by Amy Thomas
I stopped to take a drink of my now-cold coffee, and Holmes stood up and turned to the shelf behind the sofa, which was empty except for a tattered grey afghan that was redolent of mothballs. He handed it to me. I hadn’t realised I was chilled, but even in Florida, an old theatre can be draughty. ‘Your hands turned pale,’ he said, by way of explanation. I thanked him and tucked the afghan around myself, glad for a reprieve before the most difficult part of my recollection, the years I would have liked to forget.
‘The trouble started when we reached West Yorkshire. I can’t—I still can’t explain how quickly it happened. I flattered myself before that I was not a stupid woman, Holmes, but I had been completely taken in. Godfrey was nothing like the man I had known. It immediately became apparent that he had married me for my fortune, the one thing he did not possess to go along with his property and the lifestyle of the landed gentry he sought. He told me very quickly that he had known about his inheritance far longer than he had let on—since before our first meeting, in fact.’
‘I was shaken, but I planned my escape, determined not to be beaten so easily. He was too vigilant. The man who had been able to deceive me was able to retain power over me by having servants in my way constantly, people who believed he was the kindest of husbands to be so solicitous of his wife’s needs. Outwardly, I lived the life of a princess. Inwardly, I felt as if I would die. I could go nowhere alone, do nothing without being watched. My only recourse would have been to injure or kill one of the staff and go alone into the Yorkshire countryside. In London, I would have risked it with a sedative in the teacup of a maid, but in Yorkshire I had access to nothing and no knowledge of the area. I was trapped.’ As I finished my statement, I saw Holmes’s hand clasp into a fist inadvertently, the first sign of acknowledgement he had given in many minutes. I surmised that his quick brain was producing in him the feelings of a trapped mind, my captive feelings.
‘I will not explain all the details of my relationship with my husband. It is hardly necessary and excessively painful to recall. Suffice to say that he did everything to me that a man can do to make a woman’s life miserable, both mentally and physically. I had been with unpleasant men before, but his triumph made him crueler than anyone I had ever known. The only hold I had over him was music. During our courtship, I would sing to him almost every night, and he had professed great fondness for my voice. That, at least, was not a lie. When we were married, he would beg me to sing for him, over and over, and I would refuse. It drove him mad, but I never cared what he did then because I knew that I had kept something for myself. It kept me alive, that one thing.’
I leaned forward. ‘One day, Holmes, it happened. We were eating dinner in the evening, and Godfrey complained of stomach discomfort and went to bed. I was relieved because he did not insist that I accompany him. I ate a relatively pleasant dinner under the eyes of the servants and went to my room to allow my maid to undress me for the night. Before she could do so, Godfrey’s valet came rushing to the door to alert me that my husband was in unendurable pain and needed the doctor, who was immediately sent for. I went to Godfrey’s room and found him sweating profusely and swearing while clutching his chest. I was in a daze. It hardly seemed possible that a figure who held such terrible power in my mind could be lying powerless against some invisible malady. Wild thoughts of murder rushed through my brain, thoughts of the ease of doing away with him in such a weakened condition, but I stood and stared at him as they came and then passed like cooling firebrands. The doctor arrived from the village an hour later and pronounced Godfrey’s condition serious. He gave him something for the pain, but that was all he was able to do. My husband died later that night, at about midnight. His death was attributed to heart failure, and the inquest was conducted quickly and seamlessly.’
‘I was free, Holmes, and the law guaranteed me the return of my money. In the three years we were married, Godfrey had been so concerned about house and grounds that he had been scrupulously careful with my fortune. Had he wished, he could have taken action, I know, to connect the money to the estate more firmly, but he was so convinced of his own ability to manage every detail that he had not yet done so.’
‘I was tempted to fly immediately, as I think you can imagine, but I maintained an appearance of genteel mourning until all the legal steps were completed. Once my solicitor, James Barnett, assured me that my money was again my own, I arranged to travel to America. Music has been the one friend who never betrayed me, so I took it up again. Singing was my livelihood in the past, but I saw no reason why I could not return to it for different reasons. I planned my life very differently, Holmes, but this is what I have left, a voice and a fortune.’ I could not help the slightly bitter note that crept into my voice near the end, but I supposed he expected it. He had helped too many unfortunate women to be unaware of the usual results.
‘There you have it, Holmes,’ I finished, sitting back in my uncomfortable chair and looking at him full-on, my eyes challenging him to betray his inner thoughts. He gradually roused from his apparent torpor and sat up straight, his eyes meeting mine without judgement or comment.
‘Thank you, Irene,’ he finally intoned, sounding slightly awkward over my name. ‘I had surmised the greater part of your circumstances correctly, but your narrative has supplied key details of which I was otherwise unaware.’ He stared at me for a moment, his eyes curiously bright. ‘It is not my usual practice to disclose my methods to anyone except Dr Watson during a case, but I am confident that in you I have a listener who will be able to ascertain and comprehend what I say. In short, Irene, I hope that by the end of my tale, we will be allies.’ His eyes presented a challenge as open as mine had been.
‘That is a somewhat extraordinary hope, Holmes,’ I shot back, ‘considering our previous interactions.’
‘Not at all,’ he returned, with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. ‘It is merely a logical assumption.’ I smiled at him, unable to stop myself, remembering the night I had dared to greet him in the street while dressed like a boy—an unnecessary greeting for an extraordinary man, a man who had been entirely impossible to ignore. Three years had changed me a great deal but seemed to have changed him not at all.
Chapter 2: Holmes
Irene Adler was an unusual woman. That was hardly necessary to consider. Holmes had been aware of it since the moment he’d recognised her as the successful mastermind of his defeat in the Bohemian affair, and now, as he saw her before him, the impression was strong once again. Nevertheless, he knew, the human heart was consistent—consistently susceptible, even in a genius. Men and women, both the stupid and the clever, had been taken in by the opposite sex since the dawn of time, he didn’t doubt, and would be taken in until it ended. Like many others, Irene had seen what she desired to see and ignored the rest. She had been foolish—understandably so, perhaps, but she had also been strong. A weaker person would have succumbed to despair long before three years had passed, and he could hardly fault her for being deceived by another when he had been deceived by her. He could not, however, keep himself from wishing that her suspicions had served her better. Weakness was more painful than usual when he saw it in one to whom he had attributed unusual intelligence. But, as he knew too well, no mind was infallible.
The detective leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, looking into The Woman’s delicate face. He wished, as he had throughout the evening, that he had his pipe. The oversight had been deliberate, however, as it had no place in his chosen disguise, and he satiated himself by thinking of it lying snugly in its leather pouch in his hotel.
‘The story starts,’ he began, ‘with my death.’ He relished the quick look of surprise that flashed across her features. He always had enjoyed a shocking beginning. ‘After your departure, my life proceeded largely as it always had, except that I began to detect a hidden pattern that I had never before seen, as if the underworld of London were running according to a shar
ed agenda. There was a regularity to it, a deadly efficiency that nothing so vast can reach without someone or something orchestrating its movements. I will not tax you by explaining all of my processes, but I discovered the unmoved mover, as they say, to be a man named James Moriarty, an Irish professor of unassuming appearance and remarkable mind. He set out to kill me, and it became evident fairly quickly that I would not be safe while the man remained at large, free to use his vast organization as he willed. Watson went with me to Switzerland, and I met Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, arranging things so that my friend would find evidence of a scene that appeared to be the death-place of both Moriarty and myself. The first assumption was correct; Moriarty met his death by equal parts my hand and the inexorability of the Falls. I escaped, however, and traveled immediately to Florence, Italy, from whence I contacted my brother. My object was to remain absent from England, or, indeed, from the knowledge of the public, until enough of Moriarty’s associates had been apprehended that I might return without unreasonable risk to Watson or to the investigation. Such is still my intent.’
‘Now to the part of the story that concerns you. During my time in Florence, my brother, who works for the British government in a diplomatic role, sent me a letter, a request that I sail to America, and a note insisting that I not open the enclosed missive until I arrived. More than that, he asked that I wait until I had reached a town south of here called Fort Myers, an outpost during the American Seminole and Civil Wars. I didn’t know what he meant by the request, but my brother’s mind is very like my own, so I did as he asked. Truthfully, without a firm objective, I grow irritable, and I was glad of having a purpose.’
Holmes’s deliberate omission of the scope of Mycroft’s influence was, he considered, entirely necessary. What he had said was technically true and hopefully sufficient to satisfy Irene’s immediate curiosity. He trusted her mind enough to believe that she would not betray him in a naive manner, but he did not trust her nearly enough to be willing to share internationally sensitive information in a wanton way. Whatever else was true, Mycroft must be protected. The Holmes brothers did not have a code; they simply shared keen enough intellects to understand the delicacy of one another’s positions in the world. Mycroft could certainly take care of himself, but Holmes did not intend to complicate his task by bringing The Woman into more than necessary confidence.
He noted with pleasure that Irene was completely engrossed in his tale, her slim body alert as she followed his every word, her tiny hands pressed against the arms of her chair. ‘When I reached Fort Myers, I opened this.’ He handed the paper to her. No need to be irritatingly coy. Her eyes scanned the note once and then again, and her face gradually lost colour and gained it again in a heightened fashion. Holmes watched her expression shift from polite interest to malignant anger in seconds, a remarkable transformation. At once, her demeanor changed to one of focused purpose as her anger was instantly sublimated, a process Holmes recognised and respected.
‘Continue,’ she said very quickly, a slightly breathless note in her voice, but she sat back in her chair, the only evidence of her agitation the vice-like grip with which she still clasped Barnett’s letter in her right hand.
‘You will have already connected this letter with your recent circumstances, but I had no such references, though I immediately surmised what my brother already understood, that this letter concerned yourself and those who wish to harm you in some way. I believe my brother’s insistence that I wait to read it related to the fact that he thought I might be reluctant to help one who had so effectively defeated me in the past.’ Holmes smiled to himself. ‘Unlike my brother, however, I do not hold grudges. In fact, since we have been fortunate enough to meet again—(the word fortunate came off his tongue with a razor-edge)—I am happy to say that I bear you no ill-will. On the contrary, I find your wit refreshing.’
Irene’s face remained blank, and Holmes couldn’t tell if his admission had had any effect on her. It wasn’t a lie, but his inclusion of it at that particular moment wasn’t entirely artless, either. He intended to have Irene Adler for an ally before the evening was over, and he was determined to play his cards until the right one hit the table.
‘I will help you.’ Holmes tried in vain to keep his surprise at Irene’s words from registering on his face. ‘You’ve no need to keep courting me, Holmes.’ Her eyes burned into him like the coldest ice. ‘I know that once you’ve taken a case, you won’t rest until it’s solved. If I or my property is in danger, I can be in no better hands than yours. That is not a compliment; it is a statement of fact. Do not expect my trust beyond this, but I will help you.’ She ceased speaking, and Holmes nodded once. She returned the gesture. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve learned.’
‘I knew that Mycroft would not have sent me to south Florida without a definite purpose, and I soon discovered what it was. A man called Alberto Sanchez, a native of Central America, owns a profitable citrus grove ten miles outside of the city of Fort Myers. He is not yet wealthy, but will be once his harvest is concluded. The area is largely peopled by field workers and fruit magnates; he is one of the latter category, of course, a very recent newcomer. In the three weeks I have resided in town, I have received the impression that he is on the edge of polite society—hardly the darling of the most respectable, but with money that makes him more than a pariah. Society I find more interesting than expected, frankly.’ Holmes put his hands together and pressed his fingertips to one another, relishing what he was about to say.
‘The belle of Fort Myers, Irene, is none other than Mrs Mina Edison, the young and lovely wife of the brilliant inventor Thomas Edison.’ To Holmes’s satisfaction, Irene’s smile hid neither her surprise nor her pleasure at learning this.
‘But why are they in Florida, Holmes, without all the conveniences of the North?’ For the moment, she appeared to have forgotten her own troubles in her sudden interest. Holmes noted that she looked more alive, more like the woman he’d encountered three years earlier, than she had all evening.
‘The family divides its time between New Jersey and Florida, spending the cooler months in the South and the warmer in the North, a practice that is not unpopular among Americans with enough disposable income to make it feasible.’
‘What else have you learned?’
‘I will happily tell you, but the story will better accompany our train journey in the morning. If we catch the 7:30, we’ll be in Fort Myers by late afternoon.’
‘You wish me to come with you, then?’
Holmes looked at Irene in dead earnest. ‘Of course. I came with no other object. Your presence is required to carry the case to a successful conclusion.’
‘Well, Holmes, when you put the offer in such romantic terms—’ Irene looked up from contemplating the faded green carpet and half smiled. ‘I take it you’ve figured out a way to explain to the theatre why their prima donna is about to be in absentia for the remainder of her scheduled dates.’
‘Naturally. On the very morning of the disappearance of Irene Adler, Annie Hart will arrive requesting the theatre for her personal use. The management will be delighted to have the Bowery Girl herself, and the absence of the charming but as-of-yet lesser-known Irene Adler will be a convenience rather than a hardship. Thankfully, Miss Hart owes me a favour. I confess that getting rid of your manager presented a greater challenge, but in the morning, he will find himself in receipt of a telegram supposedly composed by yourself, declaring that your nerves have been frayed by your hectic touring schedule and declaring your intention to rest in seclusion. A hefty sum of money will be wired to him as well, a supposed gift from his appreciative, though delicate, client. He will be instructed to await your communication at a future date.’
‘You arranged all this beforehand?’
‘Of course, I could not afford to lose time after contacting you.’
‘You were that sure.’ It wasn’t a question. Irene st
ared at him with what appeared to be a mixture of admiration and something that went deeper than annoyance but stopped short of loathing, something like resistance.
‘I hoped,’ Holmes answered truthfully. He held out a train ticket, and she took it without hesitation. ‘In the morning, gather your funds and belongings and come to the station. If you see me, do not acknowledge it by look or word, and I will do the same. I am not known here, but I don’t want to take chances this close to the scene of events, especially in a place where a stray concertgoer might recognise the divine Miss Adler. Go to the third carriage. I have arranged for it to remain empty.’
‘Once on the train, your name will be Mrs Lavinia James, wife to Bernard James, a British investor with more money than sense, who is travelling in the new world to enjoy himself and discover whether or not citrus fruit is the key to augmenting his fortune. The emphasis is on the enjoying; Mr James finds it necessary to attend as many social functions as he can and make himself as charming as possible to everyone. He is eager to introduce his American wife, who has been nursing her sick sister but is now joining him.’
‘Your wife,’ said Irene drily.
‘Well, you could hardly play the role of my valet,’ said Holmes, smiling to himself, ‘unless, of course, you still possess that charming outfit you donned during our previous encounter.’ The Woman did not reply.
* * *
Irene’s hotel was in a much more fashionable part of the city than the detective’s. He deposited her at the door and took off down the dark street, musing. He hadn’t minded his time alone on the Continent and then in this strange climate where autumn brought nothing more than the slightest addition of a breeze to make the sun less unbearable. He liked the focus that solitude brought, the quiet clarity. And yet, solitude had also been the siren that whispered the craving into his mind and placed the syringe in his hand. Past solitude had made him dependent. Truthfully, he needed the friction of other minds, the whetstone of communication, to keep him from sliding into the grey. When he thought about it, he missed the comfortable ease of Watson, the familiar, practical turns of mind, the errors and the occasional triumphs. He missed the rhythm. He even missed the irritation, the annoyance that reminded him he was more than a machine.
