by Amy Thomas
After a few moments, I heard the hum of a boiling kettle, and Mrs Hudson soon emerged, carrying a teapot that looked to me like it had come from somewhere in the Far East. It was made of deep brown porcelain, accented with golden designs of flowers and birds with broad wings. I stared at it in fascination, wondering why she would be in possession of such a thing.
“That was a gift from my Frederick,” she said wistfully. “He was in Kyoto, Japan, when Admiral Stirling signed the first friendship treaty. He was part of all the diplomatic missions to Japan after that - until he died. He always said Mycroft - Mr Holmes’s brother, you understand - was the cleverest man in England. He knew him through his work in the Foreign Service. I don’t think anyone could be cleverer than our Mr Holmes, though I’ve nothing against his brother. He’s the one who helped get the money from Frederick’s estate handled quickly so that I could purchase these flats.”
This was the most I had ever heard her say, and I was grateful for the distraction from the sadness of the evening. “Thank you for your kindness during my stay in London,” I said simply, taking a sip of the tea, savouring the bitterness of the black leaves and the feeling of the warmth coursing through me. “I had not - well, recalling that the last time I saw you, you were putting me out of the house, I was not sure that we were on friendly terms,” I finally ventured.
Mrs Hudson laughed, rather more loudly than I would have expected. “I can’t deny that I was gratified when Mr Holmes came back from the dead - his journey, I mean - and told me that my suspicions about the new maid had been proved correct. I’d forgotten all about it, but he made sure to tell me. You were a very believable maid, you know, just an untrustworthy one.” At this, I laughed with her.
“I did not think I would ever return to the city,” I said.
“I’ve never thought I could leave it,” she replied, “but I’m getting old, and some of Dr Watson’s descriptions of his visits to Sussex make me quite envious. Mr Holmes, of course, never utters a word except to say things about the most random of subjects.”
“I can imagine,” I answered. “There was a time when I thought country life would bore me to tears, but it has suited me far more than city life did. I was born in a city, but it’s not where I belong, not any more.”
“It’s good to understand that at your age,” she said. “You’re still young enough to enjoy it. But I don’t regret my choices, either. Frederick made my life interesting, and that’s what I wanted. I suppose that’s why I’m daft enough not to mind Mr Holmes’s ways.”
“All of us who know him are a little bit daft, I think,” I said, laughing, “even Dr Watson.”
“Make no mistake,” she answered, “the doctor is the daftest of all.”
It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.
- The Five Orange Pips
Chapter 6: Holmes
The detective surveyed the place where the child had been found, which was a few paces from the body. He saw evidence that a man’s boot had displaced the dirt between the corpse and the pile of newspapers where the tiny infant had been discovered, and after a few more moments, a gleam of something shiny among the crushed papers caught his eye, and he bent down to retrieve it. It was a button, small and silver, with the imprint of the letter C upon it.
“I’ll have that,” said Lestrade’s grating voice, and the detective stood up and found the inspector standing uncomfortably close to him. He handed over the object readily, content with the fact that he had memorised its appearance. Without a word, he went back to the girl’s body, conscious that the attention of all at the scene was fixed on him.
He stared at Anna Mason’s lifeless form, the note folded in his right hand. For the first time in a great while, perhaps years, fury threatened to overtake him and destroy his ability to reason with clarity. With difficulty, he forced himself to begin to make the deductions that were usually natural to his mind.
The knife that had made the wound had obviously been small, and its edges had been smooth. The killer had known how to dispatch a victim efficiently, someone who had killed before or was perhaps an accomplished hunter of animals. A knife could be a more difficult way to end someone’s life than killers in the heat of passion realised, but Anna’s body showed no signs of either clumsy failed attempts or violent anger. The wound had been intentional and effective.
There was no sign of a struggle of any kind, either on the body or around the area, which suggested the girl had been drugged before the murder had taken place, most likely in order to keep her from calling out and attracting attention. As he leaned down, his theory was confirmed by the lingering odour of diethyl ether. That, at least, was merciful.
Holmes finally spoke to Lestrade, who hovered at his elbow, practically hopping up and down in his desire for the detective to communicate his observations. “I spoke to her earlier this evening.”
“Who? The girl?”
“Yes, the girl,” Holmes answered with annoyance.
“What has the note to do with it?” asked Lestrade.
“A great deal,” said Holmes shortly. “Go to your office. I will meet you there in an hour and a half.”
“What?” asked the inspector, but Holmes had already turned and walked away, followed by Watson, who looked as confused as Lestrade but dutifully accompanied his friend.
***
The detective heard The Woman before he saw her. As he entered his flat, the unmistakable sound of feminine laughter could be heard through the walls, which had never been impervious to noise. “Miss Adler isn’t here. I thought she’d have wanted to know the end of the business, since she was dismissed so impolitely,” said Watson, opening the door of 221B and turning on a lamp. “Do you suppose something happened to her?”
“Nothing more than a late-night visit to Mrs Hudson, I believe,” said Holmes. “I will go and let the ladies know of our arrival.” As irregular as the action was, Holmes climbed the stairs to his landlady’s rooms and knocked twice.
“Oh, it’s you.” The relief on her face was apparent as soon as she opened the door and saw him. Irene was behind her, and she stepped around her and into the passage.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Hudson,” she said.
“Think nothing of it,” said the older lady. “It’s a nice change to have a woman around to speak with.” Holmes and The Woman trudged the short way back to the detective’s rooms. Irene looked tired, and he regretted, for a moment, what he was about to ask her to do.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “I have something important to talk over with you before you return to your hotel for the night.”
“You look very serious indeed,” she answered, following him inside. Watson had gone to his room, excessively weary, and Holmes was glad. He did not think the doctor would approve of his plan, and he wanted to have The Woman’s support before he presented it to his flatmate and the policemen.
The friends sat down, and the detective began. “I need your help.”
“This is quite different,” said The Woman, smiling. “I prefer this method of you explaining things to me beforehand to being an unwitting player, as I was in Florida.”
“It hardly needs saying,” Holmes continued, “that my trust in you is greater now than it was then.”
“Quite right,” she answered, “but if I must do something for you, then explain one thing to me: Who was the young woman?”
“Her name was Anna Mason. She used to be one of the children who gathered information for me, until she became a mother. I spoke with her earlier today, and I can only assume that is why she was killed.”
“I’m sorry,” The Woman said.
“She will be avenged when we catch them,” he answered simply.
“Now,” she continued, “what do you want me to do?”<
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“I must speak quickly,” he said. “I have an appointment with Lestrade in a few moments’ time. Tomorrow, an inquest will be performed. The jury will return a verdict of murder. I will present evidence against you, and the jury will recommend that you be arrested - highly irregular, but all for the sake of appearances. Soon after, Lestrade will arrest you, conveying you to Newgate Prison. The following morning, The Daily Telegraph and Courier will carry a story reporting your arrest for the murder.”
“Newgate! I will be famous indeed. I take it you wish, in as flamboyant a way as possible, to make the Klan think that you do not credit them with the murder to provoke them into showing their hand,” she said.
“Exactly so,” he answered. You will, of course, be released as quickly as possible. Do you consent?”
The Woman fell silent for several moments, her gaze seeming to light on everything in the room before coming back to his face. “I do,” she finally replied.
“Excellent,” he answered.
***
“I want you to arrest Irene Adler,” said Holmes, sitting on the edge of a chair in Inspector Lestrade’sspartanoffice at Scotland Yard. The policeman’s small eyes managed to open very wide at this.
“Whatever for?” he asked.
“For the murder of Anna Mason,” said Holmes.
“She’s the murderer, then?” said the inspector, looking like an animal of prey with the scent of meat in its nostrils.
“Of course not, you utter fool,” said Holmes. “I wish the real murderer to think you suspect her.”
“I confess I share the inspector’s confusion,” said Sergeant Keating with a slight stutter. “Whatever purpose could this serve?”
“The Klansmen are watching my movements,” said Holmes, “and trying to taunt me with their reach and inaccessibility, absolutely insistent that I be made aware of their power. I intend to raise their ire by acting as if credit for the murder is laid at another’s door.”
“That seems unfortunate for the lady,” said Keating. “Couldn’t someone else do it?”
“Impossible,” said Holmes. “Judging by their actions, they’re not stupid enough to believe that I would suspect Watson, and I wish it to be someone who might conceivably have a grudge against me - someone I would be likely to suspect.”
“And she consents to this?” Lestrade asked.
“She does,” said Holmes. “She wants to catch them as much as I do, and besides, she’ll be locked away from them in prison, which could be seen as an advantage at this point. We do not know if they intend to take my associates as their next targets, but they may very well attempt to do so.”
“I don’t like it,” the inspector continued, “but I’ll try it if you insist it’s the only way.”
“I do,” said the detective with irritation, tired of having to justify his plan.
***
The next day, an inquest was conducted. The earnest-faced jurors heard the evidence with all the gravity of a funeral mass. Holmes studied each of them with interest. If he had not known better, he would have thought they were ordinary people of the city, just as they were supposed to be. None of them betrayed in any way that they were actors paid for by Mycroft Holmes and gleaned from the vast roll of individuals he had at his disposal for various purposes. Even the coroner, a sharp-eyed man of middle age named Malmsley Tompkins, seemed in no way aware that something was amiss. The policemen acted with exactitude, and the discoverer of the body, a dustman, was so awed by it all that he burst into tears on his wife’s shoulder after giving his evidence.
Irene and Watson were called, and they were questioned routinely and gave their versions of how the body had been found. The doctor’s statement was predictably medical, The Woman’s filled with emotion. Holmes mentally applauded her for being dramatic - all the better to make it seem as if she were overdoing her effort to appear innocent.
When it was finally Holmes’s turn to speak, he squared his shoulders like an actor about to burst onto centre stage and prepared to lie convincingly. He knew that the verdict did not depend on his ability to persuade the jury, but he also did not want to leave any loose ends to signal that he was not completely persuaded of his own statement.
He spoke about the note, about the body, and about the button he’d picked up. Finally, he mentioned The Woman. Beginning with subtlety and gradually moving towards the obvious, he made connections between her arrival in London and the timing of the murder. He spoke of her knowledge of bees and how it would have enabled her to produce the note found on the girl’s body. Finally, he suggested that the button might belong to her. Had Holmes heard anyone else make such unfounded assertions at an inquest, he would have grown apoplectic with outrage, but they were just the sorts of statements that he knew persuaded juries every day.
After he’d finished, the jury returned the verdict it had been instructed to produce. The coroner seemed slightly dazed at the speed and direction of it all, but Lestrade behaved exactly as if nothing were unusual.
“Miss Adler,” he declared solemnly, “it is my duty to inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest you in the Queen’s name as being involved in the death of Anna Mason.” The inspector played his part remarkably well. Perhaps, Holmes thought, the man’s lack of imagination could be an asset in some situations. The Woman, too, managed to look sufficiently discomfited to befit the occasion.
***
The subsequent morning, the Daily Telegraph and Courier carried the story of the sensational arrest of former opera singer and socialite Irene Adler for the murder of a street urchin. The motive, it said, was unclear, but the police were considering the question of whether or not Miss Adler might be mentally unbalanced. Mycroft Holmes had arranged the article, and his brother was satisfied.
The detective dressed and readied himself to visit Newgate Prison to see The Woman and ascertain how she was bearing up under incarceration. He did not believe in guessing, but based on what he knew of her, he predicted that she was rather enjoying the drama of her predicament. She had proven herself a good actress more than once, and he had no doubt that she would carry it off.
“Shall I accompany you?” asked Watson, emerging from his room dressed impeccably in brown.
“Certainly,” answered his flatmate, rising from his chair. “We wish to appear as if we’re quite serious about investigating the murder. A visit to the supposed murderess is quite within our normal sphere, and it would be stranger for you to fail to accompany me than otherwise.”
Watson beamed at this, obviously pleased, but after a moment, his face fell.
“I feel for her, Holmes. It’s a very hard thing for a lady to be falsely accused and thrown into prison, especially one as refined as Miss Adler.”
The detective laughed. “I hardly think it’s any more of a hardship for her than it would be for an unrefined gentleman. But do not fear. She is well aware of my intentions and knows the importance of her part.”
The two men left the flat and hailed a cab, ignoring the strange look that passed over the driver’s face at the declaration of their intended destination. All the better for as many people to know about it as possible, Holmes thought. He wanted there to be no question whatsoever that he was treating Irene Adler’s case as seriously as he treated any other.
Newgate Prison was as bleak as it had ever been, complete with darkly ponderous walls and imposing gates that denoted an oppressive atmosphere. Holmes and Watson were shown inside and granted their request for a private audience with the prisoner, their way having been smoothed by a judicious note from Mycroft. They were seated in a tiny room with a policeman at the door. By design, that policeman was Sergeant Keating, assistant to Inspector Lestrade, whose presence had been insisted on by the inspector and enforced by edict of the Yard. The only furniture was a table and three chairs. As The Woma
n was led into the room, the detective mentally commended her for her thoroughness. If she hadn’t been an actress, her condition would have been alarming. Overnight, her eyes had become red and swollen from weeping. Her hair was tousled, and her hands showed signs of having been scratched by her own fingernails. So convincing was she that Holmes heard his flatmate gasp.
Irene was seated on the opposite side of the table from the two men, and the door clanged shut, leaving them and The Woman alone with the policeman, who forsook his post and came over to take part in the conversation. “Are you all right?” asked Watson, provoking Holmes to smile.
“Of course,” said Irene, speaking low and grinning broadly. “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since I sang the part of Ermine on stage.”
“You’re right, Holmes, very good indeed,” said Watson.
His flatmate nodded, but spoke quickly. “No more nonsense. We must confer quickly, for Sir Lloyd Allen is to join us in but a few moments. Sergeant, what have you observed?”
Keating answered, “I’ve seen nothing out of the common way. There have been no American visitors. That doesn’t preclude the possibility that there may be an informer watching Miss Adler from the inside, but given that her arrest was only last night, it seems unlikely.”
“And you?” asked Holmes, looking at Irene.
“I have seen nothing I would not expect to see here, either, though admittedly, I have little prior experience of the routine of prison existence.” She smirked.
“Well, that is hardly surprising,” said the detective. “We must continue this charade a bit longer.”
