by Amy Thomas
“I have noticed a young man hanging about,” the policeman added. “He looks like any of the others, but I’ve seen him several times since Miss Adler’s arrest. He’s a tall lad, not eighteen, I’d say, with a cheeky sort of face.”
“Wiggins,” said Holmes. “He was sent by me. I will caution him to be less obvious in his vigilance. He’s a very keen watchman, but he mustn’t let his enthusiasm get in the way of his subtlety.”
“Poor lad,” said Irene. “He’s nearly as imprisoned as I am, then.”
“For a time,” the detective answered.
Just then, very loud voices could be heard outside, and the door burst open to reveal two guards and an extremely irate Lloyd Allen, an imposing man with broad shoulders, a large grey moustache, and enormous hands, who proceeded to smash one of those hands onto the table and demand why he had not been summoned sooner.
He played his part well. Holmes had nothing whatever to complain of, and the noise, he was sure, had carried through the prison. The detective rose and extended his hand. Sir Allen had been the Holmes family solicitor for many years, and as such had an expected familiarity with the younger Holmes, though he ignored the proffered hand distractedly.
The lawyer finally calmed himself and turned to the detective with perfect gravity, taking his hand solemnly. “This is a ridiculous business, Holmes, but I am very glad to see you.”
“I’m sure we’re after the same thing, Sir Allen, the truth of the case.”
“Perhaps we are, and perhaps we’re not,” he answered. He was not a trial advocate, but he had a vast reputation for the utmost tenacity when it came to protecting his clients’ personal matters.
“Miss Adler, I am at your service,” said the solicitor, turning to Irene, who, Holmes could tell, was having to make a valiant effort not to look as if she was heartily enjoying the whole thing, since the door to the room was open, and the commotion had attracted the attention of several guards.
“I am sure you will engage the best possible advocate,” she said in an extraordinarily subdued voice, one that, Holmes thought, masked the laughter that wanted to escape from her throat.
“You look dreadful,” continued Sir Allen. “I will immediately insist that you receive medical attention.”
“I would be - very grateful,” Irene answered sweetly.
You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel.
- A Scandal in Bohemia
Chapter 7: Irene
I hadn’t foreseen enjoying myself quite so much. Between Holmes’s impassiveness, poor Dr Watson’s belief that one night in gaol had somehow utterly wrecked my constitution, and Lloyd Allen’s convincing performance as my irritated solicitor, I felt like I was starring in England’s most entertaining theatrical production. I could see the posters in my mind: Thrilling detection! Angry solicitors! Gullible men of medicine!
Even Keating played his part with panache (Young men of the police!), giving a very believable impression of a slightly bored prison guard, which was surprising, given his earlier nervousness. He performed well under pressure.
I felt that it was all going very well, but whenever I was in the presence of outsiders, I managed to hide my buoyancy of spirit underneath a veneer of cowed distress. Prison itself I did not mind, since I knew that my residence there would be temporary.
Holmes and Watson soon left me with the policeman and Allen. The solicitor and I had never met one another in person before. After the events of the Florida case, Mycroft Holmes had helped to secure my assets by placing my legal concerns in Allen’s hands; since then, we had exchanged lengthy correspondence, but our paths had not crossed.
Once the door of the room was closed again, my solicitor sat down opposite me. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I am very well,” I answered. “Thank you for coming. I am sure Holmes was very pleased by your performance.”
“Not all performance, my dear,” he said looking at me from under his large white eyebrows. “I am less than comfortable with any of my clients in gaol, no matter how good the reason. If you, at any point, do not wish to go through with this, you have a friend in me.”
“You are excessively kind,” I said, meaning it.
“I am, I am,” he answered. “I make it my business to be. I suppose I will go through the motions of attempting to secure a trial advocate. I thought I might write to Charles Stevenson. Were your predicament real, I would want to approach him immediately.”
I wrinkled my nose at this, which he noticed. “I see that you are uncomfortable, my dear. You must not keep me in darkness. Do tell the reason for your nose-wrinkle, delightful though it was.”
In spite of myself, I smiled. “I know Charles Stevenson. His family resides in the village where my cottage lies.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “You are acquainted with the man - always most unfortunate for anyone, and I certainly wouldn’t wish it on a lady as lovely as yourself.” At this, he twirled the edge of his moustache so comically that I laughed aloud. “And yet,” he added, “Stevenson is a most capable barrister. It is fortunate that his talent does not become acquainted with his personality and flee like the rest of us are inclined to do. Nevertheless, I would not want to complicate your charming life in the village by alarming your neighbours, so I will find someone else.”
At this, I felt a bit sick. I hadn’t for a moment considered the impact my arrest would have on the village of Fulworth. My mind conjured images of a vindicated Irene Adler returning home and nevertheless being branded as a murderess by all and sundry.
“I wouldn’t worry too much, my dear,” said the solicitor, understanding my distress. “Once the real murderer is brought to justice, you will no doubt be branded a celebrated victim of the overzealous police. It may increase your notoriety in unpleasantly invasive ways, but I would expect it to augment your neighbours’ regard for you, rather than the opposite.” The man’s peculiar blend of cynicism and optimism amused me.
“Well, there’s nothing to do but go through with it now,” I answered. “My reputation is hardly one of conventional respectability in any case.”
“No,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “I shouldn’t imagine it was.”
He took his leave, standing and walking out with great dignity of manner. I was taken back to my cell, and the guards around me complained at the inconvenience of having a prisoner whose case had been noticed by important and troublesome personages.
I’d expected to spend the rest of the day immersed in the monotony of prison life, but after about two hours had passed, punctuated only by a meagre and distasteful lunch primarily consisting of a nearly inedible brown bread, a guard came to my cell with a bundle of the objects I’d been carrying when I’d been arrested. “You’re to come with me,” he said, and I followed curiously, the eyes of the other prisoners boring into me. I was taken to a tiny office with nothing but a desk, and the bundle was placed in my hands. I unfolded it to find that my small bag was as I had left it, except lightened by the absence of the few coins it had contained. I placed its strap back around my wrist, anticipating imminent freedom.
From there, I was led outside the bleak grey building and into the steady, drizzling rain. Beside me, the guard murmured discontentedly irregular, highly irregular the whole way until we reached the gate, which another guard opened wordlessly. I walked through it, feeling as if I was in some kind of daze, and no one followed.
Once the gate had clanged shut behind me, my mind awakened, and I realised that I must present quite a dreadful picture, with my hair tousled and my dress dirty and wrinkled beyond recognition. I walked out towards the street, trying to imagine what I might do and wondering why Holmes had not contacted me.
“Miss Adler!” I looked sharply to my left and found that the voice hailing me belonged to a boy who had seemingly materialised out of nowhere. He grinned impis
hly. “Startled you, did I? I’m good at not being seen when I don’t want to be.”
“You’re Wiggins,” I said, and relief flooded me.
“The same, My Lady,” he said, bowing low and removing his cap with facetious flourishes. “I am instructed to convey you to your hotel without letting you out of my sight. There’s a cab waiting.”
“Was this part of the plan, then? I hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly,” I said.
“Mr Holmes didn’t say,” Wiggins answered, growing more serious. “He wired me an hour ago to wait for you. I’ve been watching about the whole time you’ve been here.”
“I’m very grateful,” I said.
When we reached the cab, I was concerned that the driver might not wish to convey someone in my state of dishevellment, but he smiled and tipped his cap. “One of ours,” Wiggins murmured, indicating another member of the vast network Holmes had throughout the city. London was drab and wet as we passed through it, but it looked beautiful to me. I had been in gaol by my own choice, but I was glad enough to be out again, even if the speed with which it had all happened confused me greatly.
When we neared the Savoy, I did my best to smooth my hair, but I knew that no amount of effort was going to make me look respectable. “Don’t worry,” said Wiggins, “I’ve told the driver to take us to the staff entrance. Billy will meet us there.”
Just as he said, the man conveyed us to the back of the vast building. Billy stood, in uniform, just outside a door that was small and insignificant compared to the ones at the front that were intended for the hotel’s guests. He seemed very ill at ease. Wiggins and I both alighted, and the driver left without a word or request for payment.
“Here’s the delivery,” said Wiggins to Billy, indicating me with a jaunty toss of his head.
“Very well,” answered Billy, his eyes darting about. “You can go.” Wiggins took his leave with another bow. Wordlessly, Billy inclined his head towards the door and took light hold of my arm, pulling me inside.
The entrance led to a tiny, dark room that seemed to exist only as a way to access the steep staff staircase that nearly filled it. As we passed through the doorway, I heard the sound of voices from above, and they grew gradually closer as their owners came down the stairs towards us. Before we could be seen, Billy grasped my hand and dragged me into the tiny room underneath the stairs, which was filled with dust and cobwebs and smelled of decay. Pressed against the boy’s back, I suppressed the coughs and sneezes that threatened to fight their way out of my tortured throat. Thankfully, the agony lasted a mere five minutes before the voices disappeared once more. Billy did not open the door for another minute or two to make sure that no one intended to return, and when he finally did so, we nearly fell out on top of one another.
Still silent, he led me rapidly up two flights of stairs, motioning for me to remain in the stairwell until he could make sure no one was in sight. My heart raced, and I fought the fear that someone would come up the stairs at any moment. Thankfully, no one did.
Billy returned within ten minutes and motioned to me to follow him. It was excessively strange, after what we had just experienced, to be thrust into the gleaming world of the second floor. I suppose we made a comical sight - a bedraggled woman and a smartly-dressed porter practically running down a hotel hallway. Finally, we were in front of the door with the number eight upon it - glorious eight! - and Billy let me in using the key I had given Holmes before my arrest, entering after me.
I collapsed onto the sofa, but the boy paced in front of me, as if he thought he should not sit down. “Please take a rest,” I said, when I had collected myself enough to manage words. He did so, on the opposite end of the sofa, where Holmes had sat during his visit.
“I - hardly know where to begin apologising for all the liberties I’ve taken,” he finally ventured, looking frankly horrified. Even though I was sensible of the acuteness of his distress, I could not stop myself - I laughed in his face. I’m sure some of my mirth was the result of relief, but a good bit of it resulted from the absurdity of the situation.
“I do not intend to complain at the man who is responsible for helping me to reach this room safely and without arousing suspicion,” I said.
“Thank you,” he answered, simply and seriously. “I have several things I must tell you.”
“Please do,” I answered.
“After Mr Holmes left you this morning, he received a wire from his brother - Mr Mycroft Holmes - to the effect that a journalist had been found dead. He was the gentleman who wrote the story in The Daily Telegraph and Courier about your imprisonment. He’d been stabbed in the same manner as Anna - I mean the young lady who was murdered. Mr Holmes went to see his brother, and then he sent Dr Watson to see me. Mr Mycroft had been notified about the murder right away because he was the one who’d commissioned the story the man had written. He has connections, you understand.” I nodded.
“The body had a dead bee with it,” he continued. “Dr Watson didn’t say what that meant, but he said you would understand. He came to me to say that Wiggins would be delivering you and to keep you in my sight until you were in your room. Sergeant Keating of Scotland Yard explained to the hotel that you had been released and cleared of all wrongdoing, but the doctor said I shouldn’t let anyone see you who might recognise you. He says you’re to keep to your room until Holmes comes and to stay on your guard.”
My head spun with all of this new information. “Did he say when Holmes intends to come here?”
“No, Miss. He said you’d ask that and to tell you that Mr Holmes wouldn’t insist on your staying in if he didn’t believe it was absolutely necessary, but that he is sure it is necessary and does not know how quickly he will be able to come.” He was earnestly breathless after this, like a schoolboy finishing a recitation.
“You must get back to your duties,” I said, realising suddenly that Billy would be putting his job in jeopardy if he remained with me.
“Yes,” he said, “but I’m to look after you first and foremost. I work for Mr Holmes before I work for the hotel.”
“Quite right,” I said, “but as I am now safe and sound, I don’t wish to keep you.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking his leave quickly.
I sat motionless for a few moments, trying to make sense of my thoughts, but finding that they ran around in circles and could not seem to line up in any logical progression. I understood that Holmes was worried for my safety and that a second murder had occurred that somehow related to my bees, the poor dead face of Anna Mason, and a newspaper article that had implied I was a murderess. I tried to understand all these things, but I really just wanted to bathe and have a proper meal, so I did. I found that even the jovial face of the man who brought my food - I did not think it would be overly imprudent to order a meal - seemed sinister, and any noise in the hallway made me wonder if Holmes’s enemies were coming upon me.
If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an armchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived.
- The Greek Interpreter
Chapter 8: Holmes
Sherlock Holmes sat motionless in his chair, his eyes closed, but as far from sleep as anyone could be. Opposite him sat Watson, scribbling in a notebook, and filling up the other chair was the immense magnitude known as Mycroft Holmes. The younger Holmes had been surprised at his brother’s insistence on coming. The man who rarely moved from his post at the Diogenes Club had nonetheless viewed the corpse of the journalist, Thomas Matthews, and then repaired to Baker Street in the company of the flatmates.
“Too fast,” said the elder Holmes.
“Quite right,” answered his brother. “Either someone informed on us, or a stray word was heard in the prison. If the second possibility is the case, then they moved with extraordinary alacrity.
“It can’t be rule
d out,” Mycroft answered, “but the first possibility seems more likely.”
“What do you mean?” asked Watson.
“The journalist was obviously killed in order to signal to me that our enemies knew the true nature of the deception concerning Miss Adler,” answered Sherlock.
“Poor man,” the doctor murmured, shaking his head. “It’s not as if he did anything to deserve to be mixed up in it.”
“No more did Anna Mason,” his friend rejoined, “which is why we must bring those responsible to justice.”
“You insist on there being more than one of them,” Mycroft put in.
“I do,” his brother confirmed. “The idea that the bee poisoning and both murders were committed by the same person stretches credibility, particularly in the case of Matthews. The lack of time between the devising of the plot, the publication of the article, and the murder strongly suggests at least two people, working in tandem to provide information to one another.”
“Quite right,” said the elder Holmes.
Mycroft was not given to displays of emotion of any sort, but Sherlock realised that his willingness to engage in the kind of precise work he hated dearly and usually avoided at all costs was the strongest possible indication of the level of responsibility he felt for the journalist’s death. As repugnant as the idea was to the detective, he knew that it was not unusual for his brother to arrange press articles skewed in particular directions or, as in the present case, to completely falsify a story for the supposed greater good. In addition, when it came to Mycroft’s own people - that vast, seemingly hazy network he always described as his department - he could live with a certain amount of dangerous uncertainty; after all, his subordinates had made their own decisions to join his employ. He was not, however, accustomed to losing innocent pawns, and Sherlock could see that he was keenly aware that it was his direct order that had led to the man’s demise.