“Hello, John. I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
“Erm… yes,” I muttered, looking about and realizing just how much mess I’d made, searching the room for hidden pit traps and drop-from-the-ceiling nooses.
“And the man downstairs tells me you’ve seen fit to bring a chaperone,” Irene said, her eyes moving over Lestrade. Her left hand swung out from behind her hip and I flinched, sure she was about to produce a pistol to gun down either my companion or myself. Instead, she produced a third wine glass.
Hello, John. I see you’ve made yourself at home.
“As you please, I suppose,” said Irene, breezing into the room. “Now tell me: who is this staunch paladin you’ve brought along to safeguard your virtue?”
“I am Detective Inspector Vladislav Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”
“Ah. Yes, I have heard of you,” said Irene, her eyebrows going up, and I saw just a hint of worry cross her brow as she recalculated her position. With a little sniff, she flipped the third wine glass into the fireplace, where it burst with a dainty tinkle. “Won’t be needing that, I suppose.”
Lestrade frowned. “Actually, it is my custom to have a glass at my place with just a splash of wine. It helps to keep my true nature hidden from the casual observer and… well… it’s nice to feel included.”
“Of course. How rude of me,” said Irene. With a quick little flick of her hand, she produced a replacement glass, as if by magic. And yet… I had seen more than my share of actual magic; this seemed more like simple sleight of hand. Had she known Lestrade’s identity and anticipated this? Or had she been ready for a fourth person to join us? She set all three glasses down upon the tablecloth, tipped some wine into each and said, “Now, John, why don’t you stop ransacking my rooms and come and join us. I know you must think I’ve committed all sorts of horrible atrocities at Ridling Thorpe Manor, but I’m really not the one you want.”
Lestrade gave a derisive snort.
“Well…” Irene half-stifled a smile, then shifted her gaze to Lestrade and conceded, “I’m not the one Scotland Yard wants.” She plopped herself into the chair opposite Lestrade, had a little sip of wine and said, “If the official police force would like to know the individual responsible for the deaths of Elsie and Hilton Cubitt, his name is Abe Slaney. He’s an American. Until a Pinkerton raid a little over a month ago, he was proprietor of The Joint—a burlesque theater in New Jersey. He is a pimp, an extortioner, a betrayer and a murderer. Which is all a pity, really, because he was such a lovely dancer. He missed his calling, I fear. I expect him here presently.”
I approached the table with some anxiety, suspiciously eyeing the glass of wine Irene had left for me. So far, she seemed to be approaching the situation from a friendly position, but who could tell her true motivations? And wasn’t there an old saying? Poison me once, shame on you. Poison me twice… I decided I wasn’t all that thirsty at the moment. Instead, I asked, “And you propose to tell me this Abe Slaney is the source of the coded messages received by Elsie Cubitt?”
Irene gave me a knowing smile, as if she were charmed by my naiveté, and said, “There is no code, John.”
Lestrade shook his head. “No. It is clear to me that these letters had meaning to Elsie Cubitt.”
“Oh, meaning, certainly. But no code. That was the marvel of Abe Slaney; the man was a dirty little genius.”
“Was?” I asked.
Irene shrugged. “Or perhaps is. I’ve no way of knowing just yet. The agent I dispatched to bring him is a terrifically powerful thing, and not known for his subtlety.”
My jaw dropped open. “You… you sent one of the nine? Lestrade, she’s got control of two of these trinkets—they can summon horrible creatures, built to control the wills of all men. You sent one of those—”
“Please, John, I would never do something so foolish. First off, Allan Pinkerton has bound all nine guardians; they cannot be summoned, except by his order. It’s why the foci are momentarily safe to play with. Second, even if I could call one of the nine, I never would. They are powerful, yes, but not controllable. The agent I’ve chosen is… well… eminently controllable. Still, I fear I may have been a bit rash in sending him and I want you to understand my position.” Irene Adler stared into her wine for a moment, then said, “I haven’t any family anymore. My father and mother are gone, my sister, even my grandfather. I’ve got a number of enemies I’m close to—like you, John—but no real friends, you know? Elsie was my best friend. Back at The Joint… how rare it was for me to share the limelight with someone really worthy of it. And Elsie was special. None of the grit of that place stuck to her. None of the grime and desperation. She was light in a dark corner. She was an angel in an outhouse and I loved her more than I can say. That’s what makes Slaney’s crime so despicable. She was our friend. So maybe I wasn’t too careful when I sent for him. There’s no crime in that, is there?”
“There may be,” said Lestrade, in a warning tone.
“Then perhaps we’ll have to see if you care to pursue charges against my agent when he arrives. Until then… oh, have a glass of wine with me, won’t you, John? I’m sad!”
“No.”
“Oh, right! Because—I forgot—I’m an inhuman monster who deserves to die! Present company excepted, of course.”
“Of course,” said Lestrade.
“Which did I poison, do you think? The entire bottle, or only your glass? Look here: if I wanted you gone, I could easily have moved against you while you thought I was Inspector Martin. I know how long you tend to dither before you act, John. I could have poisoned the trigger of your gun, knowing even if you caught me, you’d have stood there with your finger on that trigger letting the poison seep into your bloodstream. Which…” Irene shifted about in her seat, then directed her gaze at the ceiling and muttered, “…which I might actually have done. Only as a precaution. Still… may want to give it a wash before you shoot anybody, all right?”
I stared down at her, incensed that she’d once again laid a trap for me, but grateful she’d admitted it. Because she was right: I’d have fallen for it. How much of what she said was true, how much an act? It was always impossible to tell with her. Nonetheless, slowly and without taking my eyes off her, I sat down, lifted the glass to my lips, and took a little sip.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s quite good!”
“Of course it is! Who do you think you’re dealing with?” she snapped, then pulled her glass close and took a healthy slug.
I had a second drink myself, and let it swirl in my mouth a moment, while I watched her. She really was quite remarkable.
“How’d you turn your eyes brown?” I asked.
“Mmph!” she said, halfway through a swallow. “Yes. I had to use real magic. I don’t like to do it, you know, but what choice did I have? You’ve seen me too many times, John. You know me too well.”
I nodded. “Without the eyes...”
“And the beard,” she said, waggling a finger at me. “I had to break up the line of my jaw or that would have done it, too.”
“Oh?”
“Trust me, you’d have known in an instant.”
“Well, you’re the expert, I suppose.”
“Damn right.”
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Much as I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, there is the matter of Hilton Cubitt’s murder.”
“And Elsie’s too,” Irene insisted. “What you just saw was a Slaney Special. He’s used it time and again in America. How many New York politicians have been found in Slaney-owned, out-of-state houses of ill repute, having just shot their mistress and then themselves? Or vice-versa?”
Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know. How many?”
“Seven. Slaney’s got a special cocktail of opiates he uses to absolutely pickle the brains of one of his victims. Makes them pliable as a kitten. Then he dances with them. ‘Dum, dum, dum,’ he sings and waltzes them about. They hardly notice when he lays their hand on a pistol. Did you look at
the powder marks on Elsie’s fingers? There are some. But not many, since Slaney’s hand was over hers. If there’s one consolation in all this, it’s that she can’t have felt much pain. Or even distress. She was probably just glad to be dancing again, damn him. I’m sure Hilton must have been shocked to see them come mincing in to the sitting room, but… one quick pop through his heart and another through Elsie’s temple and Slaney’s work was done.”
“But why?” I asked.
“Because of me,” said Irene. “I have two of the nine foci in my possession and the Pinkerton agency wants them, rather badly. We’ve crossed paths a number of times since I left for America, yet they’ve always come up short. It seems they decided to target other people who knew me. They knew I’d worked The Joint. Slaney was vulnerable. True, most of New York and New Jersey’s legal and political operators would not dare to move against him—he had dirt on far too many, you know—but the Pinkertons had no such qualms. They scooped him up and let him know that he could either hang for his crimes or he could help them with their little Adler problem. Probably, they hoped I had stashed what they wanted with Slaney himself—which I never would—but he knew there was somebody I trusted more. He wrote and threatened Elsie.”
“The first coded note!” I proclaimed.
“I tell you, there is no code. But yes. She then wrote to me for help. I hastened here as fast as I could. Yet with the Pinkertons on one’s heels, travel can be difficult. I arrived too late. I had just set up here and was preparing to contact Elsie when the word broke. All I could do was surveil Inspector Stote, dress myself up as a smaller version of him, introduce myself as his new colleague and imply that he’d better impress me with his handling of the case or his bosses might see fit to dismiss him. He was easily manageable after that. I’ll confess, I was rather surprised when the servants showed me a letter their mistress had received the day before from one Dr. John Watson, but at least it gave me the warning I needed to step out for a few moments and turn my eyes brown. Lucky, that.”
“Hmph. Lucky,” I said with a snort. “Quite a story, Miss Adler, but do you have any concrete evi—”
Yet my sentence was interrupted by the timely intrusion of Irene Adler’s concrete evidence. Her agent had arrived. From the stairs outside came a few bumpings and bashings, followed by a clear, strident voice insisting, “No. I’ve told you, I can do it myself.”
Lestrade and I froze. Our mouths dropped open. We stared at each other in guilty horror and mouthed the same word.
“Holmes?”
“What do we do?” I squeaked.
“I think we’re in trouble,” Lestrade counter-squeaked.
“What? Why?” Irene wanted to know, but I took no time to answer her. The clumsy thumpings were in the hall just outside the door by then, so I saw no choice but to bolt under the table and hope that the low-hanging cloth might protect me from the notice of my closest friend.
“What are you doing?” Irene cried, pulling her dress tight against her knees. Funny, it’s the first thing I’d ever seen her do that was in any way shy.
The very next moment came a knock upon the door.
“Um. Yes. Hello, please enter,” said Irene.
I heard the door swing open. Beneath the edge of the tablecloth, I could just see those familiar shoes that often sat by the entry to 221B and the legs of Holmes’s trousers. Which badly needed pressing, I noted. He was dragging a heavy oilcloth bag—the kind sailors use to protect their belongings from the elements.
“Lestrade? And Miss Adler?” said Holmes, with evident confusion. “What are you doing here? I was expecting Watson.”
Lestrade gave a half-choking, half-laughing scoff and asked, “Watson? Here? Why? No. Why would you think such a thing? Watson? No.”
“But I got this note,” Holmes said. He approached us, dragging his odd bag. I could hear the soft rustle of paper as he dropped a single sheet onto the table above me.
I’ll be honest, I had not guessed the nature of the communication Holmes bore, until Lestrade gasped, “Holmes! You can read this? You cracked the code?”
“I’ve told you and told you, there is no code,” said Irene.
“No, it’s just regular,” Holmes concurred. “Look, here are two gentlemen facing each other with their… er… gentleman bits just touching. Together, they make a capital ‘H’, you see? And then there are these three fellows rolling about in a sort of mutual somersault—which looks like a bit of a trick and probably rough on the old spine. Still, if one discounts all the knees and elbows and follows the main line of their bodies, that’s an ‘o’. Then this fellow looks rather lonely compared to the others, except he seems to have found something of great interest in his own bottom. Still, look at how he stands all straight and alone and you’ll note he looks like an ‘l’. That’s the start of my name. It says ‘Holmes’.”
Lestrade and I were utterly dumbstruck. Irene gave a light little laugh. “Oh, Elsie, Abe and I used to love to write each other little notes. Do you know what’s more fun than having a code others can’t read? Having a perfectly plain alphabet that they won’t. We could leave those lying around in plain sight, knowing that if they were ever picked up by the sort of person we didn’t want reading them, they would be crumpled up in disgust.”
“But why?” Holmes wondered.
“Not everybody is like you,” said Irene. “Most people are… shy.”
“Some days I fear I’ll never understand people,” Holmes muttered, but then he caught sight of my wine glass and asked, “Oh, is this spot for me?”
“Well… who else?” said Irene.
“So nice of you to pour me some,” said Holmes, settling into my old seat. “I never drink it, so don’t be offended, but it’s nice to feel included.”
“Exactly,” said Lestrade.
With Holmes’s overlong legs taking up practically half the table, I was forced to wedge myself in between Irene and Lestrade. Lestrade did his best to accommodate me, but made sure to jab me with his bony knee whenever he felt I was crowding him. Irene did nothing of the sort. Though she could easily have afforded me about a foot of free room, she made sure her soft calf was resting against my cheek. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she was smiling.
“The only thing is, I rather expected Watson,” said Holmes. “See? The note says: Holmes, go to Elridge’s farm near East Ruston in Norfolk and collect Mr. Abe Slaney. Bring him to Thistle Wig Inn at 5:30. Very important. Make sure to tell him Elsie Cubitt sends her regards when you meet him. And it’s signed Watson.”
I stifled a moan. Above the table, I heard Lestrade smack his hand to his brow. And why not? It was clear Irene Adler had not been above avenging the death of her friend. How well she’d carried it off! Holmes had been utterly unaware of the threat he was delivering to Abe Slaney. Slaney would have been shocked and taken aback, no doubt. But to a practiced killer like him, what threat would the unarmed and unescorted Holmes seem to present? How could he have known—when he inevitably made his attempt on Holmes’s life—that he was picking a fight with the single most dangerous creature on earth.
“Oh no,” Lestrade groaned. “What did you do to him?”
“I? Nothing. How dare you imply such a thing?”
“Well, where is he then? Why did you not bring him as the note commanded?”
“I did bring him,” Holmes huffed. “I mean… mostly.”
“Holmes… no…” said Lestrade in his most defeatist tone.
“Some of him got on the walls and a great deal soaked into the carpet, but most of him is in that bag, right down there. All the biggest chunks I could find.”
“Damn it, Holmes.”
“Well it wasn’t my fault! He got rather out of sorts when I mentioned that Elsie woman. Really, by the time I knew what was going on, he was in pieces. I was rather hoping Watson could explain. You’re sure he’s not here?”
“What? Watson? Here? No. Watson? No,” Lestrade spluttered.
I could feel Iren
e’s legs shift as she leaned across the table to pat Holmes’s hand and tell him, “I’m afraid I have misled you, Warlock. I wrote the note. I needed to see you. And I needed to move against Slaney. I feared that if I signed my own name, you would not come. But I knew if you thought the instructions came from Watson, you would not fail me.”
“Oh,” said Holmes. “Well, apparently you were correct, for here I am. Dashed clever of you, really. And I suppose it explains the sudden change in Watson’s… you know… penmanship.”
Lestrade shook his head. “But how did you know where to send Holmes? How did you find Slaney?”
“Simple,” said Irene. “The correspondence which you had in your possession was… um… delivered to me this morning while I was in the guise of Inspector Martin. One said, ‘Elsie, prepare to meet thy God.’ That must have been the one she received yesterday that made her rather keen for a sudden vacation. It also explains why Hilton Cubitt was dressed and armed at three in the morning—he must have been waiting for Slaney. One of the others said, ‘Am here, at Elridge’s. Come Elsie.’ So Abe must have tried bargaining first, which is like him. I asked if there might be an inn called Elridge’s nearby and was told there was not, but a local farmer of that name took in boarders. I then had what I needed. When it was clear I could be of no further aid to Elsie than by avenging her, I took my leave, wrote to Holmes, then sat back and waited.”
“So, Watson was never here, then?” Warlock asked with a tinge of disappointment.
“Watson?” Lestrade blurted. “No. Hey. Ha-ha! Why do you keep mentioning Watson?”
“Yes…” said Irene, and I could practically feel her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why do you?”
I rather did not care for her to be pursuing that line of questioning—a fact that I had no way of communicating to her verbally. Nor did I wish to indicate my reticence by touch, given that the only areas of Irene Adler I currently had access to were deemed rather off-limits by every law of propriety. Well… nearly. I began earnestly slapping the tips of her toes to get her to desist. Instead, she gave me a little shin-kick that bounced my head off Lestrade’s knee and asked Holmes, “Has something happened between you and Watson?”
The Finality Problem Page 16
