The Soprano's Last Song

by Irene Adler

  When I finally saw some light coming in from the curtains, I decided to get up. I went down to the lobby and immediately ran into my father.

  “I sent a letter to your mother,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Everything is set so she can come here without any risk. You probably wondered why I didn’t force her to come with us,” he continued as we walked arm in arm toward the breakfast tables. “The truth is, I know your mother quite well. And I know that, from time to time, she needs to have her way. Insisting only makes things worse. This way, she usually comes to her senses in a matter of hours!”

  We sat at a table and ordered a big English breakfast of eggs benedict, sausages, and a tasty mixture of rice, cod, and spices. We ate while Papa told me his plan for the day. We would make our way around London in a comfortable carriage until dinner, at which point we would return to the hotel for a light meal.

  “It’s the only way not to tire ourselves out before tonight. Don’t you agree, Irene?” he continued, biting into a slice of bread. “Your body will need to be rested, and your spirit awake. The art of the divine Ophelia Merridew deserves no less than that!”

  I nodded, enjoying my father’s enthusiasm.

  Then came an unusual noise . . . something like the sound of soup boiling. I turned and realized that it was the peculiar laugh of a peculiar character sitting at the table beside us. He was a big man, with a round face and a thick beard, and he wore a bright-blue tailcoat. He was looking at Papa and me.

  When our eyes met, he said in shaky English, “The gentleman is right!”

  “I’m happy to hear you say that, sir,” said my father, lifting his cup of tea in a toast.

  The man laughed again, in his most unique way, and introduced himself. He was Sergej Trudoljubov, a Russian baron. He traveled all the way from Saint Petersburg to London to see Miss Merridew’s show.

  The man and my father began discussing opera. “I don’t know if he’s the greatest composer of all time, but he is my favorite!” declared my father, when the topic had moved on to Giuseppe Barzini.

  “We agree again, my friend!” the baron said. “To think that just a few years back, I was among those who thought that the Maestro was done! I was wrong, wasn’t I, my friend?”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, sir,” my father answered kindly. “At a certain point it did seem like Barzini’s inspiration got weaker. But then —”

  “Then he fooled everyone like me who had that thought!” the baron finished for him.

  That time, the three of us laughed pretty hard.

  “His last two works are great once again — so vigorous!” my father commented.

  “Certainly,” approved Trudoljubov. “I tell you, that genius is living a second youth, my dear friend!”

  The baron then bowed and went back to the big plate of sausages that sat in front of him.

  * * *

  After our long carriage outing, we returned to the hotel for a quick dinner of soup and meat, then went to get ready in our rooms. Since that night was a special occasion, I wanted to be dressed accordingly. I spent a good hour in front of the mirror, preparing every detail of my outfit. I was taming one last lock of hair when I heard someone knocking on my door.

  “Irene, it’s time to go!” said my father. “The carriage is waiting for us!”

  I still remember the radiant look Papa gave me when I opened the door in my periwinkle evening gown. “Irene! You’re a sight for sore eyes!” he said, taking my arm and leading me out to our carriage.

  Just a few minutes later, we arrived at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Papa and I climbed the entrance stairs, moving through the crowd of people. I felt as if a pair of wings had just sprouted from my shoulders, and my heart was beating fast.

  At the top of the staircase, my father met a distinguished-looking man, who had two thick, white tufts of hair on his cheeks. His name was Mr. Jabkins. He was a very rich wood merchant who had offered to host us in his box that night.

  The entrance was filled with people from all over Europe. I glanced at the people milling between the big white marble columns. I saw old men in diplomatic uniforms, ladies wearing tons of jewels, cadets and young men from the nobility, businessmen sporting black ties . . . it was clear that being here was a privilege very few people had!

  Papa and I had just said hello to Baron Trudoljubov when I noticed that several people were staring at three men nearby. I soon realized that one of those men was Maestro Giuseppe Barzini. The other two, much younger than him, I did not recognize. A lady, perhaps noticing my confusion, whispered in my ear, “The tall man with the black mustache is Alfred Santi, Barzini’s assistant! A very talented young man, they say. The blond man is a new discovery of the Maestro. Henri Duvel, a Frenchman!”

  I thanked her for the information and paused to look at the two young men. I watched as another man introduced himself to Barzini. The two assistants also moved forward to introduce themselves, but they bowed at the same time and their heads collided.

  I quickly covered my mouth to hide my amusement at the scene. The two young men, however, did not laugh at all. Santi spoke angrily to the Frenchman who, his face turning red, argued right back. Barzini had to step in to calm them down, and when he did, they immediately shut up. They continued glaring at each other, however.

  Soon Mr. Jabkins found my father and me and led us to his box. It was in an excellent spot. I looked through my binoculars. Below us, lines of people moved like waves in a stormy sea. The musicians in the orchestra pit tuning their instruments reflected the anticipation of the crowd. I gazed at the rows of seats, full like flower boxes in spring.

  It was then that I met the eyes of a young lady, on the other side of the theater, who looked toward me. She was a very elegant woman, and her face was delicate and pale. As soon as I saw her it was like a switch suddenly flipped in my mind.

  Without knowing why, I found myself thinking about the summer that had just passed. I imagined the town of Saint-Malo and I pictured a carriage moving away from me quickly.

  I flinched. I had seen that woman before!

  But at that moment, the lights dimmed, and the whole theater went dark. Soon the curtains opened, and I forgot the strange feeling I had just a few moments before when I locked eyes with that woman across the theater.

  Ophelia Merridew had taken the stage.

  Chapter 6

  IN THE HEART OF THE CITY

  It is pointless for me to try to find the right words to express what I felt that night listening to Ophelia Merridew, but I haven’t been so stunned and enchanted by anything since.

  The piece performed was The Plot of Destiny by Giuseppe Barzini. The tragic love story ended when Miss Merridew morphed into an angel, leaving her lover forever. Looking at Ophelia through my binoculars, I was spellbound by her big eyes. They were full of emotion, and the feelings she expressed seemed as real as anything in this world.

  Shocked by the sad story we had just watched unfold on the stage, my father and I were quiet as we exited the theater. I remember the trip back to the hotel well. We spent the whole time in silence, and that peaceful silence was only interrupted by a few long sighs that came from his or my lips.

  Years later, when I thought about moments like these, the fact that Leopold Adler was not my biological father (as I would find out later) lost all its importance. We were father and daughter, and we were, in fact, very similar despite everything.

  * * *

  The Plot of Destiny left a mark on my soul. That night, I dreamed of Ophelia Merridew. She was wearing a white, angelic gown, and she walked toward me, crossing through a foggy field. I saw a dark look in her eyes. Then she got closer to me and whispered, “Help me!”

  I moved closer to hug her, but she was just a shadow. I ran toward her, but I got lost in the fog surrounding me. Then the dream ended and I fell into a deep sleep, which
lasted quite a while — too long, to tell the truth.

  When I opened my eyes again and turned toward the window, I realized it was late morning. That was one of the strangest sleeps of my life. It was like I had been trapped in a bubble, surrounded by Barzini’s music and the voice of the great soprano singer.

  But now I was back in the real world, where time passed in its usual way. It was Monday morning already.

  “Sherlock! Lupin!” I jumped up from my bed. I ran to open the curtains and glanced quickly at the clock. It was 9:30! I was supposed to be at Carnaby Street in half an hour to meet my friends.

  The thought that they might tease me, saying I was “posh” for making people wait, made me hurry to get ready. I was dressed in just a few minutes. I ran downstairs to look for my father in the restaurant, but he wasn’t there.

  Anxious, I started wandering around the hotel like a fool. I finally found my father in the basement, where the telegraph was. It didn’t take me long to realize his mood had changed dramatically from the evening before. He looked very upset.

  “Are you sure? Check again!” he said to the telegrapher.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Again — no news from Paris,” the telegrapher answered.

  “Your mother,” Papa said, without saying hello. “I asked her to confirm when she left Paris, but . . . nothing.”

  “Papa, she probably forgot. Nothing to worry about.” I did not have time to console him, although I wished I could have. Instead, I immediately asked for permission to meet my friends.

  “All right, my dear,” he said, trying to smile. “But Mr. Nelson will go with you. And don’t go far away from him — understood?”

  I hugged my father hard, forgetting that last piece of advice. Then I ran off.

  I found Mr. Nelson outside the hotel smoking a pipe and asked him to find a carriage for me as soon as possible. Our butler was efficient, as usual, and in a matter of minutes we were in a small carriage.

  I promised the coachman double pay if he managed to get to Carnaby Street by ten o’clock. He did his best, but the traffic was awful. He tried to squeeze the carriage through the crowd at the market on Carnaby Street. Since I was already ten minutes late, I decided I better walk the rest of the way. I paid him some extra money anyway and got out of the carriage with Mr. Nelson.

  The colors, smells, and sounds of the market surrounded us. Despite the confusion, I immediately noticed a tall, but slouching young man, wrapped in a light wool cloak on the other side of the road. My heart started beating faster. It was Sherlock Holmes.

  Even Mr. Nelson saw my friend and turned toward me, looking at me like he wanted to say, Don’t worry, I’ve got everything, Miss Irene. Just try not to get in trouble!

  “I’ll be here waiting for you with a carriage at twelve o’clock sharp — understood?” said Mr. Nelson.

  “Understood!” I confirmed.

  I hugged the butler, not even considering the fact that it was probably not considered a proper gesture.

  I was very happy to see Sherlock once again, and I wished I could have hugged him as well, but first we had to set something straight.

  “Good morning, Holmes,” I said. I made sure my voice was cold. “I see you managed to get some decent clothes. I’m glad! Even if that . . . vagabond attire gave you a certain charm, you know?”

  Sherlock laughed, throwing his head back. “Welcome, Irene Adler!” he greeted me. “So you really did become all posh like I feared!”

  “Well I couldn’t have become very posh if I’m here now,” I answered.

  Sherlock didn’t say a word. I saw wrinkles forming on his forehead, and I knew he was worrying that I was truly offended by what he had done at the Dover port. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He looked so troubled then that I decided I’d had my revenge.

  “What do you say we wait for Lupin inside?” I suggested. I smiled at him. “You can buy me something warm, and then tell me what you were thinking at the port!”

  “Great idea!” agreed Sherlock, and he started smiling again.

  We entered the Shackleton Coffee House, an old wooden cottage. Looking around, I saw merchants eating before going back on the road, ladies with bad reputations sipping coffee, and people who worked at the market lying on benches. Sherlock had promised me in his letter that he would take me to the most “disreputable places” in town, and it seemed that so far he was keeping his word. He ordered two cups of hot cocoa and grabbed two chairs.

  “It’s very simple,” he began, handing one to me. “When I got your note that you were coming to London, I thought it would be nice to greet you.”

  “But how did you know that I was coming on that boat?” I asked, surprised. “I didn’t write that in my message!”

  Sherlock smiled. “I just needed to think,” he answered. “That kind of trip requires a few days to prepare. Knowing that your father seeks only the best service, I knew that he would want to sail on the new ferry Northern Star, which does the Boulogne–Dover trip just once a week. Putting those two pieces of information together, I solved the mystery. Then I took advantage of a lucky coincidence. My mother had been begging me for months to bring some pillows to an old cousin who lives in Dover. For once, I was happy to help with one of her requests!”

  We laughed together. I was happy to be with my friend and his curious mind again. But I also wondered where Arsène Lupin was.

  In the meantime, the two cups of hot cocoa were ready for us. I immediately noticed Sherlock’s ecstatic look, and he did not wait a second before diving his nose into the cup.

  “It’s delicious,” I said, sipping the thick, dark-brown liquid.

  “I don’t like the taste,” confessed Sherlock.

  I looked at him in shock.

  “I’m not interested in the smell. It’s the effect it has on my mind. Cocoa makes me more . . . vibrant! Ready, sparkly — do you understand?” he said.

  “I think so . . . it’s like the effect that music has on me,” I answered.

  I described the extraordinary experience I had the night before in detail to Sherlock. “I am not used to this type of emotion,” I said in the end. “Because you know . . . a good young lady must be continuously bored — even during war times!”

  Sherlock nodded, then sighed. “Boredom is our biggest enemy. By the way . . . do you ever think about what happened this summer in Saint-Malo?”

  “All the time, my friend. It was such an exciting adventure! I’ll never forget it.”

  “I won’t forget those days either,” said Sherlock.

  We spent some time recounting the details of all that had happened that summer in Saint-Malo . . .finding the dead body washed ashore on the beach, solving the mystery of the man’s murder, and discovering the identity of the Rooftop Thief.

  “I wonder why those things cannot happen all the time!” Sherlock said.

  I burst into a laugh. That was Sherlock Holmes at his best. “Mr. Holmes, you’re a monster,” I joked. “Crimes are like toys for you!”

  My friend laughed and tried to defend himself, but our conversation was soon interrupted by a commotion coming from the street. We stopped speaking and looked out the window.

  This is what I saw . . . or what I thought I saw. A young boy had stolen a woman’s wallet and ran away. Another boy, a little bit older, walked over to the woman and spoke to her, then followed the thief, yelling, “Not to worry, Madam! I’m gonna get him!”

  I held onto Sherlock’s arm and said, “Let’s hope he can catch him!” But when I turned to look at my friend, I saw that he looked like he was about to play one of his favorite games.

  “Follow me!” said Sherlock all of a sudden, pushing back his chair.

  My friend went into the kitchen and grabbed a big knife. I wondered if he had gone crazy, but I followed him anyway. We went out the back door into a narrow
alley. Sherlock started to run, like a tiger pursuing his prey, and I did the same.

  He stopped suddenly by a brick staircase that led underground. “I’d let that wallet go if I were you!” Sherlock yelled, pulling the knife out of his pocket. The two boys lurked in the shadows. They were dividing the money! The older of the two tried to escape, but Sherlock pointed the knife at his chest.

  “If you give me the wallet back with all its money and you don’t make another attempt to escape, I will let you go without calling the police,” Sherlock said.

  The thieves exchanged a disappointed look and nodded. They put the money back inside the wallet and gave it to Sherlock, then disappeared down the alley. They looked back at us with pure hate.

  Sherlock and I made our way back to Carnaby Street. The woman was surrounded by a crowd of curious people.

  When Sherlock handed her wallet back to her, she looked surprised. “Thank you, my dear! God bless you!” she said, checking to make sure the wallet wasn’t missing any money.

  “Hey! He’s not the boy who ran after the thief!” cried an Irish fishmonger. “What happened to that other guy?”

  “He went to . . . fight other crimes! The boy has got such kind heart, you know?” Sherlock lied, and he found that funny.

  And I was having fun with him. But then I spotted Mr. Nelson with a carriage. A clock on an old building confirmed that it was past noon, but I could not leave without first asking my friend for an explanation.

  “How did you know that those two —”

  “From their hats, Irene.”

  “Hats?!”

  “Of course. They wore identical ones. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It was more likely that it was because they had stolen the hats from some unlucky shop. An easy connection to make, don’t you think?”

  I did not think so, but I didn’t have time to object. “I must go, Sherlock! Mr. Nelson’s waiting.”

  “How long will you be in London?” he called.

  “A week. I’m staying at the Claridge’s!”