The Detective and the Woman (7 page)

Our mutual friends are one not two
STOP
S
STOP

After sending his telegram, Holmes made the long walk back to Sloane’s General Store and transformed himself back into Tom Perkins. He took his place behind the counter, waiting, watching the road, and thinking.

Chapter 11: Irene

I remained irritated at Holmes for the amount of time it took me to hail a cab, ride to the Keystone Hotel, and engage a room. Once I saw the accommodations, my annoyance evaporated almost miraculously. I hadn’t realised, until I saw the comfortable bed with clean white sheets, the immaculate bureau, and modern plumbing, how much the accommodations at Mrs Stillwell’s less-than-pristine boardinghouse and the apartment above Sloane’s General Store had begun to wear on me. I was willing to endure a great deal to achieve a goal, but I certainly didn’t glory in grime and dirt. Holmes didn’t like filth any more than I did, but once on a case, his mind was solely taken up with his purpose. I, on the other hand, had plenty of room to think extraneous thoughts about the vermin that might be crawling on my person while I slept. I was glad for the relief of cleanliness.

I waited a few moments in order to give the impression of fragile travel weariness and then rang for stationery. Lavinia James had no calling cards, of course, but I would make do with notepaper supplied by the hotel. I wrote first to Mina Edison and then to Tootie McGregor, stressing my delicate feelings of embarrassment at the brief disappearance of myself and my husband and explaining my current position of loneliness in an unfamiliar city. When I’d finished, I almost believed my own pathos.

The hotel supplied a porter, a fast-moving boy by the name of Simon, who was only too pleased to run an errand for an exorbitant price up front and the promise of the same when he returned an answer. I sent him to Seminole Lodge with both letters, anticipating that Mina would make sure her friend received the one intended for her, wherever Tootie might be. I was willing to perform detective work of my own if this attempt failed, but I saw no reason to take the roundabout way when the direct one would most likely suffice.

As I waited, I rested on an old grey brocade divan by the window and tried to wrap my mind around Holmes’s plan. I knew he would take care of Barnett—I trusted him enough to believe that he would not let me be endangered by recogntion, but I couldn’t think of a good reason for Lavinia James’s reemergence, and my lack of understanding irritated me. Did Holmes also have plans for the inventor and his associates? I wondered, and I mused, and I could not reach an answer.

Thankfully, Simon quickly returned with two notes in tow. The feminine compassion of Tootie and Mina had not failed me. In fact, Tootie invited me to call on her and Ambrose at their suite in the River Cottages Hotel the next day, and Mina offered her home for the following evening. Holmes would be pleased, I thought, if he knew.

The rest of the afternoon and evening, I did something I had not done for some time—I read a novel, taken from the recesses of my trunk. It was about a lost soldier, a young detective, a flat, a German word scraped on a wall, and the colour red. I thought of Holmes, and I thought of Dr Watson and what I knew of them, and I smiled to myself. Most people thought the Holmes of reality was somehow less than the one they read about—less sharp, less brilliant, less exacting. The few who knew him well realised that he was actually more.

I slept well, and the morning found me ready to continue my half of the investigation, not that I understood what it was I was actually meant to be accomplishing. With a clear, rested mind, I could almost imagine that Holmes had good reasons for what he’d asked me to do, reasons beyond ridding himself of my presence.

I dressed in dainty green ruffles, all the better to appear as a timid and bereft wife for my visit, and ordered a vast breakfast. I derived a small amount of satisfaction from the notion that wherever Holmes might be, he certainly wouldn’t be as comfortable or eating as well as I was. Sacrificing one’s self for a case is well and good, but there’s nothing wrong with a little enjoyment, one fact of which Holmes seemed sadly ignorant. I considered, though, as I speared an egg yolk and watched the decadent liquid spread, that enjoyment is a most subjective thing.

I waited until midmorning before asking the porter the way to the River Cottages and setting out on my way. I considered a cab, but the weather was too fine, and I fancied a walk to the river. For the first time since I had agreed to help Holmes, I took the gun from my trunk and tucked it into my handbag, imagining Lavinia’s horror at such a thing. Nevertheless, it made Irene Adler feel secure.

The sun was bright as I made my way outside and swept the area with my eyes. I noticed a businessman engrossed in a newspaper at a café across the street, but otherwise, the street was clear. As I walked, I checked for followers a few times, but found no one. Still, I kept my hand on my bag, ready to retrieve my weapon if needed. I couldn’t entirely shake the nagging fear that Sanchez—Barnett—had recognised me as his client during our previous interaction.

I reached the River Cottages in good time and was shown to the McGregors’ vast suite, which overlooked the Caloosahatchee River. Tootie admitted me herself with a smothering embrace, though I noticed that she had a maid with her, a tall, middle-aged woman who looked as if she might be near-equal in determination to her employer. Ambrose stood up from a chair as I entered and greeted me gravely and politely. His eyes were curious and insistent, and I knew that I was not likely to escape an explanation. I considered trying to attach myself to his wife to avoid a private encounter, but considering how long Ambrose had lived with her, I didn’t doubt he would have plenty of ways to get around her insistence. I decided to let things unfold as they would.

‘My dear, you look positively famished,’ said Tootie, as soon as I was seated on a plush chair. ‘Look at her, Ambrose. She’s wasted away since we saw her.’ I managed not to smile at the thought that it had been a mere few days since the Edisons’ dinner. I was gratified at the thought that I looked slightly unwell. I had chosen the particular shade of green I was wearing because it made my fair complexion look even paler than usual. All the better for Lavinia to appear frail. Tootie called for a meal, which turned out to be a somewhat appalling array of baked beets, fried artichokes, greasy beef, and canned pineapple. My long walk had made me slightly hungry, but I was relieved that the decorous Mrs James would never have been expected to eat very much at a time. I could pick at the fare without appearing impolite.

‘Now,’ said my hostess, spearing an overcooked beet with great force, ‘tell us what happened to your Mr James. I sent a note to your boardinghouse and was told that the two of you had simply vanished. It was quite shocking, my dear! Quite shocking!’

‘I apologise,’ I said weakly, covering my face with my hand as if I were somewhere near tears. Tootie found a large yellow handkerchief somewhere on her person and handed it to me.

‘I don’t blame you, dear, but I’m terribly curious,’ she continued. I thought quickly. I had considered a few different explanations I might use, but had ultimately decided to let the inspiration of the moment guide me.

‘It was very surprising,’ I began, which was true, since whatever I was about to say would certainly be a surprise to myself. ‘The morning after we left the Edisons, we received a telegram that my husband’s London partner had fallen ill, a man named Smith, who has been in business with him for many years. As a result, Bernard was needed right away so that the directorship of the English branch of the company would not be left vacant.’ I said some of this as if I were slightly confused, the way a business-ignorant Lavinia might be.

‘What sort of business is your husband in? I’m afraid I didn’t catch it the other night,’ Ambrose put in quietly. I resisted the impulse to react, wondering what he was trying to accomplish.

‘Canning,’ I said. ‘He was hoping citrus might be a
helpful avenue of expansion
, as he likes to say. That’s why I’m still here.’ I turned to Tootie, smiling. ‘He was so upset about his partner that he was ready for us both to go home, but he decided after thinking about it that I should remain here for the time being, in the hope that he will be able to return.’

‘All by yourself!’ Tootie shook her head, ‘without even a companion! Well, don’t worry. Mina and I will take good care of you. Even Marion seemed to like you, and she’s usually difficult to impress.’ I smiled thankfully.

‘I’m ever so grateful, Mrs McGregor.’

‘Don’t worry, dear. That man is so delighted with you that he won’t be able to stay away. And who could blame him?’ Holmes’s face came into my mind, and I had to exert great effort to keep from laughing. The detective hadn’t warned me of the odd moments during a case when something so strange or humourous happens that staying in character is an almost superhuman skill. Maybe he didn’t find it so.

I spent another hour with the McGregors, admiring their river view and listening to Tootie’s plans for them to purchase property and build a home of their own in town. Finally, she declared that I looked weary (after purposeful yawning and dullness on my part) and that I must rest until the evening’s dinner engagement. She said that she would hire a cab, but I said that I would prefer the fresh air. I had not anticipated that Ambrose McGregor would insist on accompanying me, though I wasn’t surprised. His wife beamed and sent me off with a kiss.

Once we had cleared the hotel grounds, Ambrose spoke. ‘You’re a very good liar, Mrs James—Holmes, I mean.’ I fought the automatic urge to say
thank you
, as any polite American child is raised to reply when praised, but he hardly meant it as a compliment.

‘First, Mr McGregor, I didn’t intend to lie to you at dinner. I planned to meet with you and explain, but unforeseen complications beyond my control arose that required my husband and me to disappear briefly.’

‘Yes,’ he said drily.

‘As you said, my husband is not Bernard James, but Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. We came here to investigate a case that concerns interests both here and in England, but he was called back by developments there. I will remain here until he returns, learning whatever I can.’

‘Are you investigating my family or anyone else who was present at the Edisons’ that night?’ The direct question was in keeping with the man’s direct nature, and it did not shock me. I was relieved to be able to answer honestly.

‘No, we are not. Our investigation concerns others. I wish I could tell you who they are, but I must keep my husband’s confidence.’ The last bit was half true. I wished I could trust him with the details of the case. At the same time, his very impression of solid respectability made me doubt him. Had he truly been the chance receiver of a comment by Sanchez about Holmes’s identity, or did he play a larger part? I wished Holmes were with me, hearing and seeing what I encountered so that he could give his opinion. I disliked coincidences as much as he.

Ambrose nodded calmly. ‘I suppose I have to accept that.’ I felt sorry for the man I hoped he was. As we approached the entrance to the Keystone Hotel, he turned to me. ‘I have not—Mrs Holmes, I consider myself a gentleman, and it has never been my habit to importune respectable ladies. If you and your husband are on the side of right, then please accept my apologies.’

The only repayment I could give his kindness was my widest smile, but, without being ridiculous, I must admit that men usually seemed to find it a plentiful enough reward. He went on his way, and I returned to my room to make sense of things using the hotel’s cheap stationery and my fountain pen to write down my thoughts.

Chapter 12: Holmes

Number 14 Charles Avenue. Holmes studied the rudimentary map of the city that the cheerful clerk of the town’s one real general store had sold him just before closing. While he thought, he smoked a cheap cigarette in a repugnant alley where many others had obviously done the same, given the amount of refuse that littered the ground and the stale smell than lingered in the air. The map showed that he was in the right part of the city for the address he sought, and he didn’t want to make his taxed feet walk all the way back to Sloane’s to wait for dark. In the guise of Tom Perkins, he was below most people’s notice, and he was able to move closer and closer to his object without attracting attention.

Finally, when the Florida night was covered in thick, humid darkness, he took the last steps to Charles Avenue, a street lined with opulent mansions, some of them even grander than the Edisons’ home. He crept through a few well-kept lawns and skirted two that showed signs of having dogs somewhere on the premises. Number 14 wasn’t vastly different from the others. It had the same appearance of new money, whitewash, and pride built into its wide porch and numerous windows. Holmes walked around it silently, ascertaining that the first floor was dark and silent while the second showed signs of occupants who were awake and active. All the better for his purposes. He stepped silently toward the front porch, hunching over to make himself as short as possible. When he reached it, he took a box of ladies’ face powder out of his pocket and dropped it willy-nilly on the porch floor. Not waiting to see if the sound had roused anyone, he ran back to the road and didn’t slacken his pace until he was far away.

Holmes again forced his weary feet to carry him to the Keystone Hotel. No one was around its outside, so he went to the door from which Irene had emerged during the day, a door into one of the large ground-floor suites. He listened, but he could hear nothing. It was too late for her to be at dinner, but he hadn’t expected her to be asleep, either. He wanted to be unsuspicious, to trust that Barnett had conducted meetings in the guise of Sanchez all evening and taken no time for a society dinner party, but he couldn’t silence the worry in his mind.

Concerned, Holmes went into the front entrance. A young porter, not more than fifteen at the oldest, sat behind the desk, playing cards. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, taking in the unpleasant visage and attire of Tom Perkins.

‘Has Mrs James come in?’ Holmes asked in an ingratiating tone.

‘Why would I tell you that?’ asked the lad, staring belligerently.

‘Because of this,’ Holmes spoke in his normal tone and produced a group of coins whose combined value was more than a porter would be likely to make in a week. The boy’s eyes bulged.

‘No harm, I guess,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘She ain’t come in anyhow.’

Holmes wished the boy were lying, but the detective could tell he was sincere. He handed him the coins. ‘Now,’ he said, still in his own voice, ‘if you tell anyone else where the lady is, I’ll know about it, and you won’t get off so easily.’ The boy looked nervous, but Holmes turned tail and left. Once outside, he ran.

The detective didn’t know the last time he’d done so much legwork in one day, but he didn’t care. He had one place in mind, and if that failed, his case would be about more than identity and theft; it would be about finding a missing woman.
Just until tomorrow
he thought angrily. Today was the day—the only day—the only time he’d had to leave things to move as they would. He hadn’t believed the man would act so quickly. Mistakes—he’d made them before, but not often. Had he been incorrect now in thinking he had time?

Holmes’s weary body finally carried him to Sloane’s General Store. With sinking heart, he looked at the lock and found it intact. Cursing his own faith, he took out his key to open the door and give himself one last chance not to be entirely wrong. He nearly called out when the door opened of its own accord. The Woman stood on the other side, dressed in a purple gown. ‘Good evening, Mr Holmes,’ she said, opening it wide to admit him. His fear threatened to turn into wrath for a moment, but logic subsumed it. He had expected this, had known that no matter what he said, she was likely to return. Relief, too, had its place—larger, perhaps, than he had anticipated.

‘I’m sorry,’ were the next characteristically blunt words out of her mouth. ‘I needed to talk to you, and I didn’t know what else to do.’ As she had done once before, she went behind the counter and retrieved the detective’s pipe, filling and lighting it before handing it to him.

‘I’m entirely unsurprised,’ said Holmes after a few drags of his pipe, forcing himself not to betray his previous worry. ‘What is it you wish to tell me?’ Irene sat on the edge of the counter, not seeming to care what impression her presence might give to outsiders, her dress strangely out of place among the grimy wares.

‘I think Ambrose McGregor might be in league with Sanchez,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure his knowledge is as coincidental as we thought.’

‘What did he say?’ asked the detective calmly. Irene gave a detailed account of her meeting with the man, ending with a restatement of her questions about his possible motives.

‘Let us consider,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘If he is part of the plot, why would he make a point of speaking to you? Furthermore, why would he emphasise that he knows me?’

‘To try to discover your whereabouts for his accomplice?’ Irene asked. Holmes opened his eyes and looked at The Woman.

‘A fair question,’ he said. ‘I’ll grant you that it’s not entirely possible to rule him out. Still, if he had designs on you, he had a perfect opportunity to act on them.’

‘That I grant you,’ said Irene quickly, ‘but if your brother—or even you yourself is the object, then his actions make more sense.’

Holmes did not tell her what he suspected. He still believed, even after the evening’s worry, that she must not know, for fear that she would unwittingly do something to make the entire plan come crashing down.

‘I take it,’ he said after a while, ‘that your dinner with the Edisons was uneventful, since you haven’t mentioned it.’

‘Very,’ she said simply. ‘It was only a family party with me and the McGregors as additions. Ambrose didn’t say a word to me the whole evening.’

‘I see,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘You may be interested to know that the case is progressing exactly as it should. Until this unexpected change of plan, you had played your part admirably.’

Irene looked over at him as if she’d like very much to hit him. ‘How dare you?’ she said, getting up and standing in front of the counter to face him. ‘I know what your clients feel like now, how manipulated, like chess pieces. I don’t know how they stand it.’

‘My clients do as I wish because they trust the outcome,’ Holmes said drily.

‘Well, pity I know you’re not infallible then,’ she threw back, her eyes on fire. ‘You give me no way to contact you, force me into a character that leaves me vulnerable to recognition, and now—you have the gall to complain that I’ve
deviated from plan
.’

Holmes wondered how he’d arrived here, to a point at which he had a partner who was intrinsic to the case but impossible at the same time. Watson trusted him, almost too much sometimes; he was brave, but his bravery was rarely creative. He served the plan, whatever it was. The clients, too, almost always followed whatever parts of the plan he gave them, out of desperation and trust. Even the police grudgingly came around to his way after a while. Lestrade had been proven wrong too many times.

The Woman was different. She had beaten him, and it made something different between them. She had seen his cracks, and she could not see him uncritically. Against the odds, she seemed to have mustered some sort of trust in him over the previous days, but that appeared to have evaporated in the midst of her worry over Ambrose McGregor.

Irene turned her back to the detective, her arms folded. ‘Tell me why I can’t know, Holmes,’ she said from between clenched teeth. ‘Make me believe you.’

‘I can’t,’ he said simply. ‘I have a plan, and I believe it will succeed. I can guarantee you my best efforts and my protection, but as you know too well, I cannot guarantee perfection. There was a time when I was very young that I thought myself invincible, but that was a long time ago. You must make your choice based on what you know of the man I am—based on logic.’

After a very long time, Irene turned slowly and faced him. ‘I wish I didn’t trust you,’ she said, then turned and walked out of the store.

She didn’t know that moments after she left, the bone-weary detective followed her. She didn’t see him mirror her steps all the way to the Keystone Hotel, and she was ignorant of the vigil he kept while she slept.

This phase of the plan was new. The Woman had no idea that the day of separation was over, and now Sherlock Holmes was determined not to let Irene Adler out of his sight. He sat in an empty lot beside the hotel, his arms propped on his knees, his body finally at rest. No one was out so late at night in the fashionable part of town, and he had only insects for company. He welcomed the physical rest, but he had no desire for sleep. He was beyond that now and at the point in the case that made his blood rush and his body cease to desire food or sleep. All he craved was the end, the solution. Other things receded, even his conversation with Irene. He recognised the near-disaster her refusal to help him further would have caused, but he did not dwell on it. She had made the right decision, and now it was for the man, the villain of the piece, to make his move.

Holmes thought, for a moment, of Watson, of how much the doctor would have enjoyed the waiting and the hunt. John had always been a soldier, and he always would be. They’d have sat together under the stars, not speaking, both alert, and he’d have felt the confidence of having a brother-in-arms.

But The Woman was inside. Walls separated them, but not purpose. She had agreed, and Holmes had seen the resolve twisted inside her anger. She would play her part, and she would play it well. She was no brother, but she was enough.