The Detective and the Woman (6 page)

Chapter 9: Irene

I found the sight of our dingy shop oddly comforting after the harrowing events of the morning. Holmes didn’t know how close to collapse I’d been, how much it had taken for me to play my part in front of Barnett, wondering if he would recognise me from the same sorts of clues that had unmasked him in my eyes. We had been like a cat and a mouse, but I wasn’t sure who was feline and who prey. I felt thankful, for once, for the playacting I’d had to do as Godfrey Norton’s wife, the months and years of acting in front of the world as if all was well when I wanted to scream in protest. I had learned to scream on the inside, and that was exactly what I had done when James Barnett’s cold eyes had looked into mine. I had screamed in my mind, but I had seen no recognition in his. Holmes’s disguises had, seemingly, been effective.

My companion held out his hand and helped me out of the wagon gently enough to make up for Tom Perkins’s earlier handling of his wife. Neither of us spoke until we were back inside the shop, seated behind the scarred front counter where we could see anyone who approached. The gun Holmes had kept hidden underneath his bulky clothing during the morning’s visit was now lying on a shelf just behind us, where he could grasp it at a moment’s notice.

‘Sanchez and Barnett are one and the same.’ Hearing Holmes state the truth somehow made it even more vivid. Only with effort could I even recall the original purpose of the morning’s visit, to meet Sanchez and ascertain what sort of purpose he might have for the unholy speed of his operations. Now there was only the realization that one man existed where two were expected and that two plotters were actually one.

‘Is it possible, Holmes, that there was a real Sanchez at some point?’ I asked after a while, feeling slightly dazed.

‘Unlikely,’ he answered. ‘Consider the facts. Barnett would have had to take his place before his arrival in Florida. A switch any time after that would have been far too risky. Even the best artists of disguise would have trouble convincingly replacing, overnight, a man who has been seen by many people and has worked closely with at least one. Therefore, he would have had to get to Sanchez some time between Central America and Florida, a risky and complicated operation, not to mention an expensive one. Why not invent some other fake persona and insert himself into Floridian society some other way, if here he must be? No, I believe Sanchez is a wholly fake persona.’

I nodded. ‘How does this affect your view of the ultimate object of the case?’

Holmes shook his head. ‘I confess that I am somewhat at a loss to understand the man’s motivation. He would hardly have created such an elaborate ruse for the sake of making even several thousand dollars from a citrus grove. At the same time, we know that he took the trouble of delivering into my brother’s hands a letter indicating a plot against you. He fully intended Mycroft, at least, to believe that he was two different people. Of course, the original purpose for this move had to be to focus attention here rather than on James Barnett, solicitor. He correctly assumed that Mycroft would let Barnett lie for the time being in order to avoid raising suspicion, while he tried to sort out the plot from this end. During that small window of inattention, James Barnett slipped quietly away and took on his alternate character. He probably also preserved the appearance of his presence in London—having his paper brought in, his office lights turned on and off, his radio used, perhaps even going so far as to hire a stand-in. My brother, brilliant but not infallible, almost certainly assumed that Barnett was needed in England to keep his side of the scheme, your supposed side, going, so he did not anticipate such a thing, as I did not. In addition, his operatives would have been instructed to keep a certain amount of distance in order not to alarm Barnett, and that probably also helped to make the ruse successful.’

After Holmes had ceased speaking, I took the leather pouch that lay on the shelf beside his gun and opened it. I filled the small pipe carefully, wondering if he would be bothered by my solicitousness, and struck a match, watching its flame whisper a tiny light against the sunshine streaming in from outside. Holmes took the pipe without comment and began to smoke. Neither of us spoke for a long time.

‘Your performance today was remarkable,’ the detective finally murmured, his eyes closed. I stared at him in surprise, having supposed my part in the morning’s proceedings to have been taken by him as a matter of course. ‘I had known you to be resourceful, but your level of bravery I had not realised.’

‘Not at all,’ I answered. ‘It would have been a crime for him to cheat us out of fair pay for our wares.’ Holmes let out a dry chuckle.

‘What do you intend to do after this matter is concluded?’

I watched Holmes smoke and contemplated my future for the first time since I had joined him. ‘Singing is a life, but I still desire what I wanted when I married—quiet and peace. I have belonged to the world, and I would like to recede in it.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I understand the sentiment, but people like you and me are ill-equipped for ordinary lives, it seems.’

‘One may be extraordinary in solitude.’

‘In theory, yes, but not in practice.’

‘You have certainly lived your belief.’

‘But you have not lived yours.’

‘Not yet, Holmes. I’m not in the grave.’

‘No, certainly not.’ He smiled, and we lapsed into silence again. I mulled over the details of the case, trying to apply Holmes’s own reasoning methods, but I found myself circling back to the same details over and over, unable to think beyond the obvious.

‘I admit,’ I said finally, turning to him, ‘that I am at a loss.’

‘Are you?’ The question was nonjudgemental in tone. ‘I wonder if you trust me enough to carry out a few plans that may seem nonsensical, but will, if I am correct, prove invaluable.’

‘Why not explain yourself, then?’

Holmes set his now-cold pipe down in front of him and turned to me. ‘I must trust you in this as much as you will have to trust me. We will separate, and you will have as many opportunities to double-cross me as I will have to do the same to you. I am willing to take the chance for the sake of the case. I believe that purposeful ignorance on your part will make your tasks much easier and put you in less danger if anything should go wrong.’

‘Very gallant of you,’ I said, in a tone that said the opposite.

‘Not noble,’ he replied seriously, ‘but necessary.’ I looked into the detective’s face and studied it for a long time. We had been in a position of some trust for several days, but I had not felt particularly vulnerable. I had beaten the man once, and I believed myself capable of doing so again. This was different; this required me to put my concerns aside and believe that he had my interests in mind. It required me to act like a client.

‘Fine,’ I said, none too gracefully.

‘It’s almost a pity,’ replied my companion. ‘You do Jane Perkins terribly well.’

‘Likewise,’ I said, arching an eyebrow. ‘I find Tom Perkins’s silence remarkably refreshing.’

Holmes motioned me upstairs imperiously. ‘Disappear Jane Perkins and reappear Lavinia James,’ but my mind belonged to Irene Adler, and, truth be told, I enjoyed Holmes’s dramatic streak immensely.

I found it a strange process to feel Jane’s creases and blemishes melt away from my face and Irene reemerge to share her visage once again with the demure Lavinia. With relief, I traded the tattered and stained cotton dress of the morning for one of my own, a conservative brown frock that I usually wore to travel—nothing special, but fully respectable. Finally, I rearranged my hair, laughing to myself at the intentional mess Holmes had made of it. Before I left the room, I couldn’t resist dabbing a small amount of the detective’s rouge on my pale cheeks. A respectable woman like Lavinia James wouldn’t have dreamed of painting her face, but I had no such reservations, and the colour appeared natural. I amused myself imagining how horrified a real Lavinia would be at the amount of paint I normally wore when I performed.

‘You’ll have to wash your face again,’ Holmes announced unceremoniously when I again joined him downstairs. ‘You look painted.’ I did as he said with the utmost annoyance. He shook his head again when I tried to return to my place behind the store counter. ‘Lavinia James remains on the other side,’ he said. ‘As we currently appear, if we are seen to be familiar, suspicion will be immediately aroused no matter who our observer is.

‘Fair enough,’ I said, taking up a can of beans with mock seriousness. ‘Are we permitted food, or is that forbidden during this phase of the investigation?’

‘Not at all,’ Holmes answered. ‘Feel free to eat any of the wares; just take care to do so out of view of the road.’ I ducked behind a barrel to absorb my meal.

Five minutes later, a customer walked through the doorway of Sloane’s General Store. As quickly as I could, I slipped into the furthest recess of the room, a back corner behind tall wooden shelves, trying not to think about what sorts of creatures might have chosen to share such a hiding place.

The customer was a young woman whose white lace dress obviously belonged to someone far too well-heeled for this section of Fort Myers. She turned her face toward Holmes and smiled in response to his abrupt greeting, and I saw who she was: Marion Edison. True to form, Holmes didn’t even flinch. ‘Need anything particular?’ asked the American accent of Tom Perkins.

‘Nothing,’ she answered, a little too brightly. ‘I’ll just look around.’ I didn’t move a muscle, hoping she wouldn’t venture beyond the shelves near the front of the store. Thankfully, she left within ten minutes, thanking Holmes in a forcedly cheerful voice before she stepped into the street. Once she had gone, Holmes waited a few moments and quietly followed her out. I didn’t dare to show myself until he returned several minutes later.

‘All clear,’ he said after he’d shut the door behind him. I emerged and dusted myself off, looking at him curiously.

‘I assume you followed her,’ I said. ‘Did you discover anything pertinent? Her behaviour was certainly unusual.’

‘Nothing apparent. She went to the restaurant at the end of the street and was met by a German army officer who was out of uniform. I gather she came here to avoid being seen in the street while waiting for her appointment.’ I didn’t ask how Holmes had divined that the man was a German officer. No doubt, he’d have had a long list of details that yielded the information.

‘I wonder if her father knows of the connection.’

‘Hardly our concern,’ said Holmes, and I had to agree, though I couldn’t help wondering.

‘Now,’ I said, ‘tell me what you wish me to do in this guise.’ I walked to the counter and stood in front of him, my arms folded.

‘It’s simple,’ he said calmly, ‘I wish you to reenter society with the story that your husband Bernard has returned to England on business, but that you have remained behind to look after his interests here. You will go to the Keystone Hotel on Park Street and use the money on your person (I had no idea how he knew about that) to procure a room in the name of Lavinia James. You will send notes to the Edisons and McGregors, informing them of your presence and apologizing for your earlier disappearance. You will wait for invitations. If pressed by Ambrose McGregor, you will tell him that you are married to the detective Sherlock Holmes and that a case has called him back to England. The lovely and charming Lavinia James will not be left on her own for long, I’m sure.’

‘How do you wish me to communicate with you?’ I asked the question as soon he was quiet.

‘I will communicate with you if necessary. Do not come here or try to contact me.’

I stared the detective down as hard as I could. ‘Holmes, are you trying to get rid of me while you work?’

He looked straight back, equally resolute. ‘I have already told you this is necessary. Believe me or not as you will.’

‘Fine,’ I practically spat. ‘What information am I to seek?’

‘I want you,’ he leaned toward me slightly, ‘to make it appear that you have never existed in the world as anyone except Lavinia James and to make her as socially visible as possible. Can you do that?’

‘I will do it,’ I said, ‘but if it turns out to be without purpose, you won’t get away easily.’

‘Don’t worry, Madam,’ he answered coolly, ‘I wouldn’t dream of putting the great Irene Adler to any extra labour. That would cost extra.’

‘Holmes,’ I said suddenly, my tone serious, ‘Sanchez is part of the Edisons’ social circle. How do I keep from being recognised without a disguise?’

‘Leave his whereabouts to me,’ said the detective. ‘All the while you’re working, I’ll be just as busy. You will be safe.’

‘Working,’ I mumbled, going upstairs to gather my things, ‘more like being put out of the way.’

Chapter 10: Holmes

Holmes was worried. He watched The Woman disappear toward the better-kept part of Fort Myers, and he couldn’t help feeling concerned that things wouldn’t proceed according to plan. He hated the necessity of separation. If Irene had been Watson, he wouldn’t have been so concerned. Watson was used to the procedure and used to the risks. He was also meticulous about following orders and not overly curious about their meanings. But Irene Adler was none of those things. The one thing that comforted him was her frankness. He did not believe she’d have agreed to the plan disingenuously. Far more like her to take a stand and refuse to move than to stab him in the back after agreeing. Still, it was a risk, and he disliked risks when they concerned someone other than himself. The detective forced his mind to stop musing on possibilities and went upstairs to ready himself for his next task.

This time, he dressed as a day labourer but did not change his face. The speed with which he affected the transformation in his clothing made him wish his final objective could be accomplished with the same ease.

Holmes left a badly-written note on the shop door and walked to the grove in the afternoon. It was a walk of several miles, but he wanted to be unencumbered by horse or wagon. He skirted the perimeter of the grounds, moving around the rows of trees to the place where the office stood, approaching it from behind. He hid to the side of the structure, in the middle of a morass of the wooden crates the harvesters used to store picked fruit, crouching down and looking through a gap in the wooden slats. He waited, listening for any suggestion that the office might be occupied. As his ears adjusted, he caught the clicks of a typewriter and low voices. Thankfully, none of the outdoor labourers came near the building or the pile of boxes, but no one emerged from the office, either. Holmes was used to long periods of waiting; he had trained his mind to remain concentrated on the task at hand, but also to go elsewhere and reason through the facts of the case. His body rested, but it was poised to retreat or repel attack at a moment’s notice.

The sun signaled late afternoon before he detected any movement. The voices he’d heard intermittently came nearer the door, and a young woman emerged, the source of the typing noises he’d heard earlier. He noted from her clothing and hands that she was a secretary, likely only required on occasion, since she hadn’t been in evidence during his previous visits. She walked by Holmes’s lair without looking at it. Typical, he thought. People saw things but didn’t notice them.

Holmes heard the bang of doors opening and closing and things being moved about before the large figure of Bill the foreman finally left the office. He was more vigilant than his predecessor, as if he was worried that unhappy employees might be lurking in the shadows to accost him. He glanced toward the pile of wooden crates, but didn’t appear to see anything amiss and moved on, whistling as he moved further away from the shed.

The building and the area around it were finally silent to Holmes’s ears, but he did not move for some time before creeping out of his hiding place and moving slowly around the shack, staying low to the ground and stopping to take cover behind trees and detritus every few feet. He supposed the shed to be empty now, but he had ascertained, from his knowledge of its layout, that he would not be able to hear anything emanating from Sanchez’s personal office unless he was on the other side of the building, which presented very little opportunity for cover. Holmes waited until the half light of dusk before skulking well under window height across the back of the structure and to the corner where Barnett’s alter-ego conducted his business. The only cover available was a spindly sapling, but Holmes took his chance, knowing that darkness would soon hide him completely. He listened, but no sounds emanated from the dark building, and he began to feel more certain about its emptiness. No one emerged into the growing darkness for another half hour, and when daylight had finally disappeared completely, Holmes waited for his eyes to adjust and then crept to the wall that enclosed the windowless back office. Still no sound.

Confident, the detective quietly made his way to the front door. The flimsy building had no lock on its outside, so he easy pushed it open and slowly made his way inside, his right hand on the gun tucked into his waistband. He moved through the empty building warily, his eyes darting around for any sign of movement, but there was none. Finally, he reached the door of Sanchez’s office, which was locked. The
great man
required more security than his associates, then. Holmes took his picklocks from his pocket and made short work of the silly thing.

Sanchez’s field office was tiny and bare, containing only two chairs and a large desk with a few papers on its wooden surface. Holmes looked through them carefully, making sure to return them to their exact positions, but he found nothing beyond sales receipts and tally sheets that related to the grove’s output. No matter. He hadn’t come to find things out. The real information would be at the main office in town. He turned to go, taking a rolled-up handkerchief out of his left pocket and laying it haphazardly on the desk. The blue ‘IN’ on the corner stood out from the white of the cloth like a calling card.

Holmes made his way back to town in the darkness, folding his arms against the rare chill that had infused the Floridian night after the sun’s departure. He was relieved that the first phase of his plan was complete, and his mind went to Irene. She was perfectly capable of putting her side of the plan into motion, but it was her willingness that concerned him. He wished he could simply call the Fort Myers police, whatever sort of operation that might be, and have Alberto Sanchez arrested for criminal activity; however, he had nothing of the man’s to prove the connection except the letter, which was addressed to his name but did not indicate his level of involvement. Without more, who would believe the word of two strangers, two foreign strangers, no less, that Alberto Sanchez was actually a dishonest London solicitor? The idea seemed farfetched, even to Holmes, who knew that it was true.

Before the detective reentered the shop, he checked the lock for signs of tampering. He doubted anyone else would want to break into the place, but he had no trouble imagining Irene Adler doing so. Seeing nothing unusual, he went inside and walked around the room, looking for evidence that anyone had been inside. He found none, and upon ascending to the upper apartment and finding it similarly untouched, he became convinced that Irene had honoured her agreement and made no attempt to return, and, furthermore, that no one else had entered the premises. Relieved, Holmes readied himself for sleep. He had slept almost none for the past week, and he could feel himself running down. He hated the necessity of sleep, but he was not stupid enough to try to cheat the inevitable, and so, as he took his place in the chair by the window, he allowed his eyes to close.

When Holmes awoke, he ate absently, downing enough of his repugnant canned wares to keep him moving for the time being, and dressed himself in the expensive clothing of Bernard James. He did not, however, leave his face untouched, but altered his features to resemble a slightly older and less angular man. His walk as he left the shop was that of someone shorter than his six feet. Holmes had long before learned various ways to alter the appearance of what could not be changed. Most witnesses, questioned under oath, would have estimated his height as significantly below the reality when he chose to employ these methods aggressively. He would spend the day uncomfortable, but that was a small price to pay for relative anonymity.

Holmes followed the path Irene had trodden the previous day, moving quickly, like a man with an agenda to keep. He did not greet anyone in the street and gave the impression of someone who considered himself far above the section of town in which he found himself. When he moved into the more fashionable sector, he relaxed slightly and nodded to those he passed, making his way to a tall, imposing red brick structure. This part of town seemed more permanent, somehow, as if even the buildings of the rich were less transient than those frequented by the migrant workers who kept the city’s economy moving.

Entering the building, Holmes saw an extremely young, smartly-dressed man at a desk. ‘I understand this to be the office of Mr Alberto Sanchez,’ he said, his voice clipped and impatient.

‘Yes, Sir,’ said the secretary, slightly abashed, ‘but he’s out.’

‘Very well,’ said the detective, feeling fortunate. ‘Will he be in today?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ the young man answered, taken aback at Holmes’s harsh tone. ‘He has appointments here all evening.’ The secretary’s eyes were wide. Holmes hadn’t expected to be quite so fortunate as to learn his object’s plan for the night; the boy’s fear had been oddly helpful. The detective studied his face for a moment before determining that he wasn’t lying.

‘Give him this, please.’ Holmes handed the young man a card, turned, and left the building before the recipient could realise that the object in his hand read ‘Irene Norton.’

Holmes’s next objective was the Keystone Hotel, a small establishment at the end of Park Street. Its small size and white-washed block exterior hardly suggested the grandeur of establishments in larger cities, but it was one of only two hotels offering rentable lodging in town beyond the odd room to let in places like Mrs Stillwell’s. Still, as modest as it might appear, it catered to rich speculators and vacationers, the only people wealthy enough to afford its rooms. As a result, it was one of the few places in the city where Lavinia James would be expected to feel comfortable within her own class.

Holmes positioned himself at a table outside a café across the street and ordered coffee from a smiling girl who seemed delighted at the prospect of a tip at a time in the morning when most had finished breakfast and lunch was far away. With impatient bad temper, the detective requested a newspaper and opened it to shield his face. The
Ft. Myers Press
was hardly a goldmine of journalistic scintillation, but he scanned it anyway, looking for inconsistencies and anomalies. Force of habit drew him to the classified advertisements, as the Americans called them. He read down the list: animals for sale, jobs needed, jobs open, and finally, just above the bottom of the paper:

Birds leave their nests and migrate south. M.

The meaning was obvious. How Mycroft had contrived to plant an advertisement in this particular paper, his brother had no idea, but he mentally scolded himself for not thinking of the likelihood before. He understood what the message indicated; Barnett had journeyed to Florida. He gathered that Mycroft did not yet know that Barnett and Sanchez shared a body in addition to a scheme.

Holmes waited through three cups of decent coffee. He watched an elderly couple leave the hotel and a young boy enter and leave again with a parcel, no doubt bound for the town’s tiny post office. He scanned the area with his eyes, noting the lack of anyone who seemed to have a particular interest in the hotel beyond the usual. He had hoped he might see Irene leave, but his primary object was to reassure himself that no one was tailing her—or himself.

Satisfied, the detective settled his bill and set down the none-too-generous tip that his character of the day would deem appropriate. He stood to leave, but as he did so, Irene emerged from one of the side doors of the Keystone, dressed in an elaborate green frock, her expression one of wide-eyed innocence. The detective abruptly resumed his seat and watched her over his open newspaper, taking care to keep his face in shadow. He was gratified to note that she scanned the area carefully and obviously noticed the presence of a man at the café, though his newspaper and apparent lack of interest appeared to convince her that he was not a threat, and she continued down the street without alarm.

After a few moments, Holmes left his table and newspaper and set off, following the same path as The Woman. He could see her far ahead, walking with the decorously slow pace of a polite lady. He slowed his walk to match hers, trying to look interested in the insipid shop windows he passed. For the moment, he wished Fort Myers were a bigger town so that two people on the street wouldn’t be so conspicuous a sight. He had a close call when Irene turned to look behind her, but he was able to duck into a tiny alley and escape her eye. Holmes approved of her watchfulness. He was glad to know she wouldn’t be taken easily.

Irene’s path terminated at the edge of the Caloosahatchee River, where the River Cottages Hotel stood, another establishment catering to wealthy visitors. Holmes watched her enter the large vestibule and then exit again, following a young girl who led her around the side of the massive brick building. When the two were safely out of sight, Holmes entered.

‘I’m an associate of Ambrose McGregor,’ he told a stout, middle-aged woman who sat behind a counter reading a novel. ‘Please point me to his room.’

‘He’s a popular guest,’ she said. ‘If you wait for the girl to get back, she’ll take you to him, same as she took the lady.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Holmes, putting impatience in his voice. ‘If you give me the number, I’ll go there myself.’

‘Fine,’ said the woman. ‘Number sixteen, that way.’ She jerked her head to the right, and Holmes nodded curtly and left. Once outside, he went back in the direction from which he’d come. Thus far, Irene was doing exactly as he’d asked, and things were progressing in the direction he’d hoped. Variables were never welcome, but he felt somewhat confident that her side of things would proceed along expected lines—as long as she stuck to plan.

The detective’s next stop was the tiny telegraph office that adjoined the post office, where a sleepy elderly man was hunched over an old machine. He grinned broadly when Holmes appeared, apparently delighted at the prospect of an actual customer with a message to send. The man turned out to be a surprisingly quick and able operator, fortunately for him, since it meant he escaped the ire of the impatient businessman Holmes portrayed. The detective sent a message that he hoped would reach Mycroft in good time.