by J. R. Trtek
“What would you recommend from your own library, sir?” our guest asked Sherlock Holmes.
My friend widened his eyes, shifted his glance to me, and tipped his head as if I should be reading his mind. “The doctor knows.”
“Are you certain?” I asked. “I should think something else might—”
“If anyone under this roof might appreciate it other than me, it would be Miss Adler,” was all Holmes said, returning to his work.
“Very well.” I sighed then stepped to the shelves and pulled down a well-worn volume. “You might examine this. Some in this house consider it the most remarkable book ever penned. Others are not quite as certain of that judgment,” said I, reluctantly handing her the book.
“The Martyrdom of Man,” the woman read aloud. “Winwood Reade, I do not believe I have heard of him. Thank you,” she said, taking to a chair by the fire and turning the pages with slow deliberation. I stared at Holmes all the way back to my writing-desk, but he kept his head buried in a pile of clippings.
Very soon thereafter, our telephone rang. Holmes answered its call and, speaking in a low voice with his back turned to us, conversed for several minutes. At the conclusion of the interview, my friend set down the telephone and strode to the hearth, where he asked Miss Adler’s initial reaction to Mr. Reade’s book.
“Interesting is the word I would apply,” she said.
“I might suggest, Miss Adler, that you refrain from skipping any passage. One must start from the very beginning and read each succeeding paragraph. Although Reade’s conclusion is an awe-inspiring one, the effect cannot truly be appreciated if you do not make the entire journey continuously from start to finish.”
“Was that Shinwell Johnson who rang?” I asked.
“Yes, Watson, it was.”
“And did—”
“I shall recount his results in time, Doctor.”
I had turned back to my final letter of correspondence when Holmes, still standing, faced the woman and casually remarked, “Oh, if I may ask, Miss Adler, is there any communication you wish me to relate to Mr. Girthwood when he comes round again?”
The woman’s eyes opened wide, and as she closed the book in her lap, she regarded Holmes with an expression of surprise. “Mr. Girthwood, did you say? I don’t believe—”
“Jasper Girthwood,” responded the detective. “The man who has twice left me his card. Jasper Girthwood, whom I must assume, at this point, is the man you and your fiancé have tried to elude. The time is ripe, is it not, to spread out everything upon the table? Keep in mind, Miss Adler, that though in the employ of the cabinet minister, I have taken it upon myself to act on an informal plane to protect your own interests. My intentions in that regard are thoroughly sincere. If I am to protect you in these waters, however, I must know how deep the bottom is.”
Irene Adler pressed her palm against the book’s cover and slowly caressed its surface. “Yes,” she said at last. “You must. Of course you must.”
Holmes motioned me to join them, but I had already risen from my writing-desk. Striding across our sitting room, I took to the basket-chair, while my friend now leaned upon the mantelpiece. “Your darker moments in the past twenty-four hours have been inspired by the appearance of Mr. Girthwood in the wings,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You must have realized I would soon connect the two of you. Why did you not say anything yesterday about him? You knew he had called.”
Irene Adler bowed her head before the fire. “I did not know what to do.”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “I must say that I find it difficult to believe you are ever at a loss as to what to do, madam.”
“You may believe or not believe as you choose, Mr. Holmes!” The woman turned, with an expression of pure anger, to my friend. Wrinkles seized up around her narrowed grey eyes, which then brimmed with tears. “The only flawed belief, perhaps, was mine in thinking I could obtain understanding and help from the likes of you!”
The pair of them glared at each other for what seemed like minutes, each unflinching. “Miss Adler,” I quietly implored at last. “And, Holmes, really! Miss Adler, you must forgive this—”
“Please do not speak of forgiving,” Holmes told me quietly. Then, to our guest, he said, “Let us, however, if we can, mention forgetting. Watson knows well how my personal imp runs uncontrolled at times. Often we are influenced not so much by what we know is true but rather by what we think is possible. Given my inability to draw definitive conclusions at this time with respect to your fiancé, I fear I have fallen prey to the latter. If you will—if you can, Miss Adler—please forget my remark.”
“You are so good at apologies that are not apologies,” she said. “You must be well practiced.”
Holmes merely shrugged his shoulders.
“I accept your terms nonetheless,” she replied at last. “And in contrast,” she added, turning toward me, “let me acknowledge and express my appreciation for your genuine concern and compassion, Doctor. I know I shall always be able to rely upon your goodwill, come what may.” Then, to Holmes, she said tersely, “Your fresh start begins now, sir. Do not waste it.”
“I would, of course, appreciate your telling me what you know of Jasper Girthwood,” he replied. “Advise me, if you will, on how I must deal with him in representing your interests.”
“I have met Mr. Girthwood some few times,” said our guest, seeming to choose her words most carefully. “I know him to be an American businessman; what business I do not know—save that whatever its nature, it must be quite illegal.”
Holmes reached for his cherrywood pipe and toyed with it. “Are you aware of the existence of criminal organizations, Miss Adler?”
“International societies, you mean?”
“Yes. My reference, Watson”—he turned toward me suddenly—“is to the new crime, of which Professor Moriarty was a forerunner: vast monoliths of evil that seek to engulf the world we know. Tell me, Miss Adler, have you gained any impression of whether Girthwood acts alone or on behalf of others and, if the latter, whether they might be members of such organizations?”
“I cannot say, except to note that he was always most sure of himself and seemed to act solely on behalf of his own personal interests rather than those of others.”
“Hum, tell me, in exactly what circumstances have you dealt with him?”
“He first approached me claiming to have been an associate of my late husband. Godfrey had never spoken of the man, nor alluded to any individual who might have been him, and I could tell Mr. Girthwood nothing.”
“Did his accosting you have any purpose beyond that of mere introduction?”
“Yes. He spoke of some financial dealing that had transpired in the past between himself and Godfrey,” said the woman, staring into the fire. “It was a matter that, according to him, ended with Godfrey taking an unfair portion of the profit. I, of course, could be of no use in the matter. Godfrey confided in me then no more than Robert has these past weeks. At the time of my initial response, Mr. Girthwood appeared to accept my claims and let the affair drop.”
Holmes merely nodded, prompting the woman to continue her story.
“That was years ago in America. Then we met again, this time when Robert introduced him to me aboard the ship bringing us all to England.”
“Girthwood knew your fiancé as well?” asked Holmes.
“They had become acquainted during the voyage, it seemed. I’ve no doubt that Mr. Girthwood intentionally ingratiated himself with Robert in order to better approach me again.”
“I see. Have you any knowledge as to Girthwood’s initial purpose in coming to England, other than to contact you again?”
“No, but I am certain of one thing, Mr. Holmes. His travelling on the same ship cannot have been mere coincidence.”
“An opinion we share,” said the detective. “Did you discuss this with your fiancé?”
“No, indeed—Girthwood acted as if we had never met before, and I p
retended the same. I, therefore, never alluded to my earlier meeting with him.”
“Why?” asked the detective.
Irene Adler looked at me pleadingly and then at Holmes. “Consider my position, if you can.” She, at last, set the book aside, clasped her hands, and then looked down at them. “I saw life with Robert as a new beginning of its own and Girthwood as an incidental reminder of my previous life with Godfrey. To put it simply, as you might wish but refrain from saying aloud, Mr. Holmes, I did not want my future husband to know all of my past life.”
“I would—”
“Robert was my new beginning,” the woman repeated, this time speaking more to me than to my friend. “I saw a last chance for true happiness and could not bear the thought of losing it. Can you understand?”
Silently, I nodded.
Holmes leaned even more heavily upon the mantel. “Very well. Your fiancé then did not know of your acquaintance with Mr. Girthwood. Are you aware of any subsequent entanglements between the two men?”
“Girthwood was involved in the scheme I told you of yesterday,” Miss Adler said. “My understanding was that—whatever the substance of the plan—Girthwood was, in fact, the one who proposed it to Robert.”
“That certainly casts a much-different light on this entire matter. I can only urge total honesty from you in the future, Miss Adler.”
“I know. Truly, I am sorry. You must comprehend my fear.”
“I have a complete comprehension of fear,” said Sherlock Holmes, “and an understanding of how to face it. Now, are you absolutely certain that you at no time gleaned any information at all concerning the substance of the plan to be executed in Paris?”
“I gained nothing from any of their discussions, Mr. Holmes. When I was in the company of both men, our talk was little more than forced conversation on the weather or places of interest about the town. It was later, when Robert and Girthwood were closeted together, that they formulated their scheme.”
“And your only knowledge of Girthwood has come from these two instances?” Holmes asked, walking back to the sofa to take a seat there. “Earlier, when he approached you with respect to your late husband’s estate and, more recently, in the company of your present fiancé?”
Miss Adler seemed to pause as if to think carefully then said, “Those are the only times I have talked at length with the man. On occasion I would see him on the street. Quite often, to tell the truth.”
“As if he were following you?”
“Yes,” said Irene Adler. “He did follow me.”
Holmes made a steeple with his fingers, rubbing the tips slowly together. “What opinions did you subsequently voice to your fiancé concerning Mr. Girthwood?”
“I told Robert that I did not care for the man’s company. After some time, I informed him that Mr. Girthwood was following me.”
“And what was your fiancé’s response?”
Miss Adler looked across the room toward the bow window and frowned. “Robert said my fears were absolutely groundless and asserted that Girthwood was actually protecting us. He said that I should feel more secure when that awful man was following me.”
“Did your fiancé ever discuss Girthwood’s personal history?”
Miss Adler shook her head. “Other than describing him as a financier, no.”
Holmes rested his head upon the sofa back, stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then asked, “I now return to my original question. When Mr. Girthwood calls again, as surely he must, what am I to say to him?”
“You ask my opinion?” our guest replied.
The detective looked at her and smiled wanly. “It is you whom I serve, Miss Adler, as I have tried to stress from the beginning. So, should I admit that you are a guest here at 221?”
“No.”
“Then I shall not. Might I tell him you were a guest at 221 but that you have left and I have no knowledge of your current whereabouts? Or should I refuse to admit to your very existence, asserting instead my belief that your remains are still buried under Alpine snow?”
Irene Adler gazed for the longest of times at my friend. “Would it be within your powers of persuasion to convince him I have already returned to America?”
“If the man is possessed of the dogged craftiness I currently assign him, then I rather doubt it,” said Holmes. “I took up this case only yesterday, and the weekly liner for New York does not sail until tomorrow. The timing is not right.”
“But surely you might convince him I passed through Baker Street last week?”
“He has already made inquiries at Breton Mansions.”
At the detective’s comment, Miss Adler’s complexion paled noticeably.
“I suspect he knows you have been in London during the current week,” Holmes said. “How, might I ask, would he come to connect you with 221?”
Irene Adler looked directly at my friend. “I could not resist telling Robert that you and I were acquainted. Your fame is such that I am certain that he in turn mentioned the fact to Mr. Girthwood.”
Holmes idly nodded. “In any case, the supposed trip back to America is not a plausible gambit.”
“Do you think Mr. Girthwood may have already found Robert himself?” the woman asked cautiously.
“I rather doubt it,” Holmes told her with a distracted air.
“You must be the one who finds Robert first.”
“If I may suggest,” Holmes went on, oblivious to Miss Adler’s fervent wish, “a policy of feigned ignorance is still our best choice. Let us assume Girthwood knows you have come here, as I think he must. We shall make it seem you arrived yesterday, presented your case, and left, destination unknown, after I rejected your plea for help.”
“And if he does not accept that story?” I asked.
“We shall see,” said my companion, smiling.
He was beginning to ask Miss Adler more questions concerning her recent trip to Paris when our telephone rang. Before I could even rise from my chair, Holmes was at the table.
“Halloa, this is Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “Yes, I do apologize for that inconvenience. No, I expect to be in for the rest of the day, in fact.”
I looked over at Miss Adler, who watched my friend intently, the fingers of her left hand gently caressing the throat of her blouse.
“Yes, but of course you understand that I never discuss any sensitive matter by telephone… If you wish, I have no objection. Of course… That time would suit, yes...Yes, I look forward to it, yes,” Holmes continued. He smiled at both Miss Adler and me. “I understand perfectly, yes…Thank you…Good-bye, Mr. Girthwood.”
Irene Adler’s fingers no longer stroked but rather gripped her blouse. “He is coming here again?”
“He said he would arrive at half-past four,” answered Holmes, looking at the clock. “That does not allow enough time to extract as much additional information from you at this sitting as I should prefer, Miss Adler, but it is more than enough for us to prepare 221 for his invasion. Watson, please go down to the ground floor and gather all of Miss Adler’s belongings which may be there. Ask Mrs. Hudson; she will know. Oh, and do warn her that supper may be postponed again. Employ the standard apologies, if you will, and instruct her to pretend our guest left yesterday. And you, Miss Adler, have you personal cards or stationery of any kind?”
“I have some few sheets of writing paper, if that is sufficient.”
“Good. There is a note, perhaps two, that I wish to dictate to you. Watson,” my friend said sharply. “Downstairs, if you please.”
I hurried down the stair and, utilizing Mrs. Hudson’s mental inventory, collected Miss Adler’s coat, hat, and umbrella from the vestibule and brought them back up to the sitting room.
“Put them all in the maid’s room for the moment,” Holmes said. Then, looking beyond me, he asked, “I assume the doctor may enter your room to do so?”
“Why, yes,” said the woman, who sat over my writing-desk with lavender-coloured papers in hand.
“T
hen upstairs with the lot, Watson,” ordered Holmes with a flick of his hand.
I performed my duty, laying the articles gently upon the bed, and after I had descended to the sitting room, I found Miss Adler completing a note as Holmes dictated it to her.
“—sorry that you must refuse my fervent plea,” Holmes was saying. “Either the years have changed your character or they have transformed my memory of it. Now I must go seek the help of another who is, I am confident, more understanding. Then please sign your name, Miss Adler, maintaining that same sense of anger of which I spoke earlier…Good, now fold it once there—Stop, excellent, now hand it me. Thank you,” said my friend. “Here should be about right,” he said, slipping it onto the mantelpiece, the jewelled snuff-box from the king of Bohemia holding it in place. “And the envelope, if you please,” he added, coming back to her to receive it. He then held it above the coals until it lit. The detective shook out the flames and set the smoking envelope upon the hearth.
“May I assist in any way?” I asked.
“If I were preparing the room for myself in place of Mr. Girthwood, I should look to hairs upon the antimacassars,” replied my friend. “Their present number might suggest a stay longer than several minutes. Hum. Gather up the antimacassars, if you will, old fellow; then take them out and shake each thoroughly.”
“Very well,” I said glumly. “Perhaps I should have the maid’s quarters instead,” I dryly suggested as I gathered the coverings.
“No, Watson,” said Holmes with a distracted air as he surveyed the room. “That will not be necessary, I think. Mr. Girthwood will not be going beyond the first floor.”
I descended the stair in a state of mild irritation, only to chance upon Mrs. Hudson, who seized the antimacassars from me after I explained Holmes’s request. Our landlady took the pieces to the back yard, where she took advantage of another short spell of dry weather to thoroughly beat them.
“I believe that is more than is necessary, Mrs. Hudson,” I said as I stood in the burgeoning shade of her plane tree, looking at the few daffodils that lined the stone walk. “It is only stray hairs that worry him.”
