The Red Rover Society Read online

  Irene felt conflicted. She constantly worried about Joe, even if that worry were so mild that it was barely a bother, but this feeling was one of concern and one she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She had made Joe laugh countless times, and he’d made her snort up her tea on occasion, but she’d never had the feeling to giggle and look at her shoes. Perhaps this librarian simply found more humour in Joe than Irene did. Or maybe he spoke to the librarian differently than he spoke to Irene.

  He certainly didn’t run his hands through his hair as much when he conversed with Irene at Baker Street, and she didn’t brush her fingers over his arm the number of times Sarah did.

  She tried to turn away from their conversation and get back to their research but felt deflated at the prospect of travelling downstairs to flip through another catalogue. Her earlier research had come up with nothing. She would have to take the items to a pawnbroker or antique dealer if she wanted to know what they truly were.

  With this new goal in mind and the afternoon ticking away on the clock behind her, Irene was eager to move on with the case. Her interest in Joe and Sarah had waned enough that now she was annoyed for having wasted so much time in this library and wanted to seek more information elsewhere.

  She marched back down the aisle, watching them giggle and laugh, making a tiny part of her feel guilty for interrupting. Then she remembered that they were here on a case, and Joe needed to remember that as well.

  They didn’t appear to notice her as she arrived beside them so she had to interrupt, because god only knew how long they would’ve stared at each other.

  “Excuse me,” Irene cut in. “Where can we find a collector of antiques? We need to know the origin countries of a few things we procured for our case.”

  Joe’s eyes widened, and he appeared furious. Sarah blinked a few times at Irene before answering.

  “Mr. Henry Jones,” she said slowly. “He has a shop beside Woolworth’s.”

  “Marvellous.” Irene looked at Joe. “I shall put away the catalogues I was browsing while you finish your conversation and meet you at the front door.”

  She walked away and felt them staring at her, and she had no clue as to why. She and Joe were there to investigate these mysterious items. Yes, he seemed to be having a lovely chat with the librarian, but it would not do any good to get distracted from the case. At least that’s what Irene told herself as she tucked the catalogues back into their spots.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Henry Jones was a slight man with large glasses and a long bent neck. He had a constant sniffle that was about to send Irene over the edge of annoyance, but she swallowed her feelings and waited as patiently as she could for him to study the necklace and tiny statue.

  He finally grunted and held out the necklace. “This here is worth a small fortune. You looking to sell, Miss?”

  “No,” Irene sighed. “I just wanted to know the value and where it came from.”

  “This necklace is definitely a Cartier, from France,” he observed. “I’d say specially commissioned in the twenties. One of a kind. And this statue appears to be hand-carved from an African tribe. Very unique and rare in its own way. Are you certain that you don’t wish to sell?”

  The antique dealer appeared utterly devastated when Irene shook her head.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “But if I have any other items I do wish to sell, I shall come straight to you.”

  Irene left the shop with Joe trailing behind. He trudged slowly, all the way to the Underground station, gripping his heavy book bag tightly. As they waited for their train, Irene finally let out a frustrated grunt.

  “You seem cross with me,” she said to Joe. “And I cannot fathom why.”

  He raised a brow at her. “You were quite rude back at the library.”

  “Rude?” she questioned, trying to remember what exactly happened at the library. “How?”

  “You interrupted our conversation.”

  Irene immediately went on the defence without heeding Joe’s words at all. “I’m sure that was a lovely conversation that you were having, and I am glad you met someone who likes chatting with you, but we are in the middle of a case. I did not know she was going to talk your ear off.”

  “Then why did you introduce her to me?”

  Irene shrugged. “She asked me to. Well, first, she asked if we were married.”

  Joe groaned, then let out a long, heavy sigh. He must’ve worked out some inner conflict because he nodded as if wrapping up a conversation with himself.

  “You’re right,” he said finally. “We are on a case, and I shouldn’t have kept you waiting that long. I am sorry.”

  Guilt bit at Irene and she tried to silence it. Joe had been having a lovely conversation, and perhaps Irene was a tad too forward with her interruption. Another feeling stirred in her gut, one she couldn’t quite place, and it mixed with the guilt and left a sour taste in her mouth.

  “Perhaps I did interrupt,” she added, the words sounding like they were dragged from her mouth with difficulty. “I apologize for that.”

  “Thank you,” Joe grumbled. “But it is fine. I was starting to flounder a bit, anyway.”

  “You seemed perfectly fine to me,” Irene said, that sour feeling returning, demanding she end the conversation and move on from the incident in the library. She held up the necklace. “But no matter. You will have all the time in the world to chat with whomever you like when this case is over.”

  He conceded and nodded. “I am very curious as to what Mr. Barry was doing with valuable antiques and how they ended up in his dog.”

  “We shall ask him when we meet him tomorrow,” Irene decided, a sly grin spreading over her face at the prospect of confronting this mysterious man.

  * * * * *

  Irene stumbled out of her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Today was the day of the tea party, and she grew both excited and weary at the thought. She’d need a good breakfast and at least two cups of tea before she greeted the day. She paused, though, as she took in the sitting area at 221B.

  Joe sat in his chair, looking just as sleepy, but she wasn’t concerned about Joe. It was Miss Hudson, who stood in the middle of the room, chin jutted out like any word she spoke would get a retort from Irene, that worried her.

  “What did you do?” Irene asked immediately

  “Such tone,” Miss Hudson snapped. “I rang a few friends to help you both get ready for the tea party.”

  Irene glanced at the clock. “The party isn’t until this afternoon.”

  “Yes,” Miss Hudson agreed. “But I figured that I might as well tell you now and you can spend the morning in a huff, then by the time DI Gregory comes over–.”

  Irene let out a groan that encompassed her whole body, and she collapsed on the couch.

  “Thom?” she moaned. “Why Thom? He will just tease and bother me, and then I will owe him a favour. Oh, Miss Hudson, why did you ring Thom?”

  “Because if there is one thing that boy knows,” Miss Hudson said. “It’s how to dress nice and interact with the rich.”

  “DI Gregory will be fine, Irene,” Joe reassured her. “It’s just for an hour while we get ready. This meeting might get us all the information we need, and might just even solve our case should the breeder turn up.”

  She narrowed her eyes at Joe. “You seem too calm.”

  He shrugged. “Miss Hudson told me half an hour ago about it, and though I did protest, she quickly silenced me.”

  “Who did you ring to assist me?” Irene asked, wary and hesitant. “Or is Thom going to help us both?”

  Miss Hudson tut-tutted. “Don’t be silly. I rang Jeannie to get all your curls in order and apply your make-up to perfection.”

  Irene let out a sigh of relief. “I will take Madame Jeannie any day over Thom, especially when it comes to assisting me in primping and preening. Thom would have me looking like one of those American models if he had his way.”

  Joe let out a snort of laughter, and Miss
Hudson rolled her eyes. “You both are so dramatic. I shall fix breakfast, and we will have an early lunch, giving you both plenty of time to get ready. And when you come home, I expect full details of what went on.”

  * * * * *

  Miss Hudson had barely cleared the table from their lunch when the front doorbell rang.

  Detective Inspector Thomas Gregory entered 221B and looked like he’d just stepped off of an American movie set. The war hadn’t worn out his appearance at all and had even left him with a distinguished scar an inch down his jawline. His deep blonde hair was parted and slicked back, and stayed flat even when he removed his hat, which looked like it cost more than Irene’s entire outfit.

  He flashed a charming smile at Miss Hudson before turning to Irene, and his nose wrinkled as soon as he laid eyes on her.

  “Your robe clashes with your pyjamas,” he said with a grimace.

  “Your face clashes with this flat.” she retorted, folding her arms across her chest.

  Thom laughed. “It is the middle of the day. Why aren’t you dressed in any type of presentable clothes?”

  Irene shrugged. “If I was just going to change for the party, what was the point in putting on clothes only to swap them a few hours later?”

  He looked as if he wanted to reply, but gave up and turned to Joe, clasping his hands together. “I hear you two are heading to a Beauchamp gathering at the Teahouse.”

  “We are,” Joe nodded.

  “Then you’ve rung the right man,” Thom said with a broad grin. “We’ll get you ship-shape in no time, Doctor. A new suit, new winter shoes, and we’ll do something with all that damn hair.”

  Joe led him out of the flat and up the stairs, and Irene followed them.

  “Can you provide any information on the Beauchamps?” Irene asked. “Or the Wiltons?”

  “Oh hell,” Thom said, and Irene caught the touch of envy in his voice. “The Wiltons are going to be there too?”

  “Yes,” Irene said.

  Thom elbowed Joe as they reached his bedroom. “Want me to go in your place, Watson?”

  “I think Irene would highly object,” Joe said, attempting to keep a smile from his face.

  Thom cocked his head in confusion at Irene. “Why did you follow us up here?”

  The three of them now stood in Joe’s small bedroom, and both men looked at Irene, waiting for some kind of answer.

  “I have questions about what this party might entail,” she said.

  “Oh, Irene,” Thom sighed. “You have more work to do than us. You need to get down there and put some damn curlers in your hair, or at least put a dress on.”

  “I’ll get to that,” she said, waving him off. “But first, I want to know-”

  “Irene, darling.” A voice from the bottom of the stairs drifted up to the third floor. “Get your pretty little rump down here. You’ve got a party to attend!”

  “Who is that?” Thom asked, attempting to sidestep Irene to peer out of the room, his eyes sparkling. “I believe I must meet her.”

  Irene gave him a small shove back toward Joe’s bed. “She’s the Madame for the brothel on the other side of town.”

  Joe ignored her sentence and carried on into the half-bath, but Thom blinked at her as if she’d spoken a sentence in Latin or Greek.

  “Is this someone you see often?” He asked with a raised brow and genuine curiosity.

  “Often enough,” Irene said. “She’s here to help me get ready, as you are assisting Joe.”

  “Christ, Holmes,” Thom chuckled, still attempting to peer around Irene as if he could see down the stairs and into the sitting room where Madame Jeannie waited. “You do cater to them all, don’t you. You’d better hurry along, then. If Miss Hudson had to call in a Madame, then I’ve underestimated the amount of help you need for this party.”

  The temptation to engage Thom in a battle of cheeky quips was powerful, but the idea of keeping Jeannie waiting overpowered her need to prove she was more clever than the inspector.

  She pivoted away from him and hurried down the stairs.

  Madame Jeannie waited in the living room and whirled around in a flurry of purple velvet and dark furs when Irene entered.

  “Darling!” she cried. “You are still in your pyjamas! Let us get you into the bedroom quickly!”

  Irene obeyed, as she was not one to argue with the Madame.

  “We will gather what we need and do your hair by the fire,” Jeannie declared. “I’ve brought some of my tried-and-true tools to aid us.”

  “I have an electric curler somewhere,” Irene said. “I have yet to give it back to Eddie’s sister.”

  Jeannie shook her head. “My old curling tongs work like magic. No need for fancy gadgets here.”

  As Irene gathered her brushes and pins for the curls, Jeannie gazed around her room, and her eyes landed on the pictures dotting Irene’s dresser.

  “My, my.” Jeannie pointed to the photo of Irene and her father. “The famous Sherlock Holmes. You look just like your father if that brings you comfort. Oh, but he is a dashing man. Did he survive the war?”

  Irene tensed habitually, and when she spoke, her words were clipped. “He did. He’s still down in Sussex with his bees.”

  Irene didn’t want to discuss her father right now, as she had enough going on in her head with this case and the party. She didn’t need the distraction of emotions that came with the memories.

  Jeannie seemingly took note of her tense words and moved down the line of photos, stopping at the one of Joe and a horse. “This is the handsome young man you brought to us in the summer, isn’t it?”

  “Joe,” Irene said, her own gaze pausing on the picture of her dear friend smiling at the horse. “Yes, it is.”

  “Quite the looker,” Jeannie continued. “Though, I don’t see a ring on your finger, so what’s he waiting for?”

  Irene laughed outright. “We are not together. I’m sure his eyes are on others, anyway.”

  “Oh, do I hear a hint of bitterness or jealousy in your voice?”

  “I hope not,” Irene snorted, that sour feeling in her stomach from earlier returning. “I’ve no time for silly games like that.”

  “Good girl,” Jeannie said. “Now sit down on the couch out there, and I will get the tongs good and hot for your hair.”

  * * * * *

  Jeannie parted Irene’s hair into small sections and clamped the first bit into the tongs. Irene stared at the investigation board, holding the sheet of paper Jeannie used to test the heat of the metal as to not burn her hair.

  “My offer still stands,” Jeannie told her. “Just as it did from when you moved back to London in thirty-eight. You –and Miss Hudson of course– are more than welcome to spend Christmas with my girls and me. We’re getting two turkeys this year as Nancy’s made friends with a butcher. I know it’s still a month away, but I thought I’d extend the offer.”

  Irene hadn’t thought about how she would celebrate Christmas until now. Through the war, she spent it with the Lestrades, eating Christmas dinner and avoiding conversing about her father and his illness. She’d then eat Christmas breakfast with Miss Hudson and avoid those same topics.

  She looked around the flat and swore she could see a spot for a decorated tree, twine to hold cards, and places to hang paper garland.

  “Perhaps I should have Christmas here,” she thought aloud.

  “This flat would be lovely all decorated,” Jeannie said, clearly delighted with the idea. “But here I am making you feel sombre right before a party. Let’s switch the subject shall we?”

  “I’d appreciate any advice you could give,” Irene admitted. “I am very skilled at acquiring information through forceful manipulation and intimidation, and on a very rare occasion I can bat my eyelashes and get somewhere, but I feel that this crowd will be a bit tougher.”

  “Your goal is to fish for information,” Jeannie said, continuing with her hair. “But you are correct. There are things you must know lest you get k
icked from the party.”

  Irene snorted. “If they remove me from the party, then their case would not be solved.”

  “Even so,” Jeannie went on. “I want you to succeed. So, my simple advice is to smile and laugh.”

  “Smile and laugh?” Irene repeated and turned her head to look at Jeannie, but the Madame held her temples to keep her still. “That’s it?

  “Simple enough, but for you perhaps not so much,” Jeannie chuckled, clamping another section of hair.

  “Jeannie!” Irene snapped but felt a smile tug at her lips.

  “Well, darling,” she began. “I know how much you hate being talked down to, and with the way we are going to make you look, you’ll be fighting off those husbands with a stick.”

  “I have no interest in taking someone’s husband,” Irene said, cringing as she thought of grumpy, old Mr. Beauchamp.

  “Rich husbands with secrets pay the best, you know,” Jeannie stated, her voice laced with amusement.

  “I didn’t know that, in fact. But thank you.”

  “Laugh at their jokes, Irene.” Jeannie started on the other side of her head. “And when you do ask questions, make them think they are teaching you something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jeannie walked around in front of her and put on a very girly giggle. “Coal and diamonds can’t be the same thing because one is very expensive and the other is in the alleys of London!”

  Irene furrowed her brow. “But, diamonds come from coal.”

  “Precisely, but wording it like I just did tends to make men like them laugh and correct you.” She put on a gruff male voice. “‘Oh no, sweetie, diamonds come from coal. In fact, they make them down on Fifth Street.’ And suddenly you’ve got a new piece of information.”

  Irene groaned. “I’ve dealt with a triple homicide, secret codes, Nazi sympathizers for goodness sake, and this simple tea party may be my most difficult task yet.”

  “You will do marvellous. Now, let’s get you into that lovely dress and start on your make-up.”

  * * * * *

  Irene didn’t quite believe the image that reflected back to her in the bedroom mirror. Her hair bounced around her shoulders, and her skin was smoother than she’d ever seen it. Her lips were perfectly drawn, and her lashes curled up to the sky. Jeannie had even applied a particular brown liner, making the honey colour in Irene’s eyes stand out. The pale green dress Miss Hudson had altered looked right off the pages of Vogue.