by Amy Thomas
‘I wouldn’t do that, Miss Adler.’ The gun was trained on me in a split second, and Barnett shook his head. ‘It’s no use inching your hand toward the door latch; at this speed, you’d fall out and injure your skull, not to mention that we’re currently in the middle of nowhere.’
I wondered what Holmes would have done in this situation—in a closed carriage with a gunman and two innocent people. He’d have had a solution, I was sure, but I was at a loss, and it infuriated me.
‘You might like to know,’ Barnett continued, ‘that my office in London received Irene Norton’s new will today, leaving the bulk of her property to her faithful solicitor, who will transfer it to his good friend Alberto Sanchez as soon as Mrs Norton is dead.’
‘But don’t worry. I won’t kill you if you sign over everything instead. The detective is the only one who has to die, and that’s not my job.’
Tootie hadn’t uttered a word since the beginning of the ordeal, and she still sat with her hands clenched, pale and terrified. I had never seen her silent for so long, and there was something grotesquely humourous about it. I hated myself for thinking so.
‘Holmes isn’t here,’ I said. I considered saying something about his death, but I could see no use in doing so since Barnett knew very well that he was alive.
‘No,’ said Barnett, ‘but he will be. You’re excellent bait.’
At the word bait, something connected in my mind, and I understood. That was my role in the case. Holmes had been using me to attract Barnett the way the solicitor was now trying to use me to attract the detective. That was the reason for the lack of caution and insistence that I play a role so near my own character. Unwitting bait, that’s what I’d been. And now that the bait had been taken, Holmes was nowhere to be found.
I wasn’t angry with Holmes, but I was disappointed. For a short space of time, I had believed in him fully, trusting that he would complete his plan, whatever it might be. I had also trusted his promise of safety. Bait is never safe I thought bitterly. Whatever Holmes had expected to happen, the current situation was obviously far from it, I knew, or I wouldn’t have found myself stranded in a carriage with a criminal and no recourse. The man I had fooled once had made another mistake, and this time it was to my extreme detriment.
‘I have no idea,’ Barnett continued after a few moments, ‘if you and Holmes are working together, and I don’t care. Either way, he’ll follow you.’
‘How do you know he’s in Florida?’ I asked, thinking quickly. If Barnett didn’t know for sure that I’d been working with Holmes, then I had the upper hand of information, at least.
‘I saw him two weeks ago,’ he said. ‘He’s tracked you, I’m sure, whether you know it or not. Also, thank you for the calling cards, my dear. It would have taken me much longer to realise you were here and might be in society tonight without them. I don’t have the slightest idea what you hoped to accomplish, but I’m glad I circumvented it.’ He smiled nastily.
I also had no idea what I’d hoped to accomplish or, indeed, what he was talking about, so I kept my thoughts to myself and tried to look upset at being thwarted, which wasn’t difficult, since I was frightened and angry.
Finally, our miserable journey ended with an abrupt stop, and Barnett herded the three of us outside into the dark night. I realised immediately where we were when I smelt the sharp aroma of citrus in the air and turned and saw the shack in front of us, the ramshackle building that contained Alberto Sanchez’s field office.
The driver hopped down and took off his hat, revealing himself to be Bill, the surly foreman Holmes and I had met during our previous visit. He took out a handgun and pointed it in our direction, helping his boss force us inside.
The shed was dark, but Sanchez lit a lantern and pushed us into his office. Ambrose gave the two chairs to Tootie and I, and he stood, his face dark. Bill stood watch in the front of the building, and Sanchez sat behind his desk, staring at his captives with gun in hand.
‘What do you intend to do?’ I asked, hoping to hear something I might be able to use.
‘I intend to wait until Sherlock Holmes arrives, release our friends, get a signed statement from you giving me your assets, and take the detective to the lighthouse,’ he said, with a chilling lack of hesitation.
‘Why do you want Holmes?’
‘I don’t want him, but Sebastian Moran does. He’s meant to be dead—Holmes, I mean. I have no idea why he isn’t, but Moran knew right away. It’s a good deal for me, Miss A. You’ve always been a good client, and I don’t want to hurt you. That’s why I’m going to leave you enough money to go wherever you like.’
‘What’s the benefit to you? I know very well you don’t do anything without getting something back.’
He laughed. ‘You know me well, Miss Adler. The convenient part of this plan is that the bait is also the prize. In return for Holmes, I get to keep your fortune.’
‘You have a loose tongue,’ Ambrose suddenly put in quietly, his face stormy.
I turned to the McGregors. ‘You deserve to know that this man is no more Alberto Sanchez than I am. He’s a crooked London solicitor named James Barnett.’ Tootie’s eyes widened.
‘How do you know him?’ Ambrose’s meaning was clear; he thought I was in league with Barnett.
‘I was stupid enough to let him handle my affairs,’ I said honestly.
‘Far too few affairs,’ said Barnett, with an ugly insinuation in his voice, ‘but plenty of money.’
‘Holmes won’t come,’ I said. ‘He has no idea I’m here, and if he did, he wouldn’t care.’
‘You’re wrong there, Miss A.’ Barnett sat back and folded his hands over his stomach, looking self-satisfied. ‘I’ve no doubt he’s on his way right now.’
‘If that’s true,’ I said, ‘how do you know he won’t bring the police?’ I stared him down.
‘Doesn’t matter if he does. They’ll let me go to save you three. I didn’t take the McGregors for no reason. Bill and I will be happy to fill any of them with lead, though, if they try anything.’ He turned to Ambrose. ‘You, at least, should know that Sherlock Holmes is on the way.’
Ambrose shook his head. ‘It appears I haven’t been very smart about all this. Whatever happens, please accept my apologies, Miss Adler.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘I did lie about my identity.’
‘I knew there was something more to you than a simple socialite,’ Tootie’s voice suddenly cut in. ‘I don’t know who you are, but I’m not surprised.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said without explanation, seeing no reason to give Barnett more information than he already had.
‘It’s all right,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘We’re all more than we seem.’
‘That’s certainly true,’ said Barnett, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘I should give this back to you, Miss A.’ I looked at the piece of cloth, a white background with blue letters. Mine. I took it without comment.
I was disappointed in myself. I’d always imagined that if I were in mortal danger, I’d be resourceful and fearless, able to think my way out of anything. But I was just Irene Adler, frozen in the face of danger the way I’d been powerless to stop my husband.
‘I suppose I should have you sign the papers before Holmes gets here,’ said Barnett after a while. ‘Things might get ugly, and I want to have everything in place.’ His calmness infuriated me.
The solicitor produced a stack of legal forms, the paper that represented my not-insignificant worldly property. ‘Sign these, or I’ll put a bullet in your head,’ he said calmly. I stared down at them, my eyes swimming.
Just then, Alberto Sanchez’s desk took on a life of its own and flew forward, crashing to the floor as I jumped backward to avoid its path.
Chapter 16: Holmes
Sherlo
ck Holmes rushed to his feet and tackled James Barnett, his long-constricted muscles screaming from the sudden exercise. The altercation was over in seconds, the shocked Barnett clumsy and slow in his surprise. Holmes pushed his gun against the man’s head as Bill rushed into the office, astonished by the crash.
‘Nice to see you, Mr Holmes.’ He touched his forelock in respect to the detective.
Holmes laughed noiselessly. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Waverly. I’ll put in a good word with my brother.’ The detective noticed Irene’s pale, unreadable face watching him attentively.
‘Miss Adler, I have something that belongs to you.’ He took The Woman’s gun from his waistband and handed it to her, smiling. She took it with a blank expression.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, Sir and Madam. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,’ said Holmes, turning to the McGregors, who looked dazed. ‘I believe, Sir, that there has been a misunderstanding, for which I apologise.’ His eyes took in Ambrose, who bowed his head slightly.
‘Not at all, Mr Holmes. I now comprehend that my wife and I have been mixed up in something far larger than we realised.’
‘I’m grateful to have two such reliable witnesses to this man’s intentions,’ the detective replied, indicating the furious Barnett, whose face under his makeup was a violent shade of red.
‘Will we have to testify in court?’ asked Tootie, suddenly finding her voice again.
‘Indeed, Madam, I would expect so,’ Holmes answered with a smile. ‘I hope it won’t be overly distressing.’
‘Not at all,’ said the lady, looking almost pleased, her equilibrium apparently returning. She moved to her husband’s side, and he put an arm about her.
Holmes looked at The Woman, wondering about her thoughts. He had never seen her so pale, but otherwise, she looked perfectly composed. ‘Miss Adler,’ he said after a moment, ‘I believe our friends have arrived. Please be so kind as to usher them inside.’ His keen ears had detected the sound of more than wind approaching, and soon voices and boots could be heard. Irene went outside, and no one spoke until the door of the shed was forcefully pushed open and a stocky policeman entered, followed by Thomas Edison, who looked characteristically calm, and little Nelson Burroughs, who was attempting to look fierce. Irene followed last, still looking somewhat dazed.
‘Welcome, Gentlemen,’ said Holmes, standing up straight and nodding to the newcomers.
‘I’m Sheriff Samuel Morris,’ said the solid, middle-aged officer of the law. ‘I assume you’re Mr Sherlock Holmes, detective of London.’
‘I am indeed,’ said Holmes quietly.
‘And this is Miss Irene Adler, legally Mrs Norton, subject of a plot put forth by the gentleman here, Mr James Barnett, known locally as Alberto Sanchez.’
‘That is correct, Sir,’ answered the detective. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t time for conversation. This man’s associates, under the orders of a criminal named Sebastian Moran, are even now awaiting the delivery of my person. We have a chance of apprehending them if we move in haste.’
Thankfully, Holmes realised, the policeman wasn’t as slow as some of his counterparts across the Atlantic. He immediately produced handcuffs, which Holmes assisted him in placing on the surly suspect, then led the entire group outside. His quickly-uttered ‘What do you propose to do, Mr Holmes?’ endeared him eternally to the detective.
‘Mr and Mrs McGregor, Mr Thomas Edison will take you home in your carriage. You’ve been through plenty of surprises this evening,’ the detective began. ‘Miss Adler, you will accompany me and our friend Barnett in my cart, with Sheriff Morris and Mr Burroughs following behind. We’ve no time to lose.’
Holmes was relieved when everyone did exactly as they were told, moving rapidly, propelled by the force of his personality. He used his gun to push Barnett forward, and Irene followed to where his cart was hidden in the darkness, his horse tethered to a tree. Irene trained her gun on the solicitor while Holmes freed the horse and prepared to drive. As he had anticipated, Bill was nowhere to be found, as if he’d melted into the night. No doubt, Holmes knew, he’d resurface wherever he was assigned.
The detective watched The Woman force Barnett into the cart. Holmes wondered what the man was about. He was too quiescent, and Holmes had every belief that he was plotting something, but The Woman could handle him, at least until they reached the beach. The detective drove quickly, and his horse, rested from its long wait, was delighted to run. Holmes was optimistic, pleased with Irene’s perfect handling of her difficult role and with the outcome. Barnett had been entirely fooled, both by Bill, Mycroft’s agent, and by Miss A, who had been magnificent both intentionally and unintentionally. The night was far from over, but he knew now that he was in control.
The oppressive darkness, punctuated by moonlight, was almost like a living thing as the detective drove the cart to the coast, with the clop of the police horse behind, reminding him that the law and the young Burroughs were with him, ready to provide backup. Holmes didn’t know exactly what they would find at the drop-off point. He hardly hoped to nab Moran; unlikely the man would have made the journey himself. Instead, they would most likely capture a few of the mid-level operatives from Moriarty’s vast but splintering organization. At any rate, capturing any of them would be a positive outcome, especially if it could be accomplished without bloodshed. He was well aware that the situation was likely to be complicated.
‘If you move again, I’ll put a bullet in your leg.’ Holmes heard Irene’s voice, calm and deadly, break into his thoughts.
‘You’ve never shot anyone,’ rejoined the solicitor derisively.
‘No, but I’m the sort of person who could.’
After that, silence reigned, but Holmes glanced behind him to ascertain that all was well. The Woman looked oddly peaceful, her gun resting on her lap, pointed squarely at Barnett, who sat still with his hands cuffed. Holmes smiled to himself. Irene was all right. She wouldn’t be taken by surprise.
* * *
The coastline was eerily beautiful in the moonlight. Holmes had heard a local rumour that pirates had once patrolled these waters, quartering captives on an island nearby. He could well believe it. What was idyllic in daylight had a savage edge in the nighttime.
Holmes drove until he saw a lighthouse in the distance, giving off a faint glow. He stopped his horse at the edge of the sand and jumped down as the policeman halted his own cart. Catching glimpses of Irene’s face, Holmes saw that she was relieved that the long ride spent staring at the solicitor was complete. He trained his gun on the man as Morris and Burroughs joined them.
‘You see the lighthouse,’ the detective said quickly. ‘No doubt they have a boat waiting to carry them out to sea as soon as the drop has been made. I gather that’s how Mr Barnett was to get out of the country as well.’ He looked at the solicitor, ‘If you’d like to confirm that, it wouldn’t go amiss.’ Angry eyes stared back at him.
‘Here is what must happen now. One of you will impersonate Mr Sanchez and follow me to the lighthouse, after which the others will wait until we start for the boat and converge with us there, in order to capture not only those on land, but also those who may be waiting on the water.’
‘Needless to say,’ he continued, ‘this is a risk, but not as much as it would be if our solicitor friend were involved. Sheriff Morris, I must ask you to remove the man’s jacket.’ Morris stared at Holmes briefly before taking off the solicitor’s handcuffs. For a moment, Barnett looked as if he might make some sort of attempt to fight, but the joint effect of Irene’s and Holmes’s guns on him, as well as the beefy arms of the policeman, kept him subdued. Burroughs’s eyes were enormous with confusion.
‘Irene,’ said Holmes, once he held the jacket in his hand, ‘I believe you’re the only one who will suffice. Mr Burroughs is too short and Sheriff Morris too robust.’ The Woman looked surprised, b
ut she comprehended his meaning and took Barnett’s evening jacket from the policeman, putting it on and using it to cover her figure. ‘Now, Mr Burroughs, your hat.’ Burroughs was frozen for a moment, as if he hadn’t heard, then removed his highly fashionable hat and handed it to Holmes, who placed it on Irene’s head, hiding her hair. The Woman looked up at him with a roguish smile that passed in a second. ‘The darkness will hide your dress long enough for my purposes,’ the detective added, noting that Irene looked relieved. She appeared to have wondered if he intended her to exchange clothes completely with the solicitor.
Holmes handed his gun to Burroughs, who stared at it as if it were some kind of ferocious animal in his hand. ‘Sheriff Morris and Mr Burroughs,’ the detective continued, ‘I trust you will take care of our friend while Miss Adler and I begin the operation. A gag might be in order to keep him from making noise. Once we’re ready to rendezvous, Mr Burroughs can keep his gun on the prisoner while Sheriff Morris helps us subdue the others.’ He helped the policeman re-cuff the solicitor, who spit in his face. Holmes merely wiped his cheek and didn’t deign to reply.
‘Now, Irene,’ he said, turning his back to her, ‘please be so good as to jam the barrel of your pistol into the small of my back, and we will proceed.’ Irene did as he asked, none too gently, and he began the walk across the sand to the blur in the distance that was the lighthouse. Behind him, he heard muffled curses and the calm voice of the policeman, noises indicating that he had taken Holmes’s advice and decided to gag the prisoner to prevent him somehow giving them away by shouting. Not entirely stupid, thought Holmes, gratified.
‘Are you all right?’ the detective finally asked in a low voice as he and Irene made their way across the wide expanse of sand.
