely to
satisfy your curiosity? To make sure that I am the man who fooled
you?”
“Yes,” he owned. “And to ask a favor. You are obviously a master of
disguise—I am somewhat adept myself, but I shouldn't mind picking up a hint or
two.”
I raised my eyebrows at that. Was this a genuine request, or an
excuse to spend time in my company? Or both? But what did it matter? Either way,
I was willing to accommodate him.
I smiled at him, taking my time about
answering. I remembered that doctor friend of his who apparently shared his
rooms—but that didn't signify anything. Their arrangement was, no doubt,
painfully respectable...quite the opposite of the arrangement I wanted with Mr.
Holmes.
“Well?” he prompted, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as he
called me back to the question at hand. It was almost as if he had read my
thoughts.
I grinned at him. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure we can arrange
something.”
Part
Two
|
