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Russell, I did not say thatIintended to go.
Oh no. If I have to go, so do you. I took the hair-brush from him and
turned to the looking-glass. But why on earth should either of us wish to
dress up with a room of drunken first-class passengers wearing bizarre
clothing?
Thomas Goodheart.
Holmes had continued to cultivate the young man s acquaintance I cannot call
it a friendship, precisely and the two spent a part of every day either
lounging on the deck or in the depths of the all-male enclave of the smoking
room, playing billiards, whist, or occasionally poker. My husband s
uncharacteristic sociability with the supercilious young American might have
puzzled me had I not overheard some of their conversations, and known that,
more often than not, the Communist Party and the politics of India were the
chief topics of Holmes casual enquiries. Still, to Mr Goodheart I was clearly
beyond the pale. Educated, free-thinking women were not his cup of tea, and he
made no attempt at concealing that fact.
Is Goodheart going? I shouldn t have thought his convictions would permit
him the frivolity of a fancy-dress ball.
His mother assures me that he will be attending.
To observe the enemy, or to convert the bourgeoisie to earnest Bolshevism?
But why should his presence or absence at a fancy-dress ball be of the least
interest to you?
I have found the lad peculiarly . . . self-contained. Remarkably so I ve
seldom seen a man who gives away as little as this one. I believe he knows
more than he tells.
I considered the statement for a moment, but failed to make a connexion.
Sorry, Holmes, what does self-containment have to do with fancy dress?
A costume ball is all about masks and the freedom they confer on the
wearers. I wish to see what the fellow looks like when he imagines himself
concealed. Seeing that I had my hair wrapped into place, he handed me a pin.
Ah, I said. You wish to get him drunk and see what he lets slip.
Sometimes the old methods are the best, Holmes said, although he looked
somewhat abashed at the admission.
You think Goodheart is some kind of a villain?
I think it possible, although it is far from clear whether his particular
brand of villainy need concern us. Still, it is the sort of thing Mycroft
likes to hear about, to pass on to his fellows. Assuming, he muttered,
anyone in the incoming government will be interested in stray Bolsheviks.
Oh, very well, I shall go if you wish. But I don t know what sort of costume
we might pull together at this late date all the Cleopatra masks and
chimney-sweeper s coats are sure to have been taken. And I do not think it at
all appropriate to dress as Lady Godiva, I said, picking up an extra and
unnecessary hair-pin and jamming it in for emphasis.
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I have an idea, he said.
Yes, I said, stifling a sigh. I was afraid you might.
A sari is nota carefree sort of garment. To a person accustomed to clothing
that remains where it was put, the lack of any fastening more secure than
gravity is, to say the least, disconcerting. A sari, I found when Holmes
presented me with the thing, was little more than a remarkably skimpy blouse
and an enormous length of impossibly slippery silk, which is arranged into
intricate folds and tucked into what amounts to little more than a piece of
string around one s waist, after which the loose end (hah! It is all loose
end.) is drawn gracefully up across one s chest and over the opposite
shoulder, where it then spends the entire evening yearning to slither to the
floor, taking the rest of the garment with it. If the wearer were to suck in
her stomach, many, many yards of silk would collapse into a lovely pool on the
floor around her near-naked legs. And this was before I added the gossamer
silk shawl over my head and shoulders.
The fourth time I tried the thing, standing before the glass afraid to
breathe, I scowled at the reflection of Holmes behind me. You had this
planned back in Port Said and didn t warn me.
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