10 Disguises
It was late in the afternoon, a wet and drizzly day with a sun peeping sickly from a grey sky, but London was as busy as ever. It was hard to believe, how quickly one became used to seeing horse-carts everywhere instead of cars, or long frocks and fancy hats instead of slim-fit jeans and smartly cut hair on female heads.
"Dr Watson is well cared for I trust?" Malcolm asked. His skin had a greenish pallor. The shabby hackney coach wasn't to his taste, the coarse clothes were neither, as was, in fact, this whole disguise coat-and-dagger game.
"Yes" Sherlock answered curtly. "Dr Doyle is confident that he can help him."
"What a relief" Malcolm replied, furtively massaging his groaning tummy. "Now, remember…"
"I know what I'm doing" Sherlock cut him short. "And I know what we agreed upon, I and your 'friend'." The last word he spat out with a disgusted grimace.
Malcolm cleared his throat irritably, but otherwise kept silent. Never push further when you'd made your point. Age old wisdom of diplomacy.
Sherlock could read Malcolm's thoughts like an open book. The mannerisms, the discreet coughs, the well-schemed, manipulative speeches – the resemblance between Malcolm and Mycroft Holmes was maddening. But thinking of the elder brother did not do. Neither did thinking of what Mycroft might be facing, in the distant future. Sherlock had been racking his brain for a theory since day one. Was Mycroft safe, or was he under duress, for a time machine that was neither here nor there, in the literal sense of the word?
The hackney stopped in front of one of London's most posh addresses, and they made their presence known at the servants' entrance, as agreed with the present inhabitants of the residence. Malcolm looked thunderous. That was just what he needed. Malcolm Holmes Esquire, a Whitehall Mandarin, knocking at a servants' door!
An elderly woman with an expression of constant disappointment and anger opened the door. "Yes?" Disapprovingly she stared at the bandage that still covered part of Sherlock's head, as if a man with a head-wound had no right at all to haunt the streets of Mayfair, in whichever a capacity.
"We're expected" Malcolm said, and pushed his way in.
"It's all right, Anna" a man said, and she withdrew, the sour scowl never wavering.
"Harkson, I presume?" Sherlock said, as this man obviously was the married butler Malcolm had mentioned.
"Indeed Sir" Harkson nodded gravely. "If you would follow me, His Highness awaits."
Two other women in their late forties were watching from the kitchen. They could easily be identified as the second maid and the butler's wife, who also worked in the capacity of a cook for British or French food. Naturally only when the royal siblings 'entertained' British guests of refined taste, as Malcolm had so haughtily put it. Sherlock, ill-tempered anyway, and secretly quite fond of Chinese and Indian cuisine, sneered at the insinuation.
On the first floor the wall between the two adjacent buildings had been opened to make room for a double-door, and it was there that the staff could enter the actual residence. Sherlock knew from Malcolm's descriptions that a second passage had been created on the second floor, for easy access to the bedrooms, the guest chambers, and, on rare occasions, the quarters of the Indian servants.
Two dinner lifts, both too small for any human being, were the only direct connections between the two buildings. Every other traffic between the British servants' quarters and the main residence was possible only via either of the two doors.
As they went through the first floor passage, Sherlock had a good look at the intricate lock at the door. The massive wooden door could be locked and barred only from the residence's side, not from the side of the servants' quarters.
Harkson, who'd followed his gaze, cleared his throat. "Their Highnesses value their privacy" he said. "Their way of living is somewhat different from ours. My wife and I learned that early on during our years in Jahaldapour."
Malcolm looked up sharply, but Sherlock wasn't much surprised. "Your military bearing is impossible to overlook, Harkson" he said. "I assume that you served in the palace in that capacity?"
Harkson smiled superciliously, but tried to cover it up at once. "That would hardly be possible, Sir, for an Englishman" he replied. "Indian royalty employ their own, traditional guards at all times, especially inside the inner palaces. But I accompanied my master, an officer of the Life Guards, on a few missions of a more … diplomatic than military nature, and when Their Highnesses of Jahaldapour searched for someone they could trust with their London residence, they were kind enough to remember me and my wife. This way, if you please, Sir."
Inwardly Sherlock cursed himself. This happened all the time.
His inner database, his Mind Palace – all his memories, experiences and the data he'd collected over the years, his whole base of reference so neatly stored and carefully enlarged over the years. His pride and his greatest treasure, built up for the one purpose of giving his intellect a chance to cross-reference and evaluate what he saw, heard, smelled and felt – all useless. A whole cosmos of information, all from the wrong century. His knowledge about the 19th century world was sketchy at best, no inside knowledge, no real grip on what made people dance, a bunch of motives and urges he'd never even think of – blast it, this might as well be another planet!
An English soldier serving in the inner palace of a Maharaja! Great, Sherlock Holmes, what a terrific thing to say!
The wish to have John walking by his side was overwhelming. Watson always had a better knack of people's emotions, particularly those who didn't belong to Sherlock's own circle of experience. He'd never tell his doctor-friend, but John's intuitive emotional intelligence was an invaluable asset at times, especially for a man as intellect-ridden as Sherlock Holmes. People weren't logical or even basically rational all the time, and when they weren't, the investigation entered John Watson's secret field of expertise.
However, John could not be here, for a variety of reasons and none of them Sherlock wanted to think about right now. "How long have you known Their Highnesses?" he fired the question in the last possible moment, when the butler was about to open the door to the reception room to announce them.
"Since Her Highness the Princess Ashwarija has been a little girl" Harkson said, and even Sherlock noticed the sudden warmth in the man's voice. "And Prince Arjun….. but that is all in the past now" the butler finished abruptly.
"Did Prince Harinder ever come here with his mother?" Sherlock added quickly.
"Naturally" Harkson said calmly. "We had the honour of serving the whole royal family from time to time. But we can let His Highness wait no longer."
"You must have seen and heard a lot over the years" Malcolm said, and he ignored Sherlock's furious glare completely.
Harkson's cheeks put on some colour. "It's not in my place, seeing and hearing things that do not concern my duties, Sir." Without any further hesitation, the butler stepped into the room and announced them: "The gentlemen from the Foreign Office, Your Highness."
"Thank you, Harkson, that would be all."
"Very well, Your Highness."
Harkson was gone and Sherlock found himself face to face with the Crown Prince of Jahaldapour. One and a half century later Prince Harinder would have had a career guaranteed in Bollywood. The man had a strikingly handsome face, honey skin, jet black hair and large light brown eyes, was at least 1.94 metres tall, well built, with strong muscles but not bulky - the perfect sportsman, especially with horses. The attire was a trifle disappointing, though. No dream from a fairy-tale version of oriental riches. Instead the stiff suit, correct tie and white shirt of a 19th century well-off British gentleman. In that it matched the furnishings of the Drawing Room they found themselves in. Particularly elegant, fashionable, very British and impersonal to the extreme.
Meanwhile Malcolm made the honours, and Sherlock just copied his behaviour when it came to bowing and smiling and what not. Finally they found themselves, and their hosts, seated. Harinder had introduced the other man present as his secretary, Mr Gupta-Rao. Quickly they went – completely useless effort as far as Sherlock was concerned – through the story as Malcolm had already laid it out.
At least it gave Sherlock ample time to scrutinize the two men from Jahaldapour. A second look revealed what the first impression of youthful splendour and masculine strength covered so very well – His Highness was a Dandy. It wasn't so much the manicured hands, the impeccable dress or the somewhat exaggerated self-confidence in his behaviour. Not even the effusive movements and gestures were completely out of the ordinary. They showed off the strong yet elegant hands with the fine, not too big but splendid jewel rings.
All of this was in line with Harinder's social status and the wealth that came with it. The things that marred the otherwise perfect performance were subtler. The Prince wasn't in the habit of looking people in the eyes. Usually, he looked at some distant, remote thing that only he might see. It gave him an air of dreamlike aloofness that might or might not be part of proper princely behaviour. Sherlock couldn't have cared less. What was obvious though, was that His Highness, again and again, made eye contact with Gupta-Rao. The secretary's gaze never left the Prince anyway, not for an instant.
From that, Sherlock sensed a kind of tension between the two men; constant, but vague.
It didn't seem to be aggressive, but it was not the attentiveness of a servant waiting to be asked for something. Harinder talked and talked, Gupta-Rao watched him talking and every so often the Prince looked at the secretary, searching for – what? Confirmation?
No, certainly not that. Gupta-Rao never had time to add anything or even shake his head or nod, before the Prince's gaze wandered off again.
Sherlock measured the secretary up. Physically he differed much from his master. The complexion was the same, but there it ended. Gupta-Rao was lean, not as tall as Harinder but of more than middle height, large eyes of an astounding colour, a sort of deep blue-green, dark blonde hair, no muscles to speak of and with the shoulders and the long, elegant back of a very young man. And yet his age was hard to define, somewhere between 18 and 25.
Sherlock found it annoying that his usually acute sense for people's attitude abandoned him here. Besides Irene Adler, Gupta Rao was the first person he met that left him with more question marks than information, even after an eternity of five minutes.
Again, Watson's absence proved a limiting factor.
"Sherlock, my boy." Malcolm in 'joviality' mode was even less bearable than in his grumpy mood. "Any questions left?"
"Actually, yes" Sherlock said, grateful for the chance to gather some real information after the stupid waste-of-time tittle-tattle. "But not to you, Your Highness. May I have a word with your sister?"
Harinder kept his composure wonderfully; Sherlock had to grant him that. The slightest down-turn of the mouth, then he smiled again. "The Princess is unwell, Mr Holmes. The shock …. I'm sure you understand!"
"Perfectly well, Your Highness. However, I take it that you need the jewels back with some urgency. I must therefore insist on talking to your sister. I'm sorry." Every inch of Sherlock showed that he was nothing of the sort.
"The royal princesses of Jahaldapour are not for any foreigners to gawk at" Gupta-Rao suddenly blurted out.
"Well, then…." Sherlock said. "I wish Your Highness all the luck with the London Police force. As long as they can keep this out of the Fleet Street papers…."
Malcolm was visibly about to explode, Gupta-Rao stared gobsmacked at his master, but Prince Harinder just cocked a brow. "Unlike your brother, you're not used to being with royalty, are you, Mr Holmes" he said lightly. He sounded as he dressed – the perfect British product. Silk, and wool and golden baubles – but underneath Sherlock sensed a fibre of the finest steel. The Prince of Jahaldapour was not to be trifled with.
It was another irrational hunch, one Sherlock usually would have dismissed. But, as his inner database was useless, he might as well rely on what John would call his 'gut-feeling', terrifying as it was. Sherlock decided not in spite, but just because of the formidability of his opponent, to drive the knife further home. "As a rule, my own company is royalty enough for me, Prince Harinder."
Underneath the smooth honey surface, the man paled with rage. A sharp move of the hand, and the secretary closed his mouth again. "Gupta-Rao, tell Her Highness that I would be grateful for a few minutes of her time, if she feels up to it."
The secretary hesitated. His face pleaded with the other.
"Go!" Harinder commanded.
Gupta-Rao winced, bent his head, nodded, and disappeared.
As soon as the secretary was gone, Harinder rang, and the speed with which Harkson appeared in the doorframe made clear that he had been waiting not too far from the doorstep. Interesting, though, that, from where he had been, he should have heard the bell ring in the servants' hall. Sherlock noticed the small opening in the wall, discreetly hidden behind a screen, and supressed a grin. Doubtlessly the dinner lift made for a perfect sound conductor, especially as it would have two doors, so that it might also be used as a service hatch from the corridor.
Sherlock's own home had had one of the things left intact when he and Mycroft had been boys. Oh, the fun they'd had. Their parents, discussing things behind closed doors, with their sons listening in intently on every word that was said.
Well, it hadn't always been exactly fun. But at least they'd always been prepared.
Again, it took an effort from Sherlock not to think about Mycroft.
Instead he concentrated on Harinder, who completed his act as a perfect British gentleman by ordering tea, 'with all the usual trimmings'.
Malcolm leaned back in his seat with an expectant smile, but Sherlock was almost jumping out of his skin. His idea had been to have this interview, get rid of Malcolm somehow, and make it back to see if the Professor had kept his word.
Harinder interpreted his younger guest's frown quite correctly. "You know how women are, Mr Holmes" he said ruefully. "They take their time getting ready."
Sherlock had to resign to his fate, although he was seething with impatience inside. And the Lady did take her time. Malcolm was halfway through his second plate of teacake when Her Highness finally condescended herself to grace the drawing room with her presence.
Unlike her brother, the Princess did justice to any childish dream an European orientalist might have.
Her Highness appeared in a silken robe that showed all colours of the rainbow. It consisted of so many different layers of cloth, veil and jewellery that one could only guess at the woman's measures. She was rather tall, just as Malcolm had said, but not as tall as her towering brother of course. The face was completely veiled; with a piece of embroidered silk covering the eyes, just thin enough to not rob the poor creature underneath this stock and barrel of a veritable ladies' wear store of the very last shred of eyesight. How she should be able to breathe under all that was a mystery. It made even Malcolm shake his head, albeit only once.
Her Highness glided through the room like a fully loaded Chinese junk through Hong Kong harbour at a semi-doldrum. When she reached Gupte-Rao's vacant chair she, with a little, all-too understandable sigh, descended on it in a royal rustle and bustle of all her fineries.
The presence of two strangers, or rather one stranger and one acquaintance on mere bowing terms, she acknowledged with one almost invisible nod of the head.
"My sister, the Princess Ashwarija" Harinder said grandly. "You might put your questions to me, Mr Holmes, and I will convey her answers to you."
Malcolm tensed visibly, expecting another outrageous protest from his 'younger brother', but Sherlock surprised him. And not only Malcolm. Instead of answering any questions he jumped to his feet and stormed towards the woman, grabbed her gloved hand and shook it violently. "Thank you Madam" he said loudly. "I'm sorry for troubling you for nothing."
The effect of his sudden assault was astonishing. She jumped up, much faster and more agile than one would think possible for a young woman dressed up and as heavily bespangled as a marble idol, jerked her hand back, and stepped back. Inevitably her foot got caught in one of her various hems and she stumbled.
Quite debonair Sherlock took hold of her arm again and he even grabbed her shoulder to steady her.
With an enraged outcry Harinder was on his feet and came for the offender.
A sportsman His Highness might be, at Polo or Cricket, but he was no match for Sherlock Holmes. The tricks of London back alleys were alien to a Prince. The detective shoved the woman back into her seat, rolled over his shoulder to avoid Harinder's raised fist. Easily he jumped to his feet, bowed quickly, and darted out of the room, ran through the passage and downstairs, out of the house.
Harkson caught up with him only when Sherlock was halfway inside another hackney cab. "What did you think you were doing?" the butler asked, gasping for breath.
"As if you didn't know" Sherlock laughed out loud. "Tell my dear brother Malcolm I'll see him in the morning." The words were still echoing from the walls when Holmes vanished inside the cab and was off. The last Harkson heard of him was the address he gave the cabbie, loud and clear: "221B Baker Street, and on the double."
Malcolm, urged by whatever so far unexplored rest of inner wisdom, abstained from troubling him and for the remainder of the evening Sherlock had to fight his nerves alone. In the flat he paced until his legs protested. No John, no food – well, no edible food at least – no phone – God, who'd ever thought he'd actually miss crab telly! He took a book, and threw it against the wall after a few minutes. A magazine, another book, and the newspaper suffered the same brutal fate.
Sherlock grabbed the teapot – and thought better of it. The 19th century version of Mrs Hudson wasn't quite as forgiving as the woman he'd grown so very fond of, back in the future, in another life.
Finally, it was well after midnight, Sherlock Holmes admitted defeat.
It was a crushing disappointment. Never before he'd gambled for a stake so high. And he'd lost it all in a single, desperate bet.
As his vivid imagination played out the consequences of his foolishness, he virtually crumbled.
There had been a lot of things to regret in his life, but he'd never regretted anything as much as he regretted the few minutes of childish, idiotic swaggering at the time machine's controls that had brought them both here. If only he had come here alone, it might have been the adventure of a life time.
But he had not come alone.
Sprawled on his bed, fully dressed, he turned one plan after another over and over in his mind, but he always came to the same conclusion in the end – under the circumstances, in this time and situation, he and John stood no realistic chance to avoid Malcolm's or the Professor's attention. Besides, Sherlock had no doubts left as to who had taken hold of the machine that was their only way back to their own home and time. And even if he found and re-captured the machine – a quite ambitious mission, to say the very least – he had, to his utter misery, to admit that he had no idea how to get the darn thing going.
But if John had to stay here, in the 19th century, one way or the other he would die. Sherlock was confident that he himself could, if needs be, stand a life in the streets of any country, a life in hiding, as somebody else, be it in sub-Saharan Africa or in the Hindu Kush. But John could not. John Watson would always be himself. As much a 21th century Brit as the union jack cushions they sell in tourist shops.
And there was Mycroft's situation to consider…
No, running away and tackling the enemy alone just wasn't an option. Not this time.
Sherlock rolled over and hugged his pillow. Finally he hit the damn thing with his fist in frustration and wished it were the damned bastards' faces. If wishes were horses ….. or, rather, time machines…
It was in that moment that he felt the sharp point of a sword cut through the skin between his shoulder blades.