The Baker Street Translation (2 page)

He was astonished. And now he found himself reevaluating his criteria:

Of all the women he knew, who had the grace and presence to make the best impression in public? Laura Rankin.

Of all the women he had ever known or met or seen, who had a body structure that would most likely yield three children and still maintain the perfect curvature of her figure? Laura Rankin, although it was a close call between her and several other possible candidates, because sustainable figures are not nearly so rare as excellent public presence.

And of all the women he had been with, who was the best shag? Well, that was a German pantyhose model from the ad pages of a
Der Spiegel
wannabe magazine that Buxton had bought last year, but no matter—he did not plan on giving up that occasional entertainment in any case. It was fine for sex and marriage to overlap, but no need to get carried away and make one a subset of the other.

There were other criteria, of course, but these were the big ones, and when he added them all up, they still came to the same result: Laura Rankin.

Therefore, “No” would simply not do, and neither would “I need to think about it, if you don't mind,” at least not for very much longer.

But in the past several weeks, Laura had found reason on several occasions to be at Baker Street Chambers until well after dinnertime. And rumor had it, as reported by Buxton's own security team, that she had been seen driving back across the bridge from Butler's Wharf.

Laura seemed to be slipping back toward Reggie Heath, her earlier love. It made no sense that she should do so; Buxton racked his brain trying to think of what had changed.

It was not Buxton himself, surely. His own power and prestige were simply increasing. And his physical appearance was only getting better with age; he knew this, because half the partygoers downstairs had said so at one time or another, and without any prompting whatsoever. And in his gut he knew it was true.

Then it occurred to him—given that he had not changed, and Laura had not changed, then it must be his rival—Reggie Heath had changed.

Not physically. In that respect, in fact, the two rivals had some similarities—Heath was perhaps two or three years younger than Buxton; equally tall at just over six feet. Heath was thin; Buxton was proud of his own girth, of which there just enough to show the world that he was established and unapologetic about it.

But something had changed.

The surface events were obvious: Less than a year ago, Reggie Heath had been nothing more than a self-important London barrister who waffled rather than commit to a woman who was plainly above his league. Laura had tired of waiting and was about to dump him. Lord Buxton had stood at the ready; indeed, as he thought about it now, he took some satisfaction in having done everything he could to help push things along.

But then something unexpected had happened—Heath, who in Buxton's opinion still carried a chip on his shoulder from his East End upbringing, established his new law chambers at Dorset House, a building that comprised the entire 200 block of Baker Street. Most of Dorset House was occupied by a bank, Dorset National, and all of it was miles away geographically and eons away socially from the traditional confines of the Inns of Court. A barrister would have to be a complete git to locate there; it was more foolish a move than even Buxton had hoped for. Surely Reggie Heath's career and fortunes would flounder—and indeed they did, at first—and Laura would finally cut the ties.

But no. She didn't. Reggie floundered, but she didn't cut him loose. Not quite.

And then there were the letters to Sherlock Holmes. Within weeks of locating his chambers at Dorset House on Baker Street, Reggie Heath had begun receiving the letters that previously had been dealt with by the Dorset National clerical staff. Then, in reaction to one of those letters, Heath and his younger brother Nigel had jetted off to the States, dragging Laura into an adventure that she surely regarded as embarrassing, to say the least.

Or so Buxton had assumed. He had made much of those events in his tabloid publications, and for a while, that seemed to have had the desired effect on Reggie's career.

But not on Laura.

He had misjudged the situation, Buxton realized now. Whatever Reggie's attitude toward them, Laura apparently did not regard those letters as an embarrassment. She seemed to regard them as a good thing, almost as if—though it was hard to say why—they represented some sort of opportunity.

For exactly what, Buxton could not quite say—but he was certain that Laura's renewed attraction to Reggie had something to do with the letters to Sherlock Holmes. Receiving them had somehow given him a panache that he had not heretofore possessed.

Buxton considered it carefully. He could see no other cause. It was the letters.

Something had to be done.

Buxton looked out on the Thames reflections again, feeling better now. He had decided what to do. And he knew he had the resources to do it.

But that was for tomorrow. For tonight—having now decided on a course of action—he could enjoy his party.

Buxton directed his chief of staff to open the doors and admit his birthday guests—and first among them, the blonde from the ad pages of
Der Spiegel.

3

On the fourth floor of Harrods department store, in the toy section for preschoolers, twenty-two-year-old Emily Ellershaw was using all the skills she had learned in her new-hire training—and still she was having a rough go of it. She couldn't quite understand this customer's complaint, and she was having a hard time mollifying him.

“I'm very sorry for the mistake, Mr. Aspic,” she said as she placed a medium-size boxed toy on the counter between them, right next to another one, already opened, that to her eye was exactly the same. “Do you mind very much—explain the problem to me again?”

The customer was in his mid-fifties, with wispy brown hair, pale skin even by English standards, and a vague scent of vanilla that seemed to waft whenever he moved his heavily calloused hands—which he was doing now as he took the toy out of the box that was already open.

“I bought it yesterday afternoon,” he said in a tone of forced patience. “For my niece, you understand.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Emily with a hopeful and encouraging smile.

“When I got it home and opened it, I discovered that it is the wrong version. The toy itself is correct, but the instruction sheet that came with it is not the most recent version. I must have the most recent version. I mean, my niece must have. I … I don't want her playing with something that is out-of-date, you know.”

“Of course, I understand completely,” said Emily, although she didn't quite. “I hope this other one will do, then. It is the only other one we have in stock. We received only these two.”

The man nodded, as though that was a given. Rather eagerly he began to open the second box. He reached in and pulled out a folded instruction sheet that accompanied the toy. He unfolded it and began to study the tiny print on the thin paper.

As he did, Emily looked at the toy from the first box, unpacked on the counter between them.

It was a plastic duck. From the title on the box, Emily guessed it was actually supposed to look like a goose; but in both appearance and size, it was much more like a duck. It was white, with a yellow bill that the child was supposed to press.

Emily tested it. She pressed down carefully on the yellow bill.

“One, two, buckle my shoe,” said the duck in a tinny voice intended to sound matronly and British.

The man looked up with a glare. Emily immediately withdrew her hand from the duck.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just wanted to be sure it works. It appears to.”

“As I said, the toy is fine. You do not need to test it. It's the instructions. They are not the right version. Both packages are wrong.”

“I'm very sorry,” said Emily, reaching for the instruction sheet. “Would you like me to have a look at them?”

“No,” said Aspic. He quickly put the duck and the instructions back into the box. “You're certain these are the most recent two you've received?”

“Yes,” said Emily. “We have no others. They've just come in, and we haven't sold any, except for the one you bought. I'm very sorry it's not right for you. But we'll be happy to do a full refund. Was this a credit card purchase?”

“No, it was cash,” said the man quite impatiently. He quickly packed up the toy that he had brought in with him. “And no refund is necessary. I'll just keep the one I've got, thank you very much.”

He turned on his heel, with the package under his arm, and strode quickly away toward the escalators.

Emily got ready to tape the second boxed toy back up again.

Just on a whim, she pressed the duck's bill once more.

“Humpty Dumpty took a great fall,” said the duck.

Works fine, thought Emily. She closed the box and taped it shut.

4

“Do you perhaps have something that is very easily customizable after the fact?”

Reggie Heath, Q.C., was speaking to a jeweler in Hatton Garden, and he felt very much out of his depth.

He had gotten there early—before they even opened, in fact—to beat the morning crowds, and to nail down the details that had kept him up all night.

“Well, gold is malleable, of course,” said the woman, “but not with just your average kitchen utensils. If you really want the lady to have what she wants, perhaps you should ask her to pop in and have a look around?”

“Is that how it's done?” said Reggie. He stared through the glass at the many rings—too many—and he realized that he really hadn't a clue.

“Actually, I'm not sure anything off the shelf will do,” he said, stepping back just a bit, as if the display were hot to the touch. “Perhaps I need to go to a bespoke jeweler—”

“Nonsense,” said the woman quickly. “We have every sort of engagement ring imaginable. Here, take our catalog.” She leaned forward, scrutinizing Reggie across the glass counter. “Ah,” she said after a moment. “You haven't asked the lady yet, have you?”

“Well…”

“Don't let that stop you. Our rings can be returned within a week, for just that very reason.”

“You mean, in case she says no.”

“Of course. Happens all the time. You would get a full refund.”

“Yes. Well. Considerate of you to point out the possibility of a negative outcome. Good God, is that the hour? I believe I'm due in court. Thank you very much.”

Reggie escaped the jeweler's, though he was not, in fact, due in court, and he fled in a cab back to Baker Street.

It was January, not high season—but even so, there was a gaggle of camera-toting tourists in front of Dorset House as Reggie arrived. This particular group looked French, the second most common Sherlock Holmes tour group after the Japanese—milling about in the 200 block of Baker Street, with uncertain and slightly annoyed looks on their faces, searching for 221B.

Reggie tried to avoid eye contact as he got out of the cab, but it didn't work. An apparent leader of the group maneuvered between him and the heavy glass doors of Dorset House.

“Is this Two twenty-one B Baker Street?” the alpha tourist demanded.

“No.”

“We are looking for—”

“Yes, I know. Try the little museum up the street. It has an actual sign.”

The tourist turned his head, and Reggie negotiated quickly around him and into the Dorset House lobby without having to issue any further travel advice.

It was enough that he had the letters to deal with. The Sherlock Holmes Museum was happy to receive tourists, especially if they bought something, and Reggie was completely fine with that.

From the lobby, Reggie took the lift up one floor to Baker Street Chambers. Also known as Heath's Chambers. Reggie Heath's formerly muddling, but now doing all right, thank you, law chambers.

Lois—a rotund fiftyish woman who looked as though she'd been incarnated directly from an advert for baking flour—greeted Reggie at the secretary's station.

“Where were they from this time?” she said quite cheerfully.

“France.”

“Oh. It still surprises me they would bother. I thought they preferred their own detective icons.”

“I wish all tourists would prefer French detective icons—I'd have an easier time getting into my office in the morning.”

Lois laughed.

“And the same goes for the letter writers,” added Reggie.

“Oh, you can't mean that,” said Lois.

“I certainly do mean it.”

Lois stopped what she was doing and looked up.

“Why, if it were not for the letters, where would this chambers be?”

“Humming along nicely and without distractions,” said Reggie.

“Really? Would you have had the Black Cab case, and all the wonderful publicity that came with it?”

Reggie thought about it. “No,” he said after a moment. “But I'm not sure coverage in the
Daily Sun
constitutes wonderful publicity.”

“But now you have more clients.”

Reggie nodded.

“And were it not for the letters, would you have ever had need to hire me?”

“You have a point,” said Reggie, “If it were not for the letters, my previous secretary would not have murdered my previous clerk, and I would not have needed to hire you. But I did not hire you as a law pupil, Lois, so there's no point in your practicing cross-examination on me.”

“Of course,” said Lois, “But I think you should show more respect for the letters. I, for one, and I know I'm not the only one, think they're wonderful.”

“Duly noted,” said Reggie. He opened the door to his interior chambers office.

Before he could go in, Lois said, “I put the new ones for this week on your desk.”

Reggie paused, and sighed. He had instructed her, more than once, to just routinely send all the letters to Nigel in the States.