What also cheered my spirits quite a bit was leaving Elizabeth, Bertie, and Jacques the Ripper behind in Paris as we returned to the peace of Neuilly-sur-Seine and the French countryside.
We crept into bed late, as we had recently, and I didn’t awaken until the linnets were serenading the shutters.
I lay abed, watching threads of sunlight creep across the wide wooden floorboards.
I am not a lazy person, but this morning I relished all things about our life outside the city and its compromises and corruptions.
Even the unauthorized presence of Lucifer sprawled by the wall, also watching the sunlight edge across the floor, could not dampen my good cheer.
Suddenly the huge furry cat leaped and trapped something between his paws. A dust mote? Sunlight? Or a skittering vermin visible only to that predatory eye? If it was the latter, Lucifer was welcome to it. The fewer skittering vermin on my floor the better.
Naturally, the thought of skittering vermin brought my mind where it was not wont to wander: back to the maison de rendezvous, the horror in its strange bedchamber, and the musty mysteries of its wine cellars.
I was deeply suspicious of the young American courtesan who had “happened” to discover the death scene, despite the easy artlessness of her gown and manner, like a debutante among the dissolute. I recalled the creatures we had brushed past, the women attired as the epitome of innocence, a nun and a bride, walking and giggling together. I shuddered to imagine how such an establishment could turn good upon its heels into evil. How would a girl christened “Elizabeth” come to be known as Pink? It wasn’t in the least likely, so perhaps Irene was correct, and it was simply true. The unlikeliest things had a nasty habit of being true, including the fact that the Prince of Wales was the worst sort of wastrel.
Like any good Englishwoman, I tried to honor what was best and brightest about my betters. Now I had discovered that the First of them was the Worst of them. I still did not wish to speculate upon the precise nature of any immoral acts that were going on—or were about to go on—at the maison, but might have to reconsider Jack the Ripper as a force for good insomuch as he had interrupted evildoing on a grand scale.
Then my mind skittered, like the doomed bug that Lucifer still harried by the window, to the only compromising position I had ever found myself in: alone with Quentin Stanhope during days of solitary rail journeying across most of Europe to France. The situation had been highly improper, of course, but despite that I had not been immune to the tender and delicious thrill that ran beneath our everyday talk and mutual courtesies. Indeed, we had really begun to know each other on that journey, so much so that parting was something of a shock, to me, at least. I would not dare to think that a man who lived and worked on the Queen’s secret commission at the long, ever-unraveling selvage edge of Empire in the dangerous East would in the slightest miss a parson’s daughter who had briefly been governess to his sister’s children.
I sat up in bed, as if gripped by a conscious nightmare. Godfrey! Thinking of Quentin had brought his dear, familiar face and voice into my thoughts. . . .
He had first entered our lives like a thunderbolt, storming our Saffron Hill lodgings in London because he had detected Irene’s interest in his late father’s possible possession of Marie Antoinette’s lost Zone of Diamonds. Like Sherlock Holmes was to do later, and repeatedly, he had accused her of meddling, a charge she took then no more gracefully than she does now. And, after all, she has accepted private inquiry commissions for as long as she has pursued an operatic career, so who can say which is the prime, and which the secondary, pursuit?
At any rate, I eavesdropped on Godfrey’s splendid tirade, all in defense of his family honor and especially his wronged mother. No wonder he was a barrister. Godfrey is most impressive in high dudgeon. And, of course, he was even more handsome when so animated.
When I went (Irene would say I was sent) into the Temple to work with him as a typewriter-girl, I came to know Godfrey as the considerate and temperate gentleman any woman would be proud to call brother.
Of course he was a barrister, and I an orphaned parson’s daughter, and I would never think of him in any other role. I must admit that when circumstances brought him back into Irene’s hunt for the Zone, and they actually worked in concert, I had no idea that events would take such a rapid turn and that Irene should feel no constraint whatsoever in regarding Godfrey as other than a brother! I am afraid it is her American upbringing, but I couldn’t really object, though I was most surprised that their sudden trip to Paris in pursuit of the Zone had led to other sudden alterations in our heretofore simple and separate relationships.
I am a little vague about when it happened, or what happened, but by the time Sherlock Holmes was hot on Irene’s trail at the behest of the King of Bohemia, Godfrey was firmly established in Irene’s heart. They wed and fled, although neither the King nor the detective ever knew anything of the Zone of Diamonds.
I was left to close down the establishment in the Serpentine Mews in St. John’s Wood. Imagine my surprise on visiting the newlyweds in Neuilly, the village near Paris where they had settled to avoid further pursuit, when they insisted I join their household. I tried to demur, but they were intractable.
I am not ungrateful for my continued presence in the Norton household, even if it must be in exile in France. There is no creature as alone in the world as an orphaned spinster, and I do all I can to make myself useful, whether it is wanted or not. I am assured that an unrelated spinster is more than any pair of newlyweds might want on the premises, but neither Irene or Godfrey has for an instant made me feel unwelcome.
Yet what should I do if my stable domestic arrangement with Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Norton were upset by the near and present danger of Mr. Sherlock Holmes? (Whom, I admit to my secret self, Irene finds fascinating in his way, though purely as a deductive force, I am sure.)
And there is where my heaviest secret stone lies, at the bottom of a well of unwanted knowledge, obtained by rank and shameless subterfuge.
For the events involving the King of Bohemia’s pursuit of Irene to London brought her to the attention of another Englishman, the detective’s friend and associate, a medical man named Watson, who, I had later learned to my secret horror, harbored literary aspirations.
This discovery has left me to trudge on alone with my most worrisome stone. Yet the horrifying words I read many months ago will not let me turn the page in my mind that has lain full open since I skimmed the private papers in Dr. Watson’s desk and found the dreadful truth, or the truth as he believes he knows it.
My intentions were always honorable . . . well, as honorable as acquiring access to the doctor’s office under false pretenses could be. I went there to help save his life, and ended up risking my peace of mind.
I had come across a manuscript in his desk, a work clearly intended for future publication, in which he committed to paper Sherlock Holmes’s side of the Bohemian affair. (My own, and accurate, recounting of the full and true circumstances of the case remains entombed in the privacy of my diary, and shall stay there so long as I live.)
But this Watson person, this physician with obviously far too much time upon his hands, has written his own muddled account of the events and will no doubt seek publication, for no one is more persistent than a person with one perfectly good vocation who aspires to distinguish himself in another.
At least the benighted doctor had the sense to describe Irene as deceased, although during the unfortunate erratic encounters between her and the detective Holmes after the Bohemian events it would have become clear even to a man not renowned for much perception that Irene Adler was far from dead. (And at least this Holmes had the wisdom not to enlighten his friend the doctor as to Irene’s remarkable state of preservation.)
No, it was not the doctor’s secret recounting of this incident from his own nearsighted point of view that had disturbed me.
It was especially the truth he spoke from that point of view. The words a
re scribed upon my soul: To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex.
As her friend and companion, I cannot deny that Irene is indeed remarkable . . . but I shudder to think that this odious man, an avowed opium-fiend from the doctor’s own account, should fasten his attention and admiration on my friend, who is now another man’s wife. Indeed, this impossible Holmes person even witnessed their wedding in disguise as part of his investigation! Has the man no shame?
The doctor did write that it was not “any emotion akin to love” this Holmes creature felt for Irene, that “love” was alien to the man’s “cold, precise” mind. I was not surprised to read that he “never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer.” I have since had occasion to observe this Sherlock Holmes more closely, and he is indeed very full of himself and the “reasoning machine” of his mind.
I was also pleased by the doctor’s closing comments, to the effect that Mr. Holmes had “used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman.”
If Irene has taught him a lesson, good! Now all he need do is keep his distance and subvert his doctor friend’s attempts at publication, and we shall all be allowed to live out our lives in the peace, quiet, and anonymity we so richly deserve.
I, for one, sincerely hope that no unpleasant “problems”—as both Irene and Mr. Holmes seem to refer to these annoying mysteries of life which are really the police’s business and no one else’s—lurk in our futures. Such a course could even reconcile me to living in France.
But despite all these assertions, Dr. Watson is precise on one fact: “there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.”
That is another irritation: how dare he slander her memory, even though she is not dead! The fool has no notion that she, and I, and Godfrey, and my former charges’ uncle, Quentin Stanhope, moved Heaven and Earth to save this miserable medical man’s life! All too successfully, unfortunately! Apparently our efforts were successful so that he could survive to write more such drivel. And so that my . . . so that dear Quentin was forced to engage in a mortal duel with a master spy and heavy-game hunter named Moran.
But I will not allow myself to become exercised, much as it is my right. I never told my companions of the doctor’s unpublished manuscript (may it forever remain so!), which is not of a quality or interest that will appeal to a publisher or a reader.
What would Godfrey say, or do, to know another man harbored such inappropriate feelings toward his bride?
What unsuitable pride might the fact that the world’s greatest detective considers her the world’s most admirable woman do to Irene’s already healthy sense of self-esteem, which I am daily devoted to urging to a more realistic level?
Of course it is some consolation that Dr. John H. Watson, however much he may be in the detective’s confidence, still did not know the whole story. In that fact I see a glimmer of relief, for obviously there are some stones which even Mr. Sherlock Holmes carries that he will not confide to his nearest companion, and Dr. Watson admits in his narrative that this Holmes man is far from the most sociable of beings.
Yet I am also disturbed to be the only one to know aspects of the affair that Mr. Holmes has kept to himself, as another less rigorously logical man might preserve a rose fallen from a woman’s bouquet. . . .
And according to Dr. Watson’s account, Mr. Holmes did keep the photograph of herself Irene had left for the King of Bohemia. It was the only additional reward he wanted, having already refused an emerald ring . . . Most worrisome.
If only I dared share my concerns with Godfrey. I owe him fierce allegiance. Godfrey, especially, perhaps because of our prior working relationship, has always been aware of my best interests and has even taken my part when Irene has been particularly . . . Irene-ish.
My eyes had blurred and my nose was congested. Godfrey was a prince among men! An amusing companion, a tireless adviser, a strong and sagacious man whose existence was a blessing to all womankind.
How could I have ever thought just a few days ago that I was enjoying a return to the days of Irene and my solely female domesticity? If I missed Quentin as much as I did when I allowed myself to think of him, imagine how Irene must feel the loss of her husband! I had been utterly and foolishly selfish, and the realization lacerated my conscience like a cat-o’-nine-tails.
While I struggled with these questions, Lucifer encountered no such fits of conscience. He pounced full weight upon whatever he wrestled, and vanished under the bed to finish the battle.
An advancing snatch of aria warned me that Irene was up, energetic, and about to roust me from my peaceful bed.
The door swung open, and her figure filled it, looking as pert as a barmaid in a German opera, a tray between her extended arms.
“Breakfast?” I deduced, pushing myself upright in the bed linens in such a way that I was able to discreetly wipe away any unshed tears of repentance. “In bed? For me?”
“Indeed. You have slept a full twelve hours, as well you deserved. Do not move, but let me place this on the bed. There! The teapot is not only heavy, but full of boiling water fresh from the woodstove.”
I eyed the bounty on the tray. Hot porridge with currants and fresh cream, steaming bacon, slices of lemon for tea like sunny smiles of citrus, snowy napkin . . . I was, of course, highly suspicious.
“You are in good, high spirits,” I noted.
“Here.” Irene pounced like Lucifer on an object atop my bed table. “Don your spectacles so you can fully appreciate this repast.”
“I only need them for close work and reading,” I pointed out. “I suspect my table manners are adept enough that I don’t need them to eat.”
“Of course not. But”—Irene patted the pocket of the most unlikely apron she wore (she never wore aprons)—“there is a new letter from Godfrey.”
“A cause for celebration, yes, but hardly for breakfast in bed. Sophie must not be pleased to be usurped by you, even if you are the mistress of the house.”
“Sophie needs a small domestic insurrection now and then. She is entirely too domineering. And there is something else in the post . . .” She paused.
“And?”
“An urgent summons to Paris.”
“Again?”
“I will dress while you eat, and then return to see you dressed. Meanwhile, you can entertain yourself with Godfrey’s letter. I have read it, and he is in full descriptive cry. Adieu.”
With that she was gone, leaving me chewing like a cow on my cud in amazement and distress.
Of course I gulped the whole, hot, and steaming mess down as quickly as I could, glancing at Godfrey’s many pages with regret. She had obviously left me with the most innocuous document while keeping the provocative summons to herself.
Thus would she lure me on my way to Paris again, saving the news for the moment when I was safely fed, clothed, and tucked into the carriage.
At least, I reflected as I swished horribly hot tea around in my mouth hoping it would cool, she was presuming upon my accompanying her. Given the notorious characters who awaited her in Paris, I would have it no other way.
17.
La Tour Awful
Ridicule . . . only ever kills the weak and the false. The
tower has continued to scribe the ever-changing sky with its
gold-tipped silhouette and to hold its lacework calculus erect
like a desire . . .
—SCULPTOR RAYMOND DUCHAMP-VILLON
Among the many interesting and useful sights in London is the Time Signal Ball near Trafalgar Square, a six-foot-diameter zinc ball that drops ten feet at one o’clock every day. This is not only a visual landmark, but a most practical device, against which all may set their timepieces according to the world standard of Greenwic
h Mean Time, also an English invention.
In Paris, in the year of Our Lord and incidentally of l’Exposition universelle de 1889, there is, alas, the Eiffel Tower.
There, in a nutshell, you have the difference between the two capitals, the two countries, the two nationalities. What is useful and interesting in London is useless and overpowering in Paris.
To my mind, the construction now rising from the Champ de Mars along the Seine is a modern Tower of Babel. Befitting the god of war who names its location, and the Red Planet, this iron giant has been painted crimson. At least it has not been painted pink! Never has so much overweening pride in the form of twisted metal stretched an ugly fist to Heaven, gold-tipped penultimate finger notwithstanding.
For once I am not alone in my disdain of this French landmark, but am joined by a committee of outraged French artists and persons of importance. I cannot imagine what future generations will make of it, though surely it will be torn down by then. My fellow thinkers have used such apt phrases of description as “barbarous mass” and “factory chimney.” I particularly liked “foul and bolt-encrusted pile of sheet metal.”
Despite myself, I am learning to read French, if not to speak it fluently. I do particularly well with words which the French have borrowed from the English, such as “exposition universelle.” Of course the French must ever be contrary. They do not pronounce it properly and add a fancy finale to the “universal.”
But I can now translate enough French to have informed Irene and Godfrey some months ago that the committee managing the competition for the signature building of the exposition had found Mr. Eiffel’s design “more appropriate to the barbarism of America, where good taste was still not very developed.”
Irene had remained unperturbed. “Exactly why America thrives, my dear. And we did have the good taste to accept the Statue of Liberty from the French. I understand that an earlier plan for the Paris exposition landmark, since this year is also the centenary of the French Revolution, was a three-hundred-meter-high guillotine. So I see no reason why they should blame us for Eiffel’s imaginings, which they ultimately accepted anyway, when they had originally intended a monument to organized slaughter.”
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