by Amy Thomas
‘Listen, Holmes,’ I finally said, ‘at the time, I did not know you, and I felt the need to arm myself against the most skilled detective in London.’
‘And, I’ve no doubt you would do the same today, if you felt the need,’ he said drily, looking down at me with a half smile.
‘Yes, that’s probably true,’ I replied without flinching, ‘but I’m sorry it’s become a player in whatever it is we’re trying to investigate. I kept it with my papers, stored at my bank in London. Barnett must have helped himself to it and probably to everything else as well, whatever your brother’s people were unable to access.’
‘Well, at any rate, we still don’t know for sure whose likeness he was after, whether my brother’s or my own.’ He patted my shoulder awkwardly. ‘I’d have done the same if I were you.’ From him, the compliment was a high one.
‘Well, it appears my news is less than cataclysmic,’ I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘We had one customer, a world-weary woman who was eager to share her unhappiness with Sanchez’s operation with anyone willing to listen. It seems he lured workers from other growers with the promise of higher pay, but now seems to be driving them like Pharoah and the Hebrew slaves.’
‘So I gathered,’ Holmes said, taking his place in the chair opposite me. ‘I’m glad to hear the comparison, since I did not know if the conditions I witnessed were typical or not. One wonders how long the men will endure the unpleasantness. Certainly, Sanchez could hardly hope for more than two more weeks from them under such conditions.’
‘I assume they’re in something of a bind,’ I said. ‘Would the other growers be likely to take them back this late?’
‘Doubtful,’ said Holmes. ‘Whatever his part in your matter, this Sanchez seems an unpleasant character. Of course, the pertinent question is why he’s so eager to get his harvest in before anyone else.’
Holmes opened his notebook. ‘Let us evaluate our position.’
‘First, we now know that a photo of Mycroft and me has changed hands, leading to recognition. The specific nature of the connection between Barnett and Sanchez remains unknown, but is confirmed, at least, by that. The presence of the photo on the desk confirms that Sanchez considers it important, at any rate.’
‘Second, we know that Sanchez not only intends to bring in the harvest, but to do so two weeks before his rivals. There is no market value to this; demand is steady. His motive must be completion itself, but why? That is suggestive, I believe, of the fact that whatever part of the plot is to take place on his end will be completed within a fortnight.’
‘Third, we know that Barnett has tampered with your private papers. We can safely assume that he has been notified by now that his prized songbird has flown the coop, but he should not know where, at least not yet.’
‘Fourth, we know that Sanchez was not unwilling to mention my presence to someone else, dismissing it as harmless. This suggests that he either does not think I am on his trail, or he is trying to double bluff by appearing not to care. This also assumes Ambrose McGregor is entirely truthful, which seems likely, but is not certain.
‘Fifth, there remains no indication that Sanchez is aware of your presence or appearance. That suggests Barnett intended to conduct the Adler side of the affair himself.’
‘But Holmes, why would Barnett think it necessary for his associate to receive a photograph if he was doing the work on the English side?’
‘It could be a precautionary measure, but it’s more likely that he expected either Mycroft or me to turn up here.’ Holmes shook his head. ‘I begin to think my movements were somehow anticipated.’
‘Do you think I betrayed you?’ I asked the question point-blank, which seemed to me the most logical course of action.
‘The thought has crossed my mind,’ he answered, not unpleasantly.
‘Mine too,’ I said, ‘I mean, it has crossed my mind that if I were part of the plot, then some of the things we’ve learned would make much more sense.’ Holmes let out a dry laugh.
‘That would make me the object, rather than yourself,’ he said.
‘That can’t possibly—’ I stopped. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you.’
Chapter 8: Holmes
Holmes watched Irene dig her fingernails into her palms. ‘Three months after I was married, Barnett contacted me. He came to our house in Yorkshire and requested, as my former solicitor, to see me. My husband was angry, but he didn’t want to make a bad impression on a prominent fellow solicitor, so he allowed the meeting. Barnett’s reason for coming was to make an offer to help me out of my marriage. He said he could prove Godfrey was an unfit husband and extricate my money if I would only do as he asked. I was suspicious, but I knew that he had connections in the law and on the bench. Obviously, I declined his offer.’
‘All he asked was for one favour, one job and he would take care of all of it for me.’ She paused for a moment and smiled at Holmes. ‘I was told to break into a flat in a dull part of London, the part of London where no one fashionable lives and nothing happens. Once inside, I was to take a particular case and bring it to Barnett’s office. This flat and case, he said, belonged to a very bad man, a man who deserved to be thwarted. I asked him the man’s name, and he told me: Mycroft Holmes, the brother of the famed detective.’
For once, Holmes listened with his eyes wide open and his body alert. Irene continued, ‘Barnett was aware of the role you played in my marriage and the events surrounding it, but he did not know that our skirmish had convinced me that you were an honourable man or that I considered us fully even and had no desire to continue our little war. You may not believe that I also objected to the idea of petty thievery against someone about whom I knew nothing except his connection to someone I respected. At any rate, Barnett did not seem angry, but he refused to help me if I did not do as he wished. At that point, I owed him nothing, as all my funds were my husband’s.’
‘You will no doubt be wondering now why I appealed to such a man after my husband’s death. I am not entirely sure myself, as I can’t imagine my doing so under normal circumstances. At the time, however, I was nearly paralysed with fear. I was terrified that the law would somehow contrive a way to keep me bound, to keep my fortune in the estate and leave me penniless. I believed that Barnett could prevent this, and I had never found him dishonest in his dealings with me, but I was surprised when he agreed to look after my property without anything in return except a small fee. I had expected some sort of request like the previous one. I should have known that he had found another way to use me.’
Holmes found himself resisting the urge to let his mind travel through the murky hallways of psychological theorising. ‘You believe he is attempting to use you to get to Mycroft, then,’ he finally said.
‘Yes,’ she answered decidedly. ‘I believe it to be the only scenario that fits all the facts. Unfortunately, I have no idea how the man Sanchez fits into it.’
‘Nor I, yet,’ answered the detective, ‘though your disclosures point to the original letter reaching my brother by design.’
‘You have not asked me the reason for my reticence,’ said The Woman after a pause. ‘Does that indicate that you doubt my veracity?’
‘Not in the least,’ answered Holmes, beginning to fill his pipe with inferior tobacco from the shop. ‘You and I have limited trust in one another. With knowledge of this condition, you chose to withhold information that had the potential to make you appear to be a possible criminal accessory in the current case.’ He paused to close his eyes and take a drag from his pipe. ‘More importantly, you’re telling the truth now.’
Irene folded her arms. ‘I hoped you’d at least doubt it for a moment,’ she said, sounding disappointed. The detective opened one eye.
‘You have tells, like anyone else, Miss Adler. If you haven’t figured them out yourself, I’m certainly not going to enlighten
you.’ Irene let out an unintelligible sound that resembled a hrff. ‘Your solicitor is not a stupid man. He may have misjudged Mycroft’s likelihood of involving himself personally, but he did not mistake his willingness to act on information that pointed to criminal activity.’
‘But what could Barnett have against your brother?’ asked Irene curiously. ‘He’s certainly not visible or famous. You said he was some sort of diplomat.’
At this, Holmes laughed silently for some time. ‘That, Irene, is perhaps the easiest thing of all. My brother is entirely unknown and unseen, except by those who have cause to despise him. He is an important man; even I do not understand the full extent of all he knows.’
‘Is he a bad man, then?’ The question was innocent, almost like that of a child, but the tone was ironic.
‘Only to those who consider power wielded in the service of order to be an evil.’
Irene placed a delicate hand over her mouth and yawned. ‘What do you intend to do now?’
‘Tomorrow, we will deliver supplies to Sanchez’s field office, and I very much hope the man himself will be in evidence.’
* * *
For the first time in a good while, Holmes’s mind had enough to consider to keep it fully active through the night, mulling over the facts that had come to light through the day and evening. Ever since the concert, he’d suspected Irene of hiding information, and he wished devoutly that she had revealed what she knew earlier; nevertheless, he didn’t blame her for her reticence. She’d been through a great deal, and her still-frayed edges proved that her experiences continued to eat at her psyche. No sense lamenting what couldn’t be. The case was beginning to take shape as a simple plot of misdirection, a red herring by the name of Irene Adler, put out to somehow entrap Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft was an audacious target, but Holmes realised that his own presence in Florida was proof that the plot had not been entirely ill-conceived. If he had indeed been dead, would Mycroft have come himself? The detective doubted it, vehemently. Mycroft would have sent an associate to protect Irene, whether she liked it or not, as was his usual practice. Holmes wondered why such otherwise thorough plotters had been so sure his brother would do what his brother had never in his life been likely to do. There must be something, he thought, that he was missing. Now that Sanchez knew he was alive, had the plan changed? Surely, Barnett would be only too eager to use him to get at his brother. Was Sanchez trying to find him? If so, he was doing a fairly incompetent job. And why hadn’t he made any effort when he had a chance at the Edisons’ party? Holmes had many questions, but they were focused questions. He preferred those to vague certainties.
* * *
The citrus grove was pleasant in the early morning. A breeze blew the leaves of hundreds of trees, and Holmes enjoyed the pleasantly overpowering aroma of the fruit. The workers were not yet tired from the day, and the serene organization of the harvest gave no hint of the owner’s dark purposes.
Holmes led Irene around row on row of trees to the small shack on the far side of the grove. No one accosted them along the way, and he surmised that the foremen knew he was expected. ‘I wasn’t anticipating the smell,’ said The Woman.
‘Indeed,’ said Holmes. Tom Perkins was a taciturn fellow. His ‘wife’ carried a bag of cigarettes in one hand and held his arm with the other, while he hoisted a box of canned soup on his shoulder. Together, they formed a less-than-savoury picture, he with his sagging eyes and florid face, and his wife with unkempt hair and soiled dress.
Holmes pushed open the door of the office, and Bill, the tall, broad grove supervisor greeted him with a less-than-enthusiastic eh. ‘Good morning,’ said the detective, his voice ingratiating. ‘My wife and I have brought the items you requested.’ Bill ushered them into the tiny building, pointing to a dusty room covered with piles of non-perishable goods.
‘We’ve no mind to leave these until we’ve agreed on a price,’ said Irene shrilly, holding tightly to her tobacco and nodding to a dull-acting Holmes not to relinquish his cans.
‘I told you yesterday,’ said Bill, glowering at Holmes and ignoring Irene, ‘that I can’t set a price until I’ve asked the Boss.’
‘Well, then, I guess we’ll have to take these things back to town,’ said Irene, staring boldly at the foreman and hugging her sack like a prized turkey.
‘Aye,’ said Holmes after a pause. Bill stared at the couple for a long moment in which he seemed to be contemplating inflicting bodily harm before stomping into a room at the back of the shed and leaving them alone. Holmes winked at Irene.
After a moment, two voices could be heard, one Bill’s angry growl, the other quieter and calmer. Bill’s irate complaints were easy to understand, but Holmes couldn’t make out the contributions of the other man until the door opened and both emerged.
The second man was considerably shorter than the foreman, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with a well-kept moustache and immaculate clothing. He smiled at Holmes and Irene, showing rows of perfect teeth that somehow put the detective in mind of a self-satisfied shark.
‘Sir, Madam, what may I do to assist you?’ The man’s English was perfect, too perfect for a native, too well enunciated. He touched his chin and contemplated the pair placidly.
‘Look, Mister, do you want our things or not?’ Irene stepped forward defiantly.
‘My associate (he indicated Bill with a nod) informs me of your offer. I hope this will be sufficient.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, peeling two off the top and handing them to Irene, who eyed them greedily before surrendering them to Holmes, who glowered at her wordlessly.
‘That’s…satisfactory,’ said Irene, attempting to look as if she were excited and trying not to appear so.
‘Aye,’ said Holmes.
‘Come back next week with more of the same,’ said the Central American, smiling and throwing out his arm theatrically. ‘I’m Sanchez, the owner.’ Irene nodded sycophantically and took Holmes’s arm. The unprepossessing couple left the shack with many thanks from the animated boss and glares from his second-in-command.
The detective led Irene away from the grove, as silently as befitted his character, until they had reached the wagon and he had unceremoniously dumped her into it, like an unprized sack of potatoes. ‘I thought you might have made a hole in my arm,’ Holmes finally ventured, once the scrawny rented horse had begun the trek back to town and carried them a safe distance from prying eyes. ‘You held on so tightly a crowbar couldn’t have dislodged you. I’m not entirely sure Jane Perkins is quite so enamored of her lord and master as to make that necessary.’ He half-smiled drily.
When Irene failed to answer after many moments, Holmes looked over at her and found her pale under her makeup, her eyes fixed straight ahead and hands clasped tightly together. ‘Holmes,’ she said, ‘Alberto Sanchez is James Barnett.’
Holmes let the horse drive itself for a moment, blinking rapidly and staring at his companion. For a moment, he wondered if she was foisting some kind of ill-advised joke on him, but her face was far from amused. ‘You are absolutely sure of this?’ He drove again, and his brain began to work.
‘Without doubt,’ answered The Woman, sounding steadier. ‘When he first came out of his office, I noticed something familiar about him—something about the way he walked, but it was that gesture, when he touched his chin, that let me know for sure. After that, I couldn’t stop seeing it—in the shape of his head, his eyes, the way he smiled. I would swear it in court.’
‘Watson would love this,’ Holmes muttered.
‘Eh?’
‘Just like something out of one of his stories, no embellishment needed.’ The detective felt somehow that a plot twist so outlandishly dramatic was a personal insult, a thumbing of the nose at the rationality he tried to project. Ridiculously irritating.
An unexpected sound interrupted his reverie. L
aughter, unfettered. In spite of her fear, Irene’s face was filled with amusement. ‘Well,’ she said, putting her hand over her mouth, ‘we will have to tell him all about it one day.’ Holmes thought so, too, but he didn’t answer.
Chapter 9: Irene
I found the sight of our dingy shop oddly comforting after the harrowing events of the morning. Holmes didn’t know how close to collapse I’d been, how much it had taken for me to play my part in front of Barnett, wondering if he would recognise me from the same sorts of clues that had unmasked him in my eyes. We had been like a cat and a mouse, but I wasn’t sure who was feline and who prey. I felt thankful, for once, for the playacting I’d had to do as Godfrey Norton’s wife, the months and years of acting in front of the world as if all was well when I wanted to scream in protest. I had learned to scream on the inside, and that was exactly what I had done when James Barnett’s cold eyes had looked into mine. I had screamed in my mind, but I had seen no recognition in his. Holmes’s disguises had, seemingly, been effective.
My companion held out his hand and helped me out of the wagon gently enough to make up for Tom Perkins’s earlier handling of his wife. Neither of us spoke until we were back inside the shop, seated behind the scarred front counter where we could see anyone who approached. The gun Holmes had kept hidden underneath his bulky clothing during the morning’s visit was now lying on a shelf just behind us, where he could grasp it at a moment’s notice.
‘Sanchez and Barnett are one and the same.’ Hearing Holmes state the truth somehow made it even more vivid. Only with effort could I even recall the original purpose of the morning’s visit, to meet Sanchez and ascertain what sort of purpose he might have for the unholy speed of his operations. Now there was only the realization that one man existed where two were expected and that two plotters were actually one.
‘Is it possible, Holmes, that there was a real Sanchez at some point?’ I asked after a while, feeling slightly dazed.