The Detective and the Woman (2 page)

‘Thank you, Irene,’ he finally intoned, sounding slightly awkward over my name. ‘I had surmised the greater part of your circumstances correctly, but your narrative has supplied key details of which I was otherwise unaware.’ He stared at me for a moment, his eyes curiously bright. ‘It is not my usual practice to disclose my methods to anyone except Dr Watson during a case, but I am confident that in you I have a listener who will be able to ascertain and comprehend what I say. In short, Irene, I hope that by the end of my tale, we will be allies.’ His eyes presented a challenge as open as mine had been.

‘That is a somewhat extraordinary hope, Holmes,’ I shot back, ‘considering our previous interactions.’

‘Not at all,’ he returned, with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. ‘It is merely a logical assumption.’ I smiled at him, unable to stop myself, remembering the night I had dared to greet him in the street while dressed like a boy—an unnecessary greeting for an extraordinary man, a man who had been entirely impossible to ignore. Three years had changed me a great deal but seemed to have changed him not at all.

Chapter 2: Holmes

Irene Adler was an unusual woman. That was hardly necessary to consider. Holmes had been aware of it since the moment he’d recognised her as the successful mastermind of his defeat in the Bohemian affair, and now, as he saw her before him, the impression was strong once again. Nevertheless, he knew, the human heart was consistent—consistently susceptible, even in a genius. Men and women, both the stupid and the clever, had been taken in by the opposite sex since the dawn of time, he didn’t doubt, and would be taken in until it ended. Like many others, Irene had seen what she desired to see and ignored the rest. She had been foolish—understandably so, perhaps, but she had also been strong. A weaker person would have succumbed to despair long before three years had passed, and he could hardly fault her for being deceived by another when he had been deceived by her. He could not, however, keep himself from wishing that her suspicions had served her better. Weakness was more painful than usual when he saw it in one to whom he had attributed unusual intelligence. But, as he knew too well, no mind was infallible.

The detective leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, looking into The Woman’s delicate face. He wished, as he had throughout the evening, that he had his pipe. The oversight had been deliberate, however, as it had no place in his chosen disguise, and he satiated himself by thinking of it lying snugly in its leather pouch in his hotel.

‘The story starts,’ he began, ‘with my death.’ He relished the quick look of surprise that flashed across her features. He always had enjoyed a shocking beginning. ‘After your departure, my life proceeded largely as it always had, except that I began to detect a hidden pattern that I had never before seen, as if the underworld of London were running according to a shared agenda. There was a regularity to it, a deadly efficiency that nothing so vast can reach without someone or something orchestrating its movements. I will not tax you by explaining all of my processes, but I discovered the unmoved mover, as they say, to be a man named James Moriarty, an Irish professor of unassuming appearance and remarkable mind. He set out to kill me, and it became evident fairly quickly that I would not be safe while the man remained at large, free to use his vast organization as he willed. Watson went with me to Switzerland, and I met Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, arranging things so that my friend would find evidence of a scene that appeared to be the death-place of both Moriarty and myself. The first assumption was correct; Moriarty met his death by equal parts my hand and the inexorability of the Falls. I escaped, however, and traveled immediately to Florence, Italy, from whence I contacted my brother. My object was to remain absent from England, or, indeed, from the knowledge of the public, until enough of Moriarty’s associates had been apprehended that I might return without unreasonable risk to Watson or to the investigation. Such is still my intent.’

‘Now to the part of the story that concerns you. During my time in Florence, my brother, who works for the British government in a diplomatic role, sent me a letter, a request that I sail to America, and a note insisting that I not open the enclosed missive until I arrived. More than that, he asked that I wait until I had reached a town south of here called Fort Myers, an outpost during the American Seminole and Civil Wars. I didn’t know what he meant by the request, but my brother’s mind is very like my own, so I did as he asked. Truthfully, without a firm objective, I grow irritable, and I was glad of having a purpose.’

Holmes’s deliberate omission of the scope of Mycroft’s influence was, he considered, entirely necessary. What he had said was technically true and hopefully sufficient to satisfy Irene’s immediate curiosity. He trusted her mind enough to believe that she would not betray him in a naive manner, but he did not trust her nearly enough to be willing to share internationally sensitive information in a wanton way. Whatever else was true, Mycroft must be protected. The Holmes brothers did not have a code; they simply shared keen enough intellects to understand the delicacy of one another’s positions in the world. Mycroft could certainly take care of himself, but Holmes did not intend to complicate his task by bringing The Woman into more than necessary confidence.

He noted with pleasure that Irene was completely engrossed in his tale, her slim body alert as she followed his every word, her tiny hands pressed against the arms of her chair. ‘When I reached Fort Myers, I opened this.’ He handed the paper to her. No need to be irritatingly coy. Her eyes scanned the note once and then again, and her face gradually lost colour and gained it again in a heightened fashion. Holmes watched her expression shift from polite interest to malignant anger in seconds, a remarkable transformation. At once, her demeanor changed to one of focused purpose as her anger was instantly sublimated, a process Holmes recognised and respected.

‘Continue,’ she said very quickly, a slightly breathless note in her voice, but she sat back in her chair, the only evidence of her agitation the vice-like grip with which she still clasped Barnett’s letter in her right hand.

‘You will have already connected this letter with your recent circumstances, but I had no such references, though I immediately surmised what my brother already understood, that this letter concerned yourself and those who wish to harm you in some way. I believe my brother’s insistence that I wait to read it related to the fact that he thought I might be reluctant to help one who had so effectively defeated me in the past.’ Holmes smiled to himself. ‘Unlike my brother, however, I do not hold grudges. In fact, since we have been fortunate enough to meet again—(the word
fortunate
came off his tongue with a razor-edge)—I am happy to say that I bear you no ill-will. On the contrary, I find your wit refreshing.’

Irene’s face remained blank, and Holmes couldn’t tell if his admission had had any effect on her. It wasn’t a lie, but his inclusion of it at that particular moment wasn’t entirely artless, either. He intended to have Irene Adler for an ally before the evening was over, and he was determined to play his cards until the right one hit the table.

‘I will help you.’ Holmes tried in vain to keep his surprise at Irene’s words from registering on his face. ‘You’ve no need to keep courting me, Holmes.’ Her eyes burned into him like the coldest ice. ‘I know that once you’ve taken a case, you won’t rest until it’s solved. If I or my property is in danger, I can be in no better hands than yours. That is not a compliment; it is a statement of fact. Do not expect my trust beyond this, but I will help you.’ She ceased speaking, and Holmes nodded once. She returned the gesture. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve learned.’

‘I knew that Mycroft would not have sent me to south Florida without a definite purpose, and I soon discovered what it was. A man called Alberto Sanchez, a native of Central America, owns a profitable citrus grove ten miles outside of the city of Fort Myers. He is not yet wealthy, but will be once his harvest is concluded. The area is largely peopled by field workers and fruit magnates; he is one of the latter category, of course, a very recent newcomer. In the three weeks I have resided in town, I have received the impression that he is on the edge of polite society—hardly the darling of the most respectable, but with money that makes him more than a pariah. Society I find more interesting than expected, frankly.’ Holmes put his hands together and pressed his fingertips to one another, relishing what he was about to say.

‘The belle of Fort Myers, Irene, is none other than Mrs Mina Edison, the young and lovely wife of the brilliant inventor Thomas Edison.’ To Holmes’s satisfaction, Irene’s smile hid neither her surprise nor her pleasure at learning this.

‘But why are they in Florida, Holmes, without all the conveniences of the North?’ For the moment, she appeared to have forgotten her own troubles in her sudden interest. Holmes noted that she looked more alive, more like the woman he’d encountered three years earlier, than she had all evening.

‘The family divides its time between New Jersey and Florida, spending the cooler months in the South and the warmer in the North, a practice that is not unpopular among Americans with enough disposable income to make it feasible.’

‘What else have you learned?’

‘I will happily tell you, but the story will better accompany our train journey in the morning. If we catch the 7:30, we’ll be in Fort Myers by late afternoon.’

‘You wish me to come with you, then?’

Holmes looked at Irene in dead earnest. ‘Of course. I came with no other object. Your presence is required to carry the case to a successful conclusion.’

‘Well, Holmes, when you put the offer in such romantic terms—’ Irene looked up from contemplating the faded green carpet and half smiled. ‘I take it you’ve figured out a way to explain to the theatre why their prima donna is about to be in absentia for the remainder of her scheduled dates.’

‘Naturally. On the very morning of the disappearance of Irene Adler, Annie Hart will arrive requesting the theatre for her personal use. The management will be delighted to have the Bowery Girl herself, and the absence of the charming but as-of-yet lesser-known Irene Adler will be a convenience rather than a hardship. Thankfully, Miss Hart owes me a favour. I confess that getting rid of your manager presented a greater challenge, but in the morning, he will find himself in receipt of a telegram supposedly composed by yourself, declaring that your nerves have been frayed by your hectic touring schedule and declaring your intention to rest in seclusion. A hefty sum of money will be wired to him as well, a supposed gift from his appreciative, though delicate, client. He will be instructed to await your communication at a future date.’

‘You arranged all this beforehand?’

‘Of course, I could not afford to lose time after contacting you.’

‘You were that sure.’ It wasn’t a question. Irene stared at him with what appeared to be a mixture of admiration and something that went deeper than annoyance but stopped short of loathing, something like resistance.

‘I hoped,’ Holmes answered truthfully. He held out a train ticket, and she took it without hesitation. ‘In the morning, gather your funds and belongings and come to the station. If you see me, do not acknowledge it by look or word, and I will do the same. I am not known here, but I don’t want to take chances this close to the scene of events, especially in a place where a stray concertgoer might recognise the divine Miss Adler. Go to the third carriage. I have arranged for it to remain empty.’

‘Once on the train, your name will be Mrs Lavinia James, wife to Bernard James, a British investor with more money than sense, who is travelling in the new world to enjoy himself and discover whether or not citrus fruit is the key to augmenting his fortune. The emphasis is on the enjoying; Mr James finds it necessary to attend as many social functions as he can and make himself as charming as possible to everyone. He is eager to introduce his American wife, who has been nursing her sick sister but is now joining him.’

‘Your wife,’ said Irene drily.

‘Well, you could hardly play the role of my valet,’ said Holmes, smiling to himself, ‘unless, of course, you still possess that charming outfit you donned during our previous encounter.’ The Woman did not reply.

* * *

Irene’s hotel was in a much more fashionable part of the city than the detective’s. He deposited her at the door and took off down the dark street, musing. He hadn’t minded his time alone on the Continent and then in this strange climate where autumn brought nothing more than the slightest addition of a breeze to make the sun less unbearable. He liked the focus that solitude brought, the quiet clarity. And yet, solitude had also been the siren that whispered the craving into his mind and placed the syringe in his hand. Past solitude had made him dependent. Truthfully, he needed the friction of other minds, the whetstone of communication, to keep him from sliding into the grey. When he thought about it, he missed the comfortable ease of Watson, the familiar, practical turns of mind, the errors and the occasional triumphs. He missed the rhythm. He even missed the irritation, the annoyance that reminded him he was more than a machine.

Irene was different. If Watson was a pipe and slippers before a warm fire, she was a Nor’easter, an American storm that blew wherever it chose and sent everything in its path head-over-heels. With surprise, Holmes realised that he felt deep anger, rage against a dead man. No person had the right to lock up something so wild.

Chapter 3: Irene

Two flights of stairs took me to the hallway that contained my room, a generously-sized suite with obscenely opulent wooden furnishings obviously designed to appeal to Florida’s new money. The hotels in New York and Boston had installed lifts to save guests from the stairs, but Orlando was a younger sibling playing catch-up in many ways. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the exercise after my mind-whirling evening. Once inside, I lay down for a moment on the hideous yellow coverlet to collect my thoughts.

Hours before, my life had stretched before me in a predictable manner, as predictable as the life of a travelling performer can be. I had not let myself think beyond the singing, the dates that would follow dates for as long as I could continue. I would grow richer, and my memories would grow further away in time, at least, if not in feeling. I would be the world’s Irene Adler again, and my mind would be forced to acquiesce, to find its own occupation in between the different places that would all come to seem the same in the end.

Holmes’s arrival was like a splash of saltwater to the face, the sting and then the awakening. Perhaps Barnett’s dastardly plans for me, whatever they might be, were blessings in disguise, for they had acted as the catalysts to draw salvation near. I laughed at the drama of my own thoughts. What sort of salvation was six feet of arrogance and the promise of endless swordplay? And yet, I experienced relief from a feeling I hadn’t known I still had, the desperation of a mind shuttered and set aside. What Holmes offered me was a chance to think freely, and that felt as close to salvation as anything I could imagine.

I allowed myself the luxury of a few moments of contemplation and then roused with purpose. I quickly collected my small belongings from around the room and placed them in my carpet reticule. My clothes went into the sturdy trunk that had served me well through the crossing and all my travels. I felt like a criminal packing my gowns; my manager always arranged for someone to pack them for me at the end of each city’s run, and I was far from skilled at doing so myself. I hoped that whatever plans Holmes had for us upon our arrival in the southern city would include enough time for my dresses to recover before being worn. Part of me missed the quick hands of my Yorkshire lady’s maid, but I did not miss her constantly watchful eye or loose tongue. My manager, Slade, had begged me to take on a maid or companion of some sort to travel with us and provide company for his secretary, but the haunting memories of my married life had made me desire the freedom to be alone and do as I wished. I usually did very well on my own. In fact, I had begun to think I might never engage another permanent maid. Slade was more than enough, with all of his fussing about my supposed comfort and fawning over my talent. I was grateful for his abilities, which had smoothed my way considerably, but I knew that I would not miss him.

After I had finished packing my possessions, with widely varying degrees of efficiency, I considered the metal safe tucked in the back of the closet. It contained my personal funds and the one piece of fine jewellery I carried with me, a diamond necklace I had inherited from my mother when I was a child in New Jersey. I had a sizeable portion of money in my personal possession at all times, a practice Slade deplored as being unsafe. This, too, was most likely a result of the confines of my marriage, but even before my nuptials, I had been wary. I did not like to be at the mercy of others any more than was absolutely necessary. Slade had no idea how adept I could be at defending myself, should the need arise. I decided to leave the safe opening for the morning, and I decided not to tell Holmes about the money. Wiser to keep something to myself in case of emergencies. He had tried to beat me once and only lost on a knife’s-point. I could not afford to trust my wits alone to save me again.

Before I slept, I set the alarm clock for 6:30. The theatre would not expect me until at least 3:00 in the afternoon, and my only other engagement was lunch with Slade and an enthusiastic music lover at 12:30. If all went to plan, I would be far gone and my manager paid off before anyone recognised my absence. Sleep was long in coming, but I didn’t mind. Excitement hadn’t kept me awake for quite some time.

* * *

Ding
I was fighting a black dress that wouldn’t stop wrapping its silky, choking arms around me.
Ding
The corpse on the table kept talking to me, endlessly, about where to place my assets, but it was the corpse of the king of Bohemia with the voice of Sherlock Holmes.
Ding
I fought to the surface, emerging into the smell of stale cigars and the feel of silken bedsheets. I arose quickly, washing my face in the porcelain basin and dressing myself in a plain brown shirtwaist and long tan skirt. I rang for the porter, a near-child, as soon as I was decent and requested a light breakfast, which I ate as quickly as possible. I rang for him. once again, and when he arrived I instructed him to take my trunk to the lobby. ‘Are you going away, Miss Adler?’ he asked curiously, fingering his forelock. The hotel staff had been told I was some sort of musical celebrity, and they were aware that I had been engaged for a run at the theatre, a run in these parts usually being construed as anything more than one night. ‘I need my things at the theatre tonight,’ I answered with a ready smile. ‘Someone from there will come by to pick it up.’ This satisfied the boy, and he took it willingly after being handed a few coins. I was glad that Holmes had entrusted me with a few unmentioned details. At least he trusted my judgement that much.

My last act before leaving the room for the final time was to open the safe. I had an irrational, uncomfortable feeling that the contents might have disappeared during the night, but there they were, as snug as ever. I secreted the roll of American money in a pouch I carried close to my body underneath my clothing. The necklace I put on, taking care to hide it completely under the high collar of my practical shirtwaist. I picked up my reticule and proceeded downstairs, stopping in the lobby to enquire after a cab ‘for the theatre.’ The white-haired steward behind the small desk smiled uncomfortably widely and replied in the hushed tones of a doctor addressing an elderly hysteric. News of my ‘fame’ and generous pocketbook must have reached all quarters, I reasoned. He promised me a coach as soon as one could be procured, and I settled in to wait, noting from my watch that I still had half an hour to make the train station, which was only about ten minutes’ ride away. I sat down in a faded brocade chair and studied the place, a mixture of American innovation and tasteless nods to old-world finery, emphasizing the worst of each, from the wallpaper (peeling at the very edges) that depicted what looked like palm trees covered with grotesque monkeys, to the fat, unpleasant cherub statues that stood on either side of the oversized staircase.

Thankfully, I was not left to wait in this paradise for long, as a cab arrived within five minutes, driven by an elderly, hunched man, who was too abashed by my presence to make eye contact. The steward simpered proudly at having procured my transportation so quickly, and I thanked him monetarily, taking advantage of the air of good will to enquire after my trunk. ‘I sent it down for my theatre to collect,’ I said in my most innocent, whimsical voice, ‘but I think I’d like to take it with me now.’ The steward was only too happy to oblige me by yelling for two adolescent porters and having them hoist it onto the coach with the help of the aged driver, who seemed to take it all as a matter of course.

‘The theatre, Miss?’ he asked before we set off, his voice thin and reedy.

‘No, the train station, if you please,’ I said, sounding unconcerned.

‘Very well,’ he answered, in a tone that seemed to say
none of my business anyway
. I wasn’t overly concerned; if he chose to tell the story later, I would be long gone. Nevertheless, I tipped him double the usual amount when we arrived at the platform, and he arranged for my trunk to be stowed. We had arrived with ten minutes to spare, so I purchased a cup of terrible coffee from a slatternly woman who had a vague excuse for a stall in the middle of the warehouse-like wooden building that served as a station. I considered buying two, but I supposed that would arouse the sort of speculation Holmes was trying to avoid. Thankfully, no one appeared to recognise me, and I did not even clap eyes on my travelling companion. I boarded the train considerably more relaxed than I had begun the day, proud of myself for successfully navigating the morning’s small pitfalls.

I made immediately for the third car, taking care not to walk too quickly. The train was surprisingly luxurious. I had expected something more provincial, but it had all the accoutrements of the trains that had carried me through New England, the leather and velvet and smartly-uniformed staff with every desire to please. I chided myself for my prejudice. The newness of Florida’s prominence did not necessitate a complete lack of taste, hideous hotel vestibules notwithstanding.

I entered the third car eagerly, far more enthusiastic about seeing Holmes than I had expected to be. But there was a problem. The car was occupied, but not by Holmes. Instead, my elderly cabdriver sat placidly hunched over an almanac, sipping coffee from the same stall I had visited. He looked up as I entered, his cloudy eyes barely visible through matted grey locks. My mind raced. Uppermost was annoyance at Holmes. Where on earth was the man, and why hadn’t he upheld his promise of an empty car? Furthermore, how could I get rid of the intruder? Just at that moment, the aged driver straightened up, said ‘Good morning, Mrs James,’ and began to take off his face.

Annoyance instantly followed recognition. ‘Whatever do you mean by this, Holmes?’ I hissed, keeping my voice low. I had no idea how far sound would carry on a train (though Holmes probably did, hateful man), but I didn’t want to risk alerting curious listening ears.

‘Call me Bernard from now on,’ he replied in a low voice of his own, before continuing in a more normal tone. ‘I couldn’t risk anything going wrong, so I included myself. That is all.’

‘Entirely all?’ I asked suspiciously, taking my seat on the bench opposite him.

‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘after you spotted me so quickly yesterday, I thought I might challenge myself and see if my subtler abilities had lost their sharpness against the recognition of one who knows me. I see they have not.’

I wanted to be angry, but I could see that he meant the statement literally and as no kind of comment on my observational abilities. ‘It was the eyes,’ I said quickly. ‘Yesterday, they were your own. Today, their cloudiness belonged to someone else.’

‘Well spotted,’ said Holmes, pulling forth a small pipe. ‘I did not mind driving a cab with the eyes of another, but only the eyes of the great detective himself could be put to the purpose of meeting Irene Adler again.’

I wondered if he intended to mock me, but he seemed dead serious. He puffed away at his tobacco for a moment and then drilled me with his gaze. ‘From now on, we are Bernard and Lavinia James. Use those names as often as possible until they are second-nature. We can’t afford to slip.’ I nodded, slightly annoyed at his schoomasterish tone. I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to have failed to assimilate the necessity of subterfuge.

‘Come, my dear Lavinia, and let me show you the letter I’ve received from our friends.’ Holmes motioned to me to join him on his side of the car, and I did so, unable to keep from smiling at the conspiratorial glint in his eyes.

‘Very well, Bernard,’ I answered, sitting myself down primly. Holmes handed me a sheet of paper that contained a handwritten list. I read it with interest.

1) Barnett is Miss A’s solicitor.

2) Sanchez is a Central American trying to make his fortune in the citrus-growing industry.

3) Both men have some sort of design on Miss A, perhaps on others as well.

4) The exact nature of the connection between the two men is unknown.

5) Sanchez is a frequent guest of the Edisons, though neither husband nor wife appears to have any particular preferential fondness for him.

6) Barnett has extensive ties to both England and North America, though none as-yet-discovered to Central America.

7) An ongoing investigation into Miss A’s finances, conducted under the supervision of Mycroft Holmes, turns up nothing amiss, though some records cannot be accessed without her personal permission (or that of her solicitor, who is unaware of the investigation and might act in dangerous ways if provoked before he is fully captured). In addition, the finances of her American tour are not fully accounted-for as of yet.

8) Barnett represents many wealthy clients, and investigations have begun into the accounts of several of the more prominent, though no inconsistencies have been uncovered to date.

9) Sanchez is almost certain not to know what Miss A looks like; therefore, personal contact will not present unreasonable risk.

10) Once Miss A’s physical safety is secured, the next phase of the case must include deeper infiltration into Fort Myers society.

I read the list with interest, noting the mixture of Holmes’s terse observations and expanded explanations for my benefit. ‘I get the impression—I mean, do you suppose the implications of the threat to be wider than a crude plot by a solicitor against a wealthy client?’ I asked, looking at my companion curiously.

‘I think it likely, as does my brother,’ he answered, his face in a cloud of grey smoke. ‘A common criminal would have already betrayed himself in a thousand ways. If Barnett desired to steal, innumerable ways to do so exist before him. But he’s been too careful. Why, too, did he include the man Sanchez? The whole thing reads differently from a petty crime.’

‘I must also ask, Bernard, how my brother-in-law (I nearly laughed aloud) came by the letter from our friend in the first place.’

‘That, my dear Lavinia, is one of the more interesting facts of the case. A clerk by the name of Michael Morgan caught sight of the letter on his employer’s desk right before it was posted. He thought the contents odd and mentioned them that evening when he visited his doctor for treatment of a chest cold. His doctor’s name, you might have guessed, is one John Watson, a London physician of considerable reputation who recently lost his dear friend of several years. In the absence of this friend, the good doctor gave the information to the next-best source, his friend’s brother, who acquired the letter after it had reached the intended recipient. Even I do not know how that was accomplished, except that Sanchez has recently been enjoying himself in New York, where Mycroft has several associates.’