by Amy Thomas
I went back to my cottage and wrote a letter to an American apiarist, a man named Robert Holekamp, whose name I had seen in a beekeeping journal. I had not consulted him previously because I’d recognised the impracticality of expecting letters to proceed across the ocean and back rapidly enough to be helpful, but I was determined now. I had not been able to save my bees, but I would discover why they had died. The reason I chose an American was that I had read that certain maladies affecting bee populations had arisen in the United States that were rarely seen in England, and the fruitlessness of my research had made me begin to suspect that something more rare had afflicted my hives.
In my letter, I described the darkened larvae, the speed with which the disease had travelled between hives, and the dry scales that remained once the bees were dead. Holekamp replied promptly, the letter addressed from his farm in Annapolis, Missouri. He suspected, he said, that foulbrood was the culprit, but not the variety with which my veterinarian’s associate had been familiar. No, he said, there was another strain of foulbrood, a bacterium that had been discovered in America and produced the exact effects I’d described. As a fellow apiarist, he offered his sympathies and his hopes that the two strains of foulbrood would soon be differentiated for the sake of more effective treatment. The end of his letter, a single question, was the thing that had brought me to Holmes: How did an isolated hive of bees on the SussexDowns acquire such a severe strain of foulbrood? Upon receipt of his letter, I had travelled immediately to London.
Again and again I have taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the correct one.
- The Greek Interpreter
Chapter 2: Holmes
Sherlock Holmes stepped into the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club. He always enjoyed his visits there, as if he was taking a holiday to a foreign but highly pleasurable land. He did not share its members’ rigorously religious devotion to silence, but he paid it reverence and enjoyed its serenity nonetheless.
He had just seated himself when the immense frame of his brother Mycroft hove into view and took its place opposite him, dwarfing any and all furniture in the room. “Good morning, Sherlock,” he said drily. “I’m surprised you found time to leave your fair guest and visit me.”
“My fair guest?” the detective asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Mycroft. “If I’m not mistaken - and of course I am not - the charming Irene Adler yesterday debarked in our fair city with the intention of visiting you. The latter is, of course, a deduction based upon her likely behaviour, but of the former I have proof.”
“Quite right,” said Sherlock, “but she’s currently lodged at the Savoy Hotel and is far from reliant on me for her comforts.”
Mycroft smiled. “You’ve come to see me about the stolen key, have you not? Any moment now, it would have occurred to you that the red gloves are the answer to the whole thing.”
Sherlock Holmes nodded to his brother, stood, and left the club to return home, stopping only long enough to send a telegram concerning the gloves in question and the solution to the mystery. He did not intend to tell The Woman of his sacrifice of dignity - the fact that he had consulted his brother rather than concluding the case himself because he wished to give her problem his immediate attention. Of course, he could not deny that the prospect of poisoned bees interested him far more than a careless peer’s missing key.
Upon his return to Baker Street, he was rewarded by obvious evidence that Irene Adler was inside. He saw her shoe prints in the dust leading to the door, and he smelled the faint aroma of her perfume, which reminded him of cut grass.
Sure enough, upon his entrance, he found The Woman enthusiastically reducing the number of scones on a tea tray and laughing at Dr Watson, who blushed and seemed inordinately pleased at something.
“Good day, Holmes,” said Irene, and he noticed that she looked far better rested and in better spirits than the previous night.
“Good day,” he answered, unceremoniously taking the plate from her hands and divesting it of two remaining scones before returning it and taking his seat in his chair.
“I’ve just been telling Dr Watson that Mrs Turner intends to visit her sister in Dartford next month and is eager to see him as well,” Irene continued. The detective did not respond, which elicited even more laughter. Truthfully, he was far from surprised. It was only a matter of time, he knew, until Watson had his way and convinced The Woman’s housekeeper to marry him. Still, he did not intend to look as if he approved.
“I am prepared to tell you the full tale of why I’ve come.” Irene’s face turned serious as she changed the subject. “If, at the end, you believe that I am unreasonably concerned, I will accept your judgement in the matter.”
“I’m certain that won’t be the case,” said Watson in his usual gallant manner. Holmes did not answer, though he was no less sure that he would not find The Woman’s suspicion ridiculous. He knew her too well and trusted her instincts too thoroughly for that.
“It began two months ago,” said Irene, leaning forward in her chair. With that, she spun a story that began with the appearance of an unexceptional though unfortunate beekeeping mishap and ended with the immensely perplexing question of why someone might seek to poison bees, or how the malady could have been contracted naturally, which was highly improbable. Both alternatives seemed preposterous. Had Irene been less reliable, he might have questioned her assessment of the disease and postulated an easier solution - perhaps a more common disease that had been misdiagnosed. However, he knew that The Woman was intellectually knowledgeable and a meticulous beekeeper. He could not blame the strangeness of the case on her possible mistake. She was too rigorous.
“I am well aware,” said Irene, after she had been speaking for some time, “that it is highly unfortunate that the hive was infected a month ago, and any evidence of how it might have been done is almost certainly destroyed. I had no idea anything unusual had gone on.”
“It is certainly lamentable, but hardly preventable in this case,” Holmes answered, thinking to himself that if a crime had been committed, the perpetrator had done an admirable job. Of course, if nature itself was the criminal, there would be no evidence to discover.
“I am at a loss, Holmes,” The Woman admitted. “I had ample time to consider the matter on the train, and I can think of no facet of it that is not intensely perplexing.”
“It has, of course, occurred to you that someone might have introduced the bacterium on purpose in an effort to distress you,” the detective answered.
“Yes,” said Irene, but the shake of her head belied her affirmative answer. “I simply cannot comprehend the reason for such a thing. If I have an enemy, why should he not attack my person? It’s certainly a wildly indirect way to get at me.”
“And yet,” said Holmes, “very effective in provoking you to act.”
“Might some piece of evidence be recovered from the hives, Holmes?” Watson asked, pulling at his moustache in a concerned manner.
“Doubtful after this lapse of time, since the hives are out in the elements,” the detective answered. “I must take time to consider how best to proceed.” He stretched out his long legs and fixed his gaze on The Woman. “I thank you for providing me with an intriguing puzzle. I may require more information from you soon, but for the time being, I desire quiet.”
Irene obviously considered herself dismissed, since she rose and bid good day to both flatmates. Watson accompanied her to the door, but Holmes was already lost in thought by the time she reached the street.
The detective had known little of beekeeping before his visits to Sussex, though the idea had always held a certain fascination for him. He had come to enjoy his walks to the hives and the endless opportunity for observation they afforded, and though he had not been attached to them in the same way The Woman was, he understood her dismay. Dismay
, however, did not solve cases or illuminate the obscure. He put his mind to considering the mystery and eliminating what he could.
The fact: Irene Adler’s bees had died, and the disease was recognisably American in origin. The possibilities: Either the disease had been contracted naturally, or it had been introduced in some intentional manner. He did not waste time musing on the obvious unlikelihood of either being true; the world, he knew, was filled with things that seemed improbable until their perfectly logical cause was discovered. If that cause was criminal, well, so much the better, for then it came within Holmes’s purview.
The first line of enquiry, he decided, would be to acquire further information about the American strain of foulbrood. He would have considered it unlikely for Irene’s bees to contract even the European strain, given their location and isolation, but he did not trust his own limited knowledge enough to be absolutely sure. He was aware that Irene’s appealing to him meant that she had already made this deduction, but he did not wish to embark prematurely on an investigation in which there was no perpetrator. He determined to consult a London expert to confirm what the American apiarist had told Irene.
As Holmes finished formulating his plan, Watson returned, looking flushed and hearty. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said. “It would do wonders for your health to take a stroll outside. I could hardly force myself back in.”
The detective shook his head. “You know very well that I am in excellent health, and I have neither the need nor the desire for fresh air when my mind is engaged.”
“Ah, yes,” said the doctor, taking his customary seat and lighting his pipe, “I gather you appreciate Miss Adler’s problem.”
“I judge by your tone that you disapprove of my enjoyment,” said Holmes.
“The loss of such fine honey is not a matter for amusement,” said Watson sharply, “however intriguing the mystery of it, and I cannot help being distressed by Miss Adler’s obvious unhappiness, in spite of her efforts to keep her spirits high.”
“The way to raise all of our spirits will be to solve the case once and for all,” said Holmes drily, rising and preparing to leave the flat.
“I can’t imagine that you’re taking my advice and engaging in a constitutional for your health,” said the doctor, “therefore, I gather that you embark on an errand related to the case. Shall I accompany you?”
“A capable deduction,” said Holmes. “I go forth to visit Charles Ward and would be very glad of your company if your previous walk has not entirely depleted your strength.”
“Certainly not,” said Watson stolidly. The two men set out, and their shadows against the wall of Baker Street formed as amusing a contrast in every physical respect as did their personalities and intellects.
So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators.
- The Five Orange Pips
Chapter 3: Irene
I left Baker Street with one clear objective, which was to visit Briony Lodge, the home I had previously called mine when I had been resident in London. This did not seem to me to be an unusual desire. As I drew close to it, the feeling I’d had the previous night, that some other Irene Adler might still be living my old life, overtook me.
In my mind, I saw scenes of former days - the carriages, the laughing people, the face of the handsome, coarse man who had won my heart before tearing it to pieces. I smiled to myself when I recalled the day I had purchased a suit of clothes from a street peddler, forced my hair into a boy’s cap, and fooled Sherlock Holmes into thinking I was male. I couldn’t deny the thrill of pride I still felt at the memory. At the time, it had felt like besting an enemy - an honourable one, but an enemy nonetheless. Thinking back, it felt sweeter, like a game of chess won against a dear friend.
Though I had made the decision impulsively, I now realised that friendship was what had assured me that I would not be disappointed if I traveled to Baker Street. My certainty, though perhaps precipitate, had not been misplaced. Nevertheless, as my feet took me up the walk to the house that had belonged to Irene Adler, celebrated opera singer, I could not help marvelling that the detective and The Woman - as Dr Watson claimed Holmes referred to me - had managed to find themselves friends.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was. The turns of mind that had made us formidable opponents were the same ones that made us congenial associates. I say congenial - we argued and disagreed quite regularly, but I enjoyed it immensely, and I believe Holmes did as well, for by the time my bees had died, he had made many visits to my little cottage.
I did not expect to enter my former home, for it had been purchased by a widow of high social standing when I had vacated it, and she continued to inhabit it whenever she resided in England, though much of her time was spent on the Continent. I had no wish to disturb whatever household staff she might retain to care for it. I simply stood and watched the vast windows for a time, thinking about the Irene who had been and thinking that I was glad, in the main, to have become the Irene Adler I now was. The bridge between us, of course, had been Irene Norton - unhappy woman, deceived out of the life she’d desired. During the Florida case, the occasion of the beginning of my ongoing association with Holmes, I’d still been chained to her. My clutching at the name of Adler had been a desperate attempt to regain my sense of self, the assurance of my own autonomy. Without meaning to, Holmes had helped me to understand that no good could come of trying to claw my way back to the past. Even as we began to forge a friendship out of the fires of animosity, I chose to become myself again - a newer, stronger self. It had taken time and effort for me to fully understand and inhabit that self, but bolstered by the Sussex air, the detective’s friendship, my music, and my bees, I had succeeded.
I was so lost in thought that an elderly woman in a yellowed shawl nearly ran into me as she made her way down the street. “They said you would be here!” she cackled gleefully as she brushed my shoulder. I turned around and watched her walk away, more annoyed than disturbed by the encounter. I searched for the telltale signs that she was not what she appeared to be - concealed height, padding on the body, unnatural hair - things that might have alerted me to the fact that I had just been accosted by Holmes in disguise. However, she seemed perfectly genuine.
I turned away from my old house, the spell broken. From the outside, it looked much as it always had, and I was content to remain ignorant of the changes that might have been made on the inside. I tried not to dwell on the encounter with the old woman, but it had been so long since I had been intimately acquainted with the oddities of London that I could not put it out of my mind as easily as I would have wished.
I had eaten a late breakfast at the Savoy and my fair share of the delicacies on Mrs Hudson’s tea tray, but as afternoon wore on, I realised that I was hungry. I eagerly returned to my hotel, lured by the promise of a magical speaking tube that would allow me to request whatever food I desired.
When I arrived at the Savoy, the crowd of people about was equal to that of the night before; only the costumes were different, and the atmosphere was more businesslike and less convivial. As I made my way inside, I suddenly heard a voice booming out my name. I looked around me, disorientated, and finally found the source of the noise - a man behind one of the hotel’s marble desks. I watched him curiously as he made his way over to me.
He was dressed in the well-made suit of male Savoy staff, and he smiled. “We received this in your absence,” he said, handing me an envelope. It contained a folded piece of notepaper.
I took it and stepped aside to see what it said: Tell him we know you’re here. K.K.K. I felt the same annoyance I had when the old woman had spoken to me. I could only suppose the note meant Holmes, but if someone was intending to frighten me, they wer
e certainly doing an obscure job of it. I’d intended to spend the evening alone in my room unless my friend contrived to send for me, but I changed my mind and turned for Baker Street instead.
***
I found the flat empty save for Mrs Hudson. “They’ve gone out,” she said, “and left no indication of when they might return, as usual.”
“I’m not expected,” I said.
“No, I’d say you were quite unexpected, as a rule,” she answered. I was slightly astonished at this burst of wit.
“I must thank you for your kindness to me,” I continued, glad to have her alone.
“Not at all,” she said. “You’re one of Holmes’s.”
She installed me in the flat and took pity on my pallor by bringing me a cold meat pie and a cup of tea. She left me alone, and I was pleased by what she’d said. I didn’t mind being “one of Holmes’s,” because Holmes never tried to own anyone. He simply collected them, like his books or his chemistry set, and appreciated each for what they were.
I waited three quarters of an hour before the tramp of feet signalled the return of Holmes and Watson. Unlike my friend, I did not have the ability to instantly divine where someone had spent the past three hours based on his clothes or the mud on his shoes. I was forced to rely, like the majority of humanity, on verbal enquiries. Thankfully, Holmes anticipated me.
“We’ve been to see Dr Charles Ward at St. Bartholomew’s. Aside from being a medical doctor, he takes the study of animal disease quite seriously. I have consulted him about foulbrood.”
“Yes,” I said, wishing, as usual, that he would reach the point of the narrative more quickly than he was likely to do.
“Dr Ward is familiar with the malady and agrees with Holekamp that science has not yet distinguished the types of the disease adequately. Unfortunately, his information may complicate the facts. Namely, foulbrood of the sort your bees contracted is not limited to the American continent, but has been widely documented all over the earth. The American distinction Holekamp used refers to its origin; it was first discovered in America, but its presence is felt everywhere.”