by J. R. Trtek
Miss Adler smiled faintly. “I sensed he did not wish me to see him in another guise,” she said, peering down over the railing. “Strange that he should feel so. I saw him in one such pose once. Well, thank you, Doctor,” the woman said as she entered the maid’s quarters.
“It was twice,” I said, before she closed the door.
Miss Adler gave me a questioning look.
“You saw him twice in disguise.”
“As the clergyman,” she said haltingly. “As the clergyman and…?”
“He was the horse groom at your wedding, the unemployed groom who acted as witness to the ceremony itself.”
Irene Adler stared at me as if seeking to reshape my features. Then a glint of understanding swept across her face, and she burst into uninhibited laughter, of a kind that, I confess, I found somewhat unbecoming.
“Thank you,” she told me at last in an exhausted voice. “I did not know, you see. I did not know,” she repeated. “It has given me some small joy,” the woman said before closing her door. Muffled laughter followed me a short way down the stair and then was gone as I reached the first floor and the sitting room entrance. There I paused, thinking her confession of ignorance odd, for some reason I did not yet grasp. I then heard Holmes call from the sitting room, and I entered.
“Well?” said the detective, standing before me, completely transformed in appearance.
“The navvy4,” I said.
“Yes, Watson. It been awhile since he come out, ain’t it?” my friend replied, assuming his new character.
Just as quickly, he again became Holmes. “I shall return to the vicinity of Solicitor Crabbe’s,” said he, adjusting the leather straps round his trouser legs, “then try an engagement at Breton Mansions. It may be a forlorn hope, but perhaps in this guise, I shall be able to pick up some few scraps.”
“I shall hope for the best.”
“I fear we shall need it,” said my friend. “Watson, in addition to attending to our guest, I require you here should Johnson have anything to report. You will await the telephone?”
“Of course. Have you other instructions?”
“No,” Holmes answered while knotting his red polka-dot kerchief. “If that fellow Girthwood calls again, receive him. I rather fancy the thought of two meals on our plate at once. I’ll see me self out now, sor,” he said in the person of the workman as he stuck his thumbs in his heavy leather belt and left with a shuffling gait.
Alone in the sitting room of 221B, I moved the basket-chair nearer the bow window and took up a recently purchased volume of sea stories. The book resting in my lap, I glanced across the room at the short shelf of my own work, which Holmes grudgingly allowed to remain on display. I watched their embossed spines glitter in the now rapidly varying sunlight, then turned to the book immediately before me for comfort, and in its pages, I lost all track of time until I heard the telephone.
It was Shinwell Johnson, who informed me that he would come round later in the afternoon. I told the agent of Holmes’s absence and of my uncertainty about the time of his return, whereupon Johnson agreed to ring up again before coming to 221.
It was then, as I stood in the middle of our sitting room, debating the relative merits of my book versus those of my Beaune and Arcadia combined, that I heard another chime, this time the house bell.
I stepped to the bow window, but gazing through the fogged pane, I could see nothing beyond the usual street bustle. Then the house door closed, and I observed, lumbering away amid the crowd, the wide backside of a man cloaked in an Astrakhan coat. This huge, bear-like apparition vanished into the masses, and I turned as I heard the tread of Mrs. Hudson upon the stair.
“It was that Girthwood individual again,” said the landlady, offering me another of his cards upon a tray. I took it from her. “I told him you were here, but he refused to talk to anyone, save Mr. Holmes himself.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Mr. Holmes asked that I make certain Miss Adler is—oh,” she said, turning round. “Here’s the dear one herself. Might I get anything for you, Miss?”
Irene Adler stood in the entrance to our sitting room, to my eye, looking calm if apprehensive. “I feel I want for nothing,” she said.
“Might I prepare a small midday dinner for the two of you?” suggested Mrs. Hudson.
Miss Adler and I looked at each other, and in a manner I found most pleasing, we silently agreed between ourselves to accept the offer. “It would be welcome,” I said aloud, and Mrs. Hudson hobbled past our guest and down the stair to ready the meal.
“Might we talk?” asked Irene Adler, taking a hesitant step toward the middle of the sitting room. “I feel all this rest has done me well, but I must confess to a degree of boredom.”
“I have heard that complaint much in recent days,” I replied, relating Holmes’s dissatisfaction with his own professional idleness. The information amused her somewhat, and I invited her to join me at the table to await Mrs. Hudson’s preparations.
“The telephone rang,” Miss Adler abruptly said.
“It was Shinwell Johnson,” I replied, finally setting down Mr. Girthwood’s personal card. “He is an operative of the agency; Holmes referred to him at least once yesterday, if you recall.”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Holmes leads a vast organization these days then?”
“Oh, it is hardly vast, though its scope is far larger now than it was in the beginning, when the organization was comprised of just Holmes.”
“And you.”
“Yes, I enlisted early, I suppose. And in those days, there were also the Irregulars.”
“Irregulars?”
“A group of small boys employed by Holmes to act as look-outs and information gatherers.” I smiled at the memory. “More than once, however, they came close to danger, and Holmes decided it was the better course to not put the lads at risk.”
“And so what did this agent, Mr. Johnson, convey? News of Robert?”
“I do not know what information he has gleaned. Holmes wished to hear directly from Johnson himself, and as our friend was absent, I requested Johnson ring back later.”
“Of course. And that card you set upon the table. Was that from a caller? For the house bell rang, did it not?”
“Yes, it was that Mr. Girthwood, who came by yesterday. He apparently has some matter, urgent in his own eyes, for investigation, but I can assure you that Sherlock Holmes is intent on giving his full energies to solving your problem before all others.”
“The card that man left yesterday had a message on the back. Is this one similarly marked?”
“Truth to tell, I had not noticed,” I replied, reaching for the card. “Jasper Girthwood,” I read aloud. Turning over the card, I then continued. “‘Must talk on a matter of import to us both, G.’ He assumes some intimacy, I think, signing in that style. I cannot recall having met the fellow before.”
“Might I see it?” asked Irene Adler.
Handing her the card as Mrs. Hudson entered with our meal, I rose to assist the landlady in setting the table but was herded back to my seat by a person intent upon providing through her own efforts alone.
“Did you see this Mr. Girthwood yourself?” Miss Adler asked as Mrs. Hudson left and we began eating. “Did you talk to him?”
“I caught a glimpse of him,” I remarked while offering her the plate of toast. “A rather wide fellow, from what I could see. He was walking away down Baker Street, and all that was visible to me was a great Astrakhan with a bowler perched atop it.”
Miss Adler smiled nervously and accepted a piece of toast. “But you did not speak to him?”
“No, I did not. Mrs. Hudson is the only one from the household who’s had that pleasure. Chutney?”
“Yes, if you please. Doctor, what do you recall of Afghanistan?” the woman asked, steering our conversation abruptly into a new direction. I responded with reticence at first, hardly believing my guest could find much interest in an old army doctor’s remin
isces, but in the end, I could not resist her entreaties, and soon I was vigorously recounting my experiences in the East. When Mrs. Hudson finally reappeared to collect our culinary detritus, I was regaling my companion with memories in a manner that brought back my younger days spent caressing a glass at the Criterion.
“You are a font of wonderful stories,” Miss Adler said. “Your life has evidently been rich.”
“I do not know that I can judge any life, let alone my own,” I responded. “Even now,” I continued—in a tone I now recognize as self-pitying—“in the twilight of my time, I feel incapable of such an assessment.”
“You men shrink at old age, yet seem so ready to consign yourselves to it,” she told me. “I say no twilight for you, Doctor; it is still midday. But, Mrs. Hudson, allow me to assist you,” the woman said, standing up and reaching for my plate. As I glanced at her own, I noticed Miss Adler had idly scrawled some symbol in the chutney.
“No, Miss,” begged the landlady. “Allow me.”
“No, I insist.”
“It is unseemly,” argued Mrs. Hudson. “I cannot allow you to—”
“Allow it this once,” pleaded Miss Adler. “I cannot pay you rent at present—”
“Whoever spoke of rent? Did you speak of rent, Dr. Watson, with the quarter day coming in just a week? Shame!”
“He did not say a word. Still, I cannot pay you rent, no matter who suggests it, and so you must allow me this one contribution of my labour.”
“But you are Mr. Holmes’s guest! It is unheard of!”
“You must allow a guest her whims,” insisted Miss Adler, who set my plate upon hers, gathered up other remains from the table, and waited for Mrs. Hudson to take the rest. “Dr. Watson, with your permission, I should like to accompany Mrs. Hudson to assist her in her duties.”
“Why, of course, I suppose,” I said, looking at the older woman for guidance in the face of Miss Adler’s impropriety.
“Well, thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson at last. “It is still rather shocking, but if you insist, I will allow it this once. Doctor?”
“Of course, of course. I have my reading to finish. Is there perhaps anything I might do?” I then asked. “If mores are to shift in such a cataclysmic fashion, perhaps I should participate in the revolution as well.”
“I think it’s safest if you just read,” Mrs. Hudson told me.
“Yes, to your books, Doctor,” Miss Adler lightly commanded me. “We two will do our duties and perhaps have a wonderful chat as well, eh, Mrs. Hudson?”
The older woman laughed, and then both descended the stair, dinnerware in hand. Feeling the fullness of my meal, I slowly made my way once more to the chair in which I had left my volume of sea stories, and, sitting down, I rubbed my fingers over the fresh spine of the book and recalled the personal satisfaction I had felt on first exercising that option upon my own works.
I cast a sleepy smile out the window then sat up with a bit of a start as I suddenly realized what had gnawed at the edges of my mind earlier. Irene Adler had not been aware of Holmes’s presence at her wedding until I had told her. In other words, I now understood, as drowsiness enveloped me again, that despite her praise the previous day for my stories, she had certainly not read the one tale of mine in which she herself had played a significant role.
“Well,” I believe I uttered in mild disappointment as I lay the unopened book in my lap and promptly fell asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE :
Anxiety in the Air
It was late that afternoon when Sherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street. I had long since awakened from my unplanned nap and was in the midst of answering correspondence, an activity meant to take my mind away from pondering the likelihood that Irene Adler had, no doubt, found me asleep upon returning from assisting Mrs. Hudson. Our guest, I assumed, had once more taken to her quarters on the second floor.
“You were out for some time,” I said, quickly putting aside an unfinished letter. “What were the results of your excursion?”
“Viewed in relation to the objective of finding Robert Hope Maldon, the harvest might seem meagre,” my friend replied as he reached for his Persian slipper of shag. “There is, however, an intriguing morsel I shall relate to you in a moment.” He lit his clay pipe and loosened his kerchief. “I say, has there been any word from Shinwell Johnson?”
“He rang earlier this afternoon and promised to do so again. I offered to relay any news, but he indicated that you wanted to hear his report directly.”
“Yes. Thank you, old fellow. It is no reflection on yourself, as you understand.”
“Of course,” I said. “Truly, Holmes, there is no need to even allude to a justification.”
“Quite so. Forgive me, Watson.” Still in the guise of the navvy, he leaned against the mantelpiece, his eyes distant. “Having you back in these digs, even on a temporary basis, has rewound my mental clock, old fellow. At times I seem to act as if we were both twenty years younger and still new to one another. Well, is there any other Baker Street news of significance?”
“Mr. Jasper Girthwood called again,” I added. “He left another card, with yet another message.”
“Really,” Homes responded, striding to the table as I pointed to it. “Hum. Once again he claims an urgent matter, I see, but this time one of interest to the both of us?”
The detective set the card back upon the table then took to the sofa. “There is only one matter of interest to me at the moment,” he continued, “and that is the Hope Maldon affair. Tell me, what has been the status of our guest?”
“I take her to be in her room. But…ah…I now wish to relate a morsel of my own, before hearing the one that you promised.”
Holmes stopped his action of stretching out upon the sofa. “You have been granted an insight into Miss Adler?”
“I believe so.”
“Pray, Watson,” my friend said quietly, while eyeing the closed sitting room door. “Relate it to me now, if you will.”
“We dined earlier,” I began. “And then she assisted Mrs. Hudson in clearing the table.”
“Indeed.” Holmes was now fully draped along the full length of our sofa. “And Mrs. Hudson permitted such a thing? That is a scandal in Baker Street, indeed.”
“She truly had no choice. Our guest was most insistent.”
“Tell me,” said Holmes, setting aside his unfinished pipe and covering his eyes with one hand. “Was this prior to or following Jasper Girthwood’s call?”
“Following,” I said. “Our meal arrived after he—
“Did you yourself speak to him?”
“No, only Mrs. Hudson again, though I did catch sight of the man.”
“After which Miss Adler exhibited a strong desire to assist our landlady.”
“Yes, I believe she meant to probe Mrs. Hudson’s reaction to him in order to obtain her own insights into the man.”
“Excellent, Watson, though I think Miss Adler’s concern is directed at the man’s strategy rather than his character, with which I suspect she is already familiar. I shall question Mrs. Hudson later. Until I instruct otherwise, Watson, breathe not a word of this to Miss Adler.” Holmes uncovered his eyes but left them closed. “Now then, Doctor, there is more?”
“A corroborative item—I observed Miss Adler’s plate at the conclusion of our meal, and I believe she idly, without thinking, made what appeared to be a letter J in the remains of her chutney.”
Holmes opened his eyes and smiled. “You are devilishly observant, Watson,” he said with a wry tone. “J for Jasper Girthwood. Note that she wrote the initial of his given name. Yes, it tends to confirm the presumption of familiarity.”
“After her voluntary chores were completed,” I continued—omitting mention of my nap—“Miss Adler evidently retired to her room, where she has been these past two hours.”
“Hum,” muttered the detective, staring at the ceiling. “You said you chanced to observe Girthwood—from the bow window, I take it? Describe t
he man, please.”
I related to Holmes the massive vision I had beheld in Baker Street. Upon hearing my description, Holmes’s face widened into a sly smile. “Well, the first few shapes are taking form beneath the net, Watson.”
“What? How so?”
“My journey in the guise of the workman yielded nothing as to the actual whereabouts of young Hope Maldon, but I did discover that in recent days, inquiries have been made about Breton Mansions, concerning both him and a woman who must be our Miss Adler, in each case by a man who matches your description of Jasper Girthwood.”
“Most interesting.”
Holmes smiled again. “Ah, but as I replied to Hopkins yesterday, there is something even more interesting.”
“And that is...?”
“That he should call here to ask for me,” was my friend’s response, and then he rose to his feet and walked into his private room to change clothes. Shortly, he emerged as Sherlock Holmes and took to his commonplace book while awaiting Shinwell Johnson’s message. I, meanwhile, had resumed work on my remaining correspondence.
Within the hour, Irene Adler came down again. Her manner was more subdued than it had been during our meal and her subsequent helping with chores, yet not as sullen as it had been the afternoon before. Holmes acknowledged her presence with a nod and then returned to his commonplace book. I rose and offered her a chair near myself and whatever conversation I might provide.
“You are well rested, Doctor?” she asked with a coy smile.
“Uh, yes,” I replied, glancing at Holmes and then back at her. “I am refreshed.”
“Good.” The woman stared about the sitting room. “On a day such as this, I incline toward reading as refreshment for myself.”
“The library here is a large if disorganized, one,” I quietly said by way of apology.
“It may appear disorganized to the casual observer,” Holmes said with mock disapproval. Looking up from his commonplace book with a slight squint, he smiled. “My eyesight may be deteriorating, Watson, but my hearing is as sharp as ever. Miss Adler, I do admit that there may be little here to satisfy the taste of the majority of the reading public. If you find nothing, perhaps I can go to our news-agent. There is also a bookseller down the street.”
