strangerverse

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There is no polite way to acknowledge that a comparative stranger has been loudly and violent ill, so Silverman kept a civilized silence on the subject when Nellie emerged from the bathroom. “I was just on my way to my first lecture,” she said instead. “The Friday ones are lovely; only the most dedicated bother going.”

“Oh, what are you going to?” Nellie asked, pale but enthusiastic.

Silverman beamed. “Taking Inventory. It's a demonstration of the roles of the Butler and Head Housekeeper in maintaining the physical order and contents of the household.”

“I suppose that could be interesting.” Nellie looked dubious.

“Oh, it will be. Susan's been doing this research for years; she's created an entire imaginary household as an example. She's got computer models of it, staff and family profiles, even a dollhouse replica of it. It's quite remarkable, really.”

“It sounds remarkably odd,” Nellie said. Silverman smiled.

“It is a bit, I agree. But other people's imaginary lives intrigue me. I particularly enjoy fictitious manors. So, what's on your schedule?” Privately she hoped that “a long nap and a bland meal” would be the answer. Nellie looked ghastly, and it was a familiar sort of ghastly, unless she missed her guess.

“The Edwardian Family,” Nellie answered, and Silverman felt the first tingle of apprehension. No one's voice should thrill like that at the prospect of so prosaic a subject, surely. “Want to walk up with me?”

“Absolutely.” If nothing else, Silverman thought grimly, I can catch her if she faints.

They joined the small congenial crowd heading up to the third floor. By now most of those who'd had to spend Friday working at their real-life occupations had arrived, and the stairway teemed with shopgirls and governesses, maids and chauffeurs, most not going to lectures but just getting caught up socially. As they entered the third floor hallway the upperclass characters joined the throngs. Nellie clutched her companion's arm, eyes aglow.

“Can you wait here for me? I see someone I have to talk to.”

Silverman followed her gaze to the portly military figure just turning a corner ahead of them. She felt her lips thin in disapproval. The self-styled Colonel was fortyish, she guessed, and Nellie no more than eighteen, and that was far from being the worst of it.

“Do you really think,” she began, but Nellie was already dashing after him. Silverman followed, telling herself that this was really none of her business, but nearly bursting with the desire to give the man a sound dressing-down. Of all the insufferable jackasses she'd met, he was far and gone the most annoying.

At the junction of two corridors she found herself face to face with that Alasdair person from the lobby, the one with the perfect uniform and the silly business card. The gleaming young man gave her a sheepish look, and Silverman realized he too must be following the Colonel. Spying on him, but to what end? At any rate she was hardly in a position to criticize him for it.

Further down this almost desert hall, the Colonel and Nellie were having a hushed conversation. Nellie reached out to clutch his coatsleeve, and he stepped backward, shrugging her off roughly. Silverman glanced back, and Alasdair met her eye, rolling his and looking disgusted but unsurprised. He knows the Colonel as well, she thought, and knows exactly what he's like. Her estimation of the younger man rose fractionally.

But there was no time to ask questions—the Colonel had already turned and was striding briskly toward them, calling back over his shoulder to Nellie, “Yes, it's inconvenient, no doubt, but I think we should do our best to play along and not mingle across class lines.”

Inconvenient? Silverman wondered. But the whole separation by class had been his damned idea in the first place! She looked at Nellie's crestfallen face and saw the answer. Bit of an elaborate scheme to avoid a girl, but a clever one, if you could overlook the cruelty inherent in playing at being the social superior of your ex-...whatever Nellie had been to him.

“Having a good con, m'dear?” the Colonel asked mildly as he passed, showing no awareness of her desire to wring his neck other than the speed with which he whisked past them. Except there was no “them,” Silverman realized in the same instant. Young Mr. Darke had vanished, silent and unnoticed. Interesting indeed.

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He padded toward the front desk silently once he'd noticed the two women standing there. It was a knack he had,
that soundless stride, and it served him well when, as now, he wanted to approach a conversation without interrupting it. This looked to be one of those ferocious, restrained arguments that polite people have when they're in public. He'd always found those particularly informative.

“If I'd known we'd have to stay in separate rooms, and attend separate events, I'd never have come here,” the blonde was saying. She looked near tears. The Stranger eyed her curves appreciatively, not put off in the least by the threatened squalls. Someone had tailored that grey dress to fit her perfectly. He sensed he was in the presence of a great deal of money and taste. “How am I supposed to enjoy myself, hanging around with a bunch of complete strangers in a fandom I know nothing about?”

The second woman, sleek and dark-haired, spoke more calmly but sounded no less annoyed. “It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Betweeners have never bothered trying to reproduce class distinctions before, not seriously. They should never have let that damnable man interfere—him and his Upstairs, Downstairs fantasies...” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Alasdair, and she arched one cold, quizzical eyebrow. He bowed, well and fairly caught. Time to be charming.

“Alasdair Darke,” he said, addressing himself mostly to the young blonde, and not just because he preferred blondes. A quick look at her companion had told him that she was slightly older, and not the kind of “slightly older” which, desperate for some magic among the mundanity of life, is all too willing to believe in handsome, dashing young hero types. No, she looked the other kind of “slightly older,” shrewd and more cynical than she'd been at, say, 20, but still fully cognisant of the frauds and foibles common to the young. He knew in his gut she'd assessed him as rapidly as he'd assessed her, and probably summed him up damned accurately.

“Mina Melford,” the blonde said, eyes wide with admiration. “I love your uniform. This is Silverman, my valet.”

He bowed to the sardonic Silverman, not sure it was the done thing to bow to servants but
figuring it best to err on the side of gallantry. She looked amused. “It is a lovely uniform,” she agreed. “Great War?”

“Border Regiment, circa 1934.” He handed her a copy of his card as he spoke, which she smoothly pocketed without so much as a glance.

Miss Melford looked no more than politely interested, but her companion's eyes brightened. “A D. E. Stevenson devotee, then?” The Stranger tried to look knowing, but Silverman's momentary expression of approval vanished instantly, and he guessed she'd read his confusion. Damn. He was definitely going to have to do some boning up as soon as he was safely in the room he'd be sharing with Tom. Usually he liked a little more lead time before plunging into a new subculture, but the Between the Wars thing had presented too perfect an opportunity to pass up. He wasn't seriously worried; he absorbed things quickly enough when pressed.

The valet shut her eyes briefly in a way that suggested they were rolling beneath the lids. Probably not a valet, he reminded himself, not really. That simple black suit looked to have cost more than his own get-up. Silverman, if that was even her real name, looked well-heeled enough to employ her own servants. How odd that she'd want to play one for the weekend.

“I thought by the 1930s it was already difficult to find good help,” he said.

“Nearly impossible, I'd have thought,” said Miss Melford. “But Silverman has been with me for years.”

Was that meant to be in-character? he wondered. Before he could fish for further clues, Silverman had murmured something inaudible, Miss Melford had excused them both, and they'd moved briskly off in the direction of the elevators.

Alasdair checked in without incident, and headed upstairs himself, faintly disappointed in himself. The sooner he could get upstairs, figure out what the full canon was, and get up to speed, the better. He'd already sussed out the most obvious sources—Sayers, Christie, Wodehouse—and worked out all the advantages Sherlockiana could give him, particularly Conan Doyle's religious beliefs. But who the hell was D. E. Stevenson?

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