Page 9 of The Locked Room

With a flourish, he swept the dust sheet from the nearest rail, revealing a riot of colour and finery that dazzled Harry’s eyes. Leathery pirate costumes nestled beside brass-buttoned military jackets, gauzy fairy wings peeped out from behind lavish ball gowns and there were at least three bear costumes squashed together at one end. Another rail appeared to be hung with white shirts of differing styles and periods, while a third consisted entirely of men’s suits, in various shades of grey, black and brown. Tucked away behind this rail was a vast gilt sarcophagus, resplendent with the face of an imperious bearded pharaoh. Harry dragged her marvelling gaze away from the treasure trove to gaze at John Archer. ‘I need you to turn me into a man.’

If Archer was in any way surprised by this, he did not show it. Instead, he turned an enquiring expression towards Oliver. ‘And you, Mr Fortescue? A duchess, perhaps?’

Harry fought the urge to giggle. ‘He simply needs to look different. I thought perhaps a beard, and a matching wig.’

Oliver gave her a level look. ‘You intend me to wear a disguise as well.’

‘Naturally. If the scene of the crime is being watched by our adversary, then we need to take steps to conceal both our identities.’ She paused, widening her eyes. ‘But if you’d rather not then I’m sure I can go without you.’

He opened and closed his mouth, as though formulating and discarding an argument, then sighed. ‘Very well. A beard and wig, if you please, Mr Archer.’

The other man nodded. ‘Easily done. Are you to be gentlemen of means or working men?’

‘Somewhere in between, I think,’ Harry said after a moment’s consideration. ‘Respectable but unremarkable. The sort of men no one really notices.’ She thought about the scruffy trousers and flat cap stashed under her bed, worn when she had needed to follow up a lead in Elephant and Castle and just about good enough to fool a casual observer. ‘But we need to look convincing under close inspection. Can you help?’

‘Hmmm.’ Archer scanned the rails of clothing thoughtfully. ‘I think we can manage that. A greatcoat and a bowler hat might work for you, Mr Fortescue.’ Rustling among the browns and greys, he pulled out a heavy woollen coat and held it towards Oliver, squinting critically. ‘Yes, that will do very well.’

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.’