“As do I,” said my friend.
And then the great door was opened, and we were ushered into the darkness and the presence of the Queen.
She was called Victoria, because she had beaten us in battle, seven hundred years before, and she was called Gloriana, because she was glorious, and she was called the Queen, because the human mouth was not shaped to say her true name. She was huge, huger than I had imagined possible, and she squatted in the shadows staring down at us, without moving.
Thizsz muzzst be zsolved. The words came from the shadows.
“Indeed, ma’am,” said my friend.
A limb squirmed and pointed at me. Zstepp forward.
I wanted to walk. My legs would not move.
My friend came to my rescue then. He took me by the elbow and walked me toward Her Majesty.
Isz not to be afraid. Isz to be worthy. Isz to be a companion. That was what she said to me. Her voice was a very sweet contralto, with a distant buzz. Then the limb uncoiled and extended, and she touched my shoulder. There was a moment, but only a moment, of a pain deeper and more profound than anything I have ever experienced, and then it was replaced by a pervasive sense of well-being. I could feel the muscles in my shoulder relax, and, for the first time since Afghanistan, I was free from pain.
Then my friend walked forward. Victoria spoke to him, yet I could not hear her words; I wondered if they went, somehow, directly from her mind to his, if this was the Queen’s Counsel I had read about in the histories. He replied aloud.
“Certainly, ma’am. I can tell you that there were two other men with your nephew in that room in Shoreditch, that night. The footprints were, although obscured, unmistakable.” And then, “Yes. I understand… I believe so… Yes.”
He was quiet when we left the palace, and said nothing to me as we rode back to Baker Street.
It was dark already. I wondered how long we had spent in the palace.
Fingers of sooty fog twined across the road and the sky.
Upon our return to Baker Street, in the looking-glass of my room, I observed that the frog-white skin across my shoulder had taken on a pinkish tinge. I hoped that I was not imagining it, that it was not merely the moonlight through the window.
4. The Performance
LIVER COMPLAINTS?! BILIOUS ATTACKS?! NEURASTHENIC DISTURBANCES?! QUINSY?! ARTHRITIS?! THESE ARE JUST A HANDFUL OF THE COMPLAINTS FOR WHICH A PROFESSIONAL EXSANGUINATION CAN BE THE REMEDY. IN OUR OFFICES WE HAVE SHEAVES OF TESTIMONIALS WHICH CAN BE INSPECTED BY THE PUBLIC AT ANY TIME. DO NOT PUT YOUR HEALTH IN THE HANDS OF AMATEURS!! WE HAVE BEEN DOING THIS FOR A VERY LONG TIME: V. TEPES—PROFESSIONAL EXSANGUINATOR. （REMEMBER! IT IS PRONOUNCED TZSEPPESH!） ROMANIA, PARIS, LONDON, WHITBY. YOU’VE TRIED THE REST—NOW TRY THE BEST!!
That my friend was a master of disguise should have come as no surprise to me, yet surprise me it did. Over the next ten days a strange assortment of characters came in through our door in Baker Street—an elderly Chinese man, a young roué, a fat, red-haired woman of whose former profession there could be little doubt, and a venerable old buffer, his foot swollen and bandaged from gout. Each of them would walk into my friend’s room, and, with a speed that would have done justice to a music-hall “quick-change artist,” my friend would walk out.
He would not talk about what he had been doing on these occasions, preferring to relax, staring off into space, occasionally making notations on any scrap of paper to hand, notations I found, frankly, incomprehensible. He seemed entirely preoccupied, so much so that I found myself worrying about his well-being. And then, late one afternoon, he came home dressed in his own clothes, with an easy grin upon his face, and he asked if I was interested in the theater.
“As much as the next man,” I told him.
“Then fetch your opera glasses,” he told me. “We are off to Drury Lane.”
I had expected a light opera, or something of the kind, but instead I found myself in what must have been the worst theater in Drury Lane, for all that it had named itself after the royal court—and to be honest, it was barely in Drury Lane at all, being situated at the Shaftesbury Avenue end of the road, where the avenue approaches the rookery of St. Giles. On my friend’s advice I concealed my wallet, and, following his example, I carried a stout stick.
Once we were seated in the stalls （I had bought a threepenny orange from one of the lovely young women who sold them to the members of the audience, and I sucked it as we waited）， my friend said, quietly, “You should only count yourself lucky that you did not need to accompany me to the gambling dens or the brothels. Or the madhouses—another place that Prince Franz delighted in visiting, as I have learned. But there was nowhere he went to more than once. Nowhere but—”