The Detective and the Woman

by Amy Thomas

  Ambrose nodded calmly. ‘I suppose I have to accept that.’ I felt sorry for the man I hoped he was. As we approached the entrance to the Keystone Hotel, he turned to me. ‘I have not—Mrs Holmes, I consider myself a gentleman, and it has never been my habit to importune respectable ladies. If you and your husband are on the side of right, then please accept my apologies.’

  The only repayment I could give his kindness was my widest smile, but, without being ridiculous, I must admit that men usually seemed to find it a plentiful enough reward. He went on his way, and I returned to my room to make sense of things using the hotel’s cheap stationery and my fountain pen to write down my thoughts.

  Chapter 12: Holmes

  Number 14 Charles Avenue. Holmes studied the rudimentary map of the city that the cheerful clerk of the town’s one real general store had sold him just before closing. While he thought, he smoked a cheap cigarette in a repugnant alley where many others had obviously done the same, given the amount of refuse that littered the ground and the stale smell than lingered in the air. The map showed that he was in the right part of the city for the address he sought, and he didn’t want to make his taxed feet walk all the way back to Sloane’s to wait for dark. In the guise of Tom Perkins, he was below most people’s notice, and he was able to move closer and closer to his object without attracting attention.

  Finally, when the Florida night was covered in thick, humid darkness, he took the last steps to Charles Avenue, a street lined with opulent mansions, some of them even grander than the Edisons’ home. He crept through a few well-kept lawns and skirted two that showed signs of having dogs somewhere on the premises. Number 14 wasn’t vastly different from the others. It had the same appearance of new money, whitewash, and pride built into its wide porch and numerous windows. Holmes walked around it silently, ascertaining that the first floor was dark and silent while the second showed signs of occupants who were awake and active. All the better for his purposes. He stepped silently toward the front porch, hunching over to make himself as short as possible. When he reached it, he took a box of ladies’ face powder out of his pocket and dropped it willy-nilly on the porch floor. Not waiting to see if the sound had roused anyone, he ran back to the road and didn’t slacken his pace until he was far away.

  Holmes again forced his weary feet to carry him to the Keystone Hotel. No one was around its outside, so he went to the door from which Irene had emerged during the day, a door into one of the large ground-floor suites. He listened, but he could hear nothing. It was too late for her to be at dinner, but he hadn’t expected her to be asleep, either. He wanted to be unsuspicious, to trust that Barnett had conducted meetings in the guise of Sanchez all evening and taken no time for a society dinner party, but he couldn’t silence the worry in his mind.

  Concerned, Holmes went into the front entrance. A young porter, not more than fifteen at the oldest, sat behind the desk, playing cards. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, taking in the unpleasant visage and attire of Tom Perkins.

  ‘Has Mrs James come in?’ Holmes asked in an ingratiating tone.

  ‘Why would I tell you that?’ asked the lad, staring belligerently.

  ‘Because of this,’ Holmes spoke in his normal tone and produced a group of coins whose combined value was more than a porter would be likely to make in a week. The boy’s eyes bulged.

  ‘No harm, I guess,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘She ain’t come in anyhow.’

  Holmes wished the boy were lying, but the detective could tell he was sincere. He handed him the coins. ‘Now,’ he said, still in his own voice, ‘if you tell anyone else where the lady is, I’ll know about it, and you won’t get off so easily.’ The boy looked nervous, but Holmes turned tail and left. Once outside, he ran.

  The detective didn’t know the last time he’d done so much legwork in one day, but he didn’t care. He had one place in mind, and if that failed, his case would be about more than identity and theft; it would be about finding a missing woman. Just until tomorrow he thought angrily. Today was the day—the only day—the only time he’d had to leave things to move as they would. He hadn’t believed the man would act so quickly. Mistakes—he’d made them before, but not often. Had he been incorrect now in thinking he had time?

  Holmes’s weary body finally carried him to Sloane’s General Store. With sinking heart, he looked at the lock and found it intact. Cursing his own faith, he took out his key to open the door and give himself one last chance not to be entirely wrong. He nearly called out when the door opened of its own accord. The Woman stood on the other side, dressed in a purple gown. ‘Good evening, Mr Holmes,’ she said, opening it wide to admit him. His fear threatened to turn into wrath for a moment, but logic subsumed it. He had expected this, had known that no matter what he said, she was likely to return. Relief, too, had its place—larger, perhaps, than he had anticipated.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ were the next characteristically blunt words out of her mouth. ‘I needed to talk to you, and I didn’t know what else to do.’ As she had done once before, she went behind the counter and retrieved the detective’s pipe, filling and lighting it before handing it to him.

  ‘I’m entirely unsurprised,’ said Holmes after a few drags of his pipe, forcing himself not to betray his previous worry. ‘What is it you wish to tell me?’ Irene sat on the edge of the counter, not seeming to care what impression her presence might give to outsiders, her dress strangely out of place among the grimy wares.

  ‘I think Ambrose McGregor might be in league with Sanchez,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure his knowledge is as coincidental as we thought.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked the detective calmly. Irene gave a detailed account of her meeting with the man, ending with a restatement of her questions about his possible motives.

  ‘Let us consider,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘If he is part of the plot, why would he make a point of speaking to you? Furthermore, why would he emphasise that he knows me?’

  ‘To try to discover your whereabouts for his accomplice?’ Irene asked. Holmes opened his eyes and looked at The Woman.

  ‘A fair question,’ he said. ‘I’ll grant you that it’s not entirely possible to rule him out. Still, if he had designs on you, he had a perfect opportunity to act on them.’

  ‘That I grant you,’ said Irene quickly, ‘but if your brother—or even you yourself is the object, then his actions make more sense.’

  Holmes did not tell her what he suspected. He still believed, even after the evening’s worry, that she must not know, for fear that she would unwittingly do something to make the entire plan come crashing down.

  ‘I take it,’ he said after a while, ‘that your dinner with the Edisons was uneventful, since you haven’t mentioned it.’

  ‘Very,’ she said simply. ‘It was only a family party with me and the McGregors as additions. Ambrose didn’t say a word to me the whole evening.’

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘You may be interested to know that the case is progressing exactly as it should. Until this unexpected change of plan, you had played your part admirably.’

  Irene looked over at him as if she’d like very much to hit him. ‘How dare you?’ she said, getting up and standing in front of the counter to face him. ‘I know what your clients feel like now, how manipulated, like chess pieces. I don’t know how they stand it.’

  ‘My clients do as I wish because they trust the outcome,’ Holmes said drily.

  ‘Well, pity I know you’re not infallible then,’ she threw back, her eyes on fire. ‘You give me no way to contact you, force me into a character that leaves me vulnerable to recognition, and now—you have the gall to complain that I’ve deviated from plan.’

  Holmes wondered how he’d arrived here, to a point at which he had a partner who was intrinsic to the case but impossible at the same time. Watson trusted him, almost too much sometimes; he
was brave, but his bravery was rarely creative. He served the plan, whatever it was. The clients, too, almost always followed whatever parts of the plan he gave them, out of desperation and trust. Even the police grudgingly came around to his way after a while. Lestrade had been proven wrong too many times.

  The Woman was different. She had beaten him, and it made something different between them. She had seen his cracks, and she could not see him uncritically. Against the odds, she seemed to have mustered some sort of trust in him over the previous days, but that appeared to have evaporated in the midst of her worry over Ambrose McGregor.

  Irene turned her back to the detective, her arms folded. ‘Tell me why I can’t know, Holmes,’ she said from between clenched teeth. ‘Make me believe you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said simply. ‘I have a plan, and I believe it will succeed. I can guarantee you my best efforts and my protection, but as you know too well, I cannot guarantee perfection. There was a time when I was very young that I thought myself invincible, but that was a long time ago. You must make your choice based on what you know of the man I am—based on logic.’

  After a very long time, Irene turned slowly and faced him. ‘I wish I didn’t trust you,’ she said, then turned and walked out of the store.

  She didn’t know that moments after she left, the bone-weary detective followed her. She didn’t see him mirror her steps all the way to the Keystone Hotel, and she was ignorant of the vigil he kept while she slept.

  This phase of the plan was new. The Woman had no idea that the day of separation was over, and now Sherlock Holmes was determined not to let Irene Adler out of his sight. He sat in an empty lot beside the hotel, his arms propped on his knees, his body finally at rest. No one was out so late at night in the fashionable part of town, and he had only insects for company. He welcomed the physical rest, but he had no desire for sleep. He was beyond that now and at the point in the case that made his blood rush and his body cease to desire food or sleep. All he craved was the end, the solution. Other things receded, even his conversation with Irene. He recognised the near-disaster her refusal to help him further would have caused, but he did not dwell on it. She had made the right decision, and now it was for the man, the villain of the piece, to make his move.

  Holmes thought, for a moment, of Watson, of how much the doctor would have enjoyed the waiting and the hunt. John had always been a soldier, and he always would be. They’d have sat together under the stars, not speaking, both alert, and he’d have felt the confidence of having a brother-in-arms.

  But The Woman was inside. Walls separated them, but not purpose. She had agreed, and Holmes had seen the resolve twisted inside her anger. She would play her part, and she would play it well. She was no brother, but she was enough.

  Chapter 13: Irene

  I hated everything about my room. I hated the heavy tan drapes, the ugly floral wallpaper, the insipid lace coverlet. Everything seemed different now. I lay down on the bed in my purple gown and closed my eyes, but my thoughts were far too tumultuous for sleep. The most infuriating thing was that I had made the right decision, and I knew it. For savage amusement, I tried to imagine stolid Dr Watson railing angrily at Holmes for the part he’d been told to play in a particular case, but I couldn’t manage it. Watson trusted him too much.

  And so did I, irritatingly. I trusted him the way I had once trusted Godfrey. That was different, though. I had trusted Godfrey without really knowing him, staking my claim on a personality and a reputation, but not on my own knowledge and experience with the man. My trust in Holmes was just the opposite sort. What name and reputation had failed to do, my experiences with him had accomplished. Now that I knew him, I could not fail to trust him. Once again, I had entrusted a part of myself to a man, and that was something I had promised myself never to do again. But it was the right decision, the inescapable right decision. I finally fell asleep with my mind going around and around in circles, berating me on one hand and soothing me on the other.

  The next morning, I awoke at peace, as if I had crossed some sort of barrier. I was committed, but I wasn’t stupid. I took my handgun from under my pillow and put it back into my bag. It would accompany me wherever I went.

  A few minutes after I finished breakfast, Marion Edison came to call. I received her in the hotel’s main sitting room, wondering, when I saw her pale face, what secrets she might have, particularly about the German she had met. I doubted they concerned Holmes and me, but I was unwilling to ignore any anomaly.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs James,’ Marion said a little shyly as she joined me.

  ‘Please call me Lavinia,’ I answered, smiling and holding out my hand. She took it, and I noticed that she was strong.

  ‘Would you walk with me?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘I’m new in town. Perhaps you can show me what I should see.’ I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a walk with another young woman, and I found it ironic that the case was what caused me to do so now.

  For a long time, we talked about nothing in particular. She asked about London fashions and I about American ones, we laughed at a duck crossing the street, and finally we retraced our steps back to the café across from my hotel, thirsty and ready for a rest.

  ‘I hope my husband is well,’ I said as we sipped our tea.

  ‘You must miss him,’ said Marion quietly.

  ‘I do,’ I answered, ‘very much.’ I felt sorry for deceiving the girl so blatantly, but I hoped to draw her out by revealing personal feelings. Another part of my brain tried to remind me that if I had been a different kind of wife with a different kind of husband, I also might have felt those same feelings when I thought of Godfrey Norton, but I pushed it away.

  ‘I—have someone to miss, too,’ said Marion, hesitating.

  ‘Oh?’ I said noncommittally, thinking I might know something of what she was about to say.

  ‘Last year, I took a trip to Europe with my aunt. The trip was difficult. I got smallpox, and the doctor thought I might even die.’ She looked at me with the wide-eyed stare of a child who could not yet fathom the finality of her own death. ‘But,’ she continued, leaning forward with intense excitement, ‘I met him.’ I felt a surge of empathy. Some things are universal.

  ‘His name is Karl Oeser, and he’s a lieutenant in the German army.’ I nodded and tried to look surprised. Marion lowered her voice, ‘He’s—come here, and I don’t know how to tell my father and Mina. My aunt never knew how much we cared for each other.’

  I tried to think of what Lavinia James would say to this, finally settling on, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to tell them some time,’ about which Lavinia and Irene could safely agree.

  ‘I know,’ said Marion, back to her usual directness. ‘That’s why I’ve told you first, to practise.’ I smiled encouragingly, and she continued. ‘I think he’s going to ask me to marry him.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be very happy,’ I said, and meant it.

  I finished my tea, feeling a sense of satisfaction at having one mystery cleared up. As Holmes and I had both suspected, Marion’s secret was a private one. It was a strange thing, I thought, to unravel someone’s personal story in the midst of the danger and uncertainty of a case. There was something wrong about it, almost, as if people’s personal lives should be spared the magnifying glass of detection, but it didn’t work that way. As I knew from experience, private lives were often exactly where mysteries lay, and truth usually only emerged after invasive scrutiny.

  Marion’s enthusiastic thanks and impulsive kiss on my cheek as she left me at the entrance to the hotel reminded me that not everyone minded being found out. She was radiant in the knowledge that I knew her secret, and I couldn’t help but hope that she would not regret her choice.

  When I entered the Keystone once again, I was met by a porter with a note from Tootie McGregor,
asking me to accompany her and her husband to the theatre that night. I was not excited at the prospect of meeting Ambrose again, but I could think of no way to refuse. I sent back my acceptance, glad that a theatre would, at least, provide little room for private encounters.

  With the prospect of nothing to do until evening staring me down and no desire to put myself in needless danger by wandering around outside, I ran a bath in the gold-footed tub in my suite’s opulent washroom and hung one of my finest dresses to be unwrinkled by the steam. I sat on the white tile floor while the tub filled, watching fog cover the mirror and wondering what Holmes was doing. My mind turned to Barnett, and I shuddered at the thought of the moment I’d realised he was standing in front of me as Alberto Sanchez. I hadn’t known I could be brave enough to stay silent when I had so much fear. How often did Holmes feel afraid, I wondered, during the long nights and dangerous days? I realised then that I’d never thought of him as brave because he never showed his fear.

  I luxuriated in the bathwater for ages. I had no idea how long I’d be Lavinia James, so I was determined to enjoy her luxury as long as I could. It was refreshing to be alone, with no maids and no husband, free from being Irene Adler, even. The case tugged at the back of my mind, but at the same time I felt curiously light, as if the bonds that had tied me down were finally loosening. My own decisions had gotten me where I was—no one forcing or pushing me, not even Holmes. As much as he his reticence had angered me, he had left my choices in my hands. There might be concealment between us—I could not forget that I had failed to tell him everything at first—but there was no underestimation or manipulation. We were equals in The Game.

  As I stepped out of the water, I was determined. I put on my black silk gown and felt it glide over me like confidence. I would be Lavinia James tonight, demure and sweet, but underneath, Irene Adler would watch and wait, never knowing when the part I didn’t understand would turn to something more, when the thin form and bright eyes of the detective would ask, and I would be swept away to become someone new. As I picked up my bag, the pistol in its depths felt natural, an important part of my ensemble.