surprise, surveying the indignity of her hands-and-knees position concealed by the trousers and coat-skirt of men’s dress. “Why?”
“You remember the poisoned cigarette case in Prague?”
“Of course. A ‘gift’ from that Russian woman.”
“You remember how Mr. Holmes examined it, as if it were the veriest mote in God’s eye?”
“That man does believe he is God’s eye,” I agreed. “Most impious.”
“But I saw even as he saw. I am used to looking at the stage enscène. En masse . As an overpopulated picture framed by the proscenium arch that separates it from the audience. Full of power and glory, yes. But crowded. He looks at the scene as a scientist, through the microscope of his eye. He looks for the telling minutiae. So must we here. Look. Come down on your knees. You can see the footprints in the black background of the carpeting, as you can see fingerprints on black-velvet skirts, if only you get on a level where the light casts the past into a trail.”
I complied. “It is no difficulty getting on my knees at such a scene, Irene. Prayers are needed here, if anywhere.”
“While you are praying, Nell, could you see if that chatelaine of yours bears a quizzing glass.”
“Quizzing?”
“A magnifying lens!”
“I do not think so . . .” There we were, prostrate in the presence of vicious death, hardly daring to breathe and yet splitting hairs and carpet fibers. “My pince-nez, however, has magnifying properties.”
“Bless your nearsighted eyes! And hand me the spectacles.”
Irene barely glanced at my face as I removed my spectacles from the bodice locket that held them at the ready. She took them blindly.
“Ah!” she said a moment later, holding my pince-nez to her eyes like a mask.
“What is it?
“I don’t know. But it is something. Do you have in that bottomless pocket of yours some . . . container? And a pincer of some kind? I see a few crumbs worth preserving. They do not seem native to this room and its purpose.”
“Container? Other than my pocket itself—”
“That will not do. These tiny crumbs would crush to powder.”
I thought furiously. It is my role in life to be useful if not decorative, and a dereliction in utility is most humiliating. “I know! My, ah, my ah . . . etui!”
“You are sneezing from the carpet dust?”
Startled, it suddenly struck me that a word familiar to me would sound not like a word at all to Irene. Despite our grim situation, I found a nervous giggle bubbling in my throat. “An etui is not a sneeze, Irene,” I objected. “It is just the thing you asked for.”
“Forgive me, but an etwee is not from any vocabulary I have heard of,” she complained. “Pray tell me what it is, if it is indeed a ‘what’ and not an inarticulate wheeze.”
Despite her tart impatience, so unlike Irene, by now the laughter was threatening to choke me, so unlike me. I was ashamed, but helpless. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t—” Now I did indeed sound as if I were about to sneeze.
Irene’s fingers clenched on my upper arm. “Hold tight,” she rather harshly advised me.
By now tears were blurring my eyes and streaming down my cheeks.
“Hush,” she whispered. “We promised no hysterics.”
“But I’m not,” I was able to choke out. “Having hysterics. I’m laughing, though I don’t know why.”
Her voice was low and urgent. “That is a form of hysteria, if you don’t contain it.”
I gazed at her, seeing only through a wavy pane of glassy tears. “I don’t know why I would laugh in such a grim circumstance,” I managed to get out on a wavery sigh of words and whisper.
“Because our circumstances are ludicrous, Nell.” She allowed herself to sink onto her hip, after glancing carefully around at the carpet. “We are searching for needles we don’t know are there in a haystack of rococo furnishings, on our hands and knees, in the presence of crude death.”
“I cannot tell whether I am laughing or crying now,”
“You remember the poisoned cigarette case in Prague?”
“Of course. A ‘gift’ from that Russian woman.”
“You remember how Mr. Holmes examined it, as if it were the veriest mote in God’s eye?”
“That man does believe he is God’s eye,” I agreed. “Most impious.”
“But I saw even as he saw. I am used to looking at the stage enscène. En masse . As an overpopulated picture framed by the proscenium arch that separates it from the audience. Full of power and glory, yes. But crowded. He looks at the scene as a scientist, through the microscope of his eye. He looks for the telling minutiae. So must we here. Look. Come down on your knees. You can see the footprints in the black background of the carpeting, as you can see fingerprints on black-velvet skirts, if only you get on a level where the light casts the past into a trail.”
I complied. “It is no difficulty getting on my knees at such a scene, Irene. Prayers are needed here, if anywhere.”
“While you are praying, Nell, could you see if that chatelaine of yours bears a quizzing glass.”
“Quizzing?”
“A magnifying lens!”
“I do not think so . . .” There we were, prostrate in the presence of vicious death, hardly daring to breathe and yet splitting hairs and carpet fibers. “My pince-nez, however, has magnifying properties.”
“Bless your nearsighted eyes! And hand me the spectacles.”
Irene barely glanced at my face as I removed my spectacles from the bodice locket that held them at the ready. She took them blindly.
“Ah!” she said a moment later, holding my pince-nez to her eyes like a mask.
“What is it?
“I don’t know. But it is something. Do you have in that bottomless pocket of yours some . . . container? And a pincer of some kind? I see a few crumbs worth preserving. They do not seem native to this room and its purpose.”
“Container? Other than my pocket itself—”
“That will not do. These tiny crumbs would crush to powder.”
I thought furiously. It is my role in life to be useful if not decorative, and a dereliction in utility is most humiliating. “I know! My, ah, my ah . . . etui!”
“You are sneezing from the carpet dust?”
Startled, it suddenly struck me that a word familiar to me would sound not like a word at all to Irene. Despite our grim situation, I found a nervous giggle bubbling in my throat. “An etui is not a sneeze, Irene,” I objected. “It is just the thing you asked for.”
“Forgive me, but an etwee is not from any vocabulary I have heard of,” she complained. “Pray tell me what it is, if it is indeed a ‘what’ and not an inarticulate wheeze.”
Despite her tart impatience, so unlike Irene, by now the laughter was threatening to choke me, so unlike me. I was ashamed, but helpless. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t—” Now I did indeed sound as if I were about to sneeze.
Irene’s fingers clenched on my upper arm. “Hold tight,” she rather harshly advised me.
By now tears were blurring my eyes and streaming down my cheeks.
“Hush,” she whispered. “We promised no hysterics.”
“But I’m not,” I was able to choke out. “Having hysterics. I’m laughing, though I don’t know why.”
Her voice was low and urgent. “That is a form of hysteria, if you don’t contain it.”
I gazed at her, seeing only through a wavy pane of glassy tears. “I don’t know why I would laugh in such a grim circumstance,” I managed to get out on a wavery sigh of words and whisper.
“Because our circumstances are ludicrous, Nell.” She allowed herself to sink onto her hip, after glancing carefully around at the carpet. “We are searching for needles we don’t know are there in a haystack of rococo furnishings, on our hands and knees, in the presence of crude death.”
“I cannot tell whether I am laughing or crying now,”
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