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

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  She stirred and sighed. “I shall require an agent.”

  “For performance?” I chirped, cheered by the idea of Irene resuming her singing career.

  She smiled wanly. “Performance seems a world away! No, we must find larger, more permanent quarters, and someone must inquire of my Paris acquaintance, without betraying my whereabouts, if my trunks arrived untrammeled. Do you think, Nell, that your barrister friend, Mr. Norton, would care to act for me in these—and more delicate—matters?”

  I was astounded that Irene had accepted Godfrey as “my friend” rather than her long ago rival for the Zone of Diamonds or merely my (perhaps) former employer.

  “I should be delighted to ask him,” said I, relieved to have an excuse to visit Godfrey the very next day, as indeed I did.

  What a glorious May day it was—crisp-aired, with budding leaves crimping every tree limb and bush. A faint porcelain-blue bowl of sky yawned over London’s everlasting grit and bustle.

  “My dear Penelope!” Godfrey greeted me with genuine pleasure. “Come in. Sit. Have a dish of tea! I have been fretting over your welfare this past week, but did not wish to intrude uninvited.”

  I noticed an insipid-looking male clerk laboring in the outer office as Godfrey ushered me into his inner sanctum. There I felt that same cozy sense of belonging that I associated with my late father’s study—the comfortable yet practical assemblage of furniture, the piled papers and open books, the air of quiet thought that suffused the chamber.

  “Your ‘intrusion’ would never be that for me,” I returned, “and as for being uninvited... I have come because Irene wonders if you would care to represent her in some matters both small and large, I think, though she has not confided her full intentions to me.”

  He leaned back in his chair, the tepid summer sunlight playing softly across his well-cut features. “Represent her! That is a change of tune.”

  “Her tune is not all that has changed, Godfrey.” I rose at a familiar salutation and went to inspect Casanova in his cage. The old brute stuck out his black tongue at me, but I offered him a bit of biscuit from breakfast anyway. Then I faced Godfrey again. “I’m worried. Irene is not one to sit back and let life buffet her, yet she has been most strangely... pensive... since our return.”

  “A rather harrowing return, I gather.”

  “That is not for me to say,” I answered primly. “I can only state that she has been very badly used in Bohemia, and by one who had every obligation to defend rather than harm her. I can’t say how much she will find it necessary to confide in you, but do not judge her harshly, I beg you. Irene has had no fault in this save failing to see perfidy behind the mask of friendship.”

  He toyed with the white horse-hair wig that lay askew atop a tower of law books. “You said Miss Adler sent for you because she needed help. Were you able to be of service?”

  I smiled. “Yes, I think so; principally in providing a responsibility for her to meet in removing me safely from Bohemia. That is what I fear she lacks now—a focus for her energies and talents. She has come back with quite literally nothing, save money, and shows no sign of restoring what has been lost.”

  “You said ‘safely.’ Had things come to so dangerous a pass?”

  “Irene thought so. Ask her yourself, Godfrey. I am not at liberty to speak for her.”

  “Very well. I’m trying a case in Fleet Street, but it should finish by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Bring her then.”

  He saw me out, murmuring “Adieu, ‘Casanova’” in a most amused tone. Of the Italian libertine’s colorful namesake he said not a word, which I found rather worrisome. Godfrey was becoming as sphinx-like as Irene!

  I suggested to Irene that we lunch in Fleet Street and stop in at the Royal Courts of Justice to witness Godfrey’s case. She agreed with uncustomary docility. I feared that her amiability reflected an indifference to everything around her, rather than any lifting of her mood.

  I often had slipped into the visitors’ gallery of the Royal Courts when Godfrey appeared before the bar. He was surely the youngest barrister pleading and looked ever so dashing in his fresh white wig and black gown—not like his elders, who resembled animated racks of overweight mutton in their yellowed wigs and whose several chins would barely allow the buttoning of their neck bands.

  That day Irene wore a costume of pearl grey trimmed with violet embroidery. Her bonnet was violet velvet, with an upstanding red ostrich plume that showed far more starch than Irene did at the moment. She carried a sturdy black leather handbag that the old Irene would never have touched, much less purchased.

  She watched Godfrey in court without comment, though I always enjoyed a glow of pride as I observed him make his “M’luds” and bows. To me, he was the only one who exhibited any style. I felt transported to the days when powdered wigs were everyday, when courtesy was an art and the art of argument was always attired in courtesy.

  Irene leaned toward me during Godfrey’s interrogation of a hostile witness. “May we leave? I find the air close.”

  We rustled softly out of the courtroom and crossed Fleet Street. I led Irene through the ancient archway to the Inner Temple, with the Crusaders’ emblem of lamb and gold cross emblazoned high on the plaster.

  “I thought Godfrey’s interrogation adeptly handled,” I noted.

  “He has a flair for the dramatic,” Irene responded noncommitally.

  “From you that is a criticism?”

  “It is a comment. I confess my mind was not much on Mr. Godfrey Norton, but on my own case.”

  We strolled through the Middle Temple yard toward the river, sparrows fluttering from gutter to gutter above us.

  “I see why you love these ancient gardens.” Irene stared at the placid Thames rippling in the mild light. She sighed deeply. “This peaceful spot is somehow removed from the tawdry concerns of latter-day London.”

  “I love the Temple Church,” I said, leading her next to that venerable building. She accompanied me like a child, obediently staring at the effigies of the land’s first noblemen who had died in the days when knights knew the weight of shield and sword and holy crusade. The chancel was almost deserted. We were gazing up at the vast ceiling when a sudden skirl startled us.

  The dissonant chords from the massive freestanding organ soon resolved from bagpipe-rudeness to a mellow power. A lone soprano lifted over the softly growling organ’s majestic bass. I saw a woman standing near the massive instrument, sheet music fanned open in her hands, her mouth an “O” of outpouring song.

  Irene stiffened as if confronting a ghost. She brushed past me in her haste to leave. I found her outside staring bleakly across the yard.

  “Godfrey must be through by now,” I suggested.

  “Yes, let us get this business over with.”

  He was indeed in, the wig and gown hanging from a coat rack crowded into a corner of his office. He offered no tea, sensing that Irene wished only to attend to business.

  “Please be seated, Miss Adler.” He gestured her into the leather wing chair facing his desk, leaving me to take a light side chair, which suited me perfectly. I had brought Irene to Godfrey, as she wished. I had no idea what she wished of him, or what she would reveal of herself and our unfortunate adventure.

  “We left Bohemia in some secrecy, as you may gather,” she began.

  Godfrey nodded. Like most barristers, he had mastered the unintrusive nod and the noncommittal hmm.

  “I need someone to contact a friend in Paris, to whom I have sent several trunks with my belongings. If they have arrived safely, I would like them discreetly transferred to my lodgings here.”

  “‘If?”‘ Godfrey said.

  Irene’s lips almost twisted into a smile at his curiosity, but she did not answer his question. Instead she opened the handbag that she had lifted to her lap like a well-behaved little dog and brought out a slip of paper.

  “My friend’s name and address. Do you write French?”

  “I do, and at times even re
ad it.”

  “Ah.” Irene was mildly surprised. “Balzac and Sand?”

  “Dumas pere and fils and Baudelaire,” Godfrey said with a laugh.

  Her eyebrows raised. “You have adventurous taste for a barrister.”

  “You have intriguing adventures for an opera singer.”

  Irene’s smile faded. She sighed again, and Godfrey glanced sharply to me. He did not know Irene well, but he knew my tales of her well enough to realize that the woman who sat before him was oddly altered.

  “I am uncertain how to proceed, Mr. Norton. Were any other recourse available, I assure you I should never rely upon the services of someone like yourself.”

  I cringed at Irene’s disdainful tone; I knew it was directed at herself, not at Godfrey or his profession. He could not understand how galling it was for someone as independent as Irene to find herself asking another’s aid.

  Godfrey spoke without showing offense. “I assure you, Miss Adler, that you may depend upon me to respect your need for confidentiality.”

  She nodded, the flagrant red plume trembling in the filtered daylight. “The quandary is this: there are those in Bohemia who may feel it necessary to follow and find me.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I am not sure, Mr. Norton. One purpose might be so radical as to abstract me from England—it is unlikely, but possible.”

  “Another purpose?”

  “Another motive might be to recover this.” She wet her lips and lifted the photograph cabinet from her handbag. Now I understood the object’s ungainly size.

  “May I see it?”

  “It is not necessary.”

  Godfrey immediately leaned back in his chair, as if to demonstrate no interest in the object.

  “It is mine, a gift,” Irene said ironically. “The giver has... reconsidered. He wishes to become a taker. He would find my possession of this... item... threatening.”

  “Then return it to him.”

  “I cannot. By retaining it, I keep him from taking action against me. He has already had me dismissed from my position with the Prague opera.”

  “Dismissed?” Godfrey sat forward, his eyes flashing. “He interfered in your operatic career, your livelihood? Why?”

  “It did not suit him that I should sing.”

  “Indeed! May I inquire the identity of this music hater?”

  She smiled despite herself. “You may. I am not certain that I should answer.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Oh, Mr. Norton. You will forgive my sighs and indecision, but the matter is complicated. Perhaps you have a right to know your opponent and the range of his power, if you undertake to aid me in avoiding him. He is no one less than the King of Bohemia.”

  “The King! Why should he be taken with such great antagonism toward you?”

  “Because he was first taken with great affection toward me. Is that not always the way of the world; time turns what is good to bad?”

  “Not always.” Godfrey frowned handsomely. “That is a sober philosophy, Miss Adler. Perhaps your outlook is curdled at the moment.” He glanced at the closed photograph case. “As to securing that, I could consign it to some bank safe—”

  “No! I must have instant access to it.”

  “—I was about to say that a safe would be unsatisfactory. For now, you keep it with you?”

  “Always.”

  “Let me think upon it. What are your other needs?”

  “I am undecided as to how I may proceed now that I am in London. I would like more permanent lodgings.”

  “And you feel that you cannot go back to Saffron Hill without betraying yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “New lodgings would not necessarily attract attention if they were discreetly procured. You have means?”

  Irene nodded. “A great plenty, for now.”

  “Essentially, then, you need to resettle in London, regain your lost clothing, move your possessions still kept at the Saffron Hill address and secure your valuable... charge.”

  “Precisely”

  ‘Then leave it all to me, save the photograph.” He stood to see us out.

  Irene stopped as if struck. “Photograph? It could be a jewel case.”

  “Elementary, my dear Miss Adler—the size and style of case, the fact that the item could discomfit a friend turned enemy. It must be irrefutable evidence of something the King of Bohemia would wish forgotten. Monsieur Daguerre unleashed a mighty weapon when he invented the photographic plate.”

  She nodded and clutched her homely handbag close as we left. I looked back at Godfrey. He was smiling, his barrister’s eyes alight with speculation and his aquiline nose almost visibly twitching at the alluring scent of a mystery.

  It struck me that Irene was in no state to notice that Godfrey Norton was as formidable in his way as the King of Bohemia.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  A BARRISTER BEARING GIFTS

  Within a week Godfrey called at our Chelsea rooms.

  Irene had been lounging on the chaise when he arrived. She did not rise to greet him but remained reclining, rather like a queen who awaits a favored subject.

  Godfrey was all brusque energy and information. He ignored Irene’s languor and paced, rubbing his hands together, as he brought us up to date.

  “I have inquired into the matter of your trunks, Miss Adler, by writing to a Paris associate who will contact your friend discreetly. I have no reply as yet, trusting as I am to the post rather than the more efficient cable. Cable would be speedier, but would, of course, leave a trail. I expect a return letter within the week.”

  Irene nodded regally.

  “In the meantime, I have made progress in London. I have leased a house—a two-story villa in St. John’s Wood with a charming garden at the back. The rooms are commodious and well furnished. There is a carriage house. I have taken the liberty of engaging a cook-housekeeper, a maid and a driver, given the place’s rural locale.”

  “St. John’s Wood?” Irene said, frowning.

  “North of Regent’s Park,” Godfrey explained. “Off the Edgware Road. An area a bit Bohemian, if you will pardon the expression, but well-to-do. It is rural enough to escape the attention of anyone bent on scouring London for your whereabouts. In fact, I should like to show you both the property tonight, if you have no objection.”

  “Such efficiency,” Irene commented languidly, extending a hand so that he could help her rise. “You quite wear me out, Mr. Norton.”

  Godfrey smiled and bowed to kiss her wrist, a gallantry that surprised me. But as we gathered our coats to leave, he favored me with a wink.

  Our new coachman, John Jewett, drove the party. He was a hearty man of middle years with a nicely protective air toward his female passengers. I confess myself excited beyond the stimulation of a change of permanent address, my first in six years. I sensed a tension in the air, more in Irene’s aspect than Godfrey’s. She was quiet, her normally incisive eyes heavy-lidded as she expressed a dangerous spiritual ennui alien to the Irene I knew. She reminded me of certain photographs of Sarah Bernhardt, resembling a gorgeous, coiled lazy serpent waiting for the right moment to slough off inactivity and strike.

  The villa in St. John’s Wood looked promising by night. Lights warmed the long, ground-floor windows that reached the floor in the Italian style. The coachman waited while we disembarked to view the property.

  “It is called Briony Lodge,” Godfrey said.

  “What a lovely name!” said I at once.

  Irene remained silent as Godfrey escorted us within. The place was as advertised: spacious and well appointed. As we examined the rooms both up and down, I saw that Godfrey had already imported our furnishings from Saffron Hill. I gasped to see the “Jersey Lily” standing guard in the upper hall. To all this care, Irene responded with the barrister’s noncommittal hmm.

  The kitchen below-stairs was clean and well-equipped. The cook had retired for the night, but we were assured that she was adept
. Godfrey at last brought us ‘round again to the handsome sitting room. He went to the tall windows from which we had seen the gaslight pouring, drawing the blinds in turn with a dramatic flourish.

  “And lastly, ladies, I present a feature that most recommends this particular property.” He moved to the fireplace wall, where a tapestry bell-pull hung.

  “I have seen a bell-pull before, Mr. Norton,” Irene noted sardonically, “although I have never before personally possessed such a luxury.”

  He said nothing, but pressed the painted paneling just beside it. A recessed panel sprang back with a snap. Beyond it lay a dark compartment large enough to accommodate the cabinet photograph.

  I clapped my hands in delight.

  “Bravo, Mr. Norton,” Irene murmured, moving to inspect the space. ‘The villa came with this hidey-hole?”

  “Indeed not. I had it put in myself.”

  “Oh?”

  Godfrey regarded her expressionless face with amusement. “The carpenters were brought here blindfolded, by carriage, and so returned. They saw only this room and were driven from Greenwich to Battersea both coming and going to confuse their sense of direction. This nook is our secret, we three.”

  “What of the coachman who drove them?” Irene demanded.

  Godfrey assumed a look I could only describe as belonging on a choir boy at Westminster.

  “There was no coachman. I drove them myself.”

  Irene lowered her eyes. Otherwise she moved not a muscle. I realized that the entire situation rested on her approval.

  At last she lifted her head, and her hand, as in one motion. She was mistress of exquisite gestures. The limpid flex of her wrist reminded me of the languid power of the Deity’s hand reaching toward Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Irene held this artistically presented hand at shoulder level, as a queen extending a favor. Her lips lifted like the Mona Lisa’s.

  Godfrey hesitated a moment; he respected women, but tribute was not his coinage. Then he took Irene’s hand, swiftly turned it and brushed his lips across the inside of her wrist.

  I couldn’t help wondering how she avoided giggling at the tickle of his mustache, but Irene looked quite sober and more than a bit taken aback. She turned to regard the hidden compartment, giving us both her back.