by J. R. Trtek
“It was Robert who called,” Miss Adler asserted. “It was he to whom Mrs. Hudson spoke.”
“Perhaps,” replied my friend.
“Who else would suspect that I am here?” said Miss Adler. “Of course it was he! I do so wish I had been here to speak with him.”
“I shall be most gratified to see him in the flesh,” Holmes countered as he surveyed his day’s mail, which Mrs. Hudson had left upon a table. “Nothing of consequence,” he remarked, rising to set the small collection of letters behind the jewel-encrusted snuffbox. Idly, the detective rubbed the wound in the mantel caused by his jack-knife, which, for so many years, he had used to fix his unanswered correspondence in place above the fire.
“Do you not believe Mr. Girthwood seeks Robert also?” Irene Adler asked suddenly. “Despite your earlier comment to me, I—”
“Mr. Girthwood desires the black bird above all else,” answered Holmes in a distracted manner. “However, perhaps your fiancé has the bird, in which case Girthwood would see him as a means to an end.”
“Robert told me to wait,” said Miss Adler. “That, Mr. Holmes, is what I shall do.” With that remark, Irene Adler asked to take leave of us and once more seek quiet solitude above. Holmes waved his hand in a gesture of preoccupied indifference as I escorted our guest as far as the sitting room door.
“Take care of your friend,” she whispered to me. “He frets much. Somehow, I know the man on the telephone was Robert, and that knowledge has calmed me. Now I know all will come right.”
“Of course,” I said, supporting her optimism while privately questioning its foundation. She closed the door behind her, and I turned to find Holmes digging his Persian slipper out of the coal scuttle.
“I do not sense these waters are necessarily deep, Watson,” my friend said with irritation as he withdrew shag from the slipper and pushed it into his pipe. “And yet, why do I feel as if I were drowning?” With apparent impatience, he tossed the slipper aside.
“But surely all goes as you wish, does it not?” I consoled him. “You sit, as always, at the centre of your web, pulling the strands. Will not Robert Hope Maldon come to us and perhaps bring with him the statue?”
“I fear, Watson, that I am not so much the spider as the sloth,” my friend said loudly. “Please recall that we were employed originally by Lord Monsbury, who was concerned with corporate shares rather than statues. And consider, old fellow, that most of our time has been spent here at Baker Street, passively awaiting events, rather than actively pursuing matters in the field, my own boasting to Mr. Girthwood notwithstanding.”
“Your assessment is too harsh,” I offered.
“Pshaw,” said Holmes in a loud voice. “In my old age, I do not grasp the bull by the horns as I once did. Each day I become more the image of Mycroft, engaging only that which comes to me in my armchair.”
“I doubt you could ever become your brother’s twin,” I replied. “But, surely, there are aspects of the case that make you take heart?”
“I do not know the whereabouts of young Hope Maldon,” said Holmes, again in a sharp tone. “Instead, I must have him come to me. I seek shares. Instead, I am bothered with a bird statue of supposedly great value to some but of no interest to my client. I crossed paths with Mr. Girthwood in order to gain some advantage. Instead, I learned next to nothing from him.”
Dejectedly, he took to his armchair and, at last, lit his pipe.
I turned suddenly upon hearing a creak on the stair outside our room.
Holmes held up one hand and smiled, extinguishing and then discarding his vesta. “It is nothing,” he said softly.
“Eavesdropping?” I whispered.
My friend nodded.
“And your comments?” I said quietly as I took to the basket-chair next to him.
“They were misleading in attitude, though not entirely in content. I do believe we have been far too bound to 221 here, but then, we labour under the burden of having Miss Adler’s security to consider. And somewhere in these shallow waters,” he added. “There may, indeed, be deep pools.”
“And so you do not despair?”
“Oh, certainly not. I adhere faithfully to my philosophy.”
“Which is...?”
“Formulate a hypothesis,” said Sherlock Holmes. “And then question it.”
At that moment, our telephone rang.
“Watson, please answer, if you will. Should it be from the house of Lord Monsbury, politely inform them I am out and that we are getting very close to a resolution of the case. For all others, should I be wanted, I am in.”
It was, in fact, Stanley Hopkins. I handed the telephone to Holmes, who spent several minutes recounting for the inspector our progress in the most general terms, still excluding any mention of Irene Adler and failing to include Jasper Girthwood by name.
“Had Hopkins anything of interest?” I inquired when the conversation had ended.
“I am not certain which of us was less educated by the other. The Yard has latched onto nothing new in the Hope Maldon affair, though, of course, I should have been surprised if they had.”
“The cabinet minister, after all, asked them to refrain from investigation and defer to you.”
“Just so.”
Our telephone rang again.
“Same instructions, if you will, Watson.”
This time I found myself speaking to Diarmund Stephenson, whose voice gave way to that of Lord Monsbury himself. Obeying Holmes’s request, I informed the earl that the detective was out in pursuit of the old man’s son and that we held high hopes for success.
“Tell your employer I want to speak to him!” demanded Lord Monsbury. “This wait is unendurable! Good day, I tell you.”
With that, my conversation with the earl ended. I reported its meagre substance to Holmes, who put down his pipe. “I suppose that I must go round in person to inform Monsbury of our progress, though I expect he will not use that particular word to describe it. I shall ring up his man, Stephenson, within the hour to arrange it.”
Moments later, for the third time within a brief span, the telephone sounded. The caller this time was a man unknown to me, to whom the exchange had connected the wrong household by mistake.
“You know, Watson,” said Holmes with a sigh. “I believe I can now understand Solicitor Crabbe’s antagonism toward that device.”
CHAPTER NINE :
Unexpected Arrivals
Holmes rang up Diarmund Stephenson, both to arrange an audience with Lord Monsbury and to acknowledge that I had passed on the information the young man had given me. My friend then departed for the interview at Lennox Square, and it was perhaps an hour later that I finally heard Irene Adler’s tread on the upper stair. Setting down my volume of sea stories, I prepared to greet her.
“May I enter?” the woman asked through the open sitting room doorway.
“But of course,” I said, rising quickly. She elected to sit in the basket-chair and, once there, emitted an enormous yawn.
“I fear I slept,” said she, “and suffered continual dreams of bells ringing.”
“Perhaps it was the telephone,” I said in jest.
The woman gripped the rests of her chair. “Did Robert call again?”
“I fear not,” I responded, now regretting my attempt at humour.
“Who rang then?”
“Scotland Yard and Lord Monsbury’s household.”
Miss Adler slowly nodded, remaining silent for some time. At length she said, “I know I shall see Robert soon.”
“I fervently believe that also.”
“Doctor, how stands this matter in the mind of Mr. Holmes? Is he close to a solution?”
“I do not know,” I told her, keeping in mind my friend’s earlier performance for her when she had silently stood on the other side of our closed sitting room door. “I fear, Miss Adler, that this may be one of those rare occasions when Sherlock Holmes is uncertain of finding a solution, because he cannot define the problem.
But Holmes is not his best objective judge,” I quickly added to forestall any distress on her part. “I have seen him wrest victory from situations far darker than this one appears to be at present. Then, too,” I continued. “He does not always share his closest thoughts with me during the case itself. The man usually knows more than he lets on.”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly brightening. “He does, does he not?”
Wishing to take the woman’s mind off her troubles, I attempted conversation concerning America, especially the nature of trout fishing on that continent, a subject about which she predictably knew nothing. This led, in a brief span of time, to her becoming the listener while I expounded on the broad category of genus Salmo. Realizing, perhaps too late, that I was treading on her graciousness, I apologized for my long-winded nature and commented upon the lateness of the hour and the absence of Holmes.
“I should think that not unusual, Doctor.”
“In the early days, Miss Adler, it was, if anything, the usual custom. Now, in his later years, as he terms them, he has adopted somewhat more bourgeois hours, if only somewhat less Bohemian habits.”
“And yourself?” she said. “Have you never considered domesticity? I mean not to flatter or seem forward, but surely more than one pair of eyes has flashed your way?”
“I am several years widowed,” I told her directly. “Please, it does not signify,” I added quickly, before any apology could leave her lips. “But, I am affianced again, you see.”
“I am so happy for you, Doctor. I shall be eager to meet your future wife. Will she soon call here? Might we call upon her?”
“I fear she is in Plymouth,” I answered. “She has had the need to attend to family matters there often these past months. I do not expect her back in London before the middle of next month.”
“I see.” The woman looked round our sitting room and asked, “Was it here that a significant portion of the courting occurred? This bastion is so formidably male, I must say.”
“My residence and practice in Queen Anne Street is perhaps more friendly to both genders,” said I. “When my fiancée has been required in the west, however, I have stayed here in Baker Street.”
“As a cushion against loneliness?”
“Yes,” I said after a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I suppose that is one reason.” I looked round the room, taking in the hearth, the windows, and the familiar pattern of the wallpaper encircling us. My portrait of Henry Ward Beecher, now hanging framed in Queen Anne Street, had been supplanted by some ghoulish indigo-and-blue depiction of a beggar, and where my picture of General Gordon had reigned, Holmes had placed what was to me an incomprehensible painting of a mountain by some Frenchman of note. Still, sitting there in the fading afternoon, hoping that winter’s final frost had come and gone, I could not be certain I did not sense the ghosts of Jefferson Hope, Jonathan Small, and others, including my own dear Mary.
“Oh, Dr. Watson,” I heard Miss Adler say. “I have not caused you sadness by my remarks, have I?”
I looked over at her perfect face surrounded by a halo of auburn and smiled. “Of course not,” I insisted. “If Holmes is entering what he terms his later years, then I must have passed the same threshold some time ago. No, Miss Adler, an old man was allowing what is left of his mind to wander. I believe I have—”
At that moment, the house door opened and closed.
“He has returned,” said Irene Adler.
We turned to face the sitting room door and awaited the detective, who came up the stair with a steady pace.
“I believe I have forestalled Lord Monsbury’s temper for yet another day or two,” my friend said after returning our greetings. Looking in the mirror, he stared at his teeth and straightened his collar. “The man is unrealistic in his demands. Mark this, Watson—he shall never attain his wish to be premier. The members of his party may, most of them, be mad but surely not that mad.”
“You were kept by him for some time.”
“If you seek to have me assume all the responsibility again in the eyes of Mrs. Hudson, so be it, Watson. But, yes, you may privately blame the earl, as well as two injured horses, which brought traffic in New Bond Street to a complete halt. Poor creatures,” he said, warming himself by the fire. “Surely these new motors we see now will put an end to their exploitation.”
“And our sense of hearing as well?” I offered.
“Is aural discomfort comparable to the suffering of thousands of animal souls?” my friend said wistfully. “And do not forget the burden placed upon noses and shoes. But I am prepared to go down and accept my scolding from Mrs. Hudson,” he continued, his mood now entirely shifted toward the jovial. “I shall see what sort of meal I can salvage for us.” With that, Holmes strode toward the sitting room door then paused and turned to face our guest. “Oh, Miss Adler,” he said with a beatific smile. “Are you much in the habit of dangling colourful cloth for the public benefit?”
“What?” said the woman.
“You have a bright blue kerchief hanging in your window upstairs,” the detective said. “Is it for the pleasure of the pigeons that flock upon the roofs of Baker Street? Or, perhaps, it is meant to comfort the starlings that we now occasionally see roosting in buildings?”
The woman stiffened in her chair. “It is for my memory of Robert,” she said. “It is one he gave to me.”
“I see,” Holmes replied.
“And do you take the observation of my window as one of your principal obligations?”
“I did not observe it directly,” my friend replied. “It was noticed by one of my men guarding 221. He passed word of it to me, which is what prompted my question. I have sent the agents home, Watson,” he added. “With both of us here, I believe the house is secure for the night.” With that remark, Holmes then turned and descended the stair.
“I do not have his trust,” she said. “I suppose, under the circumstances, I cannot.”
“It is his calling,” I quietly stammered. “To be a sceptic, that is.”
“That is true.” Miss Adler leaned back and covered her eyes with the back of one hand. “I, meanwhile, must remain certain that this will all pass in time.”
For the present, time had brought first the return of Sherlock Holmes and then the arrival of our evening meal, which was again seasoned with hearty conversation. Holmes recounted for Miss Adler the details of several cases long past, from the adventure of the unsalaried clerk to the mystery of the blind man’s strabismus. At length, he took the occasion to once more cast friendly aspersions upon my literary efforts, suggesting, by what I must admit were devastating parodies, how I would have presented particulars of the affairs just mentioned. As riposte, I attempted to goad Holmes with dismissive remarks concerning Tibetan theology, but my friend merely declared he would rather debate the issue in any life other than this one.
When our meal was finished and Mrs. Hudson had cleared the table, we three settled into our now-familiar stations round the hearth—Miss Adler claiming the sofa, Holmes in his armchair, and I filling the basket-chair.
“Have you no questions concerning the progress of the present case?” Holmes asked at last of Irene Adler.
The woman looked him squarely in the eye. “I am certain that when you wish to share your answers with me, you will do so,” she said.
Holmes glanced about as if for one of his pipes but, finding none within reach, clasped his hands together instead. “I have no answers,” he said. “Perhaps some will come to me in time.”
“Perhaps,” the woman repeated.
Holmes nodded and then excused himself to once more find interest in his commonplace books. Miss Adler immediately rose and bade us a good-night. “Doctor, sleep well. Meanwhile, I will retire to my hopes,” she said, turning to Holmes, “and my kerchiefs.”
“I wish you a good night,” said he, not looking up from his pages.
The woman left, closing the sitting room door behind her, and it was with some irritation that I returned
to reading, finishing my book perhaps half an hour later. My friend had not stirred during the entirety of that time.
“Holmes,” I said at last, “could you not show Miss Adler a bit more courtesy and respect?”
The detective looked up. “What? Why, I show her enormous courtesy and respect at every moment.”
“But your obvious lack of trust—”
“Is an obvious show of respect, Watson. Have I not been quoted by you—in print, for the entire world to read—that I believe she surpasses all of her sex in craft and intelligence?”
“Holmes, she is still a woman!”
“You mean, Doctor, that she is only a woman, which is to say that she should be treated as a ward—which, I should say, is the complete reverse of respect.”
“And baiting a person is a form of courtesy?” I countered.
Holmes took his head in his hands. “Oh, for a world without the baggage of social camouflage.” He sighed. “Watson, believe that it is no reflection upon our association, which I treasure, when I say that I long to cohabit with a species possessing more than four limbs.”
“You refer, perhaps, to those bees you’ve waxed on about these past many years?”
“Yes,” he said wistfully. “And well put, by the way.”
“Yet they are socially rigid in the extreme, are they not?”
“That is true.”
“Then do you not contradict yourself when—”
I was stopped in the middle of my sentence by a piercing scream. I flew from my chair but, even so, found myself lagging Holmes as we ran up the stair.
“See to Miss Adler’s room!” cried my friend as he rushed past her door. “Then follow me to the top!” he added as he ascended farther, toward the lumber room door.
I flung open the door to the maid’s quarters and found the room orderly, with Miss Adler’s possessions arranged neatly but the woman herself gone. Noting that the window appeared sealed, I ran up the stair to join Holmes. Bolting through the lumber room doorway, I saw, in the gloom, the bay window, open and framed by two figures. One was that of Miss Adler, who lay slumped at the windowsill, sobbing. Above and opposite her, his hand resting upon the frame, stood Holmes, gazing down into the night.
