As with one voice the guests shouted out …
“Drink Me!”
“Exactly. What a well read group you are!” Gales of sycophantic laughter. “Now I am going to ask our Guest of Honour, our primus inter pares, if you will — the Home Secretary here …”
At that point the whole scene seemed to freeze for me and I had an overwhelming sense of dread. Something was about to go horribly wrong here in this gilded hall with its glittering chandeliers and its mirrored walls multiplying our images until the room and its occupants seem to stretch to infinity.
For a moment Moxton seemed to be mouthing in silence, as I stared at the man sitting next to him, smiling up at him with an expression of foolish pleasure.
Sir Giles Broadbent, QC was not renowned for his piercing intelligence and there were those who said he was not long for his present office. Sitting there, dressed as the Dormouse, complete with a patch of fur and whiskers adorning his somewhat protuberant nose, he looked positively ridiculous but something forbade me to look at him in that light.
Now Moxton was coming to the point — “ask my Right Honourable Friend to propose the toast to The Guests.”
Rising rather unsteadily to his feet the Dormouse reached for the tiny bottle I had noticed earlier set by every place. An exact copy from the book, it resembled a small medicine bottle with a paper label tied around the neck on which was printed in large letters — DRINK ME. Even now I could see the other guests picking up theirs and removing the stopper for the Toast.
The Home Secretary held his aloft and peered myopically around the room. Then without preamble he said, somewhat slurrily — “I give you — The Geshtst!”—and drained the bottle. With that he sat down heavily, made a small whimpering sound, and fell forward with his head in his dessert plate.
For a moment the huge room fell silent Then Humpty Dumpty stepped into the breach. Rising to his feet and indicating his dormant guest of honour, he said — “The Dormouse is asleep again.” At which there was some laughter in which I could detect a mixture of nervousness and relief.
The laughter soon began to subside, however, when Moxton said nothing more but continued to look with what appeared to be increasing anxiety at the figure slumped next to him. Now people were turning to each other and a subdued buzz began to grow. Lestrade leaned across the Queen of Hearts and muttered — “Doctor, is this in the book, do you know?” I shook my head dumbly.
It was then that I became aware of sudden activity at the top table. The patrician Frog Footman who had shown Lestrade and me to our places must have been standing just behind the guests, for he was now purposefully manhandling the Dormouse back into a sitting position. The sight of a grown man wearing a mouse’s nose and with his face covered in raspberry trifle should have been ludicrous but somehow no one was laughing.
Then the Frog Buder spoke. “Is there a doctor in the house?”
Instinct propelled me to my feet and across the few feet to the top table. I had the impression of open mouths and fixed stares all around me and then I was bending over the Home Secretary. On one side of me bobbed Humpty Dumpty, as if he were on a spring. On the other I was aware of the impassive butler. All of which faded into the background when a distinctive odour reached me.
“Exactly, Watson. Burnt almonds. Cyanide.”
It was Holmes’s voice but before I could react it continued in a low tone only audible to me. “Don’t whatever you do, look in my direction. Meet me in the Crystal Room later.” Then, in a voice intended to be heard by Moxton at least — “Do you wish me to alert the constabulary, sir? I believe an Inspector Lestrade is among those present?”
“At once, my good man,” I replied authoritatively, beginning to enjoy the situation as much as the presence of death would permit. Then, turning to Moxton, I said so that the whole room could hear — “I advise you to contact Whitehall and Scotland Yard right away. The Home Secretary has been murdered!”
Pandemonium. Then, determined to keep control of the proceedings for as long as possible, I called out — “Inspector Lestrade, over here, if you please.”
Lestrade made his way over to us with a gravitas made less than impressive only by his outsized moustache. I turned to the butler, only to find that he had melted away as completely as the Cheshire Cat, leaving not even a smile behind. Within moments, it seemed, the room was full of uniformed policemen and I learned later that Lestrade had stationed them in the nearby Regent’s Park to be ready for any eventuality.
Seeing that everyone seemed to be fully occupied, I began to make an unobtrusive exit in search of the Crystal Room. The only person who noticed my stratagem was Alicia whose expression seemed to convey a combination of concern and compassion. I could have sworn her lips mimed “Good luck” as I sidled from the room.
It took me little time to find the Crystal Room, which also opened off the main hall. Whoever had built this mansion had clearly been of a narcissistic persuasion, like the dining room, the place was mirrored but this time the glass went from floor to ceiling. The effect was like being in one of those fairground Halls of Mirrors.
I confess I found it more than a little unnerving to confront endless effigies of a not particularly impressive middle-aged medico attired from head to foot in a ridiculous red get-up and a cardboard crown that, in the excitement of recent events, I had forgotten to discard.
“Most impressive, Watson,” I heard a familiar voice say. From the depths of a large club armchair with its back to the door emerged the figure of Holmes, his butler’s attire discarded in favour of his normal dark suit “All that is needed is for me to acquire a matching outfit in white and we can re-enact the Musgrave Ritual on high days and holidays.”
Then, taking my arm and pulling me further into the room away from the possibility of prying ears — “You must concede, old fellow, that I kept my word. Forgive the duplicity but I felt that I would learn more from being on the inside looking out than on the outside looking in.”
“And did you?”
“Indeed, I did. I learned that you can hide an extra servant at a party as effectively as you can hide a leaf in a forest And if that servant assumes a certain seniority, there is even less likelihood of his presence being questioned. You know, I think I might quite enjoy being a butler — without, of course, the encumbrance of the aquatic livery. It is very refreshing to see so much ready acquiescence.
“But come, Watson, there is much to be done. So far we have all been playing our assigned parts in Moriarty’s charade but this evening that game is over. He has crossed his personal Rubicon through murder …”
“I wonder if one can cross the Rubicon on the way to Waterloo? It sounds like an interesting diversion, to say the least.”
I suddenly realised that we were not alone. Dominating the room were dozens of images of Humpty Dumpty and his grotesque smile. “Good evening, Holmes. May I congratulate you on your ‘performance’. I thought you were a little slow with the Montrachet but otherwise … Let me know if you ever need a reference. In a little while you very well may.”
“Good evening, Moriarty. I’m sure you won’t mind if — within the privacy of these however many walls I don’t indulge your little game any further?”
“Be my guest — and you, too, Doctor — for the time being at least. Later? Who can say? Butyou must admit it is rather an amusing game, isn’t it? You’re a musician, Holmes. Think of it as a symphony. So far we’ve enjoyed a few little trills to settle the audience in their seats. Tonight it was time to introduce one of the main themes. Discordant to some ears, perhaps, but then taste is such a personal matter, don’t you find?”