by J. R. Trtek
After a moment’s silence, I admitted I did not know.
“Why, quite possibly to read a message to which one may then respond,” said Holmes, putting his face next to the metal surface. “I’ll wager my shag to your Beaune that it may still be here. Let me see...No—those scratches are quite weathered, and these are the marks of a petty vandal.”
Holmes covered successive inches of the painted box, and after half-a-turn round it, he discovered what he sought.
“I believe this may be it, Watson!”
He motioned me to look, and as I stood and peered past the end of his long forefinger, I could discern the pattern roughly etched there: “WLOO 3P.”
Holmes studied my face expectantly.
“Waterloo Station,” I ventured.
“Excellent, Watson. This may have directed our young Hope Maldon to catch a train at three o’clock in the afternoon from Waterloo. That would, of course, be the boat-train.”
“He is on the Continent then?”
“He at least intended to be. Recall, Watson, that Waterloo Station is but a short distance from Breton Mansions, to which he returned. He thus had but a few minutes’ walk from his block of flats to the station, where he would have boarded the train. That no one noticed him among other travellers during that short stroll is quite unremarkable.”
“But why all this elaboration?” I asked. “To convey this message, why did his informant not come to his rooms or send a messenger or simply ring him up?”
“I fancy the informant did not call at Breton Mansion for fear of being seen or intercepted by someone else. That same fate could have awaited a hired messenger. And she did not ring him up for the obvious reason that Hope Maldon’s flat is not furnished with a telephone, as you should have noticed.”
“Pardon the oversight. I have noticed, however, that you refer to this other person by the feminine pronoun. You believe it was Irene Adler?”
“No,” said Holmes. “I merely believe it likely to have been her. A man might have been inclined to kneel in order to place this message in a less visible section of the pillar-box. The position of these marks at just below eye level is not definitive, but it is consistent a woman being the furtive etcher.”
“And do you surmise that Miss Adler may have watched from a hospital window as Hope Maldon signalled his receipt of the message?
“Perhaps,” replied Holmes with an impish smile as we strode back toward the kerb.
“I believe only a small number of windows held a clear view of the pillar-box, unobstructed by trees.”
“Five,” replied my friend.
“And so now into St. Glevens itself?” I asked.
“Not at present. Recall that Hopkins will call later for us at 221, and I wish to use the intervening time to sort what facts we have collected. Tomorrow I shall perhaps send Shinwell Johnson to further investigate this site and make inquiries within. His talents will be more than equal to the task that remains here.”
We regained our cab and travelled in silence back to Baker Street. There we alighted and then walked—Holmes lagging somewhat behind—under a now-threatening sky toward the fanlight of number 221. Before either of us reached the door, however, it opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson, and even I could discern from her expression that something was amiss.
“What is the matter?” asked Holmes, stopping before the landlady. “Pray, tell me calmly.”
“A woman is waiting upstairs,” said Mrs. Hudson, leading us into the house. “She’s one in dire straits, she is. I always can tell who’s the neediest that come to you, can’t I, Mr. Holmes? Let me tell you, sir; she is one of the worst I’ve seen in all these years, with a look in her poor eyes to melt anyone’s heart.”
“Oh, truly?” said Holmes, removing his hat and waterproof. “Watson, this must be the storm following the calm. Apré ennui, dèluge. You said she was upstairs, Mrs. Hudson. Are you possibly referring to the maid’s quarters?”
“No, sir. She’s in the sitting room of 221B. I could not refuse the poor lady, sir! She asked—”
“Quite all right,” said Holmes calmly, though I could detect alarm at this violation of his sanctum. “Well, Watson, it has been some time since we have called upon someone in our own sitting room rather than the other way round. Let us go up immediately then and meet this female in distress.”
We ascended the stair, Holmes leading and even taking two risers at once. Reaching the closed sitting room door, my friend paused for what seemed an unusually long time.
“Well?” I asked. “Do you wish me to knock instead?”
“Knock?” said Holmes. “Of course not. Recall again that it is our sitting room.” He abruptly opened the door, and from beyond I heard a faint, feminine gasp and caught flashes of colour.
And then I gazed upon her face for the second time that day. It was not a flat image this time, no mere likeness etched in silver compound and bounded by a tin frame. This was life itself. She stood before Holmes’s armchair, hands across a pale blue bodice. Then one arm rose, and a set of trembling fingers pushed back a tress of greying hair to set it among companions of shining auburn and gold. The strands immediately returned to their disobedient position, and I felt they should fall no other way.
“Greetings, Mrs. Norton,” said Holmes as if he had last seen her but yesterday. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No.”
My mind hung upon the voicing of that one syllable for what seemed an eternity.
“I trust you will forgive this invasion,” she continued. Her large grey eyes seemed to cast their own glow back and forth between myself and Holmes.
“Might we not all sit?” I timidly suggested, noting great weariness in her voice and the extreme pallor of her skin. “Did Mrs. Hudson offer you any refreshment when you arrived, madam?”
Irene Adler looked to Sherlock Holmes, who motioned toward chairs.
“No, she did not, Dr. Watson,” said the woman, glancing at me as she took the sofa. “But I require none. You are Dr. Watson, are you not?”
“At your service,” I replied, embarrassed as my voice broke as if I were but a growing boy.
“We have never before been introduced. Still, I know of you, having read many of your several stories. Then, too,” she added, addressing my friend, “We have never been properly introduced either, have we, Mr. Holmes? When we first met, you posed as a priest—”
“A nonconformist clergyman,” corrected Holmes. “I have never assumed the guise of a priest. But tell me, why have you chosen to rise from the dead so suddenly and then call upon us here at this particular time?”
Irene Adler smiled. “So direct,” she said, her eyes now pleading, her pale skin suddenly blushing. She clasped her hands, which seemed oddly large and ungainly, and stared away toward the bow window, presenting to us her fine profile.
“We had no idea you were even alive, Miss Adler,” I said, uncertain how to proceed. “Whatever your—”
“Tell me, Mrs. Norton,” Holmes interrupted, “do you know where the Honourable Robert Hope Maldon is?”
Our guest’s head turned sharply toward us again, her eyes grew even larger, and one hand rose to her mouth to stifle any sound. Then, silently, her form slumped against the sofa back.
“She has fainted, Holmes!”
“Well, I believe brandy is your universal prescription, is it not?” the detective said in an idle tone. “Find some, please, while I fetch a glass.”
CHAPTER THREE :
The Woman’s Story
We gently settled a limp Irene Adler across the sofa, and then I rapidly prepared brandy and water in a glass provided by Holmes. Rushing back to our guest, I placed the drink upon a table nearby and then knelt down beside her to examine both the woman’s eyes and pulse.
“She is not in jeopardy,” I said. “She is regaining her senses even now.”
Holmes seemed to ignore my observations. Indeed, he had stepped over to examine an unfamiliar set of luggage, which I, for the first
time, noticed upon the bearskin rug. The detective lifted each piece in turn then made as if to open one.
“Holmes! It is not—”
“Please attend to your duties, Watson, and I shall see to mine.”
Then Irene Adler began to visibly stir, causing my friend to retreat to the mantelpiece, upon which he leaned.
“Do forgive me,” said a weak, feminine voice. Irene Adler’s eyes opened full toward me, and I immediately rose and stepped back from the sofa.
“I must apologize for such a spectacle,” she continued, sitting up to address us both. “I embarrass myself.”
“No, it is I who must be excused,” Holmes replied with a hint of contrition. “I fear my earnestness can sometimes become a callous thing. Dr. Watson has provided you brandy and water in that glass.” Holmes pointed toward the drink.
She smiled, nodded at me, and then took the glass in her trembling hands to sip slowly. “Your sudden mention of Robert was most unexpected,” she said after a moment’s pause.
“Do not attempt to rise suddenly,” I said. “You should remain—”
The bell rang below. Someone was calling at 221. Irene Adler’s eyes became wide.
“It is much too soon for Hopkins,” said Holmes, watching our visitor intently. “Surely he would not be so early!” The detective strode quickly from mantel to window, and Irene Adler shot to her feet.
“Please!” I urged her. “You must not—“
“The house door is already open. Mrs. Norton, my own room is past that door,” the detective continued. “If you will—No, wait,” said he, still peering down into Baker Street. His face relaxed, and he calmly declared, “Remain; there is no need to fear.”
I took a step toward him, but he halted me with a sharp motion of the hand. “The caller has left. Truly,” he added, speaking to the woman. “There is no need for alarm.”
Miss Adler sat down again, and seconds later, I heard a familiar, stately tread upon the stair, followed by a knock at the sitting room door.
“Enter,” said Holmes.
“Is the lady better?” Mrs. Hudson asked, and Irene Adler smiled and expressed appreciation to her. “Oh, good. Such a dear one,” the older woman declared. “And here’s a message that’s come for the doctor.”
I took a telegram from her, and Holmes stepped to my side. “The bad news from Finney, I gather. Three to five he charges you for it. But tell me,” he abruptly asked Miss Adler, turning to face her, “could you stand an offer of food?”
The woman paused, glass again in hand, seemingly uncertain how to answer.
“Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said, “are there still cold cuts to be had?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll bring them up straightaway,” the landlady said even as she went hurrying down the stair.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said the woman. “You are most kind.”
“Mere hospitality, Mrs. Norton.”
“Miss Adler,” she corrected. “I wish to be called Miss Adler again.”
“Your husband...?”
“Though my death in Switzerland was falsely reported, his was not.”
“Accept our sincere condolences then,” said Holmes, once more approaching the mantelpiece.
“It has been several years,” our guest replied. “My pain has softened, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Pray, tell me,” continued Holmes. “Why have you never come forward to correct the reports of your death? Do you still, after all this time, fear retaliation from the king of Bohemia?”
The woman sipped from the glass once more, looked down, and nodded.
“Yes,” the detective said. “And I believe you have every right to fear him. Do you believe it was he who arranged your husband’s death and barely failed to see to yours?”
“Holmes,” I said sharply, “how can you—”
“Dr. Watson, do not trouble yourself,” Miss Adler said. “Remember that we are speaking of things past.” She stared firmly at the detective. “Long past, indeed. They are events which are as textbook history now.” Her eyes returned to me. “We can, all of us, freely discuss Godfrey’s fate dispassionately, as Mr. Holmes understands even without such assurances by his widow.”
The detective turned away, sensing, no doubt, the subtle edge to her remark. He grasped his cherrywood pipe from off the mantelpiece and gave a deferential gesture to Miss Adler. “We noted your ‘death’ at the time,” he said. “Watson duly recorded it in one of his early romances, though obliquely as I recall. Well, you needn’t fear. The king does believe you to be deceased; indeed, he was so pleased at that morbid news, now proved so joyfully inaccurate, that he sent this as a gift.” Holmes picked up the jewelled snuff-box and held it out to her.
“Such a huge amethyst,” Irene Adler said, admiring it as my friend held the box before her. “He was always so very grateful, if uncompromisingly ruthless.” She put down her glass and accepted the box from Holmes. “You do not use it?” she asked after opening the lid to find it empty.
“It serves a purely decorative purpose.”
“A most expensive ornament then,” she observed.
Holmes smiled as she handed it back to him.
“I notice as well an old portrait of myself there beside it.”
“It is the one you left for the king of Bohemia in place of the other, more controversial one.”
“Yet you now have it.”
“Yes,” replied Holmes. “It is the other memento of that ‘scandal’ that I—and the doctor retain.”
This remark, uttered in a tone of mock horror, coaxed from our visitor a wan smile, which quickly vanished.
Holmes then took to his armchair. “Watson, pray, do not remain the only one standing. We have much ground to cover before Hopkins arrives.”
I obeyed my friend’s request, setting my still-unopened telegram upon his deal-topped chemistry table before finding relief in the basket-chair.
“Mrs.—Miss Adler,” continued Holmes. “Have you the strength to answer questions?”
“Will they be your style of question?”
Holmes paused for a moment, seemingly taken aback. “Yes,” he finally replied, turning the cherrywood pipe over and over in his hands. “Yes, I suppose that is an apt description. Are you willing then to supply the style of answer I should prefer?”
“I believe so,” she said, taking the brandy and water in hand. “The substance will go beyond textbook history, though, will it not?”
“It will.”
“Very well. Go on, sir.”
Holmes leaned back, holding the cherrywood pipe stiffly in one hand. “You wish to be addressed once more by the surname Adler. Is it your expectation to very shortly relinquish that appellation a second time?”
The woman nodded. “Robert and I have not yet fixed a date, of course, but...yes, it is our intention to wed.”
“I see. If I may continue to be so bold, what is his father’s opinion of the match?”
“The earl does not know.”
“Of the marriage only?”
“Of the marriage… and of me as well.”
“The union will be presented as a fait accompli?”
“Yes.” The woman looked down. “We felt—rather, Robert felt the difference in our ages, if nothing else, would present his family with an objection.”
“Hum,” said Holmes. He inhaled quickly. “Perhaps it would. Forgive me for repeating my very first question to you, but do you now know where your fiancé is?”
“Why, no,” our guest said fervently. “It was—is my hope that you might find him for me.”
“That is why you jumped back across the Styx and into Baker Street after many years of silence?”
“It is.”
Holmes placed the cherrywood pipe in his lap and clasped his hands together. “I must tell you, Miss Adler, that I am already in the employ of your young man’s father and charged by him to find your fiancé.”
“Can you not find him for both of us?”
&nb
sp; “Two separate clients, one common objective?”
“Yes. Do the ethics of detection permit that?”
Just then our landlady returned with a plate of meats. Holmes rose, took the platter, and set it upon our table.
“I’ve plenty more when it’s needed,” Mrs. Hudson told us.
“Thank you,” Miss Adler said.
“Your efforts, as always, are appreciated,” Holmes said as he ushered the landlady from the sitting room. “Miss Adler, allow me to halt my questioning for the moment. In its place”—he spread wide his arms—“we offer food and hot coffee in a few minutes, once my spirit-lamp is fired up.”
We three sat round the table and enjoyed our small, impromptu meal. As we ate, Holmes related to our guest the events of the day, including Hopkins’s visit, our visit to Breton Mansions, and his hiding of the portrait, as well as our interview with Lord Monsbury. Omitted, however, was any mention of the missing shares and our trip to St. Glevens. I took Holmes’s frequent glances in my direction as silent instruction to make no additions or corrections, and so, following the practice of two decades, I merely chewed quietly upon my ham and beef, all the while studying intermittently, when chance gave me the opportunity, the face and figure of our guest.
“The doctor and I have kept from the police any evidence of your existence, let alone association with the case,” Holmes assured her. “Watson himself has placed under his own personal guard the photograph we found at Breton Mansions; have you not, old fellow?”
“Why, yes,” I said, producing from my coat pocket the small, framed portrait I had been absent-mindedly carrying about with me. Awkwardly, I set it upon the table.
Irene Adler took up the portrait. “I gave it to Robert only days after we had first met. What motivated you to seize it and keep it hidden?”
Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps it was concern that the news would get back to Bohemia. Perhaps it was whim or intuition. Whatever the reason, the fact is that I have considered your request for help,” he said. “And I must tell you that while my ethics, as you term them, require that I honour my obligation to the Lord Monsbury, my sense of justice also requires that I act upon your behalf as well.”
