by Amy Thomas
Irene was different. If Watson was a pipe and slippers before a warm fire, she was a Nor’easter, an American storm that blew wherever it chose and sent everything in its path head-over-heels. With surprise, Holmes realised that he felt deep anger, rage against a dead man. No person had the right to lock up something so wild.
Chapter 3: Irene
Two flights of stairs took me to the hallway that contained my room, a generously-sized suite with obscenely opulent wooden furnishings obviously designed to appeal to Florida’s new money. The hotels in New York and Boston had installed lifts to save guests from the stairs, but Orlando was a younger sibling playing catch-up in many ways. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the exercise after my mind-whirling evening. Once inside, I lay down for a moment on the hideous yellow coverlet to collect my thoughts.
Hours before, my life had stretched before me in a predictable manner, as predictable as the life of a travelling performer can be. I had not let myself think beyond the singing, the dates that would follow dates for as long as I could continue. I would grow richer, and my memories would grow further away in time, at least, if not in feeling. I would be the world’s Irene Adler again, and my mind would be forced to acquiesce, to find its own occupation in between the different places that would all come to seem the same in the end.
Holmes’s arrival was like a splash of saltwater to the face, the sting and then the awakening. Perhaps Barnett’s dastardly plans for me, whatever they might be, were blessings in disguise, for they had acted as the catalysts to draw salvation near. I laughed at the drama of my own thoughts. What sort of salvation was six feet of arrogance and the promise of endless swordplay? And yet, I experienced relief from a feeling I hadn’t known I still had, the desperation of a mind shuttered and set aside. What Holmes offered me was a chance to think freely, and that felt as close to salvation as anything I could imagine.
I allowed myself the luxury of a few moments of contemplation and then roused with purpose. I quickly collected my small belongings from around the room and placed them in my carpet reticule. My clothes went into the sturdy trunk that had served me well through the crossing and all my travels. I felt like a criminal packing my gowns; my manager always arranged for someone to pack them for me at the end of each city’s run, and I was far from skilled at doing so myself. I hoped that whatever plans Holmes had for us upon our arrival in the southern city would include enough time for my dresses to recover before being worn. Part of me missed the quick hands of my Yorkshire lady’s maid, but I did not miss her constantly watchful eye or loose tongue. My manager, Slade, had begged me to take on a maid or companion of some sort to travel with us and provide company for his secretary, but the haunting memories of my married life had made me desire the freedom to be alone and do as I wished. I usually did very well on my own. In fact, I had begun to think I might never engage another permanent maid. Slade was more than enough, with all of his fussing about my supposed comfort and fawning over my talent. I was grateful for his abilities, which had smoothed my way considerably, but I knew that I would not miss him.
After I had finished packing my possessions, with widely varying degrees of efficiency, I considered the metal safe tucked in the back of the closet. It contained my personal funds and the one piece of fine jewellery I carried with me, a diamond necklace I had inherited from my mother when I was a child in New Jersey. I had a sizeable portion of money in my personal possession at all times, a practice Slade deplored as being unsafe. This, too, was most likely a result of the confines of my marriage, but even before my nuptials, I had been wary. I did not like to be at the mercy of others any more than was absolutely necessary. Slade had no idea how adept I could be at defending myself, should the need arise. I decided to leave the safe opening for the morning, and I decided not to tell Holmes about the money. Wiser to keep something to myself in case of emergencies. He had tried to beat me once and only lost on a knife’s-point. I could not afford to trust my wits alone to save me again.
Before I slept, I set the alarm clock for 6:30. The theatre would not expect me until at least 3:00 in the afternoon, and my only other engagement was lunch with Slade and an enthusiastic music lover at 12:30. If all went to plan, I would be far gone and my manager paid off before anyone recognised my absence. Sleep was long in coming, but I didn’t mind. Excitement hadn’t kept me awake for quite some time.
* * *
Ding I was fighting a black dress that wouldn’t stop wrapping its silky, choking arms around me. Ding The corpse on the table kept talking to me, endlessly, about where to place my assets, but it was the corpse of the king of Bohemia with the voice of Sherlock Holmes. Ding I fought to the surface, emerging into the smell of stale cigars and the feel of silken bedsheets. I arose quickly, washing my face in the porcelain basin and dressing myself in a plain brown shirtwaist and long tan skirt. I rang for the porter, a near-child, as soon as I was decent and requested a light breakfast, which I ate as quickly as possible. I rang for him. once again, and when he arrived I instructed him to take my trunk to the lobby. ‘Are you going away, Miss Adler?’ he asked curiously, fingering his forelock. The hotel staff had been told I was some sort of musical celebrity, and they were aware that I had been engaged for a run at the theatre, a run in these parts usually being construed as anything more than one night. ‘I need my things at the theatre tonight,’ I answered with a ready smile. ‘Someone from there will come by to pick it up.’ This satisfied the boy, and he took it willingly after being handed a few coins. I was glad that Holmes had entrusted me with a few unmentioned details. At least he trusted my judgement that much.
My last act before leaving the room for the final time was to open the safe. I had an irrational, uncomfortable feeling that the contents might have disappeared during the night, but there they were, as snug as ever. I secreted the roll of American money in a pouch I carried close to my body underneath my clothing. The necklace I put on, taking care to hide it completely under the high collar of my practical shirtwaist. I picked up my reticule and proceeded downstairs, stopping in the lobby to enquire after a cab ‘for the theatre.’ The white-haired steward behind the small desk smiled uncomfortably widely and replied in the hushed tones of a doctor addressing an elderly hysteric. News of my ‘fame’ and generous pocketbook must have reached all quarters, I reasoned. He promised me a coach as soon as one could be procured, and I settled in to wait, noting from my watch that I still had half an hour to make the train station, which was only about ten minutes’ ride away. I sat down in a faded brocade chair and studied the place, a mixture of American innovation and tasteless nods to old-world finery, emphasizing the worst of each, from the wallpaper (peeling at the very edges) that depicted what looked like palm trees covered with grotesque monkeys, to the fat, unpleasant cherub statues that stood on either side of the oversized staircase.
Thankfully, I was not left to wait in this paradise for long, as a cab arrived within five minutes, driven by an elderly, hunched man, who was too abashed by my presence to make eye contact. The steward simpered proudly at having procured my transportation so quickly, and I thanked him monetarily, taking advantage of the air of good will to enquire after my trunk. ‘I sent it down for my theatre to collect,’ I said in my most innocent, whimsical voice, ‘but I think I’d like to take it with me now.’ The steward was only too happy to oblige me by yelling for two adolescent porters and having them hoist it onto the coach with the help of the aged driver, who seemed to take it all as a matter of course.
‘The theatre, Miss?’ he asked before we set off, his voice thin and reedy.
‘No, the train station, if you please,’ I said, sounding unconcerned.
‘Very well,’ he answered, in a tone that seemed to say none of my business anyway. I wasn’t overly concerned; if he chose to tell the story later, I would be long gone. Nevertheless, I tipped him double the usual amount when we arrived at the platform, and he arranged for my trunk
to be stowed. We had arrived with ten minutes to spare, so I purchased a cup of terrible coffee from a slatternly woman who had a vague excuse for a stall in the middle of the warehouse-like wooden building that served as a station. I considered buying two, but I supposed that would arouse the sort of speculation Holmes was trying to avoid. Thankfully, no one appeared to recognise me, and I did not even clap eyes on my travelling companion. I boarded the train considerably more relaxed than I had begun the day, proud of myself for successfully navigating the morning’s small pitfalls.
I made immediately for the third car, taking care not to walk too quickly. The train was surprisingly luxurious. I had expected something more provincial, but it had all the accoutrements of the trains that had carried me through New England, the leather and velvet and smartly-uniformed staff with every desire to please. I chided myself for my prejudice. The newness of Florida’s prominence did not necessitate a complete lack of taste, hideous hotel vestibules notwithstanding.
I entered the third car eagerly, far more enthusiastic about seeing Holmes than I had expected to be. But there was a problem. The car was occupied, but not by Holmes. Instead, my elderly cabdriver sat placidly hunched over an almanac, sipping coffee from the same stall I had visited. He looked up as I entered, his cloudy eyes barely visible through matted grey locks. My mind raced. Uppermost was annoyance at Holmes. Where on earth was the man, and why hadn’t he upheld his promise of an empty car? Furthermore, how could I get rid of the intruder? Just at that moment, the aged driver straightened up, said ‘Good morning, Mrs James,’ and began to take off his face.
Annoyance instantly followed recognition. ‘Whatever do you mean by this, Holmes?’ I hissed, keeping my voice low. I had no idea how far sound would carry on a train (though Holmes probably did, hateful man), but I didn’t want to risk alerting curious listening ears.
‘Call me Bernard from now on,’ he replied in a low voice of his own, before continuing in a more normal tone. ‘I couldn’t risk anything going wrong, so I included myself. That is all.’
‘Entirely all?’ I asked suspiciously, taking my seat on the bench opposite him.
‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘after you spotted me so quickly yesterday, I thought I might challenge myself and see if my subtler abilities had lost their sharpness against the recognition of one who knows me. I see they have not.’
I wanted to be angry, but I could see that he meant the statement literally and as no kind of comment on my observational abilities. ‘It was the eyes,’ I said quickly. ‘Yesterday, they were your own. Today, their cloudiness belonged to someone else.’
‘Well spotted,’ said Holmes, pulling forth a small pipe. ‘I did not mind driving a cab with the eyes of another, but only the eyes of the great detective himself could be put to the purpose of meeting Irene Adler again.’
I wondered if he intended to mock me, but he seemed dead serious. He puffed away at his tobacco for a moment and then drilled me with his gaze. ‘From now on, we are Bernard and Lavinia James. Use those names as often as possible until they are second-nature. We can’t afford to slip.’ I nodded, slightly annoyed at his schoomasterish tone. I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to have failed to assimilate the necessity of subterfuge.
‘Come, my dear Lavinia, and let me show you the letter I’ve received from our friends.’ Holmes motioned to me to join him on his side of the car, and I did so, unable to keep from smiling at the conspiratorial glint in his eyes.
‘Very well, Bernard,’ I answered, sitting myself down primly. Holmes handed me a sheet of paper that contained a handwritten list. I read it with interest.
1)Barnett is Miss A’s solicitor.
2)Sanchez is a Central American trying to make his fortune in the citrus-growing industry.
3)Both men have some sort of design on Miss A, perhaps on others as well.
4)The exact nature of the connection between the two men is unknown.
5)Sanchez is a frequent guest of the Edisons, though neither husband nor wife appears to have any particular preferential fondness for him.
6)Barnett has extensive ties to both England and North America, though none as-yet-discovered to Central America.
7)An ongoing investigation into Miss A’s finances, conducted under the supervision of Mycroft Holmes, turns up nothing amiss, though some records cannot be accessed without her personal permission (or that of her solicitor, who is unaware of the investigation and might act in dangerous ways if provoked before he is fully captured). In addition, the finances of her American tour are not fully accounted-for as of yet.
8)Barnett represents many wealthy clients, and investigations have begun into the accounts of several of the more prominent, though no inconsistencies have been uncovered to date.
9)Sanchez is almost certain not to know what Miss A looks like; therefore, personal contact will not present unreasonable risk.
10)Once Miss A’s physical safety is secured, the next phase of the case must include deeper infiltration into Fort Myers society.
I read the list with interest, noting the mixture of Holmes’s terse observations and expanded explanations for my benefit. ‘I get the impression—I mean, do you suppose the implications of the threat to be wider than a crude plot by a solicitor against a wealthy client?’ I asked, looking at my companion curiously.
‘I think it likely, as does my brother,’ he answered, his face in a cloud of grey smoke. ‘A common criminal would have already betrayed himself in a thousand ways. If Barnett desired to steal, innumerable ways to do so exist before him. But he’s been too careful. Why, too, did he include the man Sanchez? The whole thing reads differently from a petty crime.’
‘I must also ask, Bernard, how my brother-in-law (I nearly laughed aloud) came by the letter from our friend in the first place.’
‘That, my dear Lavinia, is one of the more interesting facts of the case. A clerk by the name of Michael Morgan caught sight of the letter on his employer’s desk right before it was posted. He thought the contents odd and mentioned them that evening when he visited his doctor for treatment of a chest cold. His doctor’s name, you might have guessed, is one John Watson, a London physician of considerable reputation who recently lost his dear friend of several years. In the absence of this friend, the good doctor gave the information to the next-best source, his friend’s brother, who acquired the letter after it had reached the intended recipient. Even I do not know how that was accomplished, except that Sanchez has recently been enjoying himself in New York, where Mycroft has several associates.’
‘I begin to see why Dr Watson’s company is sought by those who appear to run in such different circles from those frequented by most physicians,’ I commented, thinking as I did so that the poor man must be enduring a mountain of grief, a monstrously unfair lot for one who had been so loyal.
Holmes grew quiet for a moment before muttering, ‘At least he had the sense to take it to Mycroft and not try to investigate it himself.’ I ventured to imagine that perhaps his thoughts echoed my own.
‘This evening, you and I are to dine with Thomas and Mina Edison, along with various guests, at Seminole Lodge,’ said Holmes, and the vision of the tangled dresses in my trunk burst into my mind unwelcome. I would have to try my mother’s technique of hanging them in a steamy washroom, a trick I hadn’t thought of in years. I didn’t complain, however, too interested by the prospect of the dinner to be irritated.
‘What character do you wish me to portray?’ I asked. The list Holmes had shown me had reminded me that, though I might be a concerned party in the case, I was entering an investigation that had been going on for some time. I was far from overawed by the detective, but I respected his methods.
‘One’s own character is the easiest to project,’ he answered. ‘I must seem eager and naïve, but no such injunctions apply to you. In fact, it may prove more convincing for you t
o seem like the cleverer wife of a slightly foolish husband. As to specifics, draw out the evening’s participants as much as you can. Your appearance should keep the task from being overwhelmingly difficult.’ At the last line, I laughed out loud. Holmes refrained from comment, but an expression crossed his face that was as near mirth as I had ever seen him.
Chapter 4: Holmes
In many ways, the beginning of the case had proved frustrating for Holmes. The acquisition of the initial letter had been vastly and coincidentally helpful, to the point that he wondered if someone had intended Mycroft to see it. It hardly seemed likely that it had been intended for Sherlock himself, since all of London except, perhaps, a few of Moriarty’s associates, thought his corpse was at the bottom of a Swiss waterfall, and anyone remaining in Moriarty’s now-defunct organization would have the incentive to keep quiet and low-key for their own sakes. Perhaps a law clerk had simply been especially conscientious and especially ill at the same time. At any rate, the letter was genuine, and that meant the threat was genuine, or at the very least, someone had intended Mycroft to think so.
Since the first information, breakthroughs had been difficult to come by. If only he’d been able to start the investigation in London, where Barnett resided and, more importantly, kept his offices, he would most likely have solved the case in the time he had already spent waiting for letters and telegrams from Mycroft about the progress of his associates and their slow, methodical efforts. Beginning the investigation in Florida, with the recipient of the letter rather than the originator of the scheme, was an entirely backward way to go about things, and Holmes hated illogic even more than he loved logic. Still, even if he could have been in London, with all its resources, he would have had a nearly impossible time enlisting the help of the woman who was seated next to him on the train from Orlando to Fort Myers, dozing in preparation for the work ahead.