Good Night, Mr. Holmes (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes)

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  It was signed: “Yours sincerely, Irene Adler.”

  I had shed all my tears, so looked up with only a smile when I had finished reading. Godfrey Norton seemed far less at peace. Irene’s unexpected gesture had completely muddled his opinion of her. He looked so boyishly puzzled that I was tempted to ruffle his pretty dark hair, as I would have for a young charge who had bumped his head on an unsuspected obstacle, but of course I could do no such thing.

  “Why the devil would she do it?” he demanded. “The Zone of Diamonds, if it exists to be found, would be worth thousands of pounds. What does she mean by this?”

  And so he fretted on, suspecting more than the surface intent, but unable to uncover another motive. If Irene Adler had wished to discomfit Godfrey Norton, she could not have found a more fiendish means than this unexpected generosity of hers.

  I concealed my smile, for it would not do for an employee to set herself above an employer, and interrupted his muttered stream of questions.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Norton, but if you would be so kind as to remove that chest—and I know it is dreadfully heavy—I could put some of those documents on your desk into type.”

  So he did, and so I did—and so Irene Adler and I had a last, long laugh together, after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ENTER CASASNOVA

  The effect Irene Adler’s absence had upon my life was most evident in my diaries during that period. I had recorded the minutiae of my days since receiving my first diary at the age of twelve. These sturdy volumes, bound in maroon cloth, were intended to be morally instructive on review.

  Irene’s absence meant many silent evenings sequestered in the Saffron Hill lodgings, so I dutifully reviewed. Whether my moral growth was apparent in those handwritten pages is debatable; indeed, my association with Irene Adler had led me down many bizarre offshoots of the straight and narrow path my upbringing had prepared for me.

  The inescapable fact was that my diaries bristled with fascinating names, places and incidents during my five years with Irene. My pen crowded to the pages’ gilt-edges in order to record fully the details: the case of the lost cross of Oscar Wilde, the indelicate matter of the birth control advocate, the mystery of the sinister Savoyard.

  Before those halcyon days with Irene, my notations were scant and, I fear, dull beyond imagining. Now, her absence goaded me to fill my days with matters worth recording. I maintained connections with the more genteel members of the theatrical set—indeed, they made some effort to see that I not be ignored, whether on Irene’s instructions or not, I do not know.

  Such associations, however infrequent, led to such unlikely but amusing entries as my inadvertent role in the courtship of Oscar Wilde, the unpleasant encounter with the Mayfair hypnotist and other incidents that have no place in this narrative.

  I found most rewarding, however, the renewed time to devote to good works. I began teaching English to Sofia and her friends; each Tuesday evening a troupe of these little larks enlivened the Saffron Hill quarters for two hours and depleted my hot chocolate reserves. Inspired by Irene’s intrepid ways, I began working with the Salvation Army in Whitechapel, where I saw poverty, crime and despair enough to write several Dickensian novels, had I any gift for fiction.

  Yet for all my expanded activities, Irene’s frequent letters made the liveliest reading in my diaries nowadays. In a sense she remained a part of my life, however faint and distant her voice. From the first, I shared portions of her correspondence with Godfrey Norton, a natural consequence of our daily contact, my loneliness and his barrister’s suspicion.

  “Have you heard from your associate abroad?” he would ask. “Has she inquired about my progress with the chest?”

  “No. She has not even asked in what manner of temper you received it. She has put it behind her.”

  “Not likely.” He pushed his chair away from the desk as I brought his morning tea, his fingers drumming the mahogany. “She enjoys Italy, then?”

  “The warmer climate is much kinder to her voice than London’s eternal fog, damp and chill.”

  “True, true, but how does she get on there?”

  “She has much to learn at La Scala, and is a newcomer. I believe she will win them over as she has everyone she met here.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Do you consider yourself an exception?”

  “I’ll admit her parting gesture caught me off-guard, but then, gestures are stock-in-trade with her.”

  “Mr. Norton, I have sat in the Royal Courts of Justice to watch you argue a case. You are very grand in your robes and powdered wig—but you have a propensity for the grand gesture that is at least the equal of Irene’s.”

  “Do you think so?” He leaned forward to stare at me. “Quite an unmercifully astute observer, aren’t you, Miss Huxleigh?”

  “Like most people, I am myopic about myself,” I said modestly.

  “And about her?”

  “Oh, I may be partial, but never blind, Mr. Norton, never blind.”

  “I wonder,” was all he would answer on that occasion.

  Yet his queries cropped up again, and again. I began to take Irene’s letters to chambers and read him the best bits. It soon became a weekly ritual to share a quiet morning tea over a fat letter from Irene.

  “Do you think I shall ever solve the riddle of the cursed chest, Miss Huxleigh?” he would often ask with his hands clasped behind his neck, as he leaned back in his chair staring out the window at a lacework of bare branches.

  Hearing of Irene always reminded him of the puzzling inheritance from his late father—and of the Zone of Diamonds.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Norton. Have you made any progress?”

  He glanced at me sharply with those pale lucid eyes that missed so little. “I have been musing upon it, Miss Huxleigh.”

  He didn’t trust me, of course, not completely. With matters of the chamber, utterly; with the link between his family, the missing jewels and Irene, not at all.

  Thus I came in one spring morning chirping like a thrush to find Godfrey Norton frowning like a hungry vulture.

  “Your heroine has not lost her taste for diamonds, after all.”

  He slapped the morning’s edition of the Daily Telegraph atop a fat tower of documents tied with red tape. I lifted the paper, which had been folded to display the article that had caught his eye. A sketch of Irene in evening dress—beautifully evoked by some anonymous fine Italian hand—topped the column.

  Below it a headline trumpeted, “American Singer, Late of London, Substitutes for La Calvetari in Rossini’s ‘La Cenerentola’ Draped in Fortune in Diamonds.” A smaller headline noted that “Three Pinkerton Detectives Guard Diva.”

  “Oh, this is wonderful!” I sat to read the article. “What an opportunity! Listen to what they say: ‘The dark tones of Miss Adler’s voice, which verge on the contralto, add a dimension and poignancy to the mezzo-soprano role of Cinderella seldom heard on operatic stages’—”

  I read on, hungry for information, while Godfrey Norton pointedly rattled the tea things. I ignored my dereliction of duty in the face of such delicious news. He finally brought me a cup and sat upon the desk’s burdened edge to coddle his own in his hands while I blurted on.

  “Apparently the opera is an Italian version of Cinderella, and Irene has gone from the ashes of the understudy to diamonds at the ball in true fairy tale fashion. Only listen: ‘Miss Adler’s brilliant coloratura singing enamors a new generation with the seductive charms of Rossini’s oft-forgotten masterwork. Even the spectacular diamonds that bedeck her in the ball sequence cannot outshine her vocal glitter, especially the fully faceted fire of Miss Adler’s voice in the final, very difficult rondo, Nacqui all’ affano (Born to Sorrow).’ Oh, Godfrey, she is a triumph!”

  “She certainly seems to have got herself center stage,” he remarked.

  “Is that not exactly what she went to Italy to do?”

  “It is obvious why she lost interest in the Zone of Diamon
ds and abandoned my father’s chest.” He sounded almost piqued. “How can they compete with an admirer able to”—he lifted the newspaper to read the headline through curled lips—”drape her in diamonds.’”

  Mr. Norton rose and walked to the window, then went on much like a prosecuting attorney with a hostile witness.

  “I know, Miss Huxleigh, that you have made a heroine of your erstwhile chambermate. I am loath to invoke the counsel of your late father, but isn’t it possible that you worship at feet of clay? Most actresses and opera singers affect real jewels on the stage to prove the regard of the many admirers who vie for their rather public favors. Evidently the redoubtable Irene Adler has succeeded once again in a less honorable arena. She has sold herself to evoke one day’s wonder in the public press. The jewels are obviously the gift of a wealthy admirer who has obtained his own... gifts in return.”.

  I could see only the edge of Mr. Norton’s face as he stared out the window. His hands, clasped behind his back, worked with the same confidently impatient energy they often betrayed. I masked my indignation in a velvet-gloved counterattack that Irene would have delivered fairly purring. I merely managed to sound prim.

  “These diamonds are more than ordinary baubles. They must be very costly—priceless,” I breathed, quoting from the article: “... two thousand linked together lace-like from right shoulder to left hip and anchored at the décolletage by a magnificent diamond rose—”

  “A fortune, obviously,” he said curtly. “And you stomach the way it was obtained?”

  “From an admirer,” I admitted, as though reluctant.

  “Wealthy admirers are like vultures: where there is one, others gather.”

  “No doubt you are more worldly than I, Mr. Norton. Yet the result has been a great piece of good fortune for Irene. No operatic debut has received such wide notice as this, I gather. And the reviews are excellent.”

  “Reviews!” He turned burning eyes on me, much as if I stood in the witness box. I should have been quite cowed, had I not known him in other moods, and had I not a courtroom surprise of my own to spring in Irene’s behalf. “You consider reviews in circumstances like this? You shock me, Miss Huxleigh.”

  I smiled. I had never shocked anyone before. It was a rather pleasant feeling, as Irene once said. “I see nothing wrong in what Irene has done. It was most clever of her—in fact, quite worthy of a RT. Barnum, to draw attention to her operatic debut this way. And she with so few resources—”

  “Save for wealthy admirers!”

  “Well... yes.”

  Godfrey Norton stood astounded at my complacent acceptance of the situation. I admired his air of fiery scorn, his pale eyes bright as lightning. He looked more handsome than ever when he was angry.

  “You know the identity of the diamonds’ bestower!” he said abruptly, changing tactics. “You aren’t surprised by this at all.”

  I bowed my head. “You have found me out, Mr. Norton. Irene’s wealthy admirer is Mr. Charles Tiffany, the American jeweler.”

  “What?!” He seemed even more outraged to have his suspicions confirmed.

  I felt like a cat toying with a rather cooperative mouse. It was most exhilarating.

  Mr. Norton continued speaking, more quietly but in great disdain. “How can a woman of strong personal standards like yourself accept such an.... adventuress as a friend?”

  I answered in even lower tones. “How can a man whose own mother was so misjudged by the world turn the same wrong estimation on another woman?”

  We regarded each other for some time, the anger and disbelief gradually fading from his face, a smile softening mine.

  Godfrey Norton sat down suddenly. “I have taken events at face value; a grave mistake for one in my profession. Enlighten me, please, Miss Huxleigh.”

  I turned the paper to face me again. It was a wonderful sketch. Irene looked lovelier than Lillie Langtry. The swag of diamonds glittering on her bosom only underlined her own beauty. Yet this figure seemed beyond the two of us in this room, too—beyond the Inner Temple and London and the time we had each spent with her. Irene Adler looked as remote as Venus when it rises blue-white in the Eastern evening.

  I smoothed the paper. “Appearances, Mr. Norton. You should know a thing or two of them. Irene is poor, as I am, as your mother was when she left your father’s house with her three sons to rear. Irene cannot compete with divas who win their laurels in emeralds and rubies and sapphires—”

  “Of course she can! She is as beautiful as any of them. I have never quibbled about that. She was born for the world’s admiration.”

  “But she will not vie for it. Not in that way.”

  His eyes narrowed skeptically.

  “Not in that way,” I repeated firmly. “So, she finds another way. I am certain that she persuaded Mr. Tiffany to loan her this ‘corsage’ of diamonds, which his jewelers have been working on for some years. He does admire her—she investigated the Zone of Diamonds for him years ago—and he is wealthy. He’s also canny enough to know that a debut attended by Pinkertons and publicity will whet the world’s appetite for a priceless set of jewels like this. The diamonds are back in the Tiffany vaults by now, Mr. Norton. Irene has had the satisfaction of making her debut as a Cinderella on an equal footing, so to speak, with the other singers who will let themselves be bought, and who is hurt?”

  “The world will think ill of her,” he said softly. I saw his light eyes darken at the ever-rankling thought of his maligned mother.

  “Irene does not care what anyone thinks of her but herself.”

  “A man may live by such a Bohemian code, but that is impossible for a woman.”

  “It would be for myself, but not for Irene. She is not an ordinary woman. You must not assume that of her, Mr. Norton, or you will be often wrong.”

  “My mother suffered greatly,” he said suddenly. “Oh, she put a good public face on it—and a serene private one, too, before us boys. But I sensed it, her humiliation at being forced to leave that man; the worse humiliation of the court action, when all she had earned on her own became his...”

  “I am sorry. There is nothing worse than watching one we love subjected to injustice, pinned into a false position in front of the whole world. That is why I cannot allow you to think ill of Irene; at least, not on this issue.”

  “Others will, who have no access to an advocate so eloquent as you, Miss Huxleigh.”

  I had the grace to blush at his praise, but would not be distracted from the main point. “In this case, I care not about others. I work for you, Mr. Norton. I cannot continue to do so if you believe that Irene is other than she is. I cannot defend her every act, but she would never sell herself, no matter the appearances.”

  “I hope your faith is never tried,” he said, rising. “The truer the believer, the more bitter the disillusionment. Our tea has cooled; it was not well made, in any case. Perhaps you would like that, er, that article for a keepsake.”

  “Why, I am most grateful, unless you would wish to keep it to remind you of false conclusions...?” I extended it, but he waved it away.

  “No, no. I have learned my lesson without needing an eternal reminder of it.”

  So I went home that evening and pasted the portrait of Irene into my diary. It took up most of the page and saved me writing about the dull day. I was not certain that I had convinced Mr. Norton, for he was a young man and sure in his prejudices, although a clever one. And he did not know the power of faith. Though I only knew Jasper Higginbottom for a short period, he never in that time behaved in a manner that disappointed me; I was sure that wherever he was—still serving the Church in Africa or called to a Higher Service—he had not failed me yet. In the present instance, a letter from Irene soon arrived that described events exactly as I had anticipated them. I began to feel quite a competent detective, in my modest way.

  Whether the incident elevated Godfrey Norton’s opinion of Irene, it certainly altered his attitude toward myself. He began to consult me on the
character of certain of his clients, recognizing that I was an impartial observer but not an insensitive one. He even began to ask me to “take notes,” an invitation which invariably brought a smothered smile to my face.

  The first such occasion was the oddest. An old woman garbed in the solid black of deep mourning surmounted by a Persian lamb pelisse equally as dark entered the chambers, some sort of clumsy green sack hanging at her side. It reminded me of my forlorn carpetbag. I summed her up at once: one of those half-mad old creatures who are convinced that the Irish Fenians are about to assassinate Queen Victoria or that the ghost of their great-uncle Bloodgood still haunts the family manor.

  Such eccentric clients did not often cross our threshold unannounced; solicitors who knew that Mr. Norton rarely declined a case involving an elderly lady’s affairs would post documents on troubling cases to his attention or seek his advice in person.

  “You’re not a solicitor!” the old woman exclaimed, regarding me in my typewriting corner through spectacles as thick as quartz.

  “Indeed not. Nor is Mr. Norton. He is a barrister. There is a significant difference.”

  “Oh, dear! I cannot cart myself to yet another doorway within this maze of bricks and passages and running men. Can’t someone simply tell me what to do?”

  I smiled to imagine this fragile personage caught amongst—not a parliament of crows—but a wig of barristers flocking to the Royal Courts of Justice across Fleet Street.

  “My dear lady,” I suggested, “I suspect you require a solicitor, someone to handle a family rather than a court matter. He will consult a barrister for you if warranted—”

  “What is it, Miss Huxleigh?” Mr. Norton peered out from the inner sanctum his financial stability had afforded.

  “A lady, who is seeking a solicitor—”

  “I hardly know what I seek, only that it is help I need,” said she, settling onto a chair so firmly her layers of garments rustled in a henlike manner.