Chapter Five
The Hermes Club
he Edwardian Age was an era of clubs, and most men of substance, and many not, belonged to them. The variety of these institutions was extraordinary, with clubs for gentlemen of every interest: military and naval clubs, conservative clubs, reform clubs, theatrical clubs, and even a club for the otherwise un-clubbable, where members were not permitted to speak to other members.
Ramsgate was a member of two clubs. The first was the Liberal Club, and he would often retreat to its sprawling, but solidly elegant abode near the embankment.
The second was the Hermes Club, a venerable establishment for people who belonged to other clubs but wanted to expand their social circles to include walks of life they might otherwise not meet. Within its elegant walls, an Admiral might share a brandy with a matinée idol, or a back-bencher from the Commons could defeat the Chief Justice in a rubber of whist.
That night, there was an element allowed that even this unconventional establishment usually excluded. The kind of persons not welcome in any club, no matter how conservative, liberal, or democratic. Persons shunned by these gentlemen’s clubs because they could never be gentlemen—but they could be ladies. And four times a year, the Hermes Club allowed women—these alien creatures—to cross its threshold.
Commander Bernard was also a member, and had, as I might have expected, misgivings about allowing women. He was losing a lot of money to one in a card game.
“Ladies’ night should be once a decade, not four times a year!” Bernard complained, as he tossed his losing hand to the table and stalked away. His feminine opponent extended her fingers, reaching for his cards and revealing the crimson glow of her crescent-moon ring, contrasting with the forest green of the gaming table. She laughed and said, “Beginner’s luck.”
As she pulled over Bernard’s losses, a tall naval officer in an immaculate dress uniform gave Bernard a mocking salute, and then grinned at the woman, noting her enormous pile of chips. The name of this strapping gentleman, I would later learn, was Commander Sebastian Blackshaw, and he was not there by happenstance.
Bernard ambled through the vast, restoration-era ballroom, past the various games of chance. The place had been converted into a casino for the night. Honouring the chairman of the entertainment committee’s recent trip to California, many of the games reflected his romantic views of the American West.
The Chairman’s efforts to revere his dime-novel (imported from America) understanding of the frontier was shared with another celebration, one which was a world away from cowboys and six-guns. Bernard had gravitated to a huge cake, in the image of a battleship, being sliced and served. Above it was an elegant banner that stretched across the corner of the prodigious room. “To our own Captain Summerlee—Commanding H.M.S. Dreadnought, Congratulations!”
Captain Summerlee was toasting his new command to the Assistant Chief of Naval Staff, both resplendent in dress uniforms that made them more dashing in appearance than reality.
“Congratulations, Summerlee. Navy’s always been well represented here at Hermes, you know,” said the Assistant Chief of Naval Staff.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try and hold the end up,” said Captain Summerlee between mouthfuls of cake.
The navy was indeed well represented, for there were many uniformed men at the gaming table, and along with them, an almost equal number of elegantly-dressed women. None of the ladies appeared more enchanting than Mother, as she entered with Ramsgate. She was magnificent in a gown that showed off her figure to the limit of daring, though in this case Mother allowed it to be enhanced by a rarely worn corset. She inevitably shunned the constraints of that torturous device, and indeed, with her trim and athletic figure, really didn’t require it. While she may not have had the artificially tiny wasp waist that a corset produced, her curves were sufficient to turn heads and stop conversation. Tonight, however, Mother surrendered to style and vanity, laced herself in canvas and whale bone, and gave truth to the adage that glamour was painful. They paused at the entrance. Towering above them was the famous statue of Hermes, the wing-footed messenger of the gods, and, more relevantly, the god of travellers and gamblers. Tasha scanned the room.
“Ah, the fleet’s in! All those sailors,” she teased Ramsgate.
“Rekindling youthful memories?” Ramsgate said a bit more rakishly than usual as Tasha threw him a tolerant raised eyebrow. “It’s in honour of one of the members, Captain Summerlee.”
“Yes, he’s just been posted to command Dreadnought, at least according to the Times and Daily Chronicle—and they rarely agree on anything,” observed Mother.
Less than an hour later, the gamblers at the roulette table gawked with admiration at Tasha’s enviable pile of five-pound chips. Bernard, champagne in hand, closed in as Ramsgate commented to Tasha that the table was following her lead.
Bernard groaned, “Wish I had something left to bet.”
“Run of poor luck, Commander?” said Tasha, with the barest hint of sympathy.
Bernard pointed to the card tables in the corner. “I was beached by that witch over there. Lost my entire allowance.”
They couldn’t see the “witch” through the crowd around her table. Tasha and the two men drifted over in time to see a portly vice admiral nervously studying his hand. He folded and withdrew from the game. Another player sat down, and the woman across from him rapidly shuffled the pack of cards. The dealer was the murderer of the Admiralty courier, no longer in the disguise of nanny or nurse, but in a spectacular deep green gown.
Commander Sebastian Blackshaw grinned at her expertise. Across from the commander and the murderess stood a very pretty young blonde in elegant, but proper and modest, attire—as if she wanted to draw no interest to herself—who watched Tasha keenly. Mother, scrutinizing the dealer, didn’t spot that she herself was being observed by this fair-haired woman, who could not suppress a knowing smirk.
Ramsgate studied the game in confusion and asked Mother, “What are they playing?”
“It’s a variation of poker, the American game that’s en vogue at the French casinos.”
Bernard huffed, disgruntled. “That woman has more luck than she deserves!”
“Luck has very little to do with it,” smiled Tasha.
Mr. Heath was the Hermes Club’s Acting President. He leaned forward watching as Tasha, with Ramsgate and Bernard behind her, shuffled a pack of cards on his desk. They were in his private office, which was shrouded in silence. Behind Heath, through the window, a little paddle steamer chugged by on the Thames.
The sound of the cards being shuffled in the otherwise hushed room focused everyone on Tasha. “Whoever she is, she’s employing the Higgans’ shuffle.”
The men were bewildered. “I’ve never heard of it,” said Mr. Heath.
“I don’t doubt that, Mr. Heath,” answered Tasha as she continued to shuffle. “I know of only five people capable of executing it.”
“Only five!” said Ramsgate in disbelief.
“Three in the civilised world and two in the United States.” Mother actually admired Americans, but she knew of Heath’s affection for the United States and she loved to needle.
Heath sat back in his plush leather chair and was suddenly conscious of the formal portraits of past Hermes Club presidents staring down upon him from the walls. The severe faces—with their eyes peering into him—seemed to hold him in judgement. The club had never known scandal, and it was his duty to honour that pristine past and keep it that way. “Cheating! And in my term of office!” Heath shook his head and turned to the window. A fog was drifting in, obscuring the Thames.
Tasha riffled the pack and the sound turned Heath’s attention back toward her. Now that Mother had his focus, she explained, “The Higgans’ shuffle involves remembering the order discarded cards are replaced in the pack and dealing tops and bottoms in an advantageous sequence.”
“That’s impossible,” laughed Ramsgate.
Mother dealt five cards and turned them over, one deuce and four aces. “That depends on the individual.”
Heath stood up and, with his hands resting on his desk, leaned closer to the cards. The fog may have been thickening out the window, but the Acting President of the Hermes Club was starting to see light dispelling his personal blackness. He placed the cards in Mother’s hand, “An individual who could be very valuable to the good name of the Hermes Club, at this moment.”
Back at the table, the devious and cheating brunette was enjoying herself as opponent after opponent left the game poorer in pocket, but richer in their estimation of the female of the species. “Anyone feel brave?” she asked the crowd.
No one stirred to fill the empty seat. Then, at once, a large stack of chips was placed on the table and Mother gracefully lowered herself into the vacant chair. She smiled in a way that any woman could read as a challenge and murmured, “I thought you might be finding men too easy.”
The woman’s eyes gleamed at Tasha, and then she shuffled the cards. On her finger, a facet of her crimson pearl crescent-moon ring caught the light and flared. “Men are always easy,” she replied in a whispered chuckle.
The pretty blonde and Sebastian exchanged furtive glances.
The woman added, dealing cards round the table while gazing at Tasha, “I do enjoy a contest when there is one.”
“As do I. But I am usually disappointed,” replied Mother with a slight bow of her head. Tasha examined her hand, said that she felt lucky and pushed over a third of her chips. The enthralled crowd buzzed, for these were heavy stakes. The third player, a fat gentleman with huge and unfashionable side-burns, gloomily scrutinized his hand and bet his remaining chips.
With a hint of humour, the woman in the deep-green gown asked for discards, but everyone played the cards she had dealt. The crowd around the table grew as people drifted over from other amusements. The dealer called; my Mother and the fat gentleman displayed their cards. The woman sympathetically cooed, “Poor little lambs.” She placed her winning hand on the table.
The blonde and Sebastian shared satisfied smirk, but Bernard, Mr. Heath, and Ramsgate were worried. Ramsgate grew even more concerned when Mr. Heath whispered to him, “She’s your guest. You’re responsible for her losses, old boy.”
Ramsgate nervously cleared his throat.
The game continued. Tasha pleasantly reviewed her cards, her face betraying nothing. The fat man put his cards on the table, admitting he was done. He wished the ladies good night and ponderously retreated.
“Anyone else?” asked the dealer as she settled back in her chair; her shining eyes taunting all around her. The crowd murmured, but no one moved to the empty seat. “That leaves us.”
“It does indeed,” replied Tasha venom-for-venom, and slid over a third more of her chips. The brunette matched the bet and they played. Soon Tasha, with a cocky nod, showed her hand and the mysterious woman did the same. Tasha’s confidence faded. Once more, she had lost.
“Is this game too fast for the cleverest woman in Europe?” asked her opponent.
“I’m simply not used to playing for pennies.” Tasha snapped her fingers and, as she had arranged, a tray with an immense pile of chips was brought to her. She slid the entire amount across. “Five thousand pounds are stakes that pique my interest.”
“Oh, God!” Ramsgate gasped to himself, fighting down the panic. He had a savage vision of a suddenly threadbare retirement. This was, after all, an era when the average per annum salary of a professional man was 700 pounds.
“Are you good for it?” Mother asked casually.
There was absolute silence. The dealer, stung by the insult, almost imperceptibly—and only for an instant—clenched her fists. The blonde and Sebastian again exchanged clandestine eye contact.
Tasha continued conversationally. “After all, you’re not a member. Some assurance would be required.” Of course Mother wasn’t a member either—no woman was—but she knew when to keep her mouth shut.
The dealer, now livid and not attempting to hide it, snapped her fingers and the cashier came over. “Will my previous winnings cover this?”
He gave a cursory consideration of her chips and, with the skill that had made him a local legend, replied, “No, ma’am. You would require an additional hundred pounds.”
Tasha gestured sympathetically, giving a “what can one do?” shrug.
The dealer, now on the defensive, sat back, silently appraising the collected Lady Dorrington. She coolly removed her crescent-moon ring and placed it on the chips. “I’m good for it.”
Sebastian stiffened slightly, but behind Tasha, the blonde’s eyes widened in amazement.
“How nice,” Mother replied.
The woman in green started to shuffle, but Tasha reached across the table and stopped her. “If you don’t mind.” There was a gasp as Tasha slipped the pack from the dealer’s hand and began to shuffle. “I always like to deal on the third hand. A silly superstition I inherited from my uncle, the Earl of Higgans.”
The woman’s protest died on the word “Higgans.” The game was up and both of them knew it. Her aware eyes focused on Tasha’s hands, spotting the cards being dealt from the top and bottom. Mother’s defeated opponent didn’t even bother to pick up her hand, but smiled in understanding. Like two duelists, Tasha returned the smile. Across the table, the former dealer’s spine stiffened. She snapped her fingers and in a bold voice ordered, “Champagne for Lady Dorrington.”
Tasha gave a curt nod in appreciation. “Thank you, it was enjoyable.”
Mother’s adversary leaned in closer and regally removed the crescent-ring from the table. Her unblinking eyes remained fixed on Tasha as she defiantly replaced the lunar circlet on her finger. “We’ll play again, soon, Lady Dorrington. I promise you a closer game.”
The intensity of her gaze remained as this imposing figure backed away and stood. Her large eyes slid from Tasha to Sebastian, who only stared dully. But as if receiving an unspoken order, the tall commander stepped forward and offered his arm. The woman-in-green placed her delicate hand on his sleeve, but there was nothing subservient in the action. Although Sebastian towered over her, it was she who moved first and he who appeared to follow. Her proud bearing demanded respect and inspired fascination. The silent crowd parted as the couple made their way through the immense room without glancing back. As the last flash of her green gown vanished past the statue of Hermes, the tone of the room changed from stillness to riotous accolades as the crowd engulfed Tasha. Ramsgate fought his way to her. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Who was she?”
Ramsgate shrugged. “I know nothing about her.”
“Save for the fact that she manipulates and cheats at cards, has an iron-nerve, supple and artistic hands with indentations on the fingers suggesting she plays the harp, and a small stain on her index finger indicating knowledge of chemistry, neither do I.”
At the door, the pretty blonde was also leaving, but first she turned back to glare at Tasha. Mother, occupied with the mob of well-wishers, didn’t notice this unremarkable figure as she left.
The blonde descended the steps to enter an expensive Brougham carriage pulled by a pair of matching white horses. Inside, the woman humiliated by Tasha was still fuming.
“Are you good for it? She really deserves my best, this one.”
The blonde sat next to the woman, taking her hand to gently stroke it. Sebastian gazed uneasily at the two of them and inadvertently compressed his fists.
“We’ve more important work. The Dreadnought sails in less than a week. If you involve this Lady Dorring—”
The brunette’s imperious eyes flared, locking on him. He sat silently back in the seat. The blonde broke the silence. “Deirdre?”
The woman, Deirdre—I still shudder when I recall her name—replied without looking at the other women. “We are not in public, Coira. Address me properly.”
“Priestess,” corrected the chastised young woman. “Forget her.”
Deirdre assessed Coira coolly and, with disinterest, withdrew her hand. In doing so, Deirdre’s crescent-moon ring slid from her finger and fell to the carriage floor. Coira pouted and spun away as Sebastian retrieved the signet and extended it to Deirdre. She reached out, stopped, and then stared into the exquisite blood-coloured crescent-moon pearl, which shimmered in the light of a gas street lamp.
“Let’s permit our brilliant Lady Dorrington to discover us,” whispered Deirdre as she took the ring from Sebastian. “But not understand until too late. She couldn’t survive such a failure.”
Sebastian, worried, started to speak, but Deirdre closed those piercing eyes and leaned her head against the velvet cushions of the seat. “She does have a predilection for high stakes, doesn’t she? We must prepare quickly. Do not speak for fifteen minutes.”
As his Priestess lost herself in thought, Sebastian gave up any attempt at communication. He rapped on the carriage roof and they started off. The carriage pulled away from Hermes, vanishing into the thickening fog.