by J. R. Trtek
“These parallel obligations will not hinder you in the search for Robert? They will not conflict?”
“In my youth I was an adept juggler, even accepting donations for my performances,” Holmes said, glancing in my direction to enjoy the look on my face at the admission of this fact, previously unknown to me. “And while I have not practiced the art in years, one never forgets the sense of it, literally or metaphorically.”
“I cannot adequately express my appreciation to you,” the woman said.
“No matter. Allow me to remind both of you that a representative of Scotland Yard will call within the quarter hour, however, and he must not learn you are here, Miss Adler. As you may have surmised, our house is between maids, and I think it best if you and your luggage retire to the vacant room upstairs until Inspector Hopkins is gone. We shall then have time to hear your own account of the matter in greater detail.”
We dealt rapidly with the last of our meats, and then Holmes and I escorted the woman upstairs with her luggage.
“Watson,” said Holmes as we reached the second floor. “Acquaint Miss Adler with her new surroundings. I must quickly go down and instruct Mrs. Hudson. Miss Adler, I am certain you realize the need for silence when the inspector is here.”
“Of course,” said the woman.
My friend bounded down to the ground floor, and I was left alone with our guest.
“This was my room when I resided here,” I stammered while opening a door opposite my present, temporary quarters in 221. “A maid would be quartered here now, if one were currently employed in this house. The room itself is very plain these days, I fear.”
The woman smiled. “Doctor,” she said in a soothing voice, “do not think less of me if I tell you I have familiarity with environs far worse than this cosy, little area.”
“No one could think of you in any but the highest terms, madam,” I said impulsively, perhaps blushing at my declaration.
Her mood suddenly changed to one of mild despair. “And as plain as it is, it is still a step up in life for me. Dr. Watson, I must confess to you that these bags and their contents are all my worldly possessions.” She looked away and, finding the room’s only chair, sat down and exerted all her efforts to keep from weeping.
“Miss Adler, please,” I murmured as I stood at the doorway, not knowing what condolence to offer.
“Do not tell him I carry my whole estate with me,” she said, meeting my eye with sudden firmness.
“Of course,” was all I could think to say as I transferred her luggage from the landing into the room.
The house bell rang, and I looked to Miss Adler. “Not a word,” she reminded me sharply.
“I promise,” was the solemn, whispered oath I gave. She nodded and then offered her hand, which I briefly clasped as a seal of our agreement. Then, with the faintest of smiles, she watched as I withdrew from the room.
Having entered 221, Stanley Hopkins lumbered up the stair in the company of Holmes. The two of them greeted me from below and entered the sitting room. Nervously, I looked back at Miss Adler’s door, now closed, before walking across the landing to my own room, where I read the latest number of the Lancet for near unto half an hour.
At length, after I had quit my medical reading and then exhausted all items of interest in the day’s Telegraph, Hopkins departed, and when the house door closed below, both Miss Adler and I discovered the other peeping out into the hall. Together, we descended the stair in the deepening gloom of early evening to find Holmes stretched out upon the sofa, clay pipe in hand, an ethereal lacework of smoke floating over him. He smiled as we entered.
“Did Hopkins bring more news?” I inquired.
“Mrs. Hudson has graciously agreed to postpone supper,” he said while turning to a sitting position in one agile motion. “We must get on with your story, Miss Adler.”
I ignored this rebuff to my question and stepped behind the woman, pointing at Holmes’s pipe with raised brows as his eyes met mine.
“Do you mind?” he asked her, holding the smoking clay aloft.
“Why, no,” she replied. “Of course I do not.”
Holmes looked back at me with a satisfied grin and then clenched the pipe between his teeth. When we were all seated, he leaned back in the sofa and said, “Pray, continue to tell us your side of things, Miss Adler.”
“Where shall I resume?”
“Let us start from the death of Godfrey Norton.”
“As you wish,” said the woman. “Godfrey’s estate was not inconsiderable, but I, of course, could not claim it without revealing I had survived the avalanche. Fortunately, my husband had brought with him a large sum of notes, with which I was able to buy my passage back to America. I lived in New York for some years under another name and then employed that alias when I returned to England.”
“What motivated that?” asked Holmes. “The trip here, I mean.”
“A simple wish to come back. Is that an answer you can understand?”
“Yes, it is. Go on.”
“It was on the ship that brought me back to this country that I met Robert, who was himself returning from a journey to America. We grew attached to one another during the voyage, and by the time the Atlantic had been crossed, I had agreed to marry him. It may seem impulsive and rash to you, given our circumstances, but we are devoted to each other.”
“Were you aware that his reckless spirit extends beyond love to the realm of gambling?” Holmes asked.
“Yes,” the woman replied with mild embarrassment. “Indeed, I tried to turn him away from cards.”
“But success eluded you?”
Irene Adler looked down. “It did. His gambling, Mr. Holmes, is akin to an addiction.”
“Gambling is an addiction, Miss Adler,” Holmes responded. “Comparable, perhaps, to the lure of those narcotics from which I myself was saved by one who was, and remains, my dearest friend.”
I looked at Holmes, whose gaze was fixed upon our guest, and felt the full emotion of comradeship well up in my eyes.
“Robert kept gambling, despite my efforts to dissuade him,” Miss Adler continued. “Money was the one great threat hanging over our impending union. I have almost none of my own, Mr. Holmes, and Robert seems to squander what little that comes to him.”
“Is the name Diarmund Stephenson known to you?”
“That is Robert’s father’s secretary. The name is familiar but not the person. I have never met the man, but Robert has talked of him often enough. He must possess a kind soul, for I’ve understood he has been very warm toward Robert when my dear has called at Lennox Square.” The woman looked at Holmes warily. “To visit that house must be a terrible experience for him.”
Holmes blew a cloud of smoke. “Allow me to return to the subject of your late husband. You said his estate was not insignificant and that he had carried a large sum of notes with him to Switzerland.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know at the time that his wealth was accumulated, for the most part, from criminal dealings?”
I stiffened at my friend’s revelation. It was knowledge he had never shared with me, and Miss Adler herself became visibly shaken.
“If you did not know, I apologize for the revelation,” said the detective. “My investigations subsequent to the affair involving the king of Bohemia uncovered the fact that Godfrey Norton was not the most ethical of solicitors.”
“I learned that too, in time,” the woman admitted after a moment’s silence. She looked down at the floor, her face seemingly tranquil, but I sensed agitation in her grey eyes. “I knew of his other side, but you must believe me when I say that I was not aware of it until well after we were wed.”
“Yet once aware, you did not hesitate to profit from his continued crimes and then use them to advantage after the tragedy in Switzerland.”
“What other choice had I? My own money amounted to so very little, and I needed much more, both to leave Europe and maintain the appearance of my death. Godfre
y’s money, no matter what its source, paid my passage back to America and kept me safe.”
Holmes shrugged. “And so you found yourself, years later, once more in London and in love but still with meagre income.”
“Yes, but Robert told me he had a plan that would make a fortune for us.”
“What was the nature of this plan?”
“Robert never confided that in me. He said merely that our future would be assured for all the days that might come.”
Holmes leaned back with raised brows and bit down upon his pipe. After a moment, he withdrew it from his mouth, setting it aside. “Did he ever say that this plan would require an initial investment?” my friend inquired.
“Perhaps,” said the woman with hesitation. “To be honest, Mr. Holmes, I do not recall.”
“Was there any talk of others joining in this scheme, whatever it was?”
Irene Adler looked over at our bearskin rug. “Sometimes he hinted at such possibilities, but I remember nothing definite in that regard. Certainly, he never mentioned allies by name.”
“Was there mention of potential adversaries?”
“No.”
Holmes stood up and approached the mantelpiece, his back to us. He asked, “He never made any allusion that might allow you to guess even the general nature of this enterprise?”
“Never,” Miss Adler said. “He spoke of it often enough but always in roundabout ways.”
“And you accepted that?”
“If you mean to suggest I was too trusting and naïve, I will not argue the point.”
Holmes kept his back to us. “I have difficulty associating that particular fault with you, Miss Adler.”
“I am a woman in love. Have you also a difficulty associating me with that particular emotion?”
Holmes shrugged and turned round. “And your young man proceeded with his plan on or about the seventh of this month?”
“Yes, I travelled with him to Paris on the boat-train from Waterloo, as Robert had arranged.”
“The trip was without incident?”
“Yes.”
“And was your fiancé able to successfully conclude his business there?”
Irene Adler sighed, and her eyes filled with tears she could no longer hold back. “I do not know, Mr. Holmes. Robert went out within an hour of our arrival at the hotel, and…And I have not seen him since!” She reached toward me and clutched at my sleeve. “Not since then, Dr. Watson! I have not seen him!” She wept uncontrollably now, covering her face with her other hand as she sobbed.
I placed my free hand upon hers, and looked plaintively at Holmes. He made an expression of mild annoyance and strode back to his pipe.
“Holmes,” I said, with an air of warning.
“Miss Adler,” the detective continued in a soothing actor’s voice while aiming a silent look of reproach toward me. “I am certain you suffer terribly at this moment. I do not pretend to ken its depth. But if this pain is to be only momentary and give way to the happy future you wish for and, by all accounts, deserve, then you must help me complete this interview presently. Can you do this for yourself?”
The woman uncovered her face, turned a brave, crimson-eyed smile toward me, and gently lifted her other hand from my grasp. “I can,” said she, facing Sherlock Holmes. “I can, not so much for my own as for Robert’s sake.”
Holmes once more put down his pipe and stared intently at her. “From whom are you running?”
“What?”
“You said Mr. Hope Maldon mentioned no potential adversaries, yet clearly a portion of your agitation derives from fear. Fear of what or whom? You are distraught from loss of your fiancé, who is missing. Why would he be missing? What agency could have whisked him away from you? I tell you directly that in this affair, you are acting in the manner of the hunted fox. Might I know the identity of at least the hound, if not its master?”
“I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“I cannot,” declared the woman. She breathed deeply, ran her fingers through her grey-and-auburn hair, and then buried her face in her hands again. Then, regaining her composure, she resumed. “Yes, it is true that Robert mentioned enemies—I should have answered you truthfully a moment ago. Please forgive the lie. To live safely all these years has required that I live with lies, you see. Robert was very afraid as well as secretive. He did not reveal the details of his business, and neither did he share the source of his fear. He did make clear to me, however, that one or more persons would oppose him and that they might follow us. He also told me there could be danger. All this he revealed only as our train left London.”
“These persons he spoke of, could they have been agents of his father?”
“Perhaps, although, as I have said, he had led me to understand that his father knew nothing of me, let alone the enterprise in Paris,” she declared, looking into my eyes. “I apologize for my ignorance. I know it gives you no assistance, but that was Robert’s way. He told me he wanted to spare me the anxiety that full knowledge of his plans would cause.”
“Did your state of ignorance not give rise to anxiety nonetheless?”
“Yes, but Robert was as a stone wall in these matters.”
“I see. When your fiancé was overdue at the hotel in Paris, what did you do?”
“I waited a full day before returning to London, where I kept waiting.”
“At his rooms in Breton Mansions?”
“No, I hadn’t a key. I fear I must admit to staying at a hospital south of the river,” she said with some embarrassment. “I had spent some days there prior to our leaving for the Continent. Twice after my return, I wired the hotel in Paris for Robert but received no answer.”
“Was there no one in London you felt you could contact?”
“I know no one, Mr. Holmes, except you—and now, Dr. Watson.”
“Did you consider approaching Diarmund Stephenson?”
“No. I feared he might involve Robert’s father.”
“There was no one else at all?”
Irene Adler sighed. “Robert had mentioned on occasion that he had a solicitor of his own, independent of his father’s representatives, a man named Crabbe—Lucius Crabbe. I thought of approaching him but hesitated, again fearing that Robert’s father might be alerted. Finally, in desperation, I gathered up my courage to seek you as my only alternative.”
“After such a long time,” Holmes said. “Well, that exhausts my curiosity for the moment; let us consider the working day to be at an end. I believe Mrs. Hudson will have a full supper prepared soon, and we must, in our turn, prepare for it,” he declared as if we were to picnic.
I stared after my friend as he abruptly vanished into his private quarters. “Miss Adler,” I said quietly, “you must understand that he is—”
“I understand perfectly, Doctor,” she interjected, again taking my arm. “He is unique, matchless, nonpareil—the best at what he does, is he not?”
“Precisely.”
She smiled. “And Mr. Holmes is so because he seeks to do the best for all concerned. Now, as he has so correctly suggested, let us prepare for what will be, I am sure, a wonderful evening meal.”
Our supper was quiet and uneventful. Holmes led a conversation that completely ignored all mention of the case before us. Brushing aside my repeated requests for more information about his youthful attempts as a juggler, the detective nimbly guided us through topics as diverse as the nature of luminiferous aether, Hindoo philosophy, and the life cycle of the cicada. Afterward, Miss Adler retired at once to her room for the night, while I indulged in one last pipe of Arcadia, and Holmes occupied himself with pasting articles into yet another volume of his commonplace book.
“I am uncertain where to place this account of that art dealer’s murder in Paris, Watson.”
“You juggled for money, Holmes?” I asked.
My friend, still holding up a newspaper cutting, smiled discontentedly. “Yes, old fellow, but it was a short-liv
ed enterprise with no consequences to my current state.”
I raised my brows and merely continued to puff.
“It was in my college days,” sighed my friend, “if you must know. And it was a most trivial aspect of that experience. My old friend Trevor could corroborate its negligible importance, were he still alive.”
“No matter,” I finally said. “It merely seems odd that, having shared these walls with you for the better part of twenty years, I should never have heard you make mention of it.”
“Whatever the length of time, Watson, some minutiae is always loath to emerge from the shadows of the past. You, for example, have never volunteered to me information concerning your loss of a toe.”
I gave a start.
“This is how we began our day, I believe,” my friend continued with a smile. “Is it too late in the evening to recount my reasoning?”
“I rather think so,” I told him. “Now, you were asking for advice in filing, were you not?”
“Yes,” he replied, again holding the cutting aloft. “This piece about the murder of the art dealer in Paris. Where might I place it, do you think?”
“Allow me to suggest that ‘Murders, Continental’ be used,” I said.
“I long ago defined my files more precisely than that, Doctor.” He sighed. “‘Murders, Parisian’ and ‘Murders, Art’ are the choices available.”
“‘Murders, Art?’”
“It would begin a new category, which strikes me as an excellent step. And so ‘Murders, Art’ it is, and this article becomes its first entry.”
I put down my pipe. “Tell me, Holmes, did you ever believe that—”
“No, Watson,” said he. “I did not believe when I woke this morning that we would find ourselves housed under the same roof with Irene Adler.” He looked up from his work. “Nor, I must say, did I ever expect that you would forget to open your telegram from Finney.”
I looked quickly over to the chemistry table in the corner, where, after the excitement of the day, my message still lay undisturbed.
CHAPTER FOUR :
One Step Behind
My exhaustion from the events of that day must have been far greater than I appreciated at the time, for the following morning I woke much later than my usual custom. After bathing and dressing hurriedly, I came down to the sitting room, where I found Holmes in consultation with Shinwell Johnson.
