Irene Adler 08 - Spider Dance

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  I will never forget that date. By a stroke of good luck, the shocking event all the city talked about combined the boring society coverage I had been relegated to lately with the elements of the most thundering melodrama on view in the Rialto theatrical district.

  A bloodstained dagger!

  A wailing infant!

  Two hysterical women!

  A mistress, a wife, a betraying nursemaid, a socially eminent husband.

  Of course the World reported every breathless detail.

  Imagine a late summer luncheon at fashionable Noll Cottage in Atlantic City. (Noll Cottage, of course, was as much a true “cottage” as the Vanderbilt, Du Pont, and Astor “cottages” in Newport, Rhode Island.)

  The guests, men and women attired in the pale shades of late summer, are seating themselves at tables laid out in pastel summer linens, flowers everywhere.

  Into this tranquil setting come, from above, a woman’s hysterical screams and the crash of fine furnishings smashing to smithereens.

  Below, the men in their beige summer suits, the women in their white silks and dimities, are pushing back their chairs, deserting the melon balls and cold cuts and ices to stand, looking upward.

  A waiter is the only one to act.

  He runs upstairs to the find the nursery is the source of the commotion, to find his employers struggling and bloody.

  The husband: Robert Roy Hamilton, yes, those Hamiltons. Grandson of Alexander Hamilton, who himself died in a duel.

  The wife: Eva, beautiful as all society wives are beautiful, blond hair disheveled, stabbing at everything within reach with a bloody dagger.

  The infant: only six months, wailing and flailing on the bed.

  And on the floor, the child’s nursemaid: bloodied and unconscious.

  Of course I was not allowed to cover a crime story, a front-page news story. I read of this event in the newspapers like everybody else. I was, however, perfectly free to find my own angle on it, and luckily, I’d already been investigating the general subject. I forgot all about Quentin Stanhope’s quest to keep me quiet about the Ripper.

  I was now on the trail of a true and native American sensation.

  The facts baldly stated were scandalous enough. The lies and deceit that underlay them might take weeks to reveal and must be even more sensational.

  The World laid every one of those facts bare in the following days, but by then I was following one strand in the web of lies: the infant on the bed was not Hamilton’s own child, was not the supposed reason for his marrying Eva, his mistress of some time, and making an honest woman of one who previously had entertained in brothels for years.

  The infant on the bed was, in fact it was later found, the fourth false offspring that Eva and her cohorts had palmed off on the befuddled Hamilton. The first infant had died, as had a replacement. A third didn’t resemble the first enough to fool even Hamilton, who was apparently easy to dupe, so this last child had been installed in the Hamilton cradle.

  Only the nurse had detected the several switches and had revealed the truth to Hamilton that serene August luncheon day. She had testified in front of his traitorous wife, who drew a dagger and attacked. (One does wonder how poor little Eva ended up accessorized by a dagger like some hot-tempered Spanish dancer. I would think such foresight would only occur to the redoubtable Irene Adler Norton.)

  Yet Eva, I sensed, was not the mastermind of the trickery. I read it all in the World, far more fascinated by Eva’s unsavory man “friend,” Joshua Mann, and his so-called “mother,” Mrs. T. Anna Swinton, who had produced the train of false infants.

  This situation reminded me of one I had encountered before, involving a so-called Madame Restell, a midcentury New York abortionist who dabbled in such scandalous practices as contraception and placing society women’s unwanted children in unrelated homes.

  Madame Restell’s doings and death was old news, twelve years old. Despite the sensational new information about her I’d learned through the New York investigations of Irene Adler Norton, I could make nothing newsworthy of it for today’s readers.

  The Hamilton case was another story. My story, did I but pursue it in my own special way. Undercover, of course.

  I had a homemade sensation to track down before I conquered the rest of the world.

  In print in the World.

  Quentin Stanhope, who was as attractive as he was obstructive, would have to wait.

  Or would he?

  Perhaps I had found a way to make him pay for balking my best journalistic instincts, along with all his cohorts.

  23

  A CHANGED WOMAN

  The greatest of all seems to be Lola Montez, who alone is

  able to keep up the applause and excitement which she created

  when she first appeared behind the reading desk of Hope Chapel.

  In fact, Lola seems to have beaten all her illustrious

  rivals clear out of the field.

  —THE NEW YORK HERALD ON THE DAY’S LEADING LECTURERS,

  INCLUDING HORACE GREELEY, 1859

  Even Irene Adler could not conquer time and space.

  It took a full two days before sufficient funds were cabled to the New York bank and we were granted an appointment with Bishop Potter, also thanks to the offices of Mr. Belmont.

  “A good banker,” Irene pronounced after initiating the procedures, “is worth his weight in watch chains.”

  “Especially when he is Baron de Rothschild himself,” I commented tartly.

  In fact, we had all of us been employed by the baron to investigate delicate matters across Europe. Godfrey was even now tending to the Rothschild interests in Bavaria.

  Which reminded me . . . “Irene, there is another King Ludwig in Bavaria now. Is it like the Bishops Potter here?”

  “A succession, yes. But I believe Ludwig the Second is a grandson of the notorious Ludwig the First of Lola Montez fame.”

  “Do you suppose Godfrey could find anything out about her on his end?”

  “I’m sure he could, but I think that period of her life has been copiously documented in those many books in our possession. Also, I don’t wish to interfere with Godfrey’s business matters. That is a wife’s worst mistake.”

  “If you didn’t interfere, Godfrey would find it more disturbing than if you did.”

  “Tut, Nell. I trust I know how to keep our lives interesting by not insisting on overmuch collaboration. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ is not an adage for nothing. Of course I miss Godfrey dreadfully, and don’t doubt his similar sentiments, but I also anticipate a most . . . refreshing reunion. Especially when I can share what I’ve learned about my origins, which will remake me to an extent in his eyes. It’s important in life, as in acting on the stage, to be someone of whom others can eternally learn more. What Godfrey doesn’t know about me and what I am doing at any given moment is infinitely more intriguing than what he does. That is always the way of it between men and women.”

  “Really?” I turned my speculations to another couple entirely.

  “Now,” Irene said, “we must go shopping.”

  “Why must we?”

  “We have nothing suitable to wear when calling upon a bishop.”

  “But . . . all our money has gone into your ‘donation.’”

  “Not all,” said Irene, donning her gloves and a mischievous smile. “I made sure that enough money was sent to last us a good long time here in the New World, as well as provide for any fresh emergencies on the scale of visiting a bishop.”

  I barely had time to stick a pin through my hat and catch up my gloves before she had swept out the door.

  The Episcopal Club had been founded, Irene told me, for high churchmen. Women were seldom present, unless they were on the cleaning staff.

  “Then why are we not dressed as maids?” I asked as our hired carriage jolted down Fifth Avenue.

  “You saw the limitations of the role of maid for yourself just a few days ago: one may always be ordere
d out of the way. It is an ungrateful role on the stage and even more so in real life. I merely point out that this is an exclusively male compound we broach.”

  “That is nothing new to you, nor was it to Lola Montez, come to think of it. Her ‘salons’ often had only male guests, so she smoked cigars and drank wine with the best, and the worst, of them.”

  “That woman had a nerve, especially when you think her day was in the ’40s and ’50s. We will be among far more refined, and older, men. I merely warn you, Nell, that they may not know quite what to make of us.”

  “I must say that you have attired us like a pair of extremely rich temperance ladies.”

  Irene beamed at my praise, since I rarely gave it on matters of dress. I treated her like the prettiest child at a garden party: it would not do to comment on the charm of her face and gown, for then one would have a spoiled child.

  “It was most difficult to come up with something suitably ‘serious’ during this frothy summer season.” Irene brushed her dark puffed sleeves to attention. “A pity to spend so much money on such dull goods.”

  Dull goods! True, the colors were not as riotous as petunias, but in honor of this charitable outing, I had allowed Irene to attire me with the latest fashion. I was also perhaps thinking of the stylish Miss Bly with her exotic hats and eighteen-inch waist.

  Irene had chosen a steel gray silk gown with full sleeves from shoulder to elbow. A black lace high collar and neckline was underlined by a thick, glittering rainfall of solid jet beads over the bosom. A diamond pattern of jet beads crisscrossed the skirt as if it were quilted, and she wore a broad-brimmed summer black straw hat surmounted with gray ostrich plumes.

  I also wore summer black straw, but my plumes were green, as was my tailored riding-habit-styled gown. I was the more experimental of us two, for once; my gown had an upstanding white collar like a gentleman’s, and a slim black satin tie. It struck me as a most businesslike ensemble, and I couldn’t complain, or, rather, chose not to.

  We descended from the hired carriage at a sober-fronted brownstone building that bore only a gilt number on the glass window above the door. Soon we were admitted by a butler as dignified as any MP. When the heavy door shut behind us, we were enveloped by an eerie hush. The constant street sounds faded as if sent to bed early.

  “How may I assist you ladies?” the butler asked softly.

  “We have,” Irene said with equal discretion, “an appointment with Bishop Potter. I am Mrs. Norton and my companion is Miss Huxleigh.”

  He nodded and showed us into a front parlor.

  As in the hall, the carpet here was maroon colored and heavy. Thick velvet curtains shut out both the light and noise of the avenue. Several small bronze lamps set around the room (no glaring electric lights!) wore stained-glass shades as exquisite as cathedral rose windows.

  A painting of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane was framed in gold on one brocaded wall, and a scent of candle wax wafted from somewhere not seen.

  Irene arrayed herself on a black horsehair settee that gleamed like satin. Then she set her parasol ferrule into the deep carpet as if planting a lance outside a jousting tent. I couldn’t help thinking of the Widow of Windsor. Irene resembled an extremely youthful and comely Queen Victoria sitting in state to greet her ministers.

  Only this minister was a bishop.

  It would be interesting to see how Irene, ordinarily as irreligious as a pagan child, would handle a prince of the Church. And vice versa. I occupied myself with removing the small pencil from my handsome silver chatelaine and producing my petite notebook from the pocket of my faux riding habit.

  “Oh,” I whispered to Irene. “I just remembered. She rode.”

  Irene darted me an alarmed but incomprehensible glance.

  “Lola. She learned in India when she was a child. Rode like an Amazon, they said.”

  “Not a recommendation to me, who does not ride at all,” Irene assured me.

  As the door creaked preparatory to opening, we resumed our spine-stiff tea party postures.

  A man on the weathered side of fifty entered, attired in a dark gray suit, with a circle of white collar at his neck. Only a trifle of gray threaded his hair, and the wrinkles on his face were the sort left by smiles rather than frowns.

  “How good to see you,” he said. “Mrs. Norton?”

  Irene nodded and smiled. He then turned to me. “And Miss Huxleigh. May I offer some refreshment?”

  “Tea would be wonderful,” I said.

  “Alas, Miss Huxleigh, we are a morning-coffee and afternoon-sherry-drinking set.” Amazingly, he must have detected my slight moue at the mention of sherry, for he next offered “Lemonade? And ginger snaps. We have very fine ginger snaps.”

  I didn’t know what ginger snaps were (they sounded rather aggressive), but this unassuming bishop seemed so pleased to offer them that I knew I would have to consume at least one to be polite. Being polite is a burden that I find harder to justify as I get older.

  The bishop seated himself on a tapestry-upholstered armchair under the familiar image of Our Lord on his knees by the altar of a large rock. This presented an uneasy contrast between the roots of religious belief and the modern-day ease of following it.

  “I understand,” he said, “that you are the source of a generous donation, Mrs. Norton.”

  “The generosity is all yours,” Irene answered. “My donation is not so grand as to merit an appointment, I know, but I sought some information in turn, if I may put it so bluntly.”

  “Feel free to put it any way you like. You would be amazed at what strings come attached to donations.”

  “Mine is not a string, Bishop Potter, but a mere thread. We . . . I . . . had thought to support a Magdalen refuge, but then wondered if such a thing still existed.”

  “It does, though not by that name any longer, which was found in more recent times to be a bit prejudicial. Is there some reason you wish to support this particular institution?”

  Irene allowed her gloved hands to fidget with the closure on her reticule. Nerves were unknown to every fiber of her being, at least visibly, but she found it useful to ape the mannerisms of less doughty sisters on certain social occasions. Worming information out of unsuspecting bishops was one of those occasions.

  “I am on a quest to discover who my mother might have been, and it’s possible that she was a Mrs. Eliza Gilbert.”

  The bishop started slightly, which I took for a hopeful sign.

  Irene was no less observant than I. “You know that name? I confess that I didn’t, at first.”

  The bishop turned (with relief?) as a serving maid entered with a silver tray.

  In moments she was filling tall frosted glasses with lemonade. The bishop declined one, but given the warm day outside and the heavy draperies swathing the windows, the room was a bit stifling so I accepted.

  “Most refreshing,” Irene said, setting down her glass with a final gesture after taking a first sip. “I am right in suspecting that you are familiar with the name of Eliza Gilbert?”

  “Indeed.” The bishop folded his arms and smiled ruefully. “In fact I heard it again after a long while only a few weeks ago. How did you arrive at the notion that this Mrs. Gilbert was your mother?”

  “First,” said Irene, “you must understand that no mother reared me. I had in fact become quite accustomed to the idea that I not only had no mother but no chance of learning to whom I had been born, when a rather noted New Yorker known as Nellie Bly cabled me in Paris that she thought she might know who my mother was. After much investigation, it was suggested to me that the apparent candidate can be found under a tombstone in Green-Wood Cemetery under the name of Eliza Gilbert.”

  “Mrs. Eliza Gilbert,” I put in. It would not do for a churchman to think needlessly that Irene was less than a legal offspring.

  Bishop Potter nodded thoughtfully. “If you know of the Magdalen Asylum, then you know of the other name this woman went by, shall I say?”

 
“Lola Montez.” Irene let the name roll off her tongue like a fanfare.

  “It is ‘Mrs. Norton?’” he said, leaning in.

  “Yes.”

  “You are married.”

  “Indeed. To an English barrister living abroad. Quite respectably.”

  I saw her fairly bite her tongue to keep from adding that this was the only respectable thing about her.

  “A barrister.” His repetition implied approval. “Perhaps your barrister husband, Mrs. Norton, were he here, would urge you to forgo this search for a never-known mother. It is hard to be an orphan. It may be even harder to be the daughter of a woman as internationally notorious as Lola Montez.”

  “A mother,” Irene said, quite reversing her opinion of weeks ago, or perhaps merely pretending to, “is a mother, and worth knowing about.”

  The bishop regarded her intently for moments that quickly became awkward.

  “You are a remarkably beautiful woman, Mrs. Norton. So was Lola Montez. I can detect no resemblance.”

  “You saw her, then?” Irene sat forward eagerly.

  “And heard her.”

  “Heard her? She danced, not sang.”

  “When she lived in New York in the late ’50s—this became her home city in what would be the last few years of her life—she no longer danced. But she did lecture, and quite impressively. I was just a young man, freshly ordained and freshly rector of a Pennsylvania church. I had been elected provincial bishop of New York, so I came to the city occasionally. I admit that I publicly objected to a woman of her reputation lecturing at Hope Chapel, but I was won over completely when Miss Lola Montez’s lecture on the Catholic Church caught my eye and I attended. She was quite incensed about my previous position on her, but forgave me, and the lecture was held in the Episcopal Church.”

  “I understand her dancing was laughable.”

  “I can only speak to her elocution, Mrs. Norton. She spoke eloquently enough to give a preacher a blush of envy. Her health had not yet begun to fail, at least visibly, and she utterly commanded the podium and that audience. I recall a slender figure with curling dark hair gathered behind her ears, expressive features, and the most unworldly dark blue eyes that radiated light and life. I was, I admit, far more captivated than a cleric should have been.”