The Soprano's Last Song

by Irene Adler

  NEWS FROM THE ROAD

  The next day, Sherlock and I waited at the Shackleton Coffee House for Lupin to arrive. We had already ordered our usual hot cocoa when he entered the café.

  Lupin had changed his clothes and put on a suit and tie. He was wearing well-polished shoes that made him look like a man — not like the boy I knew him to be. He had combed his normally disobedient hair back off his forehead, showing off his dark, sparkling eyes.

  Two young ladies turned to watch him as he made his way to our table and sat down without greeting us.

  “It can’t be him,” Lupin said.

  “Have you talked to Nisbett?” Sherlock asked.

  “Yes,” Lupin confirmed. Then he looked at me.

  “What is the news?” I asked. I felt overwhelmed by a wave of energy, by the need to keep talking.

  “From what it seems, my father was in a mess of a situation,” Lupin said. “He keeps sharing pieces of information about what happened that night with Nisbett. I haven’t been given the permission to meet him yet, but I will make it happen.”

  His hot cocoa arrived just then. He blew on it and sipped it slowly.

  “And why do you say that it could not be Duvel?” asked Sherlock.

  “Because it seems the Spaniard was quite tall —”

  “While Duvel is short and skinny,” I observed.

  “Exactly.” He paused. “After the crime had been carried out, they met in London at a pub on Baker Street,” Lupin said.

  “Which one?” Sherlock asked.

  Lupin shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “But let’s go check. It’s not far from here.”

  We sipped our beverages slowly and tried to calm ourselves again before heading out.

  I joked with Lupin about a smudge that was on his nose, and I analyzed the events of the day with Sherlock.

  Suddenly, I saw Sherlock stiffen. He stretched his neck, straightened his shoulders, and assumed his characteristic expression of a hawk, ready to prey upon any detail he could find.

  What could be going on in that mind of his? I wondered.

  “Listen! Outside,” he told us.

  I tried to listen beyond the noises of the coffee house, the clinking of silverware and the boisterous conversations . . . and I was able to hear noises from the street. The wheels of carriages on the pavement, horse hooves clomping, the brass horns directing traffic at intersections and . . . the voice of a paperboy on Fleet Street, the street where all the newspapers were sold.

  “Special edition! Special edition! The famous singer disappeared! All the details for only fifteen cents! All the details!”

  The paperboy continued shouting. “Special edition! Merridew does not go to Buckingham Palace! The disappearance of the singer! A new mystery shocks the opera world. All the details for only fifteen cents! All the details!”

  Lupin punched the armrest of his chair in frustration. “I hope they won’t think this is also my father’s doing!”

  Sherlock and I looked at each other.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked in a low voice.

  “That we do not have fifteen cents?” Sherlock Holmes replied.

  * * *

  The headline on the disappearance of Ophelia Merridew was more than the news itself.

  The details were few and far between. The singer attended tea in the afternoon, but then she did not show up at the court. And she wasn’t in her hotel room.

  “She left while we were there,” I whispered.

  “Did she leave?” Lupin asked me. “How do we know that she left and that they don’t have her?”

  “Has she been murdered?” I asked.

  I was hoping to hear Sherlock’s opinion, but he was deep in thought.

  It was as if he was inside a safe. He kept twisting the teaspoon for his hot cocoa between his fingers absent-mindedly.

  “Do you remember how Duvel looked yesterday evening?” I persisted. “The man seemed crazy.”

  “As far as we know, Duvel had nothing to do with Merridew,” Lupin answered. “On the other hand, Santi was the one who dated her, and who, of Barzini’s two assistants, was the most —” He hesitated, and finally finished, “in love with her.”

  I may be the only one who noticed his hesitation when he said those last words. Or maybe — and this is more probable — I wanted to believe he said them like that to imagine that there was something between us, which wasn’t the case.

  It was inevitable that I would analyze these things Lupin said, because back then, and even later on, it wasn’t easy for me to understand his real emotions. Sometimes they were so intense that they could be seen on his face, and sometimes they were so distant I couldn’t read them at all.

  I tried to help him. “The situation is as follows,” I began. “In my opinion, there are three persons involved: Ophelia and the two assistants — Santi and Duvel. And maybe, when we discover what happened among those three, we can find out about the role that this mysterious Spaniard played in everything.”

  “But what about Barzini?” Lupin asked. “The three people you just mentioned worked for him, after all.”

  I shook my head. “Barzini is a man with a good reputation. And he does not need the other three as they need him.”

  “Not even Merridew?” Lupin answered. “She’s more famous than Barzini. Look at the headlines. That poor Santi has been immediately forgotten, while she . . .” He trailed off.

  I had to agree with him. The fact that a famous lady had not made it to Buckingham Palace seemed much more interesting to the public than the murder of the humble assistant of Maestro Barzini, Alfred Santi.

  “Sherlock?” I asked at that point. “Are you still with us?”

  Our friend looked at us distantly, then he gave his body a shake and exclaimed, “Follow me!” And off he went, leaving the café without any explanation.

  Chapter 13

  THE PRINCE OF RIDDLES

  With Sherlock Holmes leading the way, the three of us soon arrived at Fleet Street. Sherlock stopped in front of a brick building that was beautifully decorated with two small Greek columns in front.

  The sign near the door identified it as the headquarters of the Globe, one of the most popular newspapers in the city. In fact, it was the same publication that the journalist worked for — the one who we had met accidentally in the lounge of the Old Bell Hotel while we were waiting for Lupin.

  Sherlock pointed to a person who passed by, asking him, without hesitation, “Is the editor here? I need to talk to him.”

  The reporter looked him up and down with the same expression as if you were at the market and evaluating a fish to see how fresh it is. Then, with a sneer, he said, “Sure boy, of course. At the end of the hallway, you’ll also find Queen Victoria’s office.”

  Sherlock Holmes did not allow the sarcasm to deter him, and he headed down the hallway.

  Trusting that nobody took interest in us, Lupin and I followed Sherlock . . . that is, until we were stopped.

  “Hey, you!” an angry voice addressed us. “Where are you going?”

  A huge person appeared in front of Sherlock. His hands were stained with ink.

  “To the editor’s office,” Sherlock answered calmly.

  “What’s this? A joke?” the person snickered. “And why would you three be going to the editor’s office?”

  “We have to speak with him,” our friend answered, finally indicating that Lupin and I were with him.

  “And is he eager to speak with you?” the man asked. “Hey, Enoch!” he exclaimed, calling to a friend on the other side of the hallway. “Have you heard this? There are three children who say they would like to talk to the editor!”

  Enoch answered before coming out of his office. “That’s a good one! Let’s write it down for the satire page!” He then
appeared in the doorway. “I’ve been trying to meet with him myself for three months!”

  We looked each other up and down. It was the man with the pockmarked cheeks we had met at the hotel. “But I know you . . .” he whispered.

  “Who are these three, Enoch?” the giant man asked.

  “I want to talk to the editor,” Sherlock persisted.

  “You have, in front of you, his deputy,” Enoch said, pointing to the other man.

  “Could you tell me why you are making me waste all my time, you four?” the deputy said.

  “The Prince of Riddles should not be treated this way,” Sherlock said suddenly.

  The two reporters looked at each other, then began to laugh. “Do not tell me that you have come here because you weren’t able to solve this week’s mystery.”

  The “Prince of Riddles” was a section of the Globe filled with puzzles and word problems to solve. It was published every Tuesday on the last page of the evening publication.

  “It’s me, the Prince of Riddles,” said Sherlock.

  The deputy’s smile faded.

  “Pff!” Enoch suddenly exclaimed. “And do you really think that we believe you, lad?”

  “The riddles reach your office in an anonymous envelope each Monday evening,” Sherlock said. “And the one you haven’t published yet starts like this . . .”

  In front of the increasingly bewildered eyes of the two men, Sherlock Holmes announced, word for word, a riddle about four men dressed in black who were running in the rain. “And the solution of the riddle is that they are all at a funeral,” he concluded.

  A long moment of silence followed.

  “Gosh, lad!” Enoch said, scratching his head.

  “Why do you want to talk to the editor?” the deputy asked.

  “I need to talk to the best of your reporters,” Sherlock answered. Then he looked behind him, into the noisy publishing house. “But not here!”

  The deputy raised his eyes to Enoch. “The best of our reporters? All right,” he said, sighing. “I’ll grab a coat and follow you.”

  The five of us headed to a pub. The two men seemed frustrated that they had to give up their precious time to three children, but their skepticism seemed to dissolve after some sips of beer and Sherlock’s shrewdness. Lupin’s elegance and my red curls did the rest.

  The topic that Sherlock was interested to hear about was Ophelia Merridew.

  “I am sure you have unleashed your boys to discover anything about her,” he began. “But we do not intend to wait for the next issue of the Globe in order to read what you’ve discovered.”

  The deputy bent over his pint. “And why do you want to know?”

  “That does not concern our chat,” Sherlock said.

  “Just listen to the way he is talking!” the deputy burst out, loosening his tie.

  “The Prince of Riddles . . .” Enoch reminded him, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand.

  “Cards on the table, lad,” the deputy said decidedly. “I won’t ask you why you want to know about Ophelia Merridew, and we will tell you what we know about her. What will you do in exchange?”

  “Well, I will keep on doing what I’ve been doing for your newspaper,” Sherlock answered, drumming his fingers on the table. “There is some good competition here on Fleet Street . . .”

  “Are you threatening me with your stupid section of riddles?”

  Sherlock held his look quietly.

  “In exchange,” interrupted Lupin, who had not said a word until that moment, “we will tell you the name of the murderer of Alfred Santi.”

  “But we already know that,” Enoch answered. “He’s a thief . . . a scoundrel who works for the circus.”

  At that point, I predicted how Lupin would react, and I managed to stop him before he lunged at the reporter. It took all my strength to keep him sitting calmly.

  “Hey!” Enoch cried, astonished. “What did I say?”

  “Be careful what you say! Be careful!” Lupin addressed him with fire in his eyes.

  “You are all mad, the three of you!” shouted the deputy.

  Sherlock ignored him and continued. “My friend is telling the truth. We have information that has led us to believe that things happened much differently than what was published in the news.”

  “This is not unusual,” Enoch said. “But the fact remains, the tightrope walker is in prison waiting to be hanged.”

  “He will not be,” Lupin said grimly.

  Enoch nodded gravely and then turned to Lupin. “You know him well, huh?” he guessed, finally understanding that there was a relationship between Lupin and the accused murderer. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

  “No hard feelings,” Lupin said.

  “Then it’s settled,” the deputy said. “Our information for yours.”

  Sherlock Holmes stretched out his hand across the table.

  “And another year of the ‘Prince of Riddles,’” the deputy added before shaking his hand.

  “It’s a deal.”

  Then the three of us got closer around the table, waiting to find out what the Globe had gathered on the case of Ophelia Merridew’s disappearance.

  “Actually,” Enoch began, “what I know is not much. The most important news, which you might already know, is that Ophelia Merridew is a stage name.”

  I did not know that, but I did not interrupt him.

  “Her real name is Olive, Olive something, and she was born in London. She grew up quite poor, apparently. When the singer became rich and famous, she moved her family to a remote place in the French Midi . . . certainly out of reach for a poor reporter on Fleet Street! All that remains of her past here in London is a ditzy, old aunt. Ophelia went to visit her every time she was on tour here. There is also a friend from her youth,” Enoch pulled a torn, greasy notebook from his pocket. “Her name is Hortence. She’s a talented seamstress, but other than that, we don’t know much. I sent two reporters out to find her, but so far . . . that’s all we have.” He closed the notebook.

  “It’s not much,” Sherlock agreed.

  “They will talk about Merridew for a week more. Unless she turns up somewhere,” Enoch said. “In London, luckily, there is always something new and juicy to throw out in the press.”

  After we found out a bit more information, we parted from the two reporters.

  “You know what?” Enoch said to Sherlock a moment before we left. “Your riddles sell more copies than my articles.” He started to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, but at the last moment, he held out his hand in a gentlemanly fashion. “And it turns out that . . . you’re a kid! But it’s a wild world we live in, eh?”

  Chapter 14

  A THREAD OF THE PAST

  The afternoon that followed was rather exciting. Before I got back to the Claridge’s, we went to Baker Street, where Lupin’s father had met the Spaniard after stealing the jade statue.

  It was a pretty street lined with low-slung, brightly colored houses, but there was nothing that intrigued me about it.

  Sherlock stopped in front of the house at number 221B Baker Street, looking at it with interest. It was there where the three of us agreed on our plan of action.

  It was clear that there was a link between the disappearance of Ophelia and the trap that Théophraste had found himself in, but there were still many assumptions floating around.

  Sherlock pointed out the possibility that there may have been tension between Ophelia and Santi. Maybe Santi had decided to leave her and she, mad with jealousy, had commissioned the Spaniard to carry out his murder.

  I pointed out that I had heard the laundress say that Santi had been happy to see Merridew, so it was unlikely that he left the singer. Then Lupin said that maybe Santi was just pretending to be happy to see her.

  “But some things you cannot
fake!” I protested, silencing him abruptly.

  We decided to start from where the mediocre reporter had stopped.

  “Hortence is not a common name in London,” Sherlock said. “And the tailor shops are almost all clustered around a street called Savile Row. With a little luck, we could track her down and find out more about Merridew.”

  “That’s right!” exclaimed Lupin, hopefully. “Then let’s go. If she really is Ophelia’s only friend here in London, maybe they have been in contact!”

  Sherlock told me to consult the map in my guide to London to find Savile Row.

  “And will you be coming?” Lupin asked Sherlock.

  “I . . . I can’t today,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit embarrassed.

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “My mother . . . she needs me . . . for an interview. We have to choose my school for this year.”

  I knew that Sherlock Holmes did not like to talk about his family, his brother, Mycroft, or his little sister, Violet.

  “Choose a school?” Lupin asked. “My father is likely to be hanged, and you have to choose a school?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured.

  “And I’ll have to check in with Mr. Nelson, or there will be trouble for me,” I said.

  Lupin looked at us, and I read the disappointment in his eyes. “Do as you wish,” he said as he buttoned his coat. Then he went off at a brisk pace without saying goodbye.

  “Do you think he’s mad at us?” I asked Sherlock.But he had turned his back to me, and was gazing at the building marked 221B with interest. So much interest, in fact, that he ignored my question.

  “I like it here,” he murmured.

  * * *

  Mr. Nelson huffed and protested, holding my two bags of clothes in one hand as we stood before the tailor shops on Savile Row.

  “But do we really have to go in all the shops?” he asked with a sigh.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you asked to look after me, is that not the case? Well,” I said, smiling at him, “young ladies do this — shopping.”