My friend had only the greatest respect for Miss Adler. It was common of him to keep small souvenirs from his cases, and in this case he kept the photograph of her. There were very few women that Holmes and I encountered, in our career together, towards whom he showed any signs of ‘attraction’. In fact, Miss Adler was the only woman he admired enough to possess a photograph of. Lastly, Irene Adler was also the only woman for whom he would willingly disregarded his pressing cases to answer her call when she was in great despair.
***
It was, as I look through my notes, the summer of 1890. Between my marriage and practice I hadn’t seen Holmes in some time and found myself sitting with him in our old rooms of 221B Baker Street. Holmes, dressed in his mouse-coloured dressing gown, was slouched over in his chair, rummaging through papers, and I, sitting in my former chair, was quietly sipping a warm cup of tea while reading the morning newspaper. Since I had last seen Holmes, he had been engaged on the Katharine Dobbs case, which had recently come to an end. With no warning, Holmes dramatically threw the papers which he had been looking through onto the floor, and shot up from his chair, letting out an exhausted sigh as he stretched.
“Katharine Dobbs, Watson, was a vile woman!” he declared. “Are you aware of the matter, yet?”
“I must say that I am not. You have yet to tell me the ins and outs of the case,” I replied.
“She had become so disgusted with her father’s new wife that she attempted to poison her stepmother, Annabelle, who was, in fact, a lovely woman. Had it not been for Katharine’s sister Dorothy bringing her concerns to me, their stepmother would be dead this very moment!”
“Thank heavens this Dorothy came to you when she did,” said I. “What has become of Katharine Dobbs?”
“She’s dead,” said Holmes coolly.
“Dead!” I cried. “Pray, tell me what happened?”
“When she discovered I was on her trail, primarily by the fact that stains on Katharine’s fingernails revealed frequent use of arsenic, she attempted to hurry the matter up and prepared a lethal dose of poison for her stepmother. Her sister, Dorothy, caught her, per my instructions to keep a close eye on her, and Katharine fell victim to her own deadly chemical when the sisters engaged in a brawl.”
“I should like to look over the notes from this case when there is time. I’m sorry that I could not accompany you,” I admitted, envious of my friends on going adventures without me. As much as I enjoyed my medical career, there was nothing quite like the excitement of the chase, which was always the norm in my friend’s life.
“I am sorry for that, too, Watson,” said he. “The case has birthed an interesting train of thought. I should like to look deeper into the effects that one’s personality may have on their physical appearance.
“Had this case never been brought to me and I happened to pass someone like Katharine Dobbs on the street, I would know at first glance that she possessed no good qualities whatsoever. If ever a morbid personality affected the way in which one was presented, she would have made a fine case study. She had the appearance of a vile witch found in any of the Grimm’s tales,” concluded my friend.
“What is the next case which you plan to take up?” I asked.
“As you know, old boy, there are many ongoing cases that I am always toiling over. However, let us see what we have.” He picked up a stack of letters from the mantel which had accumulated over the previous weeks. “Fionnula Goggin, Reverend Fitz-Lloyd, Royston Luckinbill, Bill Bramble, Rose Pickles, Wilber Plaskitt.” Holmes smiled, reading out the names written upon the letters. “I say, Watson, what foreigner could read these names and believe the English to be a stiff and somber minded people?”
“Says the great Sherlock Holmes, himself,” I replied. “Names are a funny thing…” Our attention was arrested by a gentle tapping on the study door.
“Come in,” said Holmes. The door opened, and there stood a young pageboy. He was somewhere near thirteen years of age, stood roughly five? feet tall, was neatly dressed, and held a small square parcel, no bigger than my palm, under his arm. He rubbed his nose and looked at both Holmes, who was now standing, and myself.
“Mr Holmes?” he asked.
“The one and only,” he returned.
“I have a package for you,” said the young lad as he walked towards Holmes, holding the parcel out.
“You have a curious look upon your face, my boy, what is on your mind?” asked Holmes.
“You see, sir, I mean no disrespect to you at all. I know of you, alright. I’ve heard lots of your cases and, well, I ain’t never seen a picture of you and, that is, I thought you’d be stronger lookin’, Mr Holmes,” the boy reluctantly admitted.
I chuckled at the boys comment, Holmes looked over at me; he, too, was amused by this, and a smile graced his face.
“Do you hear that, Dr Watson?” Holmes said, “I’m not very strong looking, it seems.” He motioned for the boy to hold still, and raced over to a pile of old newspapers before withdrawing one and walking back over. “My boy,” continued Holmes, “do not rely on outward appearance to determine strength. The strongest muscle one can exercise is the mind, but I must also defend my honour, as I do not wish for you to go back and tell all your friends that the great Sherlock Holmes is but a weak old man!” As he spoke, he handed the boy the newspaper. “Do you recognise that man in that picture?” he asked, pointing somewhere on the page.
“I do,” acknowledged the boy. “That is Danny, the Steam Engine, Palmer. He’s a champion boxer!”
“He was a champion boxer,” corrected Holmes. “As you can see from this paper, he was arrested a few years back and sentenced to hang for his involvement in the Fleet Street murders. He acted as the gang’s muscle, and was paid a hefty price for his service. The cherished minds of Scotland Yard were having trouble bringing the gang to justice, and sought my aid. As you see from this picture, Danny ‘the Steam Engine’ Palmer, was found badly beaten upon his arrest. Who do you think did that?”
The boy looked up at Holmes, his eyes wide and his mouth open. “You?” he asked.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Holmes. “Though I value the constant stimulation and workout of the mind, I am also a very skilled fighter. I have trained both in baritsu and martial arts. However, you don’t need to be weighed down with pounds of muscle to be an effective fighter.”
“I never thought of it like that!”
“Now you have something to ponder for the day, my boy,” said Holmes.
The boy smiled at Holmes and nodded. “Good day to you both!” he said, turning and darting out the door.
Holmes, discarded the old newspaper, and reached for the parcel which he had laid down. Taking it into his hands and holding it high in the air, he began to examine it.
“Who is it from?” I pressed.
“No name,” said he, taking a seat in his chair. Holmes tore the paper away, and revealed a small wooden box with a latch on the front. He popped the latch, and as he did so, his eyes widened. “My, my, Watson, this is most engaging,” said he.
He lifted something out of the small parcel. I could hardly believe my eyes when his extended palm revealed the contents. It was a large emerald. Holmes held it up into the light pouring in through the window; it sparkled beautifully.
“My word, Holmes! Is that real? It must be worth a fortune!” I exclaimed.
Holmes stood up and went to his desk, pulling out a pair of jeweller’s glasses, and then shot over to our bay window where the sun shone, and studied the emerald.
“It is real, and certainly worth a fortune,” said Holmes after a lengthy examination.
“What are you to do with it?” I asked, standing up and walking towards him.
“Hand me the box it came in.” Holmes took it from my hand and pulled out a small envelope. He opened it, and read the letter concealed inside.
Having seen Holmes read many unusual letters in our time together, none seemed to impact him as this one. This letter was from no or
dinary client. His eyes were not lit with excitement from the strange; rather, he was deeply concerned. When finished reading, he held the letter at his side and uttered not a word. He walked past me to his chair, and seated himself once more.
“What is it?” I asked.
His face was turned from me, and he gazed into the fireplace.
“The woman,” he returned.
“Irene Adler?”
“Correct.”
“What does she want?”
“She wants us to come to America to investigate the death of her husband, Godfrey Norton,” said he, slowly turning and looking at me.
“Norton is dead! Dear Lord, and she begs audience with you inAmerica?” I questioned.
“Yes, Watson. That is where she and Godfrey relocated to after our incident with the Bohemian King. She looked up operatic roles and has become well settled from what I’ve read.” He extended his hand and gave me the letter from Irene Adler, which read thus:
My Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,
I need your assistance. Godfrey, my husband, has been killed. I found him shot dead in his office in Manhattan. It is a murder staged as a suicide. The police have bought into the charade, but I will not. How do I know it wasn’t suicide? Three trifles that the police ignore.
First, the gun was on the left side of the floor, Godfrey is right-handed. Second, there was a unique ash left in the tray. Godfrey, though he occasionally smoked, kept his office clear of any such tobacco use. The ash was not his. Third, lying just by his face was a gold doubloon. Someone was threatening him, this much I am sure. His behaviour was erratic and very unlike himself the week leading up to his death. What secrets Godfrey had, I am not sure, but I am sure he was murdered. Mr Holmes, I can only do so much on my own. This is still a man’s world; women are still awaiting their liberation. I trust this case only to you now.
I have sent this wire with instructions to first obtain the emerald you now hold. I left it in London in case I ever needed a bargaining chip to obtain your services. The selling of the emerald will pay for your and Dr Watson’s travel costs, and the remainder will be your payment for the case. If I am correct, you will receive this letter in the late morning five days from my writing it. You will have two hours at most to make arrangements and let Dr Watson persuade his dear wife to let him accompany you before you make the journey to Southampton by the 2pm train where the steamship The Eagle will be departing at 6pm to carry you both to New York.
Find me at home in Salem in Westchester, at Bell House. Mr Holmes, as you need Watson, so I need you. Please hurry.
Always,
Irene Adler
p.s. I hear you kept my picture.
“What are you to do?” I asked.
“She is not the kind of woman who would simply ask for aid. She is a bright woman, the most savvy of her sex,” said Holmes contemplatively. “Nevertheless, Watson, I will answer her call!”
“You’re going to America?”
“No,” he replied, “we are going to America. She’s called for us both. Now we’ve already wasted valuable time. Go speak with Mrs Watson and get her permission, and make the necessary arrangements for your practice. Meet me here in an hour’s time!” Before I could utter a reply, Holmes threw off his dressing gown and ran out the door to some unknown destination.
***
Taking a hansom, I made haste to my home where I found Mary sitting in the lounge. I told her of the letter and Irene Adler’s call for help in this investigation.
“John! This is so sudden!” my wife protested.
“I know it is,” said I. “I would not ask this of you if it was not of great importance.”
“What am I to do? How long will you be gone for?” she asked. I could tell by the look upon her face that she was deeply troubled by my wishing to go away. One of my wife’s most admirable traits, however, was her ability to put up with my desire for adventure.
“I am not entirely sure. It would be an adequate assumption, at best, to say a month,” said I reluctantly. “There is no telling how long or short a case will be but considering the distance…” I took Mary into my arms and embraced her.
“John, I want you to be safe,” she replied quietly. “I should not wish to keep you from an adventure, and I know how much excitement you have when you are off with Holmes. You two are like silly school boys exploring in the woods.”
I looked into Mary’s eyes, which were very bright as she smiled at me.
“Thank you my dear,” said I and kissed her.
“Come, let me help you pack!” she said, and we darted into the bedroom where I pulled out my brown case.
By the time I had packed and found a local doctor who was willing to see to my patients in my absence, I realised I had but twenty minutes to return to Baker Street. I took my wife by one hand and my case in the other, and asked her to come with me to Baker Street and see us off from there.
***
Mary and I found Holmes standing by the window, smoking a pipe while he waited for me in the study. “Ah, Mrs Watson,” said Holmes, turning towards us as we walked inside.
“Hello, Mr Holmes. I see you are taking my husband away from me yet again,” Mary said with a smile.
“I did send him to get your permission. I would not dare take him away without it,” said Holmes.
“All I ask is that you both be careful. America is such a rugged land, and lacks the civility that we have obtained here in Britain.”
“Fear not, my dear,” said I, “Holmes and I will be safe and back soon enough,”
“I swear to keep your husband safe, Mrs Watson, and perhaps bring him back a few pounds lighter. Your cooking has certainly wreaked its havoc.”
“I take it you’ve made arrangements for any clients that come to you while we’re away?” said I, diverting Holmes and Mary’s conversation from my stomach.
“I have. There is an Investigator by the name Hewitt near the Strand. He will stand in for me in my absence.”
“Very well,” said I, “I think we should be off if we want to arrive in Southampton in time to board The Eagle.”
“Correct, Watson.”
Mary and I descended the stairs, and Holmes followed behind with his luggage. We loaded our cases into a cab, and I embraced Mary before taking my seat next to Holmes inside.
“My dear Mrs Watson,” said Holmes, leaning over me and poking his head through the open door of the cab. “Do keep an eye on Mrs Hudson while we are away. She worries far too much, and your company would be most welcome.”
“I will,” Mary replied. She blew me a kiss, and with the crack of the driver’s whip, we were on our way.
***
The journey from London to Southampton was not thrilling in any sense; rushed for time, but nothing more. Holmes was captured in thought and spoke little. He held the letter from Irene Adler, and skimmed over it repeatedly.
“She wrote this the day Godfrey died. Her handwriting is rushed. I suspect that the local authorities brushed off her case rather quickly,” said Holmes towards the end of our train journey.
“Is there any chance Mrs Adler has let her emotions get the better of her?” I asked.
“I trust you have not forgotten our first encounter with her, Watson. She is quick, and not one to be played as the fool,” said Holmes. “A woman like her would not ask our aid if it was not needed.”
“Do you suspect the police?” I asked. “If they brushed it off so quickly, are they hiding something?”
“I haven’t the facts to back the theory, but that is not an outlandish assumption. Ah, we are pulling in to the station. Let us hurry.”
Holmes and I quickly made our way to the docklands where we found The Eagle waiting. It was a large and remarkable piece of steamboat engineering. Holmes acquired our tickets while I stood with our luggage. Looking at the ship, I judged that the length of this vessel was close to six hundred feet. There were two massive cylinders which expelled a cloud of steam as it prepared to leave the d
ock. Crowds of people were rushing by with their luggage and racing up onto the deck. I looked at my watch and saw the time was a quarter to six. If Holmes did not hurry, we would miss the boat. My worries were quickly settled when I saw Holmes push through the hordes of people with two tickets in his hand.
We made our way onto the deck, through a door, and down some stairs. We descended a couple of levels and squeezed through narrow corridors before we reached our shared room. There were two single beds, a table with two small chairs, a dresser, and a shower room. “Come, Watson,” said Holmes, “let us leave our luggage and watch the ship depart from the dock.”
With not a moment to lose, Holmes and I made our way atop. It seemed that all the passengers had the same idea we did. We pressed through and stood against the railing, and looked down below as the flocks on the dock waved at us. The ship let out a great blast, and with a jerk and a tug, the great vessel pulled away.
Holmes and I stood there for some time, watching our island grow further and further away before he said: “Thank you for coming with me, dear Watson.”
Arrival In New York City
The journey across the Atlantic was filled with peaceful relaxation. At times, during this venture, I forgot my true reason for even being on the ship. The sea air, the bright blue sky, the star filled nights, it was all most refreshing to the mind and body.
Irene Adler’s case was far from my thoughts. Holmes, however, spent a great deal of time locked away in the room. He would often come out in the morning for a bit of fresh air before going into the dining hall, which was eloquent with its large glass ceiling, crystal chandeliers, bright gold trimmings, wonderfully crafted pillars with intricate patterns, firm oak tables with shining silver cutlery, and crystal glasses.
I found myself wandering the deck and leaning over the rails watching the water splash as this mighty vessel ploughed onwards. On a few occasions, I witnessed dolphins leaping out and racing along with the ship, the creatures letting out cheerful chirps as they exploded out of the water.
Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder Page 14