“Ah, Bushell,” he said. “Been a while, hasn’t it? You were a forty regular. You’d be a forty-two now, I’d say. They feed you well out in New Liverpool, do they?”
“Hullo, Chalky,” Bushell said. “You haven’t changed, anyhow.”
“Haven’t the time for it,” the tailor answered. His gaze swung toward Sam. “And Stanley; I might have known the two of you would hang together. Yes, you’re still a forty-four long; don’t worry about it.”
Stanley smiled. “I wasn’t really losing sleep.”
“Chalky, they’ll both need dress uniforms for tonight,” Sir Horace Bragg said.
“It’s not enough time,” Stimpson grumbled. “Everything is rush, rush, rush these days; people don’t take pains to do things properly.” He heaved a long sigh. “Well, we’ll see what we can manage, so we shall.”
He started with trousers and tunic in the two RAM’s approximate sizes, then used measuring tape and pins and scissors and the tailor’s chalk that had given him his enduring nickname to make alterations. His sewing machine was an ancient model powered by a foot pedal; it would have taken a bolder man than Bushell to suggest that he trade it for one with an electric motor.
“Here.” The tailor thrust trousers at Samuel Stanley. “Try these.” Stanley dutifully donned them. “Turn around,” Stimpson snapped, sounding like a drill sergeant. After Sam turned, the tailor clicked his tongue between his teeth. “No, not quite right. Take ‘em off, take ‘em off. We’ll fix ‘em.” So Stanley stripped to his drawers once more, while Stimpson surveyed Bushell with a critical eye. He made several passes on each pair of pants and each tunic. Bushell tried to short-circuit the process halfway through by peering down at himself and exclaiming in tones of wonder, “This is perfect, Chalky! Couldn’t fit better!”
“Of course they could,” Stimpson said with messianic certainty in his voice. “Come on, strip off - don’t dawdle.” Clack, clack, clack went that antiquated pedal-powered sewing machine. The next time Bushell was suffered to try on the dress uniform, even he had to admit it did fit better . . . but still not well enough to suit Chalky Stimpson.
Lieutenant General Sir Horace Bragg, of course, had in his closet a uniform meeting Chalky’s exacting standards. That meant he could - and did - go off to do something useful with his afternoon. Every so often, Bushell pulled the pocket watch from his discarded waistcoat, looked at it, sighed, and put it back. At last, though, even Stimpson pronounced himself satisfied. “Now I’ve one more thing to get for the both of you,” he said.
“Chalky, you’ve done too much already,” Samuel Stanley said in some alarm. Bushell was just getting a cigar lighted, or he would have beaten his adjutant to the punch.
Behind the bifocals, the tailor’s eyes twinkled. “But don’t you want the clubs you’ll need to beat back all the pretty ladies?”
Sans clubs, Bushell and Stanley made their way to Sir Horace’s office. Sally Reese greeted them there.
“Hullo, Colonel,” she bellowed at Bushell. She wore bifocals, too, along with too much rouge and hair dyed defiantly black. “That redheaded little hussy left this here for you.” She thrust an envelope his way, not caring in the least that half the floor now knew her opinion of Kathleen Flannery.
“Dear Tom,” the note inside the envelope read in a clear, flowing script, “I’ve begged a ride back to my place. Since your famous tailor can’t work his magic on me, I’ve gone in search of something for the night’s festivities that hasn’t seen the inside of a suitcase too many times over the past few weeks. I’ll be back at the hotel to go to the embassy with you.”
She’d signed it Kathleen. A word in front of the signature was too thoroughly scratched out for Bushell to decipher, try as he would.
“Thank you, Sally,” he said mildly.
“For what?” she blared. “I never throw anything away, you know that, but I wish I made exceptions, yes I do.”
“For being so sweet, of course,” Bushell replied, so persuasively that she took it for a compliment. Back at the William and Mary, Bushell knocked on the door to Kathleen Flannery’s room. No one answered. He waited a moment, then knocked again. Still no answer. “Uh-oh,” Samuel Stanley said.
“That means she’s already down in the lobby waiting for us, and we’ll never hear the last of it, either.”
“If I thought you were wrong, I would argue with you,” Bushell answered. Sure enough, Kathleen walked up to them when they came out of the lift. “Took you long enough,” she said, but then, relenting, amended it: “This afternoon, I mean, with Chalky What’s-his-name. Let’s see what he’s done to you.” She studied Bushell with the serious attention she might have given a Whistler or a Finlay. “Well. I suppose the wait might have been worth it.”
“Thanks,” Bushell said. “That’s the outfit you brought from home, eh?” He nodded in approval. “You’ll do. You’ll definitely do.” The dress was of maize-colored silk, with a V neck and a sheer organdy collar. It had a pleated skirt with horizontal plaits on the sides, and looked summery enough to be comfortable in Victoria’s humid heat. Kathleen set if off with topaz earrings and a pendant that drew the eye to the neckline.
She needed a moment to realize he used understatement in his compliments as elsewhere, then smiled broadly. “Shall we beard the Russian ambassador in his den?” she said.
“I’m given to understand he already has a beard suitable for all ordinary purposes and some extraordinary ones as well, but by all means.” Bushell glanced at the clock opposite the lifts. “We’re right on time.” Offering his arm, he strode toward the hotel’s street entrance. His confidence was justified. Less than a minute later, a steamer driven by Captain Martin pulled up in front of the William and Mary. He opened the door for Kathleen. Bushell and Samuel Stanley got in after her. They glided off toward the Russian embassy.
The guards at the door outside the embassy wore ceremonial uniforms patterned after those of the Life-Guard Dragoons of Tsar Alexander I. Surveying them standing there stiff and motionless, Bushell consoled himself with the thought that their dress uniforms were even more uncomfortable than his. They wore long, heavy coats of dark green wool, with matching trousers reinforced with leather. Over their green tunics they had red shirtfronts held not only with buttons but also with a white satin sash. Their shakos had both plumes and tassels. Sweat gleamed on their broad, ruddy faces. Their only concession to modernity was carrying bayoneted bolt-action rifles instead of sabers. Bushell glanced toward those rifles and then toward Sam Stanley, who nodded. They’d seen essentially identical Nagants in New Liverpool and up at Buckley Bay.
Inside the embassy, Sir Horace Bragg was talking with a Russian in tailcoat and knee breeches. Sir Horace looked up and saw Bushell and his companions. He waved, then turned back to the Russian.
“Here they are now, Mikhail Sergeyevich,” he said. “Colonel Bushell, Captain Stanley, Dr. Flannery.”
“Very well, Lieutenant General Bragg,” the Russian answered with a nod, checking off three names on a list - evidently he was chief of protocol or something of the sort. After he’d made his checks, he dabbed at his broad, bald forehead with a linen handkerchief: St. Petersburg did not prepare a man for the climate of Victoria.
“Come along, come along,” Bragg said to Bushell. “We’ll make our way through the reception line and then mingle and see what we can learn.” He sent Bushell a hooded glance. “Be circumspect, Tom.”