43

Saturday, June 19, cont.

I was surprised when at the end of Mr. Twain’s performance, the stage manager came up to our box and invited us backstage to the dressing room. The man said that he’d pointed Doctor Doyle out to the American just before the show began, and Twain had asked that Doyle and his companions be granted an audience.

Twain was as impressive as ever, with his silver hair, enormous eyebrows and trademark white linen suit. I regretted I could not reveal my true identity to him. I was soon to regret it even more.

“Doctor Doyle,” he said, “you look familiar. Have we met before? In New York, perhaps?”

“We have met once before, Mister Clemens, and I’m flattered you remember, as I was still quite green as an author then. It was nine years ago, to be exact. I was with Professor Bell and our mutual friend, Miss Margaret Harkness. It was at the time of the Ripper murders, and you gave her an interview.”

Twain’s eyebrows rose slowly as he pondered Doyle’s answer, and then they suddenly popped up. “Ah, yes! I remember now. She wore a black satin dress with a ruby pendant.” He winked at Doyle. “Strategically placed.”

Doyle laughed with him, while Bell tried to hide his smile, James looked down at the floor with sudden intensity, and Elizabeth grinned. I don’t recall my reaction other than finding myself momentarily incapable of speech.

Twain was enough of a performer to know when a comment went awry, so he waved his arm as though to sweep the statement away. “Please, Doctor Doyle, introduce me to your companions.”

Doyle did the honors and smiled when he introduced me as “my dear friend, Mister Pennyworth.” Elizabeth got a half-bow and a handshake from the great author, while the rest of us got nods.

“Well, lad,” Twain asked as he shook Elizabeth’s hand, “have you read any of my works?”

“Yes, sir. I especially enjoyed Tom Sawyer when he tried to pass himself off as a girl.”

Twain laughed at that. “And a poor job he did of it, too. Well gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but I need to retire shortly to prepare for tomorrow. I’ve two more days of readings, then Mister Randolph Hearst himself contracted for me to attend the Jubilee procession and write an article about it. No rest for the wicked, nor their close friends.”

We were ushered out onto the street and as we headed out James whispered to me, “Apparently both Conan Doyle and Mark Twain number among your conquests.” He smiled. “Well, at least I’m in good company.”

Doyle was enjoying our private joke as to my identity, so to whittle his ego down a bit I whispered into his ear as our cab arrived, “The young lad is actually James’s daughter. Bell and James had a small wager, I believe, as to whether she could fool you for the evening.”

Doyle’s mouth gaped as he understood the last laugh was on him. Good sportsman that he was, he gave Elizabeth a courtly bow, which she returned. We shook hands all around, Bell settled his debt of honor with James (five pounds, I believe), and then my two old comrades went their separate ways, while I returned to Soho with my new companions. Danger was ahead, so we savored this brief respite before the coming day’s trials.

Herman oiled the rifle and ensured the air flasks were fully charged. The toilet flushed across the hall as he lay down to sleep, making him doubt he’d get much slumber that night.

Three days remaining.