Having been left to storm more than one citadel single-handed in the past, I was naturally sceptical, but the expression on his face was enough to convince me of his sincerity so, with a certain amount of huffing and puffing — and Mrs. Hudson’s assurance that she’d never seen anything quite like it, really she hadn’t — I allowed myself to be escorted down to the cab.
Now here I was — feeling, I must admit, a little more comfortable in the company of dozens of others who were clearly feeling equally ridiculous — walking up the steps to the front door, where liveried servants wearing frog masks — (the Frog Footmen, what else?) were waiting to receive them.
No sooner had I passed into the main hallway than I felt a hand on my arm and a voice hissed: “Over here, Doctor” in my ear. As I was pulled behind a convenient pillar I saw that I was being addressed by an insignificant little man wearing a large walrus moustache.
“By George Lestrade!” I exclaimed, “that’s an incredible disguise!”
“But I’m not wearing a disguise,” he said, looking puzzled for a moment. Then, fingering his upper lip, “Oh, you mean this? Yes, it is rather subtle, isn’t it? Less is more, Doctor, less is more. The Walrus, see? All I need now is a Carpenter … and a few oysters, of course!” And he laughed so much that he almost choked on his facial hair.
Then, sensing that I was in no mood for such half-baked pleasantries, he added seriously: “Mr. ’Olmes coming along later, is he? You don’t surprise me. He’ll want us to act as an advance guard to distract ’em like. Very much like he did in that case of …”
“I don’t think Mr. Holmes’s actions need concern you, Lestrade. As you should know well by now, Mr. Holmes has his own way of doing things.”
I was about to enlarge on my friend’s eminently successful modus operandi and compare it with Lestrade’s own pedestrian methods when there was a single stroke on a gong and the room fell silent.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Wonderland!”
At the top of the sweeping staircase stood one of the most remarkable figures I can remember seeing and not for the first time in recent days did I have the feeling that we were all characters in some strange fantasy of someone else’s creation. Moxton — as I had to think of him for this evening at least — had dressed himself as Humpty Dumpty. Through the costume maker’s art he contrived to look like a perfect oval with a smiling face peeping out. Despite the bulk of it, his costume was made of some pliant material that allowed him to move about freely. There was no doubt that if he intended to dominate the proceedings, he had certainly succeeded. I remembered the exchange between him and Holmes by the loch side and Moxton quoting the line — ‘The question is … which is to be master, that’s all.’ There was no longer any question.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Frog Footmen will lead you in to dinner.”
With that he began to navigate the staircase with some care and, as he moved from the landing, I could see standing right behind him a young couple.
Had their expressions matched their appearance, they would have been nothing less than spectacular but Royston Steel’s lips were set in the rictus of a smile for public consumption and Alicia’s face could have been carved out of alabaster. As they descended in Moxton’s wake he tucked her arm under his in a manner that brooked no resistance.
He was dressed as the Knave of Hearts in a sort of doublet and hose with a playing card woven into the front of it and a flat vaguely medieval hat. I was sure, on reflection, that my description was doing him an injustice. Mr. Steel’s costume would have been designed with Sir John Tenniel’s Alice illustrations firmly in mind.
Alicia might have stepped out of the very same engraving. The only difference was that her hair, instead of being blonde, was raven black and brushed straight back from her forehead to fall to her waist. The child’s dress with its puffed sleeves and layered skirt made her look like a mirror image of the girl who had inspired this whole dream world we were all now inhabiting.
“Quite a looker, eh, Doctor?” It was the peasant Lestrade at my elbow. I was about to address him in no uncertain terms when I remembered the delicacy of Alicia’s situation in this house. The last thing any of us needed was to call undue attention to ourselves. I bit back my reply. Just at that moment a Frog Footman who was obviously high in the pecking order — if frogs can peck — appeared at our shoulders. “Gentlemen, if I might conduct you to your places. Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade, if I am not mistaken? This way, gentlemen.” And then to Lestrade — “An elegantly understated costume, if I may say so, Inspector. So few people know when to leave well alone.” I had no need to look at Lestrade to know that he was puffing himself up with pride.
“Y’see, Doctor, what did I tell you?”
I did, however, glance at the Frog Footman and noticed that he had a particularly patrician appearance. Possibly a butler earning extra money on an evening off. Portly in bearing with a nose that would have done duty on a Roman coin. Precisely the sort of chap that always makes me feel I’ve forgotten to do something vital. I tried to convey a degree of hauteur by the set of my shoulders as we entered the dining room, where by now most of the other guests were already seated. Lestrade and I found ourselves seated on either side of a formidable Queen of Hearts, who was clearly enjoying every minute of her new incarnation. Her small talk was negligible — not that mine is anything to write home about — but whenever the conversation flagged, she would cry — “Off with his head!” and collapse into hysterical laughter. I found it increasingly difficult to join in until I heard her ask Lestrade — “And what are you supposed to be?”
Whatever he might have been inclined to answer, he was saved the necessity by Moxton rising to his feet, insofar as his costume allowed one to gauge whether he was sitting or standing, and tapping his wine glass with a fork. It was clear the man was about to make yet another speech. Holmes had always told me that Moriarty had been singularly monosyllabic but the reincarnated Moxton was more than making up for that deficiency.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Humpty Dumpty, “may I introduce you to a few of our distinguished guests this evening?” He then proceeded to pick out a number of people dotted around the various tables and say a few words about each, before asking the subject of each eulogy to rise and acknowledge the polite applause. A Mad Hatter turned out to be a far eastern potentate, Bill the Lizard a distinguished couturier, a hirsute Duchess the doyenne of a country seat, and so on. I had settled into a comfortable routine of applauding while letting my mind roam elsewhere, principally in the direction of the top table where Alice/Alicia was toying with her food when I heard my own name.
“… and I cannot forebear to mention the friend and associate of the famous consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes (who, alas, appears to be unable to join us this evening) …” I made a mental note to settle that score with Holmes the minute I got back to Baker Street. “The man who has enshrined the legend in his own vivid prose — his Boswell, Dr. John H. Watson!” At that I heard a round of applause which, I must admit, was rather gratifying and only slightly spoiled by Lestrade’s loud sotto voce — “They also serve who only stand and wait, eh, Doctor?”
“Now,” Humpty Dumpty continued, “in the true tradition of Wonderland we have, so to speak, had our cake marked ‘Eat Me’ …” There was an outburst of loud and slightly forced laughter from those who recognised the reference, which was quickly joined by those who realised that they should. “I should now like to propose a toast to all of you. In front of you you will find a small bottle marked …”