Free Good Night, Mr. Holmes by Carole Nelson Douglas

unquestioned, like witless sheep herded through gates, does not mean a few nimble lambs can’t leap the traces and go merrily down the lane.”
    She turned away from the rather gruesome Jersey Lily with a smile. “Speaking of leaping traces, you must help me decide what to wear. I have an important interview Tuesday morning next.”
    “Is it the new opera? The Gilbert and Sullivan?”
    Irene shook her head. “Nothing so commonplace. I am to see Mr. Tiffany.”
    “Mr.Tiffany?”
    “The famous New York jeweler! Do you live with your head in a barrel?”
    “Usually in a bonnet,” I retorted, more disturbed by the implications of the “Mr.” than the ‘Tiffany.” “But surely you are not going to New York?”
    “Hardly. I am fleet, but I do not have wings. Mr. Tiffany will come to me, or rather, I will go to his hotel in Trafalgar Square.”
    “You cannot”
    “Whyever not?”
    “Go to his hotel? Alone? And in the morning? You might be taken for an—”
    “An actress? Yes, I know. But do you not see, Nell, what an opportunity this is? Charles Lewis Tiffany is consulting me on a matter of confidential importance! The Pinkerton Detective Agency has directed him to me. Would you rather he came here?”
    “Heavens, no! That would be even more improper.”
    “Besides, Morley’s is a very fine hotel. I shall endure no more comment than Mrs. Langtry would if she did the same.”
    “That settles it. I shall accompany you.”
    “I’ve never heard you sound so determined, Nell. Shall you not be also subjected to unwelcome speculation?”
    “That doesn’t matter.” I squared my shoulders. “Let them speak against two of us.”
    “Well said.” Irene smiled. “Your presence might lend a certain weight to the occasion. I could say you were my secretary.”
    “That would be a lie,” I began dubiously.
    “Not if you take notes,” she came back triumphantly.
    “Well, no, not if I take notes.”
    “Then it is settled. We will see Mr. Tiffany at Morley’s Tuesday next, where you will take notes. And now you will help me choose the proper costume for this important rendezvous of ours.”
    This I did, for I found it increasingly amusing to outfit Irene. Despite its lavish appearance, her wardrobe consisted of surprisingly few ensembles. The jumble of hand-me-down trims she collected in street markets transformed this raw material to fit any occasion, station in life or mood that suited her.
    Nor did Irene give a fig leaf for how nicely she accomplished her transformations. Often of an evening I, who had been taught to sew spider web-fine stitches, would watch Irene driving her large-eyed needle in great galloping strides as she affixed a glittering swag of trim to a plain-Jane gown. The same long, loose stitches would be as roughly ripped free when the gown required another change of character.
    For our meeting with the famed jeweler, we settled upon what Irene called “bourgeois dignity.” I dressed with my usual quiet rectitude, though I admit that my gloves clung damply to my palms as we took the early omnibus to Trafalgar Square Tuesday.
    Morley’s presented a solidly reassuring façade overlooking the mounted statue of Charles I. Yet I was more intrigued by the Time Signal Ball above the Electric Telegraph Office to our right, a device that gave a precise reading of Greenwich Mean Time in central London.
    Such ingenious inventions greatly consoled me for the crowded city bustle. Pneumatic pressure raised a six-foot-diameter zinc ball that was dropped ten feet at precisely one o’clock daily, thus activating an electric current transmitted direct from the Greenwich Observatory. By the sphere’s daily plummet, all London could set its watches and clocks accurately, and I took full advantage of this convenience.
    On our left the fool’s-capped steeple of St-Martin-in-the-Fields church loomed over the hotel’s lowlier bulk, which I thought reassuring for our enterprise.
    Thus sandwiched, as it were,