I rose early on the day we arrived in New York City. The sun itself had but only begun to rise and sparkle off the glass-like water as I came out upon the deck. I could see land in the distance.
“Marvellous, is it not?” said Holmes as he walked towards me.
“It is,” I returned.
We stood there together as The Eagle made its way from the open sea into the bay. With astonishment, we gazed upon the great copper Statue of Liberty, now starting to turn a teal-green from weathering, erected high with its torch raised into the heavens. We approached the Island of Manhattan, which was cluttered with immense towering buildings, much taller than any one would see in London.
“There is certainly a desire for grandiose designs, wouldn’t you say, Watson?” Holmes chuckled.
“How right you are.”
“Let us retrieve our luggage and be ready to vacate the ship as soon as possible. We will need to get a train as close as we can to the address Miss Adler gave us.”
I accompanied Holmes to our room, and we gathered our belongings before returning to the deck. When The Eagle docked, we were one of the first to alight. With a few directions, Holmes and I wandered into the jungle of Manhattan. Holmes often referred to London as a jungle, a reference I wholeheartedly understood, but if London was a jungle, New York was the wild Amazon. Though the atmosphere was not entirely foreign to us, the locals were an unusual breed. The chatter of men and women with harsh, bitter accents made some of the strongest cockney or Irish accents seem almost poetic.
Holmes did not have any trouble blending in. He approached a young man who was sitting atop a barrel eating a banana, and asked, in a perfect American accent, mind you, where we could find a cab. Holmes thanked the man and shook his hand, then signalled for me to follow by a slight tilt of his head. We passed between two brown brick buildings, and found ourselves on a busy street. Holmes whistled, and hailed a cab to stop.
“Where’m I takin’ ya?” asked the driver.
“To the nearest railway station by which we can travel to Westchester,” Holmes replied.
“Boy, them are a lot of words just to be going to the train station,” remarked the driver. “Where’s that accent from? You an England man?”
“Yes, we’re English,” I replied rather sternly.
“Well, boys, I hope you got the grit to last here in these United States of America! God’s Land, it be,” he replied with a devilish grin, and let out a howling laugh. “Well, whatcha waitin’ for? Get in!”
“As you wish,” Holmes said. He looked at me with a humorous glance as we stepped inside the cab and pressed on with the next leg of our venture.
After a shaky journey through the streets of Manhattan, Holmes and I found ourselves at a train station where we bought return tickets taking us to Salem where Irene Adler had told us to find her. We boarded the carriage, and from Manhattan to Salem Holmes took the time to read the letter aloud to me and I postulated, further, the cause of Mr Norton’s death.
“What of the Bohemian king?” I remarked. “Might he have gone to extreme measures to retrieve, or force the hand of Irene Adler, so to get the scandalous photograph back?”
“Ha! Watson, my man, you really are quite remarkable and imaginative,” said Holmes. “The Bohemian King has long since forgotten that once royal scandal. Preoccupied with his country and his own children and wife.”
“Well, Ms Adler was prone to scandal. Perhaps her affections swooned a local boy…” we continued for some time in discussion as the green landscape that was not unlike our very own English countryside dashed passed us.
When we arrived in Salem, we found that the station was a wobbly wooden platform, void of shelter or benches. Surrounding us was a deep green wood that I assumed, at one point, would have been home to many natives. Holmes and I walked up a long dirt road, kicking up dust with every step. As we carried on, my thoughts turned towards my wife and her wellbeing. She was strong; I had no reason for concern, but this was the first time that the two of us had been separated by such a great distance.
“Here we are,” said Holmes, cutting off my train of thought.
We stood before a tall iron gate with pillars of bricks to each side, connecting a stone fence that surrounded the home. I pushed the gate, it was locked. Holmes withdrew his burglar kit and in a matter of moments opened the lock and the iron doors swung open with a loud creak. We followed a pebbled path up to the front door of the large two-story colonial home which was painted as dazzling white. I went to knock on the door, but Holmes abruptly stopped me, grabbing my arm.
“Holmes?”
“Something is wrong,” he said in a quiet voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Here,” he replied, and pointed to the door handle and the crevice where the lock would have bolted into the frame. “These markings. You see them, Watson?” Holmes pointed out very small indentations in the wooden frame.
“Yes, I see them.”
“Someone has already been here and pried the lock. See here, flakes of paint by your shoes. This is recent.”
I set my luggage down and quickly opened it up, pulling my service revolver out.
“We need to make sure Miss Adler is safe!”
Holmes nodded, and with a slight push of the door, it opened, creaking at the hinges. We slowly crept inside. Directly within was a staircase. To our left was a passage, which led into a conjoining lounge and dining hall. The air inside was stagnant and stale. I could hear Holmes repeatedly sniffing the distasteful odour that permeated the air.
“What do you suppose that smell is?” I asked.
“Not entirely sure,” whispered Holmes, “but I wager it is a type of tobacco.”
“A type of tobacco you can’t recognise?” said I.
“Come now, Watson,” said Holmes as we continued to search the rooms.
The house had been ransacked, as if someone had been hurriedly looking for something. We walked quietly up the stairs, doing our best to not creak the wooden steps. It did not take much time to poke inside each room and realise we were alone and void of immediate danger.
I found Holmes shuffling through some clothes inside a bedroom that I believed to be Irene Adler and Godfrey Norton’s. On the wall, decorated in frames, were posters of various plays and operas which she had performed in since our encounter with her in ‘88.
“What do you think, Holmes, was she taken by whoever dismantled the house?”
My friend did not respond at once but walked about the room quietly. I stepped into the room and pulled the door to see what was behind it.
“Aha!” exclaimed Holmes.
“What is it?” I asked, turning towards him.
“Watson, look around. Tell me what you see!”
“I see a bed, which has been torn apart and cut at by a sharp object. I see a closet, which has been expelled of everything inside. I see a vanity with drawers hanging out, and cosmetics and powders over the floor and,” I paused to look behind me, “a dresser that has also been rifled through.”
“Tell me more about the dresser, Watson.”
“Is this the time for games?” I asked.
“Irene Adler is safe, fret not. We have time.”
“Safe, how can you possibly know that?”
“The dresser,” Holmes said.
I looked at it thoroughly for any clues, any signs that she might have left, but saw nothing but clothes and garments hanging out of the drawers.
“I see nothing,” I admitted.
“On the contrary, you see everything I see, but you fail to pick up on one thing. In a house where everything is tousled, what stands out? Do not strain yourself, Watson, I’ll tell you. A vase of flowers filled with fresh water that has not been knocked over.” I then saw what Holmes had seen. Upon the dresser on the corner nearest the door, was a glass vase of flowers. The water inside was indeed clear, and the flowers, too, were fresh.
“You think this is a message from Adler?”
; “No, the message is underneath. From where you stand, the white card hidden under the vase is blocked by the stems, but from where I stand, I can see its reflection where the glass bends.”
I picked up the vase, and sure enough, there was a small card under it. Handwritten upon the card was this message:
227 Lenox Ave, Harlem. Third Floor.
“Let us be off, Watson!” said Holmes, taking the card and tucking it into his pocket; and we, as rapidly as we could, made our way back to Manhattan where we hoped to find Irene Adler.
***
Several hours had passed since we arrived in America, and we had taken little time to rest or even discard our luggage. By the time we arrived at 227 Lenox Avenue, the sun was setting, and my body was tired. We stood before the three-story brownstone. Holmes knocked firmly on the door, but received no answer. I noticed a dim light on the third floor. After a moment, Holmes opened his luggage and pulled out his leather pouch in which he stored his pins for picking locks. Then, with a great sweeping motion, the door was flung open; Holmes stumbled backwards, and I shot straight up. There, standing in the doorway, silhouetted by a light glowing from behind, was a woman. One hand remained on the door handle; in the other a small pistol pointed down at Holmes.
“Mrs Norton,” said Holmes as he picked himself up and straightened his collar.
“Adler, you can call me Miss Adler,” the woman replied. She smiled at us. It was infectious. She had remained as beautiful as ever.
“I trust you are not going to have us stand out here while we discuss our business,” Holmes said.
“Forgive me, Mr Holmes, Doctor. Come in,” said she, and we entered. The lodging itself felt similar to Baker Street. There was a certain English flair to its decor. We were shown into a large study, which led into a kitchen separated by a couple of French doors. The floors, though hardwood, were covered in thick fur carpets; a maroon coloured paper with square patterns dressed the walls; lace curtains draped in front of the windows; and in the centre of this warmly lit study, just in front of the fireplace, were a comfortable two seater sofa and an arm chair with a table beside it. “Don’t think ill of me,” Miss Adler said, ”I would only have shot you if you were neither Holmes nor Dr Watson.“
“We have visited your house,” said Holmes.
“It was in disarray,” I added. “We thought we were too late, and that you had been taken or killed.”
“Yes, I am not surprised. Someone is playing a game but I do not know who,” Miss Adler said thoughtfully. ”That is why I left. I thought it best to hide, and therefore told the necessary people that I would be taking a holiday.”
“Do you know what was being sought after by the vandals at your house?” Holmes asked.
“I’m sorry,” I interjected, “but something does not make sense. Miss Adler, you believed your life was in danger so you hid, yet you must have been at your house to leave us the clue to find you here.”
“That is correct,” she replied. “I saw that Godfrey was quickly buried and mourned, and decided that after his funeral I would hide. I knew that his death was by no means self-inflicted, and suspected whoever came after him might also come after me. I did not wish to be a corpse when you and Mr Holmes turned up, so I made the arrangements to leave under the pretence that I would be vacationing. I left a reliable partner instructions to notify me if any suspicious characters showed up at my house. I was notified of this a few days ago. I knew, roughly, when you would arrive, so earlier today I took to a disguise and snuck into my house to leave you the message. When I saw what had been done to my home, for it was my first viewing of it since I took to hiding, I left Mr Holmes a clue. I knew he would notice the one untouched thing in the house. I returned here in case whoever pillaged my house returned.”
“I’m afraid you must forgive Dr Watson, Miss Adler. I may be able to function and keep up on an empty stomach, but he cannot,” said Holmes.
“Then let me get you something to drink and eat,” offered our host.
“That would be splendid, thank you,” said I.
A short while later, Miss Adler had provided us with some cold meat and a bottle of whiskey. Sitting comfortably on the sofa and feeling refreshed, Holmes began to question her.
“We shan’t waste any more time,” Holmes began. „Tell me all that happened with Godfrey Norton, and leave nothing out.”
“I know your methods, Mr Holmes,” said Miss Adler with a crooked smile. She composed herself as she pondered the events which saw her smile quickly fade. “Godfrey and I, our marriage was good. I was happy. We have been successful since coming to New York. He was hired into a law firm, and I was welcomed back on stage, and performed regularly. All was well, he kept nothing from me.”
“Does his death have anything to do with the opium addiction?” Holmes suddenly asked. Miss Adler’s eyes widened and I turned to Holmes in shock.
“Opium?” I questioned.
“Yes, his clothes were riddled with the smells of an opium den. Watson, you saw me examining them in their room. The scent was faint but it was there,” said the detective.
“I had no intention on keeping that information from you. But the truth is, I cannot give you an answer. If that has had some part to play, I am not yet aware of why or how. He was not addicted to the substance when we fell in love back in London. It happened when we came to America. Through work, at Morrison & James, he was asked to travel to Nevada and aid in some legal matters out there; it was when he returned that he picked up the taste for it. I didn’t fight him over it, but told him that I wished not to be a part of it. That aside, we had no troubles.
“It was, if I recall, three days before his death that I noticed his queer behaviour. He was nervous and short in his replies. When I asked him what was wrong, he simply said, ‘Problems at work, Ren. I have much on my plate at the moment.’ I was preparing for a weekend show and needed to stay in the city, so I let him alone and told him I’d see him Sunday night. I was able to leave early from the city and arrived back there sometime around five o’clock in the afternoon.
“I found a note from Godfrey saying he was going to be at the office for a couple of days. I found this to be incredibly strange, and without any care I trailed back to the city to speak with him. When I arrived at the firm, the doors were locked. I picked the door and when I went into his office he was there, shot dead. I immediately noticed that the scene was meant to look as if he had done it himself.
“The wound was on the left side of his head and the gun was just near his left hand, on the floor. Godfrey was right-handed; why would he kill himself using his left hand? It doesn’t make sense. I then noticed the ash on his desk. He smokes, but never in his office, which implied to me that he was not alone. Lastly, upon his desk lay a gold doubloon with the year 1701 upon it. The doubloon was there for one reason only. It was a threat. The police tossed it all off as trifles and ignored my concerns. ‘Suicide, clearly,’ they kept telling me over and over, but it’s not, Mr Holmes. Someone murdered Godfrey, and I want you to help me find them so that justice can be brought upon them.”
“The ash, did you save it?” Holmes asked.
“I did,” Miss Adler replied, and walked over to a desk drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope.
Holmes took it from her and sniffed. “Curious,” he muttered under his breath.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A familiar scent. Miss Adler, what else can you tell me about the office? Was anything out of order?” Holmes questioned.
“His desk. The drawers, three on each side, were open but at various lengths,” she informed us.
“Was anything stolen?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing appeared to be taken. No other cabinet or anything had been touched; simply his desk and nothing inside was disturbed.”
“Fascinating,” said Holmes “Was there evidence of fresh opium use?”
“None at all,” she replied. I could see her eyes welling up, but she bit her lip to stop her
self from shedding any tears. “I should never have dismissed his addiction, and I should have pressed harder when I knew something was wrong!”
“Did you ever follow him to find out where he partakes of the substance?” I asked.
“I loved him, Doctor,” said she sternly. “I was not the type of bride to hound is every step.”
“And they say that love is blind,” Holmes remarked. “Given the amount of time that has passed, I would assume Norton’s office is no longer intact?”
“Actually, it is. I persuaded the firm to keep it as is until the day after tomorrow to give you enough time to get here and have a look.”
“Well done,“ said Holmes with a smile. “Then tomorrow, our first line of inquiry will be to look over his office!” After some persuasion by Miss Adler, Holmes and I agreed to stay at her brownstone for the night rather than venture out and find a hotel. Near ten o’clock, we dispersed into our separate chambers and rested before the next day’s outings.
The Secret Life of Godfrey Norton
I woke around seven o’clock in the morning. I could smell the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee. In the study Adler was sitting with Holmes. She lounged upon the sofa in a lovely olive dress, with her hair gathered up, and several yellow lilies pinned around her left ear. Holmes, however, was sat with crossed legs in the armchair.
“Good morning, Doctor,” acknowledged Miss Adler.
I greeted them both.
“Have some toast, and some coffee. I wish to be out within the hour to Norton’s office,” said Holmes.
“Very well. Are you accompanying us, Miss Adler?” I asked.
“I am not. Mr Holmes believes it best to remain ‘hidden’,” she replied with slight distaste in her tone.
“Surely you are not much safer here than at home?” I asked.
“I had the same question, Watson,” admitted Holmes. ”However, it seems that Miss Adler has taken a tip from my handbook. This lodging is known only to her.”
Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder Page 15