Page 36 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
“Sir”—Mr. Lutrell stiffened, adopting an expression of the utmost sanctimony—“you insult me, and you insult our host.”
“Percy, you haven’t called me ‘sir’ in the twenty years we’ve known each other. What the pish is wrong with you?” He did not say “pish.”
Mr. Lutrell was looking mildly harried. “I... I must be feeling a little out of sorts. Perhaps it’s the baklava.”
“What are you saying, man? You hate Khelish food. You once told me that putting pistachio on a pastry was the culinary equivalent of perfume on a prostitute: cheap, excessive, and fooling nobody.”
“Honestly.” Mr. Lutrell put a limp wrist to his forehead. “The more I learn about myself, the less I think of me.”
The piratical gentleman set his hands on his hips. “All right. Who the devil are you? And why in the name of whatever gods you believe in have you chosen to impersonate Percy Lutrell? I mean, I’m his best friend, and even I think he’s a complete cat’s rectum.” He did, in fact, on this occasion say “rectum.” I have considered the matter and believe the word sufficiently technical that I may use it here without causing offence.
At this juncture it may perhaps have still been possible for us to salvage the deception. Our interlocutor had, after all, provided no direct proof that my companion was not who he claimed to be. Any hope I might have had in this direction, however, would have relied upon Ms. Haas’s being the sort of person who valued subtlety over spectacle.
“Who am I?” repeated Mr. Lutrell, his image shifting momentarily out of focus and then resolving itself into that of my companion, who, despite her avowed intent to attend this function incognito had nonetheless chosen to attire herself in an evening gown of sea-green satin. “I am the sorceress Shaharazad Haas. I trust you’ve heard of me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
An Arrest
Ms. Haas’s revelationof her identity inspired less chaos than I had feared and, I suspect, than she had hoped. Mr. Van der Berg muttered something to a servant while Lord Bahrami opined loudly from the back of the room that he had known the whole time, somewhat to the derision of his peers. Mrs. Benamara rose from where she was sitting and approached us with an air of composure that I felt did her genuine credit.
“Your reputation does, in fact, precede you,” she said. “But I can think of no reason that you would wish to infiltrate one of my gatherings, much less go to such lengths to do so.”
“My dear lady, I went to no lengths at all.” There was a brief pause, one I took correctly to indicate that Ms. Haas was, in fact, about to provide us with a soliloquy which would leave the assembly in no doubt whatsoever as to her remarkable talents, unnatural powers, and single-minded devotion to her goals. “I merely ascertained from one of several sources, whose names I shall not disclose, the identity of an individual you were likely to have invited to this scriveners’ tea party and who would be likely to have spurned that invitation. It was then just a matter of employing certain gifts that I have been granted in exchange for certain bargains and sacrifices I made in years long past to take on the appropriate likeness.”
“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my house.”
Stretching out a languid hand, Ms. Haas plucked a vine leaf from the buffet. “Right now, I’m sampling your canapés. Which, I must admit, are excellent. But if you mean my purpose in coming here, I wish to speak to you about Eirene Viola.”
“I don’t think,” returned Mrs. Benamara icily, “I’m inclined to talk to you, on that or any subject.”
Ms. Haas sighed with her usual air of exasperation at the world in general. “I assure you, matters will be resolved far more swiftly and far more to your satisfaction if you change your mind. I can be really quite irritating, and this is a very charming neighbourhood. It would be such a shame were something eschatological to happen to it.”
Despite our long acquaintance I would never learn entirely to be at ease with the alacrity with which Ms. Haas moved to threats of supernatural annihilation, although honesty compels me to observe that this approach was efficacious on more occasions than it was not. In this case, however, we were denied the opportunity of seeing whether Mrs. Benamara would have responded favourably, since we were interrupted by Mr. Van der Berg.
“You look here,” he blustered. “Maybe you can get away with this nonsense in a rookery in Athra or the back alleys of Ven, but we don’t stand for your sort around here. I’ve sent the girl for the Myrmidons and unless you want to get what’s coming to you I suggest you clear out sharpish and leave this good woman alone.”
My companion gazed at him with devastating pity. “Oh, where to begin? Firstly, what’s coming to me is something infinitely more terrible than any mortal agency could devise. Secondly, I do not have a sort. I am unique and you may thank your stars for it. Thirdly...” And here, once again, I am obliged to censor Ms. Haas. But I am certain that readers familiar with such terminology as she employs—or rather, employed while yet she lived—should by now have sufficient familiarity with her patterns of speech to make good the omission.
“Enough, Iacomo.” Mrs. Benamara cast him a severe look. “There’s no call to answer discourtesy with discourtesy. As for you, Ms. Haas, you have not only behaved in an exceptionally rude manner, you have also flagrantly engaged in criminal trespass abetted by sorcery. Threats aside, I see no reason why I should speak to you in these circumstances.”
Ms. Haas took a step across the room, her shadow moving strangely in the lamplight. “Are you really going to risk the wrath of one of the most accomplished magical practitioners still at liberty?”
“Are you really going to murder me in my own house?” Once again, I found myself silently commending Mrs. Benamara for her fortitude, but I could not help noticing the way her hands trembled, and I do not consider this confrontation one of Ms. Haas’s finest moments.
“Well, obviously not,” she grumbled. “But it would be so much easier if you were to behave as if I would. Look, I’d hoped that this evening would be at least momentarily diverting, but now I’m very, very bored.”
Tucking the book of Mrs. Benamara’s poetry under her arm, she drew up the many layers of her skirts and petticoats, a gesture that would have been utterly shocking to me two months before and was now merely disconcerting. Tucked into an unmentionable item of hosiery, she appeared to be keeping various small objects, including a wickedly sharp stiletto, a thin rod of bone that I assumed had arcane significance, and her card case. “Here’s my calling card. I will get to the bottom of this matter one way or the other, and it will go much better for both of us if we can do so in a mature and civilised fashion. Come, Wyndham. We’re leaving.”
This, it transpired, was true. But not for the reasons Ms. Haas expected. We made it only as far as the front door before we were confronted by a band of grey-uniformed Myrmidons. They were ledby the same gentleman who had intervened in the unfortunate business with Mr. Donne.
“Oh no, not you again,” he and Ms. Haas groaned in unison.
Ms. Haas was the first to recover from her dismay. “Well, Mr. Wyndham, it seems I am once more about to be arrested. Unless, of course, Second Augur Lawson will listen to reason when I endeavour to explain that I am in pursuit of a matter most delicate and quite beyond the wit of the imbecilic constabulary employed by the council.”
“You flatter us, Ms. Haas. And what is it this time? An engineer with a missing thumb? Somebody who’s broke their beryl coronet? A goose what’s swallowed a priceless jewel?”
“It’s a case of blackmail, Lawson. And you know how I despise blackmailers.”
