“Don’t be daft, man! The world gains nothing by having you both dead! We need to wait for daylight.”
“Forgive me, Watson,” were the last words he spoke that night as we road in silence back to Carson City.
***
We spent the next few days informing the local authorities of our grand adventure and exposing Pemberton and his grand opium organisation. Those in his association in San Francisco were all arrested through the evidence of the documents we supplied. Wires were sent to the police in New York City informing them of our findings, the truth behind Norton’s death, and that they should be aware that Mr Oaks’ death was also a result of Pemberton’s organisation.
We sent further information to authorities in Indianapolis so that the town of Pendleton could deal with the factory where the opium was being stored.
During this time, we remained in and around Carson City. Holmes spent days looking for Miss Adler, but found no trace of her body. The authorities believed it to be taken by an animal and lost forever. Thus, after a long and exhaustive search we gave up. Miss Irene Adler was missing and presumed dead, her life having been taken at the hands of the man called Ivory.
***
Holmes and I travelled from Carson City to New York. The journey was long and tiresome, and Holmes was not in any mood to speak. Once back in New York, we spent two more days in and around the city, residing at Miss Adler’s brownstone.
“What should be done about this house?” I asked. “Is there any family we can contact?”
“I wish to leave it as is, Watson. I will make the arrangements.”
As we prepared to leave to board our boat back to England, Holmes stood in her study, holding his stetson and wearing a contemplative look upon his face. I saw him lay the hat down upon the sofa upon which Miss Adler had lounged so freely during the beginning of our case. He then withdrew something from his pocket. At a glance I thought it to be the picture of Miss Adler he had received back in ’88 when she became the only woman who ever beat him. I felt it best to leave him alone, and as I walked out the room, I turned back to see him lay the picture upon the sofa. I waited for him a few moments out in the hall. He slowly walked out of her rooms and locked the door.
“The game is over,” said I.
“It’s never over,” said he solemly. “Back to London we go.”
The Return
We found London and Baker Street precisely where we left it. The day we arrived was wet and grey. From Paddington, we fetched a hansom to take us back to Baker Street.
“Didn’t you miss this splendid British weather, Holmes?”
“It does have a certain appeal to it, does it not?”
I felt at peace as we rode up Oxford Street and turned down Baker Street. To see the familiar lodging of 221 made me feel that our adventure was finally coming to an end.
I stepped inside with Holmes, and we both took a rest in that most familiar study. A newspaper sat on the table next to me, which showed the current date. It was upon seeing this that I realised my sense of time had but vanished during the case. Holmes and I had been gone six weeks. Our great American adventure was ended, but not without tremendous loss.
Mrs Hudson walked in with a smile upon her face.
“It is lovely to have you gentlemen back. Shall I have the cook make some tea? And will you stay for dinner, Doctor?” she asked.
“Do stay, if you can, old boy,” said Holmes. “And fetch Mrs Watson too. I should be glad of the company.”
I was moved by his request. I realised, despite his not admitting it, that he was finding a way to deal with the loss of Miss Adler.
“I’d be happy to stay for dinner. I will go and get Mary and return shortly.”
“Very well, Doctor.”
“Thank you Mrs Hudson,” said I. She parted with a smile. I stood, grabbing my luggage and made my way towards the door.
“Watson,” said Holmes, stopping me.
“Yes?” I replied, turning to face him.
“Thank you. Thank you for coming with me and being here.”
“I always will be, old man.”
He nodded. He reached over, picked up his black clay pipe, and pulled his Persian slipper from his drawer.
“Holmes. She was…”
“She was a wholly remarkable woman,” he interrupted. “The woman.” He paused a moment. “Off you go to fetch your wife. I’m sure she is missing you deeply.”
***
I made my way home, where I found my Mary sitting peacefully in our lounge. Her eyes lit up as I stepped inside and I embraced her.
“It is so good to have you home, John!” she cried.
“It is good to be back, dear.”
“What’s wrong?” My wife had the uncanny ability to know instinctively when something was afoot. I took a moment and we sat down.
“Our case was successful in that it was solved. It was, however, unsuccessful in that a dear life was lost.”
“My God, not Holmes?”
“No, no. He is alive. Our client, Irene Adler, lost her life.” Mary put her hand over her mouth in shock. “She fell into a gorge. Her body was never found.”
“Is he all right?”
“He is silent most of the time. He has requested we come for dinner tonight. I believe it is his way of coping.”
“Then we shall be there!”
I nodded, and Mary embraced me tightly as I told her my tale in full.
Epilogue
The days that followed our return to London were dull. Miss Adler’s death was reported throughout America and Europe. I found that during this time Holmes did not take time to read through the newspapers. On several visits, I noticed they remained stacked and untouched. But he was not idle, keeping busy with various experiments and a few consultations for Scotland Yard. Nevertheless Holmes was still somewhat more reclusive than usual and if I brought the matter up, he refused to speak about Miss Adler. For a short while, this was deeply concerning but, in his own way, he worked through the unmentioned pain and slowly returned to normal.
One particularly warm day, I found myself wandering down Baker Street to call in on Sherlock Holmes. I had not seen my friend for several weeks, and wished to amend that.
I saw from the street that the windows to the study were open, which I thought to be a good sign as it did help to air the room out from time to time. I walked in, and found him sitting in his chair holding a letter.
“Potential client?” I asked, taking my hat off and sitting down.
“No, Watson. It’s unrelated,” said he in a rather curious tone as he set the letter upside down on his table.
“Well, Holmes, how do you feel about going out for some lunch? Unless you are otherwise engaged?”
“That sounds like a good idea. I feel I have been cooped up in the study for some time. A dab of fresh air would do me good!”
“Splendid! Shall we go now then?”
He agreed and we rose to walk out the door.
As soon as we stepped out the study door, I realised I had left my hat behind. I darted back inside to collect it when something caught my attention. Upon the table next to Holmes’s chair was the photograph of Miss Irene Adler. The very one which I thought I saw him leave behind in New York.
When I pressed Holmes about how this photograph had arrived in Baker Street, he waved it off with little attention and changed the subject. I was baffled by the photograph’s reappearance and bewildered at his oddly secretive response. Out of respect I decided to leave the matter alone as it was nice to see Holmes in a brighter mood, the brightest I had seen him since our adventure’s tragic ending.
However, I privately speculated on the matter, and I could only reach two possible conclusions: Holmes had either kept the picture with him… or someone had sent it back to him.
The End
The Allegro Mystery
As I glance over my notes between ’82 and ’90, I fondly remember those early years. I, having returned to London from my Af
ghan campaign with a Jezail bullet as a souvenir in my limb, was by no means ready for civilian life. I will always be grateful to Stamford for introducing me to that strange bohemian man, Sherlock Holmes, whose powers of observation and deduction continue to astonish for nearly quarter of a century.
It was in the autumn of 1885 when one of the strangest cases found its way to the doorstep of 221B. While the story received some press, a proper and accurate account of the event have yet to reach the public. I feel, also, that the parties concerned in the matter have reached a time of life where these events would be nothing more than a thrilling story of their youth. A wound long since healed as opposed to a freshly bandaged scrape. “I have put her away for good, Watson. I have put her away for good!” said Sherlock Holmes with a sweeping entrance into the study. I folded the paper. “Who have you put away?” I asked. “Miss Susan Sutherland, my dear fellow! For months she’s plagued chapels, music halls, theatres and busy streets, pick-pocketing any inattentive fool.”
“Well, this is the first I have heard you mention her, Holmes.”
“Yes, well, you have had your own matters to attend to of late. Though I deduce you aren’t friendly with Miss Edwards any longer.”
“Good heavens, Holmes!” I barked. He smiled. “She has kept you from our work the past few months, but looking at the state of your hair, the longest it’s been since you met her, and the state of your whiskers, your personal grooming says there is no one to impress.”
“Not that it is any of your business, but you are, as always, correct.” I rubbed my face, my whiskers had become rather unruly and were in need of a good trim. “Tell me about this Miss Sutherland.”
“Right!” Holmes began as he continued through the study and fell into his chair. “Sutherland, quite the villain I should say.” Holmes picked up his pipe and filled it with tobacco from his Persian slipper. “I got word that men and women were being robbed in church services across London. And don’t give me that look, Watson, the robbery was not the minister collecting the tithe. The robberies were from individual pockets and handbags! Change, watches, bracelets and even rings were slipped off. Raptured away! I discovered that each of the robberies were on the person’s right side. So, I was looking for a left handed crook. Of course the difficult thing was finding the person hiding in plain sight. I had to find the disguise among the general public facades in the crowd.”
“How on earth did you catch them, then?”
“Accessories, Watson. It all came down to simple muff.”
“A muff?”
“Correct.” Holmes took a deep inhale of his pipe before exhaling and continuing. “This is where I found Susan Sutherland. She always kept her left hand inside her muff.”
“I thought you said the thief was left handed.” Holmes raised his finger to me. “So I planned my trick to take place at one of her places of worship. Having disguised myself splendidly as an old woman with a monstrously huge bag ripe for the plucking I sat and waited. Soon enough she sat by me, just to my right her left. Then I felt it!” Holmes said slapping his hand upon his knee. “Her hand was inside my bag. I peered over to see her left hand still in her muff. My assumptions were correct. I, too, had a similar plan. As she reached into the bag what she did not expect to find was my hand inside. I grabbed hers, threw off my disguise, and exposed her. Soon enough one of Scotland Yard’s finest came to cart her off to a cell.” Setting down his pipe and pressing his fingers together he leaned his head back and a smile of satisfaction stretched across his face.
“Though, there is no guarantee that any or all the stolen belongings will ever be recovered. Most are likely lost to the pawnbrokers.” I clapped my hands together. “Well done, Holmes!” I paused a moment. “And I am sorry for my absence of late. I pray you won’t hold it against me?”
“Watson, all matters of love I leave in your hands. While I haven’t the time or energy for such commitment I can, at the very least, understand the game you play. For love is a game, maybe the most dangerous game of them all.” There was a ring on the bell followed by the sound of hurried steps up the stairs. A woman, my God, a woman burst into the study. I turned quickly, Holmes slowly lifted his head. The fairest creature I had ever seen stood there pale faced and gasping for breath. There was a familiarity about her, I thought, as I marvelled at her tall slender frame. She wore a long green dress and large floral hat. Her dark blonde hair had fallen loose from under her hat. This porcelain woman, with striking rosy cheeks, darted her blue, gem-like, eyes between myself and Holmes.
“I am looking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the woman asked in a French accent. “I am he,“ Holmes returned “Then you must help me, sir!” she pleaded, still standing in the doorway panting. “My dear, won’t you have a seat. You are flush,” I said. She looked at me with a blank stare before nodding quickly. She glided across the floor, her green dress flowing with every step. I called for Mrs. Hudson to bring us some tea. “Mademoiselle Dipin,” Holmes said, “what can the West End’s shining star need with my services?”
“You know me?’ “I know you are rising star, with a one-off stint at Her Majesty’s Theatre performing an exotic ballet. No paper in London has missed the show.”
“It is a beautiful story,” Mademoiselle Dipin began. It seemed that whatever concerns she had upon entering our rooms vanished as her mind turned back to her art. “The movements, the music, oh it’s…” She pressed her fingers to her soft lips and kissed them. “So I’ve heard, though yet to see,” said Holmes. “And you might never get the chance.” Her face turned to stone. “I cannot say how much longer I’ll survive the show.”
“Is your life in danger?” I asked. She looked at me, her eyes piercing. “For the last two and a half months we performed and all seemed fine, but it began with letters.”
“Tell me all from the beginning, leave no detail out, no matter how trivial you might think it,” said Holmes. “Then, to tell you of recent events I need to tell you about my past. My stage fame has inspired many devoted followers. They attend more shows than the lead actor or actress themselves, it seems. They wait outside the stage door, they bring you flowers, chocolates, many different gifts. If you miss a show they send you a card. It’s quite remarkable what the fanatics will do for you. A mutual appreciation for the art brings people together. “I love these types of people, Mr. Holmes, those who love the art and can discuss the art. But some,” she paused and clasped her hands, and nervously twiddled her thumbs, “they see you as the embodiment of art and assume you are the final authority on it rather than one of the many channels by which one can demonstrate it’s beauty. Back in France I had many admirers. Some were harmless. Some were more… forceful. “There was a man named Jean Javet. He believed he was in love with me. He started by offering flowers after performances. I thought nothing of it at the time. I graciously accepted his gift. That was my first mistake. Next he started sending letters. In the beginning they spoke of his love for my art and how passionate my movements were. Saying how he’d never seen such marvellous style and superb technique.
“From time to time I would write very gracious letters in return, thanking him for his compliments and coming to see the performances. I started to become a concerned after a rather poor review was published in one of the local papers. The critic called our performance a disgrace, scandalous, and said it should be ended now. One never forgets a terrible review. I did my best to put it to the back of my mind. Some people will always hate your art. “A few days after that the review I received a letter. Monsieur Javet took great offence on my behalf for the review. He ranted about how terrible they were for saying such harsh things, and that the paper should know the error of their ways. I replied saying it was no issue and that we must move forward in our art. He replied with a single sentence letter, ‘Our art will be beautiful. I will make sure no one speaks of you and our art that way again.’ “I was slightly haunted by this response. What he meant I did not know, at the time. A few days later the paper that p
ublished the review was set on fire and burnt down! There was no evidence, no clues at all as to who started it or how it happened. It was passed off as an accident. Javet wrote me again, this time he said, ‘Our art is saved’. I knew what he meant. I knew he was responsible, but I did not know if I should turn the letter over to the authorities. Would they believe me? “I waited, foolishly. Mr. Holmes, I waited! That very night after my performance I was the last to leave the theatre. When I left Javet was outside the stage door. He rushed me and took me in his arms. He raved about our art and love. I pleaded with him to let me go. He continued to speak of our love and what love does to art. He said he loved me and forced a kiss on me. I was confused, frightened, and alone. I said I had no feelings for him. “This angered him. He pushed me against the wall. My breath was taken from me. I tried to regain composure but he held me gently and caressed my hair saying, ‘No, no, you do love me, you do. I know it. We are both artists, and we’ll make beautiful art.’ I dug my nails into his face and tore his skin, he fell back holding his face which began to drip with blood. I ran, he chased. Thankfully a policeman was nearby and heard my cries. He stopped Javet and arrested him. He was tried and sentenced to jail for the fire and assault. That was three years ago this last July.” She paused a moment. “This brings me to now. At the end of the first week’s performance here in London I received a letter.” The ballerina took out a piece of paper and handed it to Holmes. He took it and quickly read it before handing it over to me. It read thus:
My beautiful Mademoiselle, How I’ve missed your art. How I’ve missed your movements. How I’ve missed your touch. I am excited to see you on stage in London very soon. Keep a watchful eye, I will be there.
J
“I have been frightened terribly by this. I did not keep this letter a secret, but I was assured measures would be taken to ensure my, and the entire cast’s safety. During my second week’s performance I got another letter. It was from Javet. He said how wonderful the show was and how I am the light of London. He promised he’d see more performances and that I’d never be out of his sight again.” Her eyes began to well and her lower lip quivered. But she remained strong. She straightened herself and fought back the tears. “Two nights ago I believe I saw him in the audience. He was not seated. He was standing in a doorway. He made a nod and hand gesture at me, like an American salute. It was the only time during a performance that I have ever stumbled! The next day he wrote again saying how pleased he was to get that reaction. Then, last night on my way home, I was followed. A man, of similar stature to Javet, followed me from the theatre, through Leicester Square. It was heavily crowded and I took the opportunity to hurry my pace and get away. I made haste to Soho where I have lodging while I am here in London. Before I entered, I looked and took no notice of anyone else. I sat at my table and looked at the newspaper. An article in it spoke of you and your assistance to the Yard. I looked you up and thought if anyone could help me, it would be you!” Holmes looked at the woman a few moments. “Well, well. You fear, then, that this Javet has escaped or been set loose from his cell in France and is here in London to watch you perform, and possibly more. Have you made enquiries with the France police to see if he is still there?”
Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder Page 22
