by Amy Thomas
The McGregors came for me in their carriage at half past six, and Ambrose helped me inside, his face blank. In contrast, his wife was an explosion of life in a red gown that accented the red in her cheeks and complemented her excitement. She eagerly seized my hand and declared her joy at the prospect of seeing Hedda Gabler, a reportedly shocking play by Henrick Ibsen, a Norwegian with extremely liberal views.
‘My goodness,’ she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, ‘I’ve heard the poor heroine shoots herself, right on stage! Mrs Warren does the part beautifully, they say.’ I didn’t tell her that I had seen many of Ibsen’s plays and knew of this one, since I couldn’t imagine that Lavinia James would care about such things. Ambrose sat across from us, staring at the floor. His wife seemed used to his taciturn ways and didn’t mind filling up the space with her own words, for which I was grateful.
The theatre was one of the grander buildings in Fort Myers, a neoclassical edifice with columns, which served as town hall, meeting place for Freemasons and other civic clubs, and, as it would this night, a theatre for travelling companies. Society considered acting a less-than-respectable profession, but in Fort Myers, as everywhere, very few seemed to mind enjoying its product, and we were joined by many others as we entered the vaulted vestibule.
Tootie knew everyone and was quick to greet young and old and to introduce me as her friend. I gave out many a simplistic smile, all the while watching for Barnett, anyone else who looked as though they might recognise me as Irene Adler, and Ambrose McGregor, of whom I did not want to lose sight. Strangely, my different purposes made me calm rather than agitated, as if they formed the steps to my own mental dance of which I was leader. A step here, and I clasped the hand of a woman Tootie introduced as Mrs Johnson. A step there, and I ruled out a man with Sanchez’s hair but someone else’s face. A twist to the right, and I caught Ambrose McGregor in the corner of my eye, engaged in conversation with a man I didn’t recognise.
Was this what Holmes felt, I wondered? The intense focus, the knowledge of one’s purpose and task, the surge of adrenaline that came with danger, and the answering calm of total awareness—I knew them all, and I began to believe things might end well.
We finally took our seats in the fourth row, and I stared at the red plush curtain, thinking of the many times I had been on the other side, waiting to be revealed to audiences in countless theatres. I didn’t know what I would do after the case was over and Holmes and I had parted, but I saw now with absolute clarity that I would never again sing to please a theatre crowd. Once, I had left singing to start a new life, but the tragedy of my marriage had caused me to seek solace in what I knew. After the case, I would need it no longer.
I leaned back in my seat and flicked my fan up and down in front of my face, welcoming the mental escape the play would bring. As the lights dimmed, anticipation washed over the audience like the tide coming in, and I could hear Tootie take a sharp breath beside me. Lavinia James watched the stage, to all appearances as excited as everyone else, but Irene Adler kept her hand on her bag, ready to produce her pistol at a moment’s notice.
Chapter 14: Holmes
A tall, well-dressed man slipped into the theatre just before Hedda Gabler began. He allowed an usher to hurry him to a seat in the back row, but as soon as the man had gone, he got up quietly and slipped into a back corner. Sherlock Holmes stood in the darkness, his black suit blending into the shadows. This night, he firmly believed, was when the man would make his move.
For several moments, Holmes kept his eyes on The Woman’s dark head. Her body was relaxed, but he could tell by the position of her arm that her hand was clutching something. Knowing Irene, he thought, it was most likely a weapon. He applauded her vigilance, but not the presence of a complication. With aversion, he realised he would have to rob her himself, provided Barnett gave him time. He was repulsed at the idea of betraying a partner, but the idea of a plan gone wrong was even more unthinkable.
Holmes enjoyed the first act. He appreciated Ibsen; the man was like a detective who had solved a case and then rewritten it with all the hidden motivations and human frailties on the surface instead of buried the way they usually were. Detection would be far easier, thought Holmes, if people behaved so transparently in real life. He ducked into a seat as the audience clapped for Act I and the lights rose.
A local tenor by the name of Steven Bartholomew shuffled to the stage to entertain in the interim, looking nervous. Holmes felt a surge of something surreal as the man’s accompaniment began and he tentatively bleated out his first notes. The love song sounded nothing like it had in the mouth of Irene Adler, but Holmes’s mind cast him back to the night when he had first seen her again, divine in violet, staring him down with every perfect note.
He made his mind return to the present, forcing himself to focus against distraction. A supposed plot against Miss A had brought him here, and he would not let himself lose concentration until the case was complete. Besides, Steven Bartholomew was one of the worst singers Holmes had ever heard.
Polite applause for the man’s unfortunate effort heralded the dimming of the lights for Act II. Once again, the detective quietly slipped from his seat and took his place in the back corner of the auditorium, his eyes looking up and down each row to discern any changes. There were none. The same audience of well-to-do Floridians stared straight ahead, waiting to witness Hedda Gabler’s ever-crumbling life played out in front of them.
As the second act drew to a close, Holmes waited for the intermission, his nerves taut. He sat again, waiting through a short speech by a member of the Fort Myers Salvation Army, then sprang to life as soon as the audience was dismissed.
Holmes’s eyes found Irene in a few seconds, in the middle of a group of people pressing toward the door. He stayed well to the edge of the crowd, waiting for most of the theatregoers to move into the hall before he followed, but he did not allow Irene to pass out of his line of sight. Once in the vestibule, Holmes kept to the edges of the room and watched as Tootie purchased refreshments for herself, her husband, and her guest. He smiled to himself as Irene was plied with a drink that he could see she didn’t want. Finally, Tootie shepherded her charge back toward the theatre, and Holmes prepared to make his move. The detective had made himself up to look slightly dissipated and beyond his own age, but he didn’t want to risk Irene’s notice through a direct confrontation. He would have to be quick.
Using the press of people to hide him, he made his way to a drink seller and purchased a glass of wine. Slowly, he moved closer and closer behind Irene, until only a few people separated him from The Woman and her companions. In a frantic split second, Holmes dropped the entirety of his wine on a large man in front of him, then ducked down in the midst of the confusion and extracted the pistol from Irene’s handbag while she tried to calm Tootie, who was in danger of panicking. He couldn’t tell if Irene had noticed the theft, but he knew she hadn’t seen him. Even if she desired to report the loss, how would she explain her reasons for carrying a pistol? It wasn’t the most elegant operation Holmes had ever carried out, but it had accomplished its purpose. He followed the crowd back inside the theatre and sat down, thankful for the dimming of the lights a moment later.
Holmes once again took his place in the shadows, but this time, he found the difference for which he had been watching. He counted the number of people in each row and found one extra in the last seat of the sixth, a man with dark hair—hair the colour of Alberto Sanchez’s dyed locks. Holmes’s pulse quickened as he studied the man in the darkness, trying to be sure. If he didn’t plan to move that night, Holmes thought, then he was a greater fool than the detective supposed. The end of Act III brought back the unfortunate tenor, and Holmes sat again, wishing the play would end. He couldn’t imagine Barnett risking a panic in the theatre, so he doubted anything would happen before the final curtain. The last act was torture for the detective, his mind pushi
ng forward to whatever might be coming. He watched Irene, surprised at the calmness in her demeanor in spite of the anxiety she must be feeling after the discovery of her loss. He had done what he knew to be necessary, but he despised the thought that he had caused her to be afraid. For a split second, he questioned himself and wondered if he should have disclosed the entirety of his intentions to her, but just as quickly he reminded himself that the plan depended on her not knowing. The fact that she might not agree once the operation was over had occurred to him, but it had no effect on his resolve.
Finally, the curtain closed after the suicide of the protagonist, and the stunned audience waited a few seconds before breaking into enthusiastic applause. As the lights rose and the cast members took their bows, the detective made his way to the entrance and waited unobtrusively until the attendees began to drift out, watching for horses and carriages to take them home.
Alberto Sanchez exited before the McGregors, and Holmes let him pass out of his line of vision and waited instead for Ambrose, Tootie and Irene, who were near the back of the departing crowd. Once again, he stayed at the edge of the press of people, watching and waiting, keeping pace with The Woman though physically separated from her. He had to be careful; Irene’s watchful eyes were everywhere, and he could clearly see how ill-at-ease she was. To anyone else, she simply seemed agitated by the crowd, but he knew her thoughts were much darker.
Holmes was poised in the limbo of the moment, knowing that something was about to occur to change everything, but unsure exactly where or exactly how it would take place. He would have given a great deal to stop it before it began, but that would have broken the deal he’d made with himself. He wouldn’t jeopardise the case because he was afraid for the lady, and he couldn’t afford to put her in more danger later by eliminating the current peril. He felt as if his hands were tied, and she looked as if she anticipated the worst. He hated the increasingly desperate confusion he could see on her face. Irene Adler was meant to be strong. Irene Adler was meant to be brave. Irene Adler wasn’t meant to look like a lost little girl.
Finally, the detective followed the thinning crowd outside. He stepped behind a white pillar and watched as Irene and her hosts stood on the steps of the hall and waited for their carriage. Irene stayed close to Tootie, as if she thought the older woman’s presence might offer some protection.
The McGregors’ carriage was one of the last to arrive, and Holmes watched as Ambrose helped his wife and The Woman inside before getting in himself. Was it possible, then, that he had misjudged Barnett’s intentions? Suddenly, as the carriage left, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s thick leather gloves. Bill the foreman had been wearing those gloves the night Holmes had seen him leave work.
The detective sprang into action, no longer caring if the remaining theatregoers saw him. He raced across the street where a horse and cart waited for him, threw himself onto it, and began to drive. He followed the McGregors’ carriage, and so did several others carrying oblivious members of the crowd back to their homes. Bill could not afford to gallop, and neither could Holmes. After a maddeningly sedate few minutes, the other carriages began to pull off into side streets, and Holmes became concerned that he might have to change course quickly to avoid having his purpose detected.
Holmes’s concern turned to relief when it became apparent that the last two carriages between him and the McGregors had longer journeys than the others. He hung back, and as the four vehicles traveled further and further, he realised Barnett was doing exactly as he’d expected. One of the other two carriages finally turned onto a dirt road, and Holmes quietly followed its driver into the night.
In a few short minutes, the detective had doubled back and taken a totally different route out of town, into the long dark where the roads were hardly marked. As soon as he found himself alone, he urged the horse forward, as fast as it would go. He rode through the night, passing trees and hearing hooves beat the sandy ground, with no thought but his destination, cursing the necessity of taking the roundabout way. Thankfully, the horse was strong, and it kept up the fierce gallop that matched the pounding of the detective’s heart.
He wondered if Irene realised what was happening to her. Of course she must, but she would be calm. The Woman wouldn’t let her fear destroy her judgement. She would fight back, but Holmes didn’t believe she would succeed, and as perverse as that thought felt as it came to him, he knew that she must not, or the plan would be incomplete. Three to two might be decent odds, but Holmes had seen the foreman’s musculature and knew that he was strong, and while Barnett’s physical strength was unknown, he would undoubtedly be carrying a gun to help him force obedience from his unwilling captives. Unless Tootie or Ambrose McGregor possessed unexpected skill, Holmes had little doubt the three would remain subdued by Barnett and Bill.
It felt all wrong somehow, to be on a different road than the one carrying the object of his concern and to be wishing that she and her companions would be held hostage instead of finding their way out of an impossible situation. He hoped that Barnett had planned well. He needed the man’s plan to succeed partially before his could be fully effective.
After a long time, Holmes turned his horse onto a dirt road and followed it beyond a group of trees. He stopped and looked around, carefully seeking any sign of the presence of another human being, but no one else was present and no sounds could be heard except the calls of crickets and tree frogs. The detective alighted from his cart and went toward an unlocked door, ready for the next phase of the plan to commence. He took his place and waited, hoping devoutly that nothing had gone wrong along the way.
Holmes crouched, his every sense at the highest possible level of alertness, his mind filled with the calm that always came when a case was about to reach its climax. Watson never understood that calm, but it was the calm of a man waiting for events to unfold the way he’d pictured them and thinking through every possible contingency in order to avert it. After what felt like ages, he heard voices.
Chapter 15: Irene
Someone stole my gun during the theatre interval. I don’t know how it happened, but one moment I was trying to keep Tootie from succumbing to claustrophobia, and the next I found my bag empty of its only important item. I forced myself to silence my self-flagellating brain and instead reason through the theft and whether it was more likely that my weapon was now in the hands of someone significant or a random pickpocket who had chosen to target theatregoers that night.
I wondered how Holmes would rate the likelihood of a coincidence. The idea that a woman who was involved in a criminal case would also be involved in a petty theft, randomly chosen out of a group of hundreds, hardly seemed creditable. I didn’t appear noticeably richer or more opulently dressed than others in the crowd. Why choose me?
The other alternative was much more horrifying, but I forced myself to consider it. I ruled out Ambrose McGregor immediately because I had seen his whereabouts the whole time, and then I began to scan the crowd systematically, looking for anyone familiar. I found no one unexpected and finally had to take my seat again for the third act.
I remained outwardly calm throughout the rest of the play, but I felt as if a weight were pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe. In some grotesque sense, Hedda Gabler’s elaborately staged desperation seemed to mirror the growing desperation I felt. I now realised that it had been a mistake to come to the theatre. In public, I felt like a clay pigeon on display in a shooting gallery.
When the curtain finally closed, I wanted to escape the auditorium as soon as possible, but the crowd and Tootie’s friendliness caused us to be one of the last groups to leave. Ambrose sent for our carriage, and I waited nervously, trying to answer Tootie’s banal chatter but feeling as if I would like to run away.
Finally, the carriage arrived, and Ambrose glanced at the driver and commented that ‘Bryce has sent someone else.’ The McGregors rented a carriage for
their use in Florida, and they hired drivers when they needed them. I thought nothing of the comment. Nothing, that is, until Ambrose had helped me inside and I saw Tootie’s pale face, her words silenced by the cocked pistol at her temple. I looked over into the cold eyes of my solicitor. ‘If you so much as call out, I’ll pull the trigger,’ he said matter-of-factly as Ambrose took his place beside me. I believed him.
At that moment, I understood why my handgun was gone and why the theft had been so expertly carried out. Excellent foresight on Barnett’s part. The terror on Ambrose McGregor’s face struck me as vastly ironic, a combination of genuine fear for his wife and horror at a friend’s betrayal. His innocence was apparent, and in the midst of my fear, I felt the letdown of having been wrong, of having fallen for a classic red herring. Oh, how Dr Watson would enjoy the story if he ever had a chance to hear it, I thought wryly.
We rode in silence for some time until Barnett finally rested his hand on his knee with his gun pointed firmly at Ambrose. ‘Why are you doing this?’ the poor man finally asked, a question that even I had no real answer to as of yet, in spite of my part in the investigation.
Barnett, as Sanchez, smiled and addressed me instead. ‘Do you know me, Miss Adler the Divine?’
I nodded, projecting as much calm as I could manage. ‘I knew you from the moment the wife of the tobacco supplier laid eyes on you.’
He looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. ‘I didn’t envy her husband that day. Now I see that I was mistaken. But no matter. It’s all worked out in the end.’
He finally turned to Ambrose, shaking his head. ‘You’re a good man, Mr McGregor. You and your wife have no reason to be afraid if you do as you’re told. This operation (he looked at me) is about Miss Adler, myself, and Mr Holmes. Both Mr Holmes, if you like, but I only ever had the younger in mind as part of this particular plan.’
