by Amy Thomas
Holmes leaned forward and gazed intently into The Woman’s attentive face. ‘I wonder, Irene, what part Mycroft was intended to play in all of this. As I told you, the letter from Barnett to Sanchez came to him with almost serendipitous chance. I wonder now, more than ever, if my brother was meant to be involved. Perhaps the mastermind, whether Barnett, Sanchez, or someone else, misjudged his character and believed that he would take up where his younger brother had left off—with the same sort of investigation. Perhaps Sanchez was taught to expect to see the face of the elder brother, but instead found himself surprisingly face-to-face with the younger.’
‘But for what purpose could he possibly need to know your brother’s face?’
‘That is what we must find out. I am afraid, Irene, that this will be our last taste of fine accommodations for some time. Tonight, Bernard and Lavinia James will receive urgent news that calls them back home to England. Tomorrow, you and I will emerge as merchants to set up shop among the migrant day labourers, our faces different enough to fool even those we met this evening if necessary. We may safely hope that our roles will not be tested too acutely right away, for I intend us to mix with a segment of local society that families like the Edisons are hardly likely to meet on a regular basis.’
Holmes noted that Irene’s eyes held excitement rather than fear and trust rather than suspicion. Her beautiful face was alive with the prospect of adventure. ‘Tell me what you wish me to do, and I will help in any way I can.’
‘First,’ he said quietly, ‘I must thank you for your cool head this evening. Without you, I would be in grave danger with no idea of my own peril. Second, it is obvious that both of us take a great risk by remaining here. I now believe, much more than at any previous point in this case, that the key to the mystery may be found here, but that very fact means harm is not far away. If you wish to extricate yourself, I will not deter you.’
Irene put out a small hand and lightly touched the detective’s long fingers as they rested on his knee. ‘I agreed to help you,’ she said softly, ‘and I will continue to do so as long as I may be useful. I assure you, I am not afraid.’ Just then, out of nowhere, she smiled—a rare, wide, bracing smile. Holmes returned it with one of his own. They spent the rest of the night preparing to take on new characters.
The next morning, Gloria Stillwell rose to find on her front hall table a generous sum of money and a note explaining that Mr and Mrs Bernard James had been forced to return to England at their earliest possible convenience to care for a sick friend. Meanwhile, a tall man and a short man dressed in cheap clothing visited the poorest section of Fort Myers and hired an elderly horse and nearly-defunct wagon, which they filled with tattered raiment and low-quality goods. Their afternoon enquiry into the rental of a tiny, empty shop with a dilapidated sign that had once read ‘Sloane’s General Store’ proved rewarding, and a few more cartfuls of goods meant that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler were in business by evening, proud occupants of a small, square building with sandy floors, empty shelves, and nothing to recommend it except its location and the miniscule flat above it.
The following morning, Holmes dressed himself after a long sleepless night spent in one of the spindly chairs the previous occupants had seen fit to leave in the tattered flat, his pipe forming a pleasant accompaniment to the slight coolness in the evening breeze. Irene had slept soundly, no doubt exhausted from the previous night’s sleeplessness and the previous day’s transactions. One day was hardly long enough to rent and stock a general store, but that name was generous in this case, and Holmes meant it to be. Forced to be unrecognisable in high society, he intended to work from within another strata of the infrastructure that kept the city moving, that of the migrant day labourers, of whom Alberto Sanchez employed three hundred in his citrus grove on the outskirts of town. If Holmes could not get at the man directly, he would work through his organization. The stakes were higher now. If Sanchez knew his face and knew that he lived, Holmes could not afford to rest.
Once dressed in coarse brown slacks and a slightly ill-fitting grey shirt, Holmes darkened his skin and altered his face, making himself appear weathered and inelegant. He added wrinkles and rounded his sharp features. The cracked mirror on one of the walls revealed him as a middle-aged workman, which was exactly what he desired. He intended that that anyone entering the store should think him a manual labourer whose ambitions had acquired him a dingy store of his own.
After finishing his own toilette, he woke Irene with a gentle shake to the shoulder before leaving the room to give her time to dress. She had been dressed as a male the previous day, but from now on she would portray the lady of the establishment, a woman slightly nearer gentility than her husband, but still coarse and weatherbeaten. Holmes re-entered the room upon hearing a light tap from inside the door. Irene wore a plain yellow cotton dress, worn from its previous owner’s use, but she was still stunningly beautiful. Wordlessly, Holmes placed the rickety chair in front of the basin and began to work on his still-sleepy companion, using makeup to create lines of exhaustion and worry where there were none and slight asymmetry in near-perfect features. At last, he took her hair and mussed it slightly, arranging it as sloppily as he could without arriving at a completely inappropriate conclusion. He took care to commit every step to memory so that he would be able to replicate the results as many times as needed.
Irene walked over to the broken mirror and stared at her reflection. ‘I’m afraid I can’t completely eradicate your beauty without more extensive work,’ murmured Holmes behind her, in a tone laced with irony.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, whirling on him. ‘Godfrey couldn’t manage it either, no matter how hard he tried.’
The tall detective stepped back as if he’d been slapped, but regained his composure after a moment. ‘I’ve found us a place to eat breakfast before we open.’ He spoke as if nothing had happened, but Irene wouldn’t look at him. Without speaking further, he led the way downstairs and into the morning half-light of the dusty road.
Barcroft’s wasn’t the sort of place Lavinia and Bernard James would visit, but it was every bit the kind of place Jane and Tom Perkins, junk and supply store owners, would certainly frequent. Holmes and Irene were ushered into the cramped establishment and seated at a round table in a tiny, dubiously-kept corner, away from the few groups of working-class men who had come in for a very early-morning breakfast and, for some, liquid fortification. The other patrons’ initial glances at the newcomers gave way to disinterest, so the detective was assured that their disguises were at least marginally effective. Holmes took a sip of the indifferent coffee the waitress brought and declared it vile with a disgusted expression. Irene looked up and met his gaze, then dropped her eyes quickly. ‘This will not do,’ he murmured, whether to himself or to her he was unsure. It had been a great deal of time since he’d had such protracted contact with a female of any sort, and he was beginning to recall the pitfalls that invariably complicated such associations. Watson had his days, of course, but a glass of scotch and a good pork pie set him to rights without difficulty. One couldn’t ply Irene Adler with a pork pie and expect the same result, more was the pity. The detective’s mind extended to the furthest bounds of male existence, but where females were concerned, there had always been certain blanks. The current problem was that communication, which was vital during a case, required the cooperation of two, and one of those two was persisting in her silence.
‘I apologise, Holmes.’ The Woman’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘I have no cause to bring my private feelings into the case.’ Holmes stared at her as if she had suddenly acquired the power of speech after profound muteness.
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Quite,’ she replied, blushing and staring at the thick white plate on the table before her. Holmes felt fortunate when a plate of irregularly-shaped sausage arrived a moment later, accompanied by white pillows of dough the waitress called bisc
uits, though they were nothing like the English variety.
‘Don’t you intend to eat?’ Irene asked once she had taken a few bites and noticed his lack of movement.
‘Not hungry,’ Holmes answered. ‘I rarely require food while I work.’
‘Well, that’s one difference between us,’ his companion replied between bites, her good humour apparently restored. The biscuits seemed to meet with her approval, as she downed three of them and two large sausages. ‘I always eat well when I’m on tour,’ she continued after she had finished her last crumb. ‘Otherwise, I’m inclined toward irritation.’ Holmes caught a mischievous glint in her eye.
Watson might be easier to handle, but he was hardly given to mischievous glances.
Chapter 7: Irene
I found, after breakfast, that I looked forward to the day. The sense of impending danger was not entirely absent from my mind, but my unfamiliar clothing and the paint on my face gave me a measure of freedom I had not enjoyed while still in my own guise. I would have to be more vigilant, I realised, not to allow myself to strike at Holmes for being the only available representative of the non-female species. The detective hardly deserved that, and any debt he owed me from our previous skirmish he had more than paid by taking the case.
We returned to the shop shoulder-to-shoulder, and Holmes briefed me on the objectives of the day. For the first time, we were to separate. He intended to visit the site of Sanchez’s citrus grove, while I tended the store and learned what I could from anyone I met. Rather than being a cause for apprehension, the idea of being on my own invigorated me.
The idea of it invigorated me, that is. I was less thrilled when no one had come into the store after two hours and I had checked the sign for the third time. I decided to do some reconnaissance on the rest of the street, keeping an eye on the unprepossessing space where Holmes and I plied our temporary wares. My object was the store we had visited the previous day to purchase our ragged clothing, a well-kept secondhand shop with a matriarchal owner who considered herself far above her clientele. On our first visit, I’d been dressed as a boy, and I hadn’t spoken. As a result, I hoped and expected that she wouldn’t recognise me in my current incarnation.
A doorbell announced my entrance, and I was surprised to find a young man behind the counter instead of an elderly woman. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said, his voice thick with the slow drawl of the American Deep South, and I acknowledged his greeting with a nod. I moved quickly through the main room, which held glass cases that cradled expensive items such as silver spoons and brooches of dubious origin, and passed through to a cluttered side room that held clothing racks, piles of dilapidated shoes, and hats stacked high on top of one another. For several minutes, I was the only patron in the store, but my waiting was finally rewarded by the entrance of a woman. I watched her surreptitiously, ostensibly holding up a threadbare coat to test its suitability. She held a baby in one arm, nearly a newborn by the look of it, and her face was worn, though I thought she was no older than I was, if as old.
I listened casually as she began to address the youthful shopkeeper. ‘Tommy, you better be glad you ain’t out today. Bill’s gone crazy cause Sanchez is in some kind of hurry to get it all in before the end of the month.’ At the name Sanchez, I stopped moving and listened intently.
‘What for?’ asked the boy in a conspiratorial tone.
‘Dunno,’ was the disappointing answer, ‘but my Jim says Bill’s in a temper and screaming at everybody.’ I took note. Even if this was the only thing I learned all day, at least I had something to tell Holmes. After the woman had left, I bought a pair of shoes with worn-out soles and departed with a word to the young man about the store I’d just opened with my husband. I walked back toward Sloane’s General Store, not overly concerned at the prospect that someone might have stolen some of our cheap wares. On my way, I watched the sun’s glare in shop windows and discerned nothing important or significant to the case.
Fortunately, the woman from the secondhand store stepped into the store right after me, balancing her tiny baby on her hip and holding a bag of purchases in her other hand. She stared at the cheap cookware, used furnishings, and non-perishable foods that lined the shelves almost haphazardly, picking up a jar of crushed sage. After a while, she brought it to the counter and asked me its price. In order to loosen her tongue, I quoted her an amount much lower than its value.
‘You’re new in town,’ she said, with a slight air of distrust. ‘I saw you in Morgan’s just now.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘My husband and I just came here from Iowa.’
‘Well, you’re lucky not to be in the groves.’
‘Why is that?’ I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
‘Things are getting worse these days. My husband Jim went to work for a new boss because the pay is better, but it looks like he’s going to force us all out in the end. It’s the deadlines—most of the bosses’ll need pickers for at least another four weeks, but he wants it all by the end of the month—only two weeks—and that means the foremen drive the men like slaves.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said sympathetically.
‘Well, it’s the way of this life,’ she said, giving me a few coins and leaving.
* * *
I was vastly relieved when Holmes finally stepped through the door of the shop, looking pleased. ‘I can see that your day has proved more successful than mine,’ I said by way of a greeting.
‘Indeed,’ he answered, locking the door and leading the way up the narrow, rickety stairs to the tiny upstairs flat. As we cleaned our faces, he began his story.
‘My first object was Sanchez’s citrus grove outside of town. I was admitted after a wheedling promise that my shop might be able to stock necessaries like tobacco and liquor at lower-than-market prices. Almost as soon as I stepped onto the premises, I learned a vital piece of information.’
‘Sanchez is forcing the men to work much more quickly than the other growers’ men,’ I inserted.
‘Exactly so,’ said Holmes, looking gratifyingly surprised.
‘I was introduced to an unpleasant character called Bill, who brought me into his office.’
‘The foreman,’ I put in, but Holmes ignored me this time.
‘I was given to understand that a company office exists somewhere in town, but the field office is in a shed on the edge of the grove itself. I did not expect to be treated well enough to be introduced to the head foreman, and when I was, I began to be concerned that Sanchez himself might be in evidence, a possibility I would like to avoid for the moment. Thankfully, Bill mentioned offhand that his employer would be conducting business in town all day.’
‘But here’s the rub, Irene,’ he said, stopping dramatically as he finished wiping off the remnants of his altered nose. ‘The photograph was on his desk. There I was, having a normal conversation, if somewhat dishonest in the common way, about cost and supply, with a picture of myself and my brother staring up at me. The man did not appear to recognise me, but I confess I was not entirely comfortable with the situation. The other odd thing is—’ and he fixed his eyes on my now-clean face with intensity, ‘the photo wasn’t the one I predicted. I was wrong. It was one from several years ago, a picture of my brother and me on the day of my graduation from Cambridge. I was not aware a copy existed, other than the ones Mycroft and I possess.’
‘How long has it been since you looked at that photograph, Holmes?’ I asked quickly, feeling myself start to blush.
He shook his head. ‘Not since the day I received it in a letter from my brother three months after the occasion. Since then, it has resided among my personal papers.’ I stood with my back to him, trying to will my face back to its usual colour.’
‘Do you remember when Mrs Hudson tried out a new maid, a girl named Sally Hawkins, while you were away?’
‘Yes,’ said Holmes, ‘but I don’t see—’ and then the detective fell silent. I winced. He grasped my shoulders and spun me around to face him. ‘But that was before the King of Bohemia approached me for the first time. What could you possibly have meant by it?’
‘I knew that he was planning to come to you, and I decided to strike first in case some sort of bargain was necessary. Mrs Hudson hardly took her eyes off me, but I found five minutes to look through your small collection of photographs. Your disorganization was beneficial to you, or else I’d have come away with much more. As it was, I only had time to conceal one very old photo of you and the man I now know to be your brother, though I did not realise it at the time. I hoped I had been lucky—that if I ever needed the photo as a bargaining tool, it might be worth at least something small to you. I would have tried again, but Mrs Hudson very wisely did not trust me and put me out of the house.’ Holmes listened to this speech impassively, and I had no idea what sort of thoughts might be going through his mind.
