Chapter 4 #3
Taking the heavy coat, Oliver pulled it on over his suit.
Archer crossed to open the first of the cupboards, which Harry saw contained a number of feathered hats and headdresses.
The contents of the second cupboard were considerably more mundane; she spotted several top hats, a number of trilbies and a stack of black bowler hats.
‘This one should fit,’ Archer said, after discarding three or four.
‘You’ll need to take care not to dislodge your wig if you remove it in polite company. ’
A smart pinstripe suit was presented to Harry, complete with waistcoat and pocket handkerchief. ‘I fear the trousers will need to be taken up,’ Archer said. ‘In other circumstances I might have asked Madame Francine to measure you, but I assume discretion is our watchword.’
Harry nodded. ‘I can make the adjustments myself. What else do you recommend?’
‘Make-up and whiskers,’ Archer said, beaming at them both. ‘Let me show you how to wield them both to your advantage. I promise you won’t recognise yourselves by the time we’re finished.’
Thirty minutes later, Harry was forced to agree.
Using an old box of stage make-up, John Archer created sunken cheeks where she had none, broadened Oliver’s nose so it looked as though it had been flattened in a long-ago fight and added shadows beneath both their eyes, explaining the technique as he went so that they would be able to recreate the effect when needed.
Oliver was fitted with a grey wig, along with salt-and-pepper whiskers, and Harry’s blonde curls were submerged beneath an unruly black mess of astonishing ugliness.
Her upper lip tickled with a bristling dark moustache that felt precariously balanced no matter how much Mr Archer reassured her it would not come off.
‘If this glue can endure the heat and toil of the stage, it can survive a cold January day. As long as no one tugs at it, of course.’
Harry eyed her reflection in the age-speckled mirror. Archer had been right – she was almost unrecognisable. Oliver’s disguise was equally complete. ‘I am Mr Thompson,’ she announced gruffly. ‘How do you do?’
For a moment, she thought Oliver might baulk, but he inclined his head. ‘Mr Gill. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
Archer glanced back and forth between them in delight. ‘Honoured to meet you both, gentlemen. And you may keep the effects for as long as you need them – the current production is set to run until October at the earliest. No one will notice their absence.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said, pressing his arm. ‘We’re in your debt.’
‘Nonsense,’ Archer snorted. ‘I’m happy to help in my small way. It’s rather exciting.’
Oliver had caught sight of his own reflection. ‘I look like my father,’ he said, his tone faintly horrified. ‘And I’m due in court tomorrow morning. Please tell me this glue is easy to dissolve.’
Harry was almost tempted to test her disguise immediately, by wearing it to leave the theatre and stroll along the city streets; there was a freedom to dressing as a man that she’d found curiously enjoyable in the past. But that would mean passing the stage door manager, who would notice her changed appearance and could not be relied upon to stay silent.
With some reluctance, she removed all traces of Mr Thompson and packed him neatly into the carpet bag provided by John Archer, alongside Oliver’s disguise.
They parted company with Archer outside the Garston Club with promises to visit him and his uncle at Thrumwell Manor in the near future.
‘It’s certainly been a busy evening,’ Oliver said as they made their way towards Leicester Square. He gave Harry a sidelong look. ‘Have you given any thought to how you’re going to persuade the police to allow you – us – into their crime scene?’
She hesitated, aware that she was testing the boundaries of his good nature by asking him to use his professional connections to get access to the house on Berkeley Square.
Yet what other option was available? She couldn’t very well walk up to the front door and demand to be let in, the way Holmes might.
‘I rather thought you might be able to help with that,’ she said.
‘You did say the police are at something of a loss.’
‘I did and they are,’ Oliver agreed. ‘But I’m not sure they’re desperate enough to call in Messrs Thompson and Gill – two mysterious strangers without an investigative qualification between them.’
It was an excellent point. Holmes had his reputation to fall back on, not to mention the grudging respect of several senior police officers. ‘But they will be vouched for by the extremely well-regarded lawyer, Oliver Fortescue.’ She summoned up a winning smile. ‘I’m sure that will count for much.’
‘I’m not a magician, Harry,’ he grumbled, then sighed. ‘But as it happens, there is someone I could ask. Someone who should appreciate the nuances of the situation, if not the particulars.’
Harry glanced at him, instantly intrigued. ‘Oh? Whatever do you mean?’
But Oliver refused to be drawn. ‘It’s going to need delicate handling. Leave it with me.’
His expression was set and Harry knew better than to push for more. He hadn’t let her down yet. ‘Thank you. Between this, and Polly, and Serafina, I know I’m asking a lot.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll completely understand if you want to say no.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not sure I could, even if I wanted to. You’re a hard woman to refuse, especially when you have your mind set on something.’
Something in his tone sent a warm tingle down her spine, the suggestion of admiration pleased her more than she wanted to admit.
She concentrated on navigating the other pedestrians, determined to keep her reaction business-like.
‘Even so, you must tell me if I go too far. I don’t want to cause you problems.’
‘Looking into Miss Eccleston is a favour to your family, rather than you,’ Oliver countered.
‘The matter with Polly is merely tying up loose ends from Mildred Longstaff’s case, who was a client and therefore still a matter of interest to me.
So you’re only making one request on your own behalf and I must confess to a certain amount of curiosity of my own with regard to that, in spite of the risks. ’
‘Really?’ She eyed him with some surprise. He’d been so against the notion of investigating that she hadn’t considered his own interest had been piqued.
‘Really,’ he said as they reached the entrance to the Underground. ‘You’ll make a Watson of me yet.’
Harry smiled. ‘There’s no one I’d rather have,’ she said, and reached for the carpet bag. ‘Goodnight, Mr Gill.’
Oliver inclined his head gravely. ‘Goodnight, Mr Thompson. Or is it Miss Moss?’
‘Just Harry to you,’ she said, squeezing his arm before turning away to enter the station. ‘Always just Harry.’
But as she made her way down to the platform, she was uncomfortably aware of the fluttering in her stomach, the glow in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sudden warmth of the station air.
The more time she spent with Oliver, the more she was reminded of all things about him she admired; his quick mind, dry wit and unerring determination to do what was right.
Not to mention his good looks, courteous manners and excellent taste in wine.
He really did make it difficult to keep a clear head, she thought with some exasperation.
One thing was certain, she decided as the train approached.
Sherlock Holmes had never had this problem.