The room was in a state of pandemonium. It was like being in a human aviary. Finally Moxton stepped forward and raised both hands for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he repeated until the hubbub had somewhat died down. “I hardly think we can expect our aquatic friend to entertain us further this evening, so I propose we leave him — or indeed her …” and he bowed courteously in the direction of the lady who had cried out first, earning a nervous laugh from his other guests. “I propose we leave — whatever — to enjoy its dinner without further interruption.”
“Thank you for sharing this historic moment when a centuries old legend became fact. Tomorrow The Clarion will tell the world the truth about the Loch Ness Monster. And, as we newspaper folk like to say — you heard it here first! Now, ladies and gentlemen, please continue to enjoy yourselves and join me in a toast …”
As he spoke the servants were circulating with trays of filled champagne glasses. “To Nessie!”
“To Nessie!” the cry went up and then the decibel level rose again as the guests broke up into groups talking excitedly among themselves.
“Good heavens, Holmes,” I said turning to my friend and taking a good gulp of Moxton’s excellent champagne, “did you ever see anything like it?”
“No, old fellow,” said Holmes, looking strangely sombre, “I don’t believe I ever did.”
“You mean one legend has managed to surprise another?”
The voice came from behind us and suddenly a heavy hand was briefly rested on both our shoulders. I sensed rather than saw my friend recoil involuntarily from unwelcome physical contact, then the hands were removed. We turned and found ourselves facing a small group with Moxton at the front of it.
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, I should have remembered to keep my cultural distance. You British require your personal space. It’s something we New World arrivistes have still to lean.”
“And I’m sure you will absorb it with the same impressive speed that characterises your entire enterprise,” Holmes replied smoothly, offering his hand to the magnate, who hesitated for a moment, before shaking it warmly, using the American habit of covering their linked hands with his free one.
“Coming from you, sir, I choose to take that as a compliment, although I sense there may be a touch of that good old British irony lurking in there somewhere. And this, I have no doubt, is your good friend and associate, Dr. Watson …?”
I was treated to the same handshaking routine. Now why, I wondered, was I left with the feeling that I was watching a carefully-orchestrated performance? Even the handshake seemed calculated in the degree of firmness one might expect from an extrovert virile man. Then my social sense overcame my instinct and I let the thought drift away.
Moxton was now introducing the rest of his group. At his shoulder, like the lead dog in a pack, was a tall, slender man with a small moustache clipped short and glossy black hair slicked back and worn rather longer than the current fashion. Sleek was the only way to describe him, as if he had so designed himself that nothing should impede his forward progress. Even his features seemed to be questing and his eyes, I observed, were never still. Right now Holmes was the focus of his attention and it was as though he were devouring the man.
“Mr. Holmes — Dr. Watson — may I present my good friend and — if he doesn’t mind my saying so — The Clarion’s new protégé, Mr. Royston Steel?”
When Moxton mentioned the name, the pieces suddenly fell into place and I knew where I had seen that face before. In the last few months that slightly reptilian stare — I could sense I wasn’t going to warm to the fellow — had challenged the country from newspaper pages and poster hoardings alike, most particularly from the pages of The Clarion. I even remembered the slogan that accompanied it …
“THIS COUNTRY NEEDS A TOUCH OF STEEL!”
The first time I’d spotted it in my Chronicle, I’d complained to Holmes about the way these newspaper chappies were vulgarising our perfectly good language but he’d been too immersed in his favourite Agony Column to do more than mutter something about it being a living language or something such. Anyway, here was the man Britain apparently needed as large as life and for my money — as my old nanny used to say — twice as ugly.
I returned from my reverie to find Holmes and Steel exchanging what passed for pleasantries but I noticed Holmes distinctly did not offer his hand this time. Nor did Steel seem to expect it My friend’s personal space remained inviolate — until into it stepped one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. It has always amused Holmes to tease me that “the fair sex is your department, Watson.” I should never have made the mistake of boasting to him on one over-excited occasion that my experience of women extended over many nations and three separate continents. However, I suppose I have had my moments. Certainly, I have always been far from immune to a pretty face or a delicately turned ankle. But this young lady was what I believe might be called a nonpareil.
The face was a perfect oval but her beauty was not of that empty passive kind that only exists to be admired by others. Those eyes could sparkle and that mouth had humour etched into its corners. Her dark hair was loosely swept up now and held in place with an antique silver comb but, left to its own devices, would have cascaded down her back. I put her somewhere in her mid-twenties and was just wondering how Burne-Jones or Millais might have done justice to her on canvas, when I felt a tug on my sleeve.
“Have you forgotten your manners, Watson?” It was Holmes and I could see that he was smiling faintly for the first time since the encounter began.
“Mr. Moxton was just introducing us to his ward, Miss Alicia Creighton …”
Slightly flustered, I turned to take the small hand that was offered in my direction. For the briefest of moments her eyes met mine. They were a fine blue-grey but, instead of indulging myself in further admiration — as I fully expected — I experienced a shock of reality. This lady was deeply unhappy. It was something to do with the tiny gap between the look and the accompanying smile and then the sensation was gone. If I thought I was the only one to notice it, it soon became clear that Moxton at least was sensitive to the atmosphere, for he rapidly filled the conversational gap.
“Yes, Alicia is my sister’s only child and when her folks unfortunately — well, we don’t want to dwell on that, do we? Well, naturally, I took her under my wing …”
Was it my imagination or did the image cause Miss Creighton to shudder slightly? Moxton continued: “Not that we know each other all that well yet. Alicia’s only been home from her travels for a few weeks but I think she’s arrived in time for a little excitement. A lot is happening in this country, don’t you agree, Mr. Holmes? As we say where I come from — ‘You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet’. And that’s the truth …”
“Indeed, one sincerely hopes it will be the truth we shall see and hear, Mr. Moxton,” Holmes replied. “But then, people have such different definitions of the word, don’t you find?”
“‘What is truth?’ said Jesting Pilate …” Moxton declaimed the line like an actor in a voice loud enough to cause several other nearby guests to turn in our direction.
“‘… and would not stay for an answer’ was, I seem to recall, the end of Bacon’s quotation,” Holmes replied.