The Detective and the Woman (8 page)

Chapter 13: Irene

I hated everything about my room. I hated the heavy tan drapes, the ugly floral wallpaper, the insipid lace coverlet. Everything seemed different now. I lay down on the bed in my purple gown and closed my eyes, but my thoughts were far too tumultuous for sleep. The most infuriating thing was that I had made the right decision, and I knew it. For savage amusement, I tried to imagine stolid Dr Watson railing angrily at Holmes for the part he’d been told to play in a particular case, but I couldn’t manage it. Watson trusted him too much.

And so did I, irritatingly. I trusted him the way I had once trusted Godfrey. That was different, though. I had trusted Godfrey without really knowing him, staking my claim on a personality and a reputation, but not on my own knowledge and experience with the man. My trust in Holmes was just the opposite sort. What name and reputation had failed to do, my experiences with him had accomplished. Now that I knew him, I could not fail to trust him. Once again, I had entrusted a part of myself to a man, and that was something I had promised myself never to do again. But it was the right decision, the inescapable right decision. I finally fell asleep with my mind going around and around in circles, berating me on one hand and soothing me on the other.

The next morning, I awoke at peace, as if I had crossed some sort of barrier. I was committed, but I wasn’t stupid. I took my handgun from under my pillow and put it back into my bag. It would accompany me wherever I went.

A few minutes after I finished breakfast, Marion Edison came to call. I received her in the hotel’s main sitting room, wondering, when I saw her pale face, what secrets she might have, particularly about the German she had met. I doubted they concerned Holmes and me, but I was unwilling to ignore any anomaly.

‘Good morning, Mrs James,’ Marion said a little shyly as she joined me.

‘Please call me Lavinia,’ I answered, smiling and holding out my hand. She took it, and I noticed that she was strong.

‘Would you walk with me?’ she asked after a moment.

‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘I’m new in town. Perhaps you can show me what I should see.’ I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a walk with another young woman, and I found it ironic that the case was what caused me to do so now.

For a long time, we talked about nothing in particular. She asked about London fashions and I about American ones, we laughed at a duck crossing the street, and finally we retraced our steps back to the café across from my hotel, thirsty and ready for a rest.

‘I hope my husband is well,’ I said as we sipped our tea.

‘You must miss him,’ said Marion quietly.

‘I do,’ I answered, ‘very much.’ I felt sorry for deceiving the girl so blatantly, but I hoped to draw her out by revealing personal feelings. Another part of my brain tried to remind me that if I had been a different kind of wife with a different kind of husband, I also might have felt those same feelings when I thought of Godfrey Norton, but I pushed it away.

‘I—have someone to miss, too,’ said Marion, hesitating.

‘Oh?’ I said noncommittally, thinking I might know something of what she was about to say.

‘Last year, I took a trip to Europe with my aunt. The trip was difficult. I got smallpox, and the doctor thought I might even die.’ She looked at me with the wide-eyed stare of a child who could not yet fathom the finality of her own death. ‘But,’ she continued, leaning forward with intense excitement, ‘I met
him
.’ I felt a surge of empathy. Some things are universal.

‘His name is Karl Oeser, and he’s a lieutenant in the German army.’ I nodded and tried to look surprised. Marion lowered her voice, ‘He’s—come here, and I don’t know how to tell my father and Mina. My aunt never knew how much we cared for each other.’

I tried to think of what Lavinia James would say to this, finally settling on, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to tell them some time,’ about which Lavinia and Irene could safely agree.

‘I know,’ said Marion, back to her usual directness. ‘That’s why I’ve told you first, to practise.’ I smiled encouragingly, and she continued. ‘I think he’s going to ask me to marry him.’

‘I hope you’ll be very happy,’ I said, and meant it.

I finished my tea, feeling a sense of satisfaction at having one mystery cleared up. As Holmes and I had both suspected, Marion’s secret was a private one. It was a strange thing, I thought, to unravel someone’s personal story in the midst of the danger and uncertainty of a case. There was something wrong about it, almost, as if people’s personal lives should be spared the magnifying glass of detection, but it didn’t work that way. As I knew from experience, private lives were often exactly where mysteries lay, and truth usually only emerged after invasive scrutiny.

Marion’s enthusiastic thanks and impulsive kiss on my cheek as she left me at the entrance to the hotel reminded me that not everyone minded being found out. She was radiant in the knowledge that I knew her secret, and I couldn’t help but hope that she would not regret her choice.

When I entered the Keystone once again, I was met by a porter with a note from Tootie McGregor, asking me to accompany her and her husband to the theatre that night. I was not excited at the prospect of meeting Ambrose again, but I could think of no way to refuse. I sent back my acceptance, glad that a theatre would, at least, provide little room for private encounters.

With the prospect of nothing to do until evening staring me down and no desire to put myself in needless danger by wandering around outside, I ran a bath in the gold-footed tub in my suite’s opulent washroom and hung one of my finest dresses to be unwrinkled by the steam. I sat on the white tile floor while the tub filled, watching fog cover the mirror and wondering what Holmes was doing. My mind turned to Barnett, and I shuddered at the thought of the moment I’d realised he was standing in front of me as Alberto Sanchez. I hadn’t known I could be brave enough to stay silent when I had so much fear. How often did Holmes feel afraid, I wondered, during the long nights and dangerous days? I realised then that I’d never thought of him as brave because he never showed his fear.

I luxuriated in the bathwater for ages. I had no idea how long I’d be Lavinia James, so I was determined to enjoy her luxury as long as I could. It was refreshing to be alone, with no maids and no husband, free from being Irene Adler, even. The case tugged at the back of my mind, but at the same time I felt curiously light, as if the bonds that had tied me down were finally loosening. My own decisions had gotten me where I was—no one forcing or pushing me, not even Holmes. As much as he his reticence had angered me, he had left my choices in my hands. There might be concealment between us—I could not forget that I had failed to tell him everything at first—but there was no underestimation or manipulation. We were equals in The Game.

As I stepped out of the water, I was determined. I put on my black silk gown and felt it glide over me like confidence. I would be Lavinia James tonight, demure and sweet, but underneath, Irene Adler would watch and wait, never knowing when the part I didn’t understand would turn to something more, when the thin form and bright eyes of the detective would ask, and I would be swept away to become someone new. As I picked up my bag, the pistol in its depths felt natural, an important part of my ensemble.

The McGregors came for me in their carriage at half past six, and Ambrose helped me inside, his face blank. In contrast, his wife was an explosion of life in a red gown that accented the red in her cheeks and complemented her excitement. She eagerly seized my hand and declared her joy at the prospect of seeing
Hedda Gabler
, a reportedly shocking play by Henrick Ibsen, a Norwegian with extremely liberal views.

‘My goodness,’ she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, ‘I’ve heard the poor heroine shoots herself, right on stage! Mrs Warren does the part beautifully, they say.’ I didn’t tell her that I had seen many of Ibsen’s plays and knew of this one, since I couldn’t imagine that Lavinia James would care about such things. Ambrose sat across from us, staring at the floor. His wife seemed used to his taciturn ways and didn’t mind filling up the space with her own words, for which I was grateful.

The theatre was one of the grander buildings in Fort Myers, a neoclassical edifice with columns, which served as town hall, meeting place for Freemasons and other civic clubs, and, as it would this night, a theatre for travelling companies. Society considered acting a less-than-respectable profession, but in Fort Myers, as everywhere, very few seemed to mind enjoying its product, and we were joined by many others as we entered the vaulted vestibule.

Tootie knew everyone and was quick to greet young and old and to introduce me as her friend. I gave out many a simplistic smile, all the while watching for Barnett, anyone else who looked as though they might recognise me as Irene Adler, and Ambrose McGregor, of whom I did not want to lose sight. Strangely, my different purposes made me calm rather than agitated, as if they formed the steps to my own mental dance of which I was leader. A step here, and I clasped the hand of a woman Tootie introduced as Mrs Johnson. A step there, and I ruled out a man with Sanchez’s hair but someone else’s face. A twist to the right, and I caught Ambrose McGregor in the corner of my eye, engaged in conversation with a man I didn’t recognise.

Was this what Holmes felt, I wondered? The intense focus, the knowledge of one’s purpose and task, the surge of adrenaline that came with danger, and the answering calm of total awareness—I knew them all, and I began to believe things might end well.

We finally took our seats in the fourth row, and I stared at the red plush curtain, thinking of the many times I had been on the other side, waiting to be revealed to audiences in countless theatres. I didn’t know what I would do after the case was over and Holmes and I had parted, but I saw now with absolute clarity that I would never again sing to please a theatre crowd. Once, I had left singing to start a new life, but the tragedy of my marriage had caused me to seek solace in what I knew. After the case, I would need it no longer.

I leaned back in my seat and flicked my fan up and down in front of my face, welcoming the mental escape the play would bring. As the lights dimmed, anticipation washed over the audience like the tide coming in, and I could hear Tootie take a sharp breath beside me. Lavinia James watched the stage, to all appearances as excited as everyone else, but Irene Adler kept her hand on her bag, ready to produce her pistol at a moment’s notice.

Chapter 14: Holmes

A tall, well-dressed man slipped into the theatre just before
Hedda Gabler
began. He allowed an usher to hurry him to a seat in the back row, but as soon as the man had gone, he got up quietly and slipped into a back corner. Sherlock Holmes stood in the darkness, his black suit blending into the shadows. This night, he firmly believed, was when the man would make his move.

For several moments, Holmes kept his eyes on The Woman’s dark head. Her body was relaxed, but he could tell by the position of her arm that her hand was clutching something. Knowing Irene, he thought, it was most likely a weapon. He applauded her vigilance, but not the presence of a complication. With aversion, he realised he would have to rob her himself, provided Barnett gave him time. He was repulsed at the idea of betraying a partner, but the idea of a plan gone wrong was even more unthinkable.

Holmes enjoyed the first act. He appreciated Ibsen; the man was like a detective who had solved a case and then rewritten it with all the hidden motivations and human frailties on the surface instead of buried the way they usually were. Detection would be far easier, thought Holmes, if people behaved so transparently in real life. He ducked into a seat as the audience clapped for Act I and the lights rose.

A local tenor by the name of Steven Bartholomew shuffled to the stage to entertain in the interim, looking nervous. Holmes felt a surge of something surreal as the man’s accompaniment began and he tentatively bleated out his first notes. The love song sounded nothing like it had in the mouth of Irene Adler, but Holmes’s mind cast him back to the night when he had first seen her again, divine in violet, staring him down with every perfect note.

He made his mind return to the present, forcing himself to focus against distraction. A supposed plot against Miss A had brought him here, and he would not let himself lose concentration until the case was complete. Besides, Steven Bartholomew was one of the worst singers Holmes had ever heard.

Polite applause for the man’s unfortunate effort heralded the dimming of the lights for Act II. Once again, the detective quietly slipped from his seat and took his place in the back corner of the auditorium, his eyes looking up and down each row to discern any changes. There were none. The same audience of well-to-do Floridians stared straight ahead, waiting to witness Hedda Gabler’s ever-crumbling life played out in front of them.

As the second act drew to a close, Holmes waited for the intermission, his nerves taut. He sat again, waiting through a short speech by a member of the Fort Myers Salvation Army, then sprang to life as soon as the audience was dismissed.

Holmes’s eyes found Irene in a few seconds, in the middle of a group of people pressing toward the door. He stayed well to the edge of the crowd, waiting for most of the theatregoers to move into the hall before he followed, but he did not allow Irene to pass out of his line of sight. Once in the vestibule, Holmes kept to the edges of the room and watched as Tootie purchased refreshments for herself, her husband, and her guest. He smiled to himself as Irene was plied with a drink that he could see she didn’t want. Finally, Tootie shepherded her charge back toward the theatre, and Holmes prepared to make his move. The detective had made himself up to look slightly dissipated and beyond his own age, but he didn’t want to risk Irene’s notice through a direct confrontation. He would have to be quick.

Using the press of people to hide him, he made his way to a drink seller and purchased a glass of wine. Slowly, he moved closer and closer behind Irene, until only a few people separated him from The Woman and her companions. In a frantic split second, Holmes dropped the entirety of his wine on a large man in front of him, then ducked down in the midst of the confusion and extracted the pistol from Irene’s handbag while she tried to calm Tootie, who was in danger of panicking. He couldn’t tell if Irene had noticed the theft, but he knew she hadn’t seen him. Even if she desired to report the loss, how would she explain her reasons for carrying a pistol? It wasn’t the most elegant operation Holmes had ever carried out, but it had accomplished its purpose. He followed the crowd back inside the theatre and sat down, thankful for the dimming of the lights a moment later.

Holmes once again took his place in the shadows, but this time, he found the difference for which he had been watching. He counted the number of people in each row and found one extra in the last seat of the sixth, a man with dark hair—hair the colour of Alberto Sanchez’s dyed locks. Holmes’s pulse quickened as he studied the man in the darkness, trying to be sure. If he didn’t plan to move that night, Holmes thought, then he was a greater fool than the detective supposed. The end of Act III brought back the unfortunate tenor, and Holmes sat again, wishing the play would end. He couldn’t imagine Barnett risking a panic in the theatre, so he doubted anything would happen before the final curtain. The last act was torture for the detective, his mind pushing forward to whatever might be coming. He watched Irene, surprised at the calmness in her demeanor in spite of the anxiety she must be feeling after the discovery of her loss. He had done what he knew to be necessary, but he despised the thought that he had caused her to be afraid. For a split second, he questioned himself and wondered if he should have disclosed the entirety of his intentions to her, but just as quickly he reminded himself that the plan depended on her not knowing. The fact that she might not agree once the operation was over had occurred to him, but it had no effect on his resolve.

Finally, the curtain closed after the suicide of the protagonist, and the stunned audience waited a few seconds before breaking into enthusiastic applause. As the lights rose and the cast members took their bows, the detective made his way to the entrance and waited unobtrusively until the attendees began to drift out, watching for horses and carriages to take them home.

Alberto Sanchez exited before the McGregors, and Holmes let him pass out of his line of vision and waited instead for Ambrose, Tootie and Irene, who were near the back of the departing crowd. Once again, he stayed at the edge of the press of people, watching and waiting, keeping pace with The Woman though physically separated from her. He had to be careful; Irene’s watchful eyes were everywhere, and he could clearly see how ill-at-ease she was. To anyone else, she simply seemed agitated by the crowd, but he knew her thoughts were much darker.

Holmes was poised in the limbo of the moment, knowing that something was about to occur to change everything, but unsure exactly where or exactly how it would take place. He would have given a great deal to stop it before it began, but that would have broken the deal he’d made with himself. He wouldn’t jeopardise the case because he was afraid for the lady, and he couldn’t afford to put her in more danger later by eliminating the current peril. He felt as if his hands were tied, and she looked as if she anticipated the worst. He hated the increasingly desperate confusion he could see on her face. Irene Adler was meant to be strong. Irene Adler was meant to be brave. Irene Adler wasn’t meant to look like a lost little girl.

Finally, the detective followed the thinning crowd outside. He stepped behind a white pillar and watched as Irene and her hosts stood on the steps of the hall and waited for their carriage. Irene stayed close to Tootie, as if she thought the older woman’s presence might offer some protection.

The McGregors’ carriage was one of the last to arrive, and Holmes watched as Ambrose helped his wife and The Woman inside before getting in himself. Was it possible, then, that he had misjudged Barnett’s intentions? Suddenly, as the carriage left, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s thick leather gloves. Bill the foreman had been wearing those gloves the night Holmes had seen him leave work.

The detective sprang into action, no longer caring if the remaining theatregoers saw him. He raced across the street where a horse and cart waited for him, threw himself onto it, and began to drive. He followed the McGregors’ carriage, and so did several others carrying oblivious members of the crowd back to their homes. Bill could not afford to gallop, and neither could Holmes. After a maddeningly sedate few minutes, the other carriages began to pull off into side streets, and Holmes became concerned that he might have to change course quickly to avoid having his purpose detected.

Holmes’s concern turned to relief when it became apparent that the last two carriages between him and the McGregors had longer journeys than the others. He hung back, and as the four vehicles traveled further and further, he realised Barnett was doing exactly as he’d expected. One of the other two carriages finally turned onto a dirt road, and Holmes quietly followed its driver into the night.

In a few short minutes, the detective had doubled back and taken a totally different route out of town, into the long dark where the roads were hardly marked. As soon as he found himself alone, he urged the horse forward, as fast as it would go. He rode through the night, passing trees and hearing hooves beat the sandy ground, with no thought but his destination, cursing the necessity of taking the roundabout way. Thankfully, the horse was strong, and it kept up the fierce gallop that matched the pounding of the detective’s heart.

He wondered if Irene realised what was happening to her. Of course she must, but she would be calm. The Woman wouldn’t let her fear destroy her judgement. She would fight back, but Holmes didn’t believe she would succeed, and as perverse as that thought felt as it came to him, he knew that she must not, or the plan would be incomplete. Three to two might be decent odds, but Holmes had seen the foreman’s musculature and knew that he was strong, and while Barnett’s physical strength was unknown, he would undoubtedly be carrying a gun to help him force obedience from his unwilling captives. Unless Tootie or Ambrose McGregor possessed unexpected skill, Holmes had little doubt the three would remain subdued by Barnett and Bill.

It felt all wrong somehow, to be on a different road than the one carrying the object of his concern and to be wishing that she and her companions would be held hostage instead of finding their way out of an impossible situation. He hoped that Barnett had planned well. He needed the man’s plan to succeed partially before his could be fully effective.

After a long time, Holmes turned his horse onto a dirt road and followed it beyond a group of trees. He stopped and looked around, carefully seeking any sign of the presence of another human being, but no one else was present and no sounds could be heard except the calls of crickets and tree frogs. The detective alighted from his cart and went toward an unlocked door, ready for the next phase of the plan to commence. He took his place and waited, hoping devoutly that nothing had gone wrong along the way.

Holmes crouched, his every sense at the highest possible level of alertness, his mind filled with the calm that always came when a case was about to reach its climax. Watson never understood that calm, but it was the calm of a man waiting for events to unfold the way he’d pictured them and thinking through every possible contingency in order to avert it. After what felt like ages, he heard voices.