The Private Wife of Sherlock Holmes (Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes novella)

IRENE ADLER ADVENTURES

Good Night, Mr. Holmes

The Adventuress (
formerly
Good Morning, Irene)

A Soul of Steel (
formerly
Irene at Large)

Another Scandal in
Bohemia
(
formerly
Irene’s Last Waltz)

Chapel Noir

Castle Rouge

Femme Fatale

Spider Dance

Praise for Carole Nelson Douglas

“The
woman is back! The dazzling Irene Adler returns to match wits with Sherlock Holmes himself in
Douglas
’s newest tour de force. . .
Douglas
has created an enduring treasure for connoisseurs of fine fiction.”

—Melinda Helfer,
RT Book Reviews

~

“Irene Adler justly deserves the spotlight Carole Nelson Douglas shines on her.”

—Amazon.com

~

“Carole Nelson Douglas’s feeling for the milieu of later Victorian London is spot on and her dialogue crackles like Guy Fawkes’ Day. Brava!”—
Loren D. Estleman

~

“Drenched in atmosphere, rich in historical detail, and driven by the passions of
Douglas
’s fascinating, intriguing characters. Welcome back, Irene!”—
Jayne Ann Krentz

~

“A rollicking and complex story brimming with Victorian atmosphere and details.”—
Publishers Weekly

~

“To capture the attention of the misogynistic and asexual Mr. Holmes, a woman would need to be quite remarkable, and
Douglas
’s Irene is beyond remarkable.”—
Mostly Murder

~

“clever wit, plot and fascinating characters.”

—
VOYA

The Private Wife of Sherlock Holmes

by

Carole Nelson Douglas

I.
  
A Shocking Visitor

~~~~~~~~~~~~

C
limbing stairs is excellent exercise and it’s also handy to have an eagle’s-eye view of the street and forthcoming visitors.

So I stood in the bow window of 221B
Baker Street
eyeing the shiny crowns of cabbies’ top hats and the gleaming rumps of
London
’s many hackney horses.

When one of the pedestrian hat crowns paused before the entry below, I drew back from the window and contemplated where I wished to greet the visitor. How was not in question.

Should I meet him at the door or draw back to the mantel? Should I remain standing or seat myself in the basket chair near the fireplace? One of my profession finds setting the stage for an interview useful indeed. It determines that I will control the situation, however perplexed or distraught the visitor.

I decided to stand on the bearskin rug by the fireplace mantel, a suitable distance from the lofty aroma of tobacco shag in a Persian slipper and the cabinet photograph of a fashionable lady.

The elderly landlady had intercepted the visitor below and their conversation drifted up through the closed door. Mrs. Hudson subjected him to several adamant words. I smiled the smile few seldom saw. I guard against looking smug in public.

I amused myself by studying familiar elements of the somewhat bohemian scene: the VR of bullet holes punctuating the wall opposite the bow window, for example. Her Majesty Victoria Regina, one supposed, would
not
be amused. One wonders if the exercise scared the horses in the street, not to mention the doughty and no doubt much tried landlady.

Soon heavy steps challenged the long stairs as if climbing a slope of
Mount Everest
, sturdy and determined.

I smiled again, and then composed my expression.

When the door burst open the indignation was not long in coming. “Of all the colossal nerve!” the man burst out as abruptly as the door had sprung wide. “I don’t know who you think you are,” he added, advancing on me.

Then he stopped. Stared. “But
you
are dead.”

“Perhaps . . . not.”

“Holmes—” he began, again indignant. Then he slowed his words. “Holmes was always damnably smug on that topic.”

“How else was he about me?”

“See here, madam. I’d far more welcome you coming back from the dead than conducting this absurd charade. You are not ‘Mrs. Sherlock Holmes,’ as you told our poor landlady when you demanded admittance to these rooms.”

I smiled again, this time for public consumption. “Can you really be sure, Dr. Watson?”

“Holmes has not denigrated the cleverness of women since he encountered you, madam, but he is a bachelor born and even one of your many and obvious attractions will not change that. Besides, you became Mrs. Godfrey Norton by the end of that unfortunate case six years ago.”

“So you reported,” Dr. Watson, “in your debut piece of fiction called ‘A Scandal in
Bohemia
.’ My emphasis is on the word ‘fiction.’”

I took out my Fabergé cigarette case and lit one of the slim dark cylinders inside, tossing the match into the hearth behind me. Dr. Watson frowned at my unladylike habit but would not be distracted, like all who scribble for print and sometimes even pay, from defending his writing.

“That account is as accurate as I dared make it, although disguising the names of the royals involved.”

“You were wrong to describe me as ‘the late Irene Adler’ and I would also contest the ‘of dubious and questionable memory.’
Tsk, tsk.
A woman seeks to defend herself against an arrogant and powerful aristocrat and you question
her
reputation. Mr. Holmes was never so foolish. Perhaps that’s why I married him.”

“Holmes has never been married! You’ll never convince me of that.”

“Ah, but Watson, the lady has a point,” came a voice from an adjoining doorway.

II.
  
A Loathsome Apparition

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Into the front room stepped a ragged and scrofulous street beggar of the most repulsive sort. Any refined eye would avert itself from him, which was the idea.

“Your unexpected visit has caught me in
dishabille
, madam,” Sherlock Holmes told me dryly in massive understatement. “Watson, would you be so good as to entertain the lady whilst I reassemble myself? There’s a good fellow.”

He ducked back into what I could glimpse of the chamber. I was pleased to spy a gramophone atop a table on the far wall.

“Do sit down, Dr. Watson,” I urged my speechless companion, delicately exhaling a veil of smoke. “It will take a few minutes to erase so much studied degradation. The picture of Dorian Gray was not painted in a day.”

“I will not sit in the presence of a
 
. . . lady,” he said stiffly.

I smiled and arranged myself in the velvet armchair.

A
London
June in 1894 was a thing of balmy weather for the English and a joy to revisit, although not as delicate and decorative as in my base of operations,
Paris
. I was dressed as a lady of the middling classes in anticipation of the role I’d play in Sherlock Holmes’ forthcoming case . . . provided he would take up my cause.

I’d visited these rooms before, in full disguise, but now felt free to examine them and the good doctor always so ready to support and admire his brilliant but bohemian friend.

“You have been well these past six years?” he inquired with a physician’s brusqueness.

“Quite well. And you, doctor? The leg still shows a bit of stiffness.”

“War wound,” he trumpeted.

“Ah,” I said politely.

“And your
husband
, Mr. Norton?”

I did not contradict him. “Splendid, as always.”

“You
look
well,” he added, a bit of gallantry peeking through his natural protectiveness of Holmes.

From his manner, it was clear that Dr. Watson had not been in actual residence at
Baker Street
for some time. I had the advantage of him by having arrived here today first. I looked around to discover that Holmes was not a proponent of ashtrays and flicked my small Egyptian cigarette into the fireplace with casual but unerring aim.

The good doctor’s eyes momentarily shut in despair. No doubt Holmes had the same cavalier way of disposing of any cigarettes he smoked between pipes. The air of the place mixed a chemical tang with the softer perfume of pipe tobacco, which I have always savored.

Holmes’s returning step ended our awkwardness. He was attired for the
London
streets, a well-worn dressing gown over his shirt and trousers but I glimpsed his vest and a round golden glint like a watch on a chain. His tall, lean form was as agile as ever, though he must now be about forty.