by Amy Thomas
The detective was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that the two murders had struck at him and his brother in particularly specific ways - the girl had been slain simply because she had been seen speaking to him and the journalist because he had carried out Mycroft’s order. Even if the murderer had not known that the command originated with the older Holmes, he or she was clearly aware that the plot that had produced it belonged to the detective. Sherlock’s current concern was whether or not the murderer would decide to strike even closer to the target - to make an attempt on one of the people he valued most in the world.
“Miss Adler will need more security than your Irregulars can provide her,” said Mycroft, as if he’d read his brother’s mind. “I will assign a man to the hotel grounds. If Lestrade tries to offer something similar, accept. It would be better for the murderer to be distracted by the presence of an obvious policeman than to risk her safety.”
“As for you, Dr Watson,” he said, “you must stay close to my brother and not go out without accompaniment until this matter is resolved.”
“What about Mrs Hudson? Is she in danger?” asked the doctor.
“I wouldn’t like to tell her so,” said Sherlock, “but she should be watched as well. The ruthlessness of our opponents is such that they seem willing to stop at nothing.”
“Very well,” answered his brother.
The matter of protection resolved for the moment, the three men subsided into silence once again. As afternoon turned to dusk, the detective thought through each facet of the case, and he brought to the forefront of his mind a suspicion that had been forming in his thoughts for some time.
The end of the Openshaw case had been an unusual one. Instead of having the opportunity to apprehend those responsible for the man’s death, he had contented himself with the poetic justice of a ship lost at sea, the murderers supposedly lost with it. He now began to suspect that he had been mistaken.
Holmes’s mind gave form and shape to his growing dread. What if, instead of dying, one or more of the conspirators had lived? What if his intention to implicate the three men aboard the Lone Star had become known to them without resulting in their apprehension? That began to put a different light on the matter. Motive, after all, played a part in any criminal act. Understanding the facts behind it was as important as any physical detail, and he had not yet been able to adequately settle in his mind the reason why remaining members of the Klan would express such hatred against him and his associates. There was no purpose in surmising. The detective rose, determined to ascertain, as quickly as he could, whether his suspicions had their basis in fact.
“Are you going out?” Watson asked.
“Indeed,” said his friend. “Do not trouble yourself to accompany me. I only wish to send a wire, and then I must visit Miss Adler. Your presence would be a cause for needless concern.”
“And needed defence,” the doctor retorted. “They haven’t hesitated to kill thus far. Who’s to say they won’t come after you next?”
“Judging by their pattern of behaviour,” said Holmes, “they wish me alive to bear witness to their triumphs. As disgusting as it is, I’m unlikely to be in danger until their plan unfolds more completely.”
“I suppose that’s logical,” groused Watson.
“I’m leaving too,” said Mycroft, taking a considerably longer time to disgorge himself from the crevasses of his chair. “I will return to my flat. You know how to reach me if you should need me. I will inform you of any developments.” The brothers left the flat together, their silence companionable in an abstract way - each knowing that the other occupied the same mental territory and made the same effort to map it as he.
***
Sherlock Holmes was acquainted with many Americans, but the one he intended to wire was the sheriff
of a town called Fort Myers in southern Florida, the place where he had once spent several eventful days tracking a threat against Irene Adler while in disguise as her husband. His current enquiry had little to do with that incident, beyond recalling the rapport he’d developed with Sheriff Morris, an intelligent and capable man.
The wire itself was simple, a request for any information Morris could obtain about a man named James Calhoun, who had, at least once, been a ship’s captain. He added a line asking for information on the man’s family if he should prove to be deceased. His telegram sent, the detective made his way towards the Savoy Hotel.
***
Holmes blended seamlessly into the throng of hotel guests, taking care to attach himself to a party of revelers who were making for the Savoy’s grand dining room, in order to avoid the watchful eyes of the staff. At the last moment, he peeled away and made for the ascending rooms. He was joined by a man and woman who were obviously under alcohol’s influence, judging by their conviviality. Holmes was grateful for this, because they went their way without paying him any mind at all.
Once on the second floor, he waited a moment and went to Room 8, tapping lightly on the door.
“Who is it?” The Woman’s voice was strong, but apprehensive, and he could tell that her nerves were acutely on edge.
“Holmes,” he answered simply, and he heard the door open.
Irene was herself once again, dressed in a blue gown, with her hair arranged neatly atop her head. “Come in,” she said, breathing quickly, with slightly heightened colour in her cheeks.
“Thank you,” he answered, taking his place on the floral sofa.
“Would you like some tea?” asked The Woman. “I’ve acquired some.”
“Indeed,” he answered, realising that he had not eaten anything for a day and a half.
Irene went to the side table and poured a cup of the hotel’s black tea. Her hand shook, spilling a few drops onto the table’s white doily.
“I’m afraid the case is fraying me a little,” she said. “I’m ridiculously paranoid.”
“Watson would say that a good night’s sleep will most likely put you to rights,” said Holmes, “but I would prefer the conclusion of the matter and apprehension of those responsible.”
Irene, to his surprise, smiled as she handed him his tea. “We are certainly in agreement about that.” She took her seat. “I hope you intend to explain the day to me. Billy relayed only enough information to confuse me.”
“I will explain,” said the detective, “and I wish to know if you have observed anything helpful.” Holmes closed his eyes and began his recollection.
“As you know, our coming to you this morning was entirely a fabrication for the benefit of those who may be watching. The death of Anna Mason indicates that my movements are being tracked, and I have no doubt the aggressors are aware that I am with you now. As I explained to Watson earlier, they obviously wish me alive to see their handiwork, so I do not believe my own safety is at issue for the time being. In fact, I wish to use what I know to our advantage. Your incarceration was, of course, meant to enrage those who would wish for us to consider them responsible for the murder, and when we left you, I believed the subterfuge had been remarkably successful.”
“So did I,” Irene answered. “Sir Allen stayed behind and offered me his help if I should wish to escape the plan, but I was immensely pleased at how things seemed to be progressing.”
“I returned to Baker Street,” Holmes continued, “the better to be where anyone who wished to contact me could easily do so. By that time, of course, the news of your arrest was publicly known, and I expected that the Klansmen would somehow contrive to communicate their anger at having their evil deeds attributed to another. I hoped they would come to me directly, but barring that, any communication would have revealed more about their threat.”
“I assume neither thing happened,” said The Woman.
“Indeed not,” said Holmes putting a hand through his short dark hair. “Our deception was known. I received a wire
from my brother about the journalist’s murder a mere two hours after I’d returned home.”
“You believe they overheard something in the prison?” asked Irene.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “Unfortunately, there are other ways. It is never the most conducive to a plot for it to be known by as many people as were aware of this one. Lestrade might have been indiscreet, or someone might have heard a stray word in a public house. We do not know who the policemen may have told. The more people know of something, the more likely they are to discuss it, unfortunately.”
“Surely, though, the possibilities are limited,” Irene answered. “The doors were closed on anyone in the prison hearing us, and Inspector Lestrade hardly seems like the sort of man with a loose tongue, however slowly his mind may move. Beyond him, his sergeant, yourself, your brother, and Dr Watson, who was aware of the plot? Even the journalist was, I assume, unaware that what he wrote was part of a deception. An overheard word or two hardly seems like enough to bring the whole plot crashing down.”
“Just so,” said Holmes. “But it is still impossible to totally rule out eager ears overhearing more than was intended, an accident that has unfortunately led to a man’s death.”
“An accidental stabbing,” said Irene drily.
Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell.
- The Copper Beeches
Chapter 9: Irene
“What do you intend to do now?” I asked my friend.
“I have wired Sheriff Morris from Florida. Do you remember the man?”
“Of course,” I said, surprised. I remembered him as a resourceful officer of the law, possessed of a great deal of nerve.
“I wish him to trace Captain James Calhoun, the man responsible, along with his confederates, for Openshaw’s death.”
“But he is dead,” I answered, taking a drink of my now-cold tea, my hands curled tensely around the cup.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, “but I begin to doubt it. His ship was, apparently, lost at sea, but that does not mean he perished.”
I stared at my companion in astonishment. “Have you suspected this before?”
“I have not,” he admitted. “The Openshaw case, while not precisely a failure, was not unequivocally a success, and it contained no new method from which I learned for the sake of other cases. The features were sensational, perhaps, but that hardly concerns me. The Savannah, Georgia, police were alerted as to Calhoun’s true nature, but he was never arrested, and logic suggested that his failure to reach his destination, coupled with the sighting of a piece of his ship’s stern, meant he was no longer in this world. I did not let the matter concern me further, especially given the attempt of the law in the United States to put an end to Klan activities.”
“I had supposed that our enemies were comprised of a new order of Klansmen who had contrived to take up Calhoun’s mantle, but the facts fit this supposition less and less.”
“I agree,” I answered. “From my understanding of the Openshaw matter, I have been unable to understand why you would have come to the Klan’s attention if the Lone Star party had been entirely lost. You have done nothing to pursue any of its members beyond those directly responsible for the murder.”
“That is true,” said Holmes.
“Thank you for informing me of your thoughts,” I replied.
My friend smiled. “I have work to do, Irene, and I must ask you to remain here until I have a more specific course of action arranged. The hotel is being watched on your behalf, but I cannot guarantee a reasonable level of safety for you beyond its walls until I know more.” I did not argue, and he left with his usual haste.
***
I considered my options, feeling that I was of two minds. On the one hand, I trusted Holmes, and I knew that if he considered the danger too great for me to be out of hiding, he was probably correct. My own assessment of the situation was similar. The enemy had made it abundantly clear that they would not spare anyone connected with the detective.
At war with that rationality was the impulse to fight, to join the fray. I was tired of being afraid, of sitting in a prison cell or my hotel room and letting my terror paint dreadful pictures on the canvas of my thoughts. I was not a woman who had ever avoided danger. I couldn’t help thinking that the Irene who had tricked Sherlock Holmes would not stay holed up in a comfortable room while others braved danger. I might be different from her now - older and wiser, I hoped - but I did not wish to ever lose her nerve or let my fear keep me from doing what I thought was right. Much better to meet terror head on than to skulk in hiding.
As soon as I had reached a decision, I called for the maid, and she appeared promptly. “This may be a strange question, Louisa, but where do you get your clothes?”
“The hotel, Miss.”
“And do you have more than one dress?”
“Two, Miss.”
“What happens if you lose one?”
“I’ve never done that, but I’d have to pay for it.”
“This would cover it, I believe,” I said, handing her a sum of money that was at least three times more than a maid’s uniform could be worth, even from a hotel as luxurious as the Savoy. She stared at the money and then at me, as if she had lost the power of speech.
“It’s just for a silly lark,” I said, attempting to sound conspiratorial, like a vapid member of the upper class, whose most pressing concerns were the style of her hair or the evening’s entertainment. “I need something for a masquerade party.”
She grinned. “I could - help you get ready,” she said.
“That would be charming,” I answered. “Come back in an hour. Mustn’t tell anyone, though.”
“Of course not, Miss.” She said, sashaying out of the room in exceedingly high spirits. I hoped I could trust her not to provoke unwanted interest by revealing the arrangement, but it would have been as disadvantageous to her as to me for her employers to find out she had entered so irregular an agreement, so I trusted that she could hold her tongue for an hour. After that, I would at least have accomplished my goal.
While the girl was gone, I took my hair down and parted it in the middle, brushing it until it was flat, and then rearranging it on my head to be plain and severe. As I did so, I thought about what I had said and realised that it was not untrue, in a strange way.
My time away from London had detached me from the city, and I now saw what a mad, grotesque, beautiful, never-ending masquerade party she was. Her floor was always filled with dancers - the rich, glittering elite of which I had once been a part. The workers kept the music playing and the wine and food flowing, their roles often unseen but absolutely essential. Finally, along the walls stood the poor, ever watching, hoping someday to take part. Those with whom Holmes dealt, and whom I now sought, were none of these, or perhaps all of them.
There were the Charles Augustus Milvertons, those who skirted the dance, occasionally taking part, but only long enough to pickpocket the other dancers. There were the John Strakers, the workers whose hands hammered and nailed and cleaned and cooked, but whose minds were ever engaged in planning how they might also use those hands to grasp and tear and cheat and rob. Even the Isa Whitneys existed, who managed, while they tried to eke out an existence, to scratch others in their efforts to claw their way through life.
It was all of these, who masqueraded as part of the world, but whose defrauding of their fellow men kept them fundamentally on the outskirts, that were Holmes’s purview. This night, I planned to make them mine.
The girl returned punctually, with a box in her hand, which she handed me proudly. “Oh, Miss,” she said, “you’ve done your hair so perfect!”
“Thank you,” I said, thinking that since I had modeled it on hers, it ought to be. I opened the box and found a full maid’s uniform, with
its crisp white pinafore that contrasted with the inky black of the underdress. I almost laughed because it reminded me keenly of the maid’s uniform I’d donned long before in an effort to get a look at Holmes’s private papers. I had been unhappy then, but the memory was no longer an unpleasant one. The intervening years and the soft patina of friendship had aged it into something quite different, even nostalgic.
After a moment, I set about undressing. Louisa was more robust than I, but that simply meant I could keep all of my own undergarments on and still have a slightly ill-fitting, lumpy silhouette, which I desired. The girl helped me, tying and buttoning me here and there, a process I found strange, since it had been several years since I’d had a personal maid. With my means I could have afforded one easily, but after living with my husband, who had used my maid to spy on my every waking moment, I could no longer bear the idea of employing one. I’d become used to taking care of myself - at least as much as Mrs Turner, my indomitable housekeeper-cook, would allow.
“Oh, Miss,” said the girl, surveying me when she was finished tying a bow across the small of my back, “you look beautiful, just like a maid in a play at the theatre.” Her comment engendered less delight than she intended, since I desired to pass inconspicuously. I wished I had Holmes’s paint with me to somehow alter my features, but since I did not, I determined that alteration of attitude and carriage would have to do.
“Thank you for your help,” I said. “I am sure my friends will enjoy this costume.” I had begun to feel like I was speaking in some sort of code in which friends were enemies and enjoyment equated to trying to kill me.
I finally succeeded in ushering the excited maid out of the room. Once alone, I took my pistol and secreted it in a small purse, which I affixed at my waist underneath my overskirt, glad again of the extra space the girl’s size afforded me.
I went to the window and opened it, staring out at the Thames, watching as the water sparkled and shone with the reflections of the hotel’s lights. Tiny, radiant pinpoints darted across the surface like the fireflies I had loved to catch during my childhood in America. The beauty, I realised, was in the randomness. The lights reflected and bounced of their own free will, just as the fireflies had danced to their own incomprehensible music, no two following the same pattern. They were the opposite of my bees, whose hive existences had been orderly and predictable. I had found great comfort in the beauty of symmetry and routine, but as I looked out my window that night, I remembered that the beauty of unpredictability could hold its own wild charm.
