by Barry Day
LEADING SOCIETY WOMAN SLASHED!…
… and—
SON OF RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN?
I turned to say something about it to my companion, only to find his brows set in that single hard line that betokened both concentration and frustration.
“No, Watson, this isn’t a repetition of that annus horribilis 1888, I’d be prepared to bet on it. This is simply meant to look like it. It’s the old conjuror’s trick of légerdemain—making us all look in one direction while something is happening in another. And the quotation from the Bible … These are deep waters, Watson—perhaps the deepest we have ever encountered.”
An excellent dinner did much to revive our spirits and we emerged on a cold but bright January evening before setting off on the short walk to the Opera House.
The Strand was its usual bustling self with the crowds passing in and out of the gaslights, forming a theatre all their own. How many personal tragedies and triumphs were crossing our path every moment in this great city, if only we knew the plots?
Glancing at my companion, I could not help but reflect on the transformation evening clothes wrought in him. Although he stood just over six feet, that lean frame of his gave an impression of even greater height and the chiselled, aquiline face—now seen in profile—put me in mind of no one so much as Henry Irving, whose beloved Lyceum Theatre we were now passing, having decided to take a short detour in view of the fine evening. As I have often had cause to remark in my ‘little narratives’, the stage lost an actor of stature when Sherlock Holmes chose to deal instead with the dramas of daily life.
The Royal Opera House always presents a glittering spectacle itself, regardless of what is playing there. If I were to be perfectly honest, I would have to admit that on more than one occasion in the past I have found the show before the show, so to speak, to be the more interesting. Tonight’s offering, however, was one of my favourites and I looked forward to what was to come.
We arrived with a few minutes to spare and, as we promenaded through the foyer, I noticed a number of people reacting to my friend’s presence in a variety of ways.
Some would greet him formally and effusively; others would wait until he had passed and nudge one another, nodding in his direction. One or two would look positively apprehensive, avoid his gaze and seek to lose themselves in the convenient crowd.
One particular gentleman, who was clearly lording it loudly over a party of elegantly-attired guests, stopped in mid speech and lost his colour entirely, much to the surprise—and, I suspect, relief—of his companions. Holmes merely raised his hat to the group politely and moved on, murmuring to me out of the side of his mouth—“Surely you recognise X, the Member of Parliament in that curious business involving the trained cormorant and the lighthouse, Watson? I do believe the world may be ready for your telling of that particular tale. What’s more, I believe the gentleman in question believes so, too.”
The comédie humaine of which we were plainly a part distracted me for the moment from the surprising circumstances of our arrival. For when we presented ourselves at the box office, we were immediately presented with two excellent seats that had been reserved in our names. There was absolutely no indication of our mysterious benefactor. The seats, when we came to take them, were in the most advantageous part of the stalls.
As we settled in our seats, I saw Holmes open his programme and a moment later I did the same. A small piece of paper that had been tucked inside it fluttered to the ground at my feet. Retrieving it, I glanced at it casually and then, I swear, when I saw what was printed there, my jaw dropped. It’s a phrase we writers often resort to but I had never really considered its literal meaning until now.
I turned to look at Holmes and needed no clairvoyant to tell that he, too, had read those same words—
THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS THAT MADAME —— IS INDISPOSED. AT THIS EVENING’S PERFORMANCE OF LA TRAVIATA. THE PART OF VIOLETTA WILL BE SUNG
BY MISS IRENE ADLER
For a moment the great auditorium and its sea of faces seemed a blur.
Irene Adler. For Holmes she had always been the woman. How often had I heard him say that during his whole career to date he had been beaten by only three men and one woman—and that woman was Irene Adler.
The case had involved the King of Bohemia and a highly inconvenient photograph of the two of them together. Holmes had seemed poised to retrieve it and bring the case to his usual tidy conclusion but the adventuress had outsmarted him. At the last moment she had suddenly married—what was the lawyer fellow’s name? Norton. Godfrey Norton—and left the country but not before trumping Holmes, the master of disguise, at his own game.
When it was opened, the cupboard that supposedly held the incriminating picture turned out to be as bare as the one in the nursery rhyme. Certainly, what it contained was a photograph but it was a solo portrait of the elusive Miss Adler herself and a teasing note addressed to Holmes. Strangely, the souvenir of “the woman” (as he always referred to her thereafter) seemed to satisfy him as much as any conventional fee. I happened to know that he kept it in a drawer in his room and on more than one occasion I had caught a glimpse of him looking at it when he thought himself unobserved.
I tried to remember what I knew of the lady from the entry in Holmes’s index. Born in New Jersey in 1858. That would make her—what? Thirty-seven. A former diva with the Imperial Opera of Warsaw … played at La Scala in Milan and many of the other leading houses. Retired in mid-career, presumably to take up more lucrative pursuits. Since the affair of “A Scandal in Bohemia”—as I had entitled my account in the Strand Magazine—in 1888, seven long years ago, the lady had vanished from our ken … There had been rumours that she had died under mysterious circumstances.
And now …
All of this passed through my mind in a flash as I looked at my old friend.…
I’m quite prepared to admit that the fault is largely mine but I do find that the plots of some of these modern operas strain one’s belief—and, frankly, if one understood a word they were singing, it would only make matters worse. I’d seen this particular piece more than once and become inured to the sight of a lady who is supposed to be genteelly dying of consumption being played by a buxom creature singing at the top of her voice.
Imagine my surprise, then, when Irene Adler appeared as Violetta. When she and Holmes crossed swords and paths during that business with the King of Bohemia, I never actually met the woman face to face—merely saw her in the distance. I have to say that in no way did the photograph do her justice. I remembered an appealing heart-shaped face and a pair of haunting eyes but what I was not prepared for was the animation she possessed. When she was on stage one could not look away.
She was Violetta—capricious, flirtatious yet vulnerable … and clearly doomed. And when she sang her great first act aria …
E strano … Ah! Forse è lui …
… that huge house was silent for what seemed like an age when she had finished before it erupted into an ovation such as I have heard only for the proven legends.
There she stood, accepting the acclaim, a woman in the full bloom of her confidence and beauty. What had happened to her in the intervening years, I wondered? Her sudden departure from London to avoid the persecution of her former lover, the pompous Bohemian (for him I had met)—or even the professional attention of the gentleman sitting next to me—had involved no criminal act. She was perfectly entitled to be back on British soil, if she so chose. But what had happened to Norton, the lawyer she had married? Since the speculation without benefit of facts was quite pointless, I settled back in my seat and let Verdi’s melodies wash over me and slowly but surely raise my spirits. How very different, I reflected, from last evening.
In my peripheral vision—for I did not wish to make my scrutiny obvious to Holmes—I could see that my friend was every bit as transported as I. The tension I had observed when the curtain rose had disappeared and I could see those long, thin fingers start to wave in time t
o the music—a sure sign that he had let the barriers drop. I would have given a good deal to know what thoughts were revolving in his mind.
As the curtain fell for the interval, I turned in his direction.
“Well, Holmes, what a turn up …”—only to find that he was speaking to a young Opera House page who had just handed him a folded note.
“Excuse me, Watson. A summons from the Corridors of Power.” And he was gone. I could not help but sense that he was quite glad of the temporary reprieve from my questioning, as I was left to do what he so often advised—namely to possess my soul in patience.
I have often noticed in public gatherings of this kind that some sort of cosmic field force operates around Holmes. People are aware of his presence and, when he removes himself from the scene for some reason, one can sense they feel a void. This has a rather interesting side effect, in that they are inclined to totally overlook my being there, as their eyes follow him. Many a time I have gleaned valuable information in my role of invisible observer.
On this occasion I was overcome with a strong sense of someone focusing intently not on Holmes but on his empty seat. I am never quite sure why one is made so physically aware of another person’s psychic energy being deployed in this way but it is an undoubted phenomenon and on this occasion I was in no doubt as to its origin.
Raising and polishing the spectacles I have recently taken to wearing—purely to read small print in a dimly-lit environment, you understand—I was able to employ their lens as a rudimentary mirror.
Sitting a few rows behind us was a most extraordinary figure. Even seated, he was undoubtedly a tall and imposing man, shrouded in a black opera cloak. This in itself I found mildly surprising, since the hall was perfectly well heated. He wore a moustache and full beard which completely covered the lower part of his face. Unfortunately, it also drew attention to his mouth, which was particularly thin, a virtual slit, with lips as crimson as any woman’s. His hair was wild, long and flowing down to his shoulders. In fact, he reminded me of nothing so much as a painting of some Old Testament prophet suddenly transported to the nineteenth century.
But what really rivetted my attention were his eyes. I could not be sure without turning in my seat—which would have defeated the purpose of the exercise entirely—but I could have sworn the pupils were of a deep purple, verging on black. I had never seen such a gaze. It seemed to bore though everything in its path.
The whole experience was beginning to make me physically uncomfortable and I was more than curious to know the identity of this man who would have seemed more at home on the other side of the footlights. It was at this point that Holmes slipped back in to the seat next to me.
“Signor Verdi should write a new opera and call it Jupiter Descending—or whatever the Italian equivalent happens to be. You will never guess, Watson, who I have just been talking to?”
“Holmes, I have had quite enough surprises for one day,” I replied. “I am in no mood for guessing games. Who?”
“My brother Mycroft. As I’m sure I have often told you, Mycroft’s life runs on rails. Whitehall to the Diogenes Club to his apartments opposite and back to Whitehall. For him to undertake the additional half mile or so to Covent Garden is like a planet leaving its preordained orbit—yet here he is. Or, rather, there he is …”
And he indicated one of the boxes, where several eminent-looking folk, drooping under the weight of their insignia, were chatting in a desultory fashion. Standing slightly to one side of them and obviously in official attendance was the massive figure of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s elder brother.
Mycroft remained an enigma to me. I had met him only once face to face, during the affair of “The Greek Interpreter” some seven years or so earlier. No, in fact, come to think of it, that is not quite true. A heavily muffled and silent Mycroft had been the ‘coachman’ who drove me to Victoria to meet Holmes, as we started our mad European dash to avoid Moriarty—that trip, which led to the disaster at Reichenbach in May of 1891. And it was Mycroft, I later learned, who maintained Holmes’s estate during the three years of the ‘Great Hiatus’.
I knew little about him to this day. A creature of habit, certainly. Highly placed in government circles, undoubtedly. According to Holmes, his brother, to all intents and purposes, frequently was the government. Few matters of consequence, it seemed, were decided without Mycroft’s imprimatur.
And there he stood just above and to one side of us, like a corpulent statue—as different in appearance from that lean “greyhound in the slips”, his younger brother, as it was possible to imagine. Until one looked at the eyes. They were a peculiarly light gray in colour and seemed to have at all times that faraway, introspective look which I had only ever observed in my friend when he was exerting his full powers.
As I was contemplating that living graven image, I heard Holmes murmur—“As you say, Watson—curiouser and curiouser. Mycroft insists on taking us for dinner tomorrow night but not to his benighted Diogenes Club. The Café Royal, no less, where we have at least a chance of something adequate to eat. Something is most definitely afoot and, although he was not prepared to discuss it until tomorrow, I don’t think we have far to seek to discern his agenda, eh?”
As if on cue, the house lights dimmed and we returned to the players in the other drama that was taking place on the stage.
In those two final acts Irene Adler held that audience in her elegant little hand. From what little I had heard of her previous career, I would have expected a run-of-the-mill soprano with the vocal demands of Violetta well beyond her range. Perhaps the voice had matured with age but, in any case, I was completely in error. The woman was simply superb. When Violetta dies, I found myself clearing my throat and dabbing at my eyes and I could deduce from the noises around me that I was not alone.
Addio del passato bel sogno ridenti
Le rose del volto già sono pallenti …
Delia traviata … sorridi … al desio.
A lei, deh persona, tu accoglia, o Dio!
Ah! Tutto fini, Or tutto fini.
The curtain fell to a tumult of applause, then rose and fell more times than I could count. Finally, Irene Adler was left alone in the centre of the stage, clutching her bouquets, as the whole house rose to her. I sensed Holmes fidgeting next to me, then felt him relax as a page dashed on stage with one final garland—a magnificent arrangement of white roses. Miss Adler accepted with a charming smile for the boy and—was it my imagination?—seemed to look in our direction.
The curtain fell for the last time and we were back in the real world, a world buzzing with speculation about this wonderful ‘new’ talent. Only Holmes was silent, as we gathered our things together, preparatory to leaving.
It suddenly occurred to me to draw Holmes’s attention to the Prophet who had rivetted my attention earlier. Such an unusual fellow must surely be known to the man who knew everything? But when I turned to point him out, the seat he had been occupying was already empty and the thought soon became submerged by the more pressing question of the hour. What was the meaning of Irene Adler’s dramatic return to London after so long? And how would it affect Sherlock Holmes?
In the cab I tried several times in my tactful way to broach the subject but each time Holmes managed to glide on to another tack. Finally, he turned and caught my eye for the first time since the erratum slip had fallen out of the programme.
“My dear old friend,” he said, “I am perfectly prepared to discuss shoes and ships and sealing wax or cabbages and kings. I will even, if you so wish, debate with you miracle plays, medieval pottery or the Buddhism of Ceylon. Beyond that I am not prepared to go.”
Since I had no pressing interest in any of the above, the rest of the journey back to Baker Street passed uneventfully, not to say silently.
Once we had closed the door behind us, Holmes went straight to his room with a polite but firm ‘Goodnight’. I myself, though, was so enervated by what I had just experienced that I determined to have a night
cap before turning in. As I settled myself in my chair, I found I was about to sit on a folded piece of paper.
Picking it up and smoothing out the creases, I saw that it was the handbill for the performance we had just seen. Presumably Holmes had dropped it there on his way to bed.
It was then that I noticed something about it that had escaped me earlier. Holding it up to the gas jet confirmed it. Where the title LA TRAVIATA was printed someone had made a circle of pinpricks that contained two of the letters …
IA
One did not need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce what those letters stood for …
Chapter Four
As I get older I find that, if I retire with my mind in a turmoil, I invariably dream and that night was no exception. I lay there, my mind teeming with the thoughts and impressions of the last two days and then, suddenly, I was in a fairground that seemed to go on for ever.
Except for me, everyone was walking through it in slow motion and I noticed that there was no joy on any of their faces. “How strange,” I found myself thinking, “why do they call this a fun fair? They should call it a fright fair.” For some reason this thought amused me immoderately and I began to laugh but for some reason I could not hear a sound above the noise of the hurdy-gurdy and the shouts of the barkers.
I passed a coconut shy where Lestrade in bowler hat and raincoat was throwing an endless series of wooden balls at the coconuts. On looking closer, though, I could see that each coconut was the head of the unfortunate McLinsky, who had his eyes screwed up in anticipation of being hit. Lestrade was saying to me—“Come on, Doctor, it’s not difficult. We’re trained to do this sort of thing at the Yard.”
Then I was in a Hall of Mirrors, which was quite deserted except for myself and at the far end Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, who were deep in conversation, though, again, I could not hear a word. As they moved around, the mirrors distorted their images so that the tall slender figure of Holmes would turn into the corpulent one of Mycroft, then back again. The spectacle was so disquieting that I heard myself crying—“I do wish you two would make your minds up!” At which the two images became one and immediately vanished.