by Amy Thomas
‘Tolerably,’ she answered.
‘You won’t have to speak. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘Very well.’
‘Remain in the shadows and stay behind me, and I’ll keep you from being detected until the men emerge and we make for the boat. Morris will join us then.’
Holmes continued, ‘Just keep your head down and don’t be afraid to use your weapon if things don’t go to plan. We’re taking a risk, but I don’t wish to lose any of the perpetrators.’
‘No more do I,’ Irene answered. ‘At least Morris doesn’t seem a complete fool. He’ll come to our aid if he sees or hears anything amiss. Have you any idea how many are in the lighthouse?’
‘A few at the most. More would have attracted local attention, and Moran has to allocate his resources carefully these days. The Yard have been on him heavily since Moriarty’s death. His outsized faith in Barnett results from the man’s previous service to the organization, I gather.’
‘What previous service?’
‘That I do not know. Even Mycroft’s people hadn’t uncovered it at the time of his last letter.’
It was odd, Holmes thought, to be conversing with The Woman in an almost enjoyable way under the present circumstances. Watson was nearly silent at these times. With his back to Irene, the detective couldn’t see her face, but their words flowed back and forth as usual, and she sounded strangely normal. He wondered how the evening’s events were affecting her, how long it would be before her adrenaline gave way to weariness. He hoped she would be able to stay with him, to keep her senses keen, until after it was all over. He needed her mind to be clear.
Both fell silent for several moments. As they drew closer to their destination, Holmes heard Irene’s breathing quicken. ‘Steady on,’ he whispered.
The structure itself had the usual appearance of a coastal lighthouse, tall and sturdy with a large door in its side. He hoped the men had a reliable lookout and were not waiting for some prearranged signal from Sanchez. That would, he thought, be inconvenient. The detective raised his arms and gesticulated as they came close, giving the appearance of a man under great duress.
Holmes’s wish was granted a few feet from the lighthouse, when he heard a male voice shout and saw a man appear at the door, brandishing a rifle. ‘There’s no need to be dramatic,’ the detective said loudly but icily, ‘Mr Sanchez’s gun in my spine speaks loudly enough.’ Two men came out the door and faced Holmes, who kept his thin body squarely in front of Irene in order to shield her from view as much as possible in the moonlight.
‘A gentleman might think it unsporting to capture a man by dressing as a lady,’ said Holmes in an indignant tone, hoping to buy a few more moments by selling Irene’s unexpected attire.
One of the men, who was tall and young, let out a hearty laugh. ‘Didn’t expect such creativity from you, Mr Barnett. Moran told us you were a by-the-book man.’
Excellent, thought Holmes, they hadn’t met Barnett. Irene stayed silent, as he’d instructed. ‘Oh, he’s plenty creative,’ he said, sounding angry.
‘Be quiet,’ said the other man, who was of middle age and seemed jumpy. ‘Let’s get to the boat before Sammy falls asleep.’
Holmes saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly Barnett came rushing toward them, yelling against his gag. The detective was forced to move, revealing Irene. The young man from the lighthouse immediately grabbed her gun. At the same time, Holmes pinned the hysterical Barnett on the ground while the older man trained his gun on the detective’s temple.
At that moment, Morris and Burroughs burst toward the group, and confusion reigned. Morris tackled the older man, and Burroughs stood at the edge, looking bewildered. Finally, the voice of the younger lookout cut through the madness. ‘This is all well and good, Mr Holmes, but if you don’t come with us, I’ll shoot the head off the la—’ A deafening, close-range shot rang out, and he lurched forward, blood beginning to spurt from his mouth; he was dead almost instantly. Immediately, Irene jerked the gun from his hand and pointed it at Barnett, while Morris dragged the older accomplice to his feet. Burroughs stood behind Irene, his face deathly white, with a painfully hot gun in his shaking hand.
His pistol firmly trained on his prisoner, Morris looked gratefully at the bewildered Burroughs. ‘Well done, Sir,’ he said. ‘I hope you still intend to make this town your home one day.’ The small man didn’t answer, but his colour slowly returned.
Holmes hauled up Barnett, who was practically foaming at the mouth in rage. ‘As I said a few moments ago,’ the detective intoned calmly, ‘there’s no need to be dramatic.’
Morris put a hand on the detective’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost the boat, Mr Holmes.’ Sure enough, in the beginning half-light, Holmes saw the outline of a small craft moving further away from the Florida coast each moment. It was a pity, but not a contingency he’d seen as particularly unlikely.
‘It’s all right. I’ll alert the proper authorities.’ He meant Mycroft, but saw no need for a lengthy explanation. Sammy, whoever he was, would be long gone before the American authorities could track him. Morris nodded, and Holmes was surprised once again at the man’s sense. Lestrade could afford to learn from him, the detective thought.
‘I’ll send the boys out for the body,’ said the policeman after a moment. The corpse looked vulnerable in the dawning light, nothing like the surly young man who’d threatened to kill Irene Adler.
Holmes led the way, and Irene, Burroughs, and Morris herded Barnett and the other man toward the wagons and impatient horses. Without a second pair of handcuffs, the policeman was forced to tie the older man’s hands with twine found in the bottom of one of the wagons, a task he seemed to enjoy. He took charge of both prisoners, with Burroughs, less shaky than before, consenting to drive the police wagon. To Holmes’s surprise, Irene waited at the front of the other cart until he helped her up next to the driver’s seat, which he filled himself. He took the reins, relief beginning to settle over him. Both he and The Woman were safe.
Chapter 17: Irene
I was comfortable beside the detective. For the moment, that was enough. It was too soon for the anxieties of the previous days to leave me or for my mind to make sense of all the twisted threads that had entwined to create the events of the evening. I just was. I smelt the smell of the water and sand in the early morning, felt the breeze and the brush of trees as we made our way back to the road, and enjoyed the presence of another human being.
I am Irene Adler, I thought. Not Irene Norton or some combination of the two. Just Irene Adler. It was a deconstructed feeling, but I didn’t mind. I felt lighter, almost as if Barnett had succeeded in taking everything from me and I didn’t care. He had shown me my life with nothing, and the vision hadn’t destroyed me. Now that I once again possessed all that was mine, my grasp felt stronger and lighter at the same time. Even if everything in the whole world was taken from me, I would not break, and I would not die.
After a long silence in the warm autumn morning, Holmes turned to me. ‘My shoulder is not the most congenial of pillows, but I have no objection to its use,’ he said quietly. I realised that I was exhausted, bone-tired from danger and exertion and too little sleep. I wondered how Holmes managed to keep his eyes open, but I drifted to sleep leaning against him before I could finish the thought.
I awoke as Holmes stopped the horse in front of the police station and jail, a tiny building in the middle of town, situated next to the home of the volunteer fire brigade, judging by the accoutrements lying about. I watched sleepily as Morris and Burroughs pushed the unhappy Barnett and the older man inside, then waited for Holmes to help me down. I was too disorientated from sleep to climb, so he proffered his arms instead, and I put my hands on his shoulders. His long fingers around my waist were warm and strong as he effortlessly swung me down and placed me on solid ground, smiling
down at me. I saw that his eyes were closing with weariness and that his face, always almost painful in its thinness, was gaunt.
Inside his own kingdom, Morris was all business. He imprisoned the two men quickly, doing the necessary paperwork to start the state’s process, then sent a boy who was loitering in the street to collect his part-time deputies, brothers who worked as carpenters in their father’s shop. In the meantime, he produced adequate coffee, which he gave to all, including Barnett and the other man, who claimed to be named Joshua Mason. Now that the guilty were contained, I noted that Morris had the quality of many a good policeman, human objectivity that boggles the mind, that can put aside terrible acts of even moments before and treat the guilty simply as human beings—human beings in limbo, but human beings nonetheless. Holmes also possessed this quality, but I did not.
I could not yet look at Barnett or Mason with any objectivity. My eyes were clouded by the sight of the dead man and the horror in Nelson Burroughs’s eyes at having killed him, the terror that silenced the gregarious tongue of Tootie McGregor, and for myself, the feeling of claustrophobic danger that had all-too-poignantly recalled my life with my husband. Perhaps some day, not far off, I would be thankful for what I had learned about myself, but I could not feel grateful yet, and the sight of the criminals turned my stomach.
My faculties had once again become reasonably alert from movement and coffee once the Bartholomew brothers arrived, strapping young men who each had at least half a foot over their boss. ‘Good morning, Sir,’ they said deferentially, almost in unison, and I realised they were twins. Morris told them where to find the body, and they went off eagerly, apparently glad for some actual police business to attend to. Fort Myers didn’t seem to be a hotbed of illegal activity, especially not the sort that concerned more than one country.
Deputies dispatched, Morris set about taking statements, choosing out of his own kindness to begin with Burroughs. With a gently businesslike manner, he ushered the still-shaken young man into a tiny back room, while Holmes and I drank second and third cups of coffee in the front of the station. I was glad we were removed from Barnett and Mason, even if only by a thin wall. I had no desire to see the solicitor’s face again.
‘My brother will take care of getting your assets into the proper order if you wish,’ said Holmes after a while. ‘Otherwise, I fear you may face undue delays in recovering them.’
‘Thank you, Holmes,’ I answered, wanting to say more but unsure how to begin.
‘Our solicitor is very discreet,’ he added. I nodded in acquiescence.
At once it struck me how odd it was to be drinking coffee with the detective again, but to feel so differently. Only a few days had passed since our memorable meeting in my dressing room, a meeting of seemingly disparate minds united by a single piece of paper and two names that had turned out to be one. But we had never really been dissimilar, Holmes and I. The case had shown me that the hints of things I’d discovered about the detective during our last interaction—trustworthy, kind things—were far stronger parts of him than people realised. Neither of us was soft; we were both honed edges that could cut in an instant, but if we were sharp, we were also straight.
After half an hour had passed, Morris and Burroughs emerged, and the policeman clapped Burroughs on the shoulder. ‘You’re a true hero, Mr Burroughs, and I hope you won’t let this unfortunate incident cloud your view of our city.’
Burroughs looked at us all with relief on his face. ‘Just glad I could help, Sir, Mr Holmes, Mrs, I mean—’
‘Miss Adler,’ I supplied with a smile, and he smiled back.
‘You’ll be called to testify, Mr Burroughs, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the mayor sees fit to give you a commendation,’ said the policeman with finality. The young man nodded and left the station, but I didn’t think any mayor’s commendation would be sufficient to compensate him for what he’d been through.
Once Burroughs was gone, Morris turned to me, and I noticed that in spite of all the events of the nighttime, his brown hair was still perfectly coiffed. ‘I’d like to get your statement now, if you don’t mind, Miss Adler.’ I didn’t mind, but Holmes put a hand on my arm as I started to get up.
‘Sheriff Morris, I’d be grateful if you’d let Miss Adler and I give statements together. I realise it’s slightly irregular, but given enough time, I could produce permission from as high as you’d like.’
The policeman sat back down and seemed to be contemplating how much he trusted Sherlock Holmes. ‘Very well,’ he finally said, ‘I know there’s more to this than meets the eye. There was that fellow Bill, the one who alerted me, for one thing. He had identification from a government organization I won’t mention.’
‘Very wise,’ Holmes put in.
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Morris, looking at both of us. ‘I have a dead body to account for. What I want are statements that explain it. I’m not fool enough to think the entire case, whatever it entails, is under my jurisdiction.’
‘What we need, Sir,’ I put in, ‘is for Holmes to be nonexistent in this case.’ The policeman raised one eyebrow, a signal that he was about to become obstinate.
‘Give me twenty-four hours, and I will have all the reasons you need to keep me out of it,’ said Holmes.
The policeman nodded abruptly. ‘I trust you, Mr Holmes, but for this, I need solid proof. I’ll give you the day you request.’
‘Understandable,’ I murmured, and I noticed that the detective didn’t seem perturbed either. I wondered if he meant to flee.
I couldn’t help feeling a little bit of regret at leaving Morris without a satisfactory explanation, but as soon as Holmes and I emerged into the sunshine, my spirits lifted. It was fully daytime now, and people were about in the streets, shopping and working. I looked around, and the city of Fort Myers looked different, friendlier, without the spectre of an enemy hanging over my head.
Holmes re-hitched the wagon. ‘I was thinking, Mrs James,’ he said playfully, ‘that perhaps it might behove us to use the hotel instead of the flat above Sloane’s General Store, now that we have our choice.’
I laughed, and we made our way back to the Keystone. My opulent room seemed far removed from all the things that had happened to me since I had been in it, but there it was when I returned, just as I had left it. Holmes appealed to the office for his own room and was given one adjacent to mine.
My companion did not bother to close the door between our rooms before sprawling across his bed and falling into a much-needed sleep. In a reversal of our former positions, I sat by the window and watched him, and I wondered if he had also watched me in a similar way. In sleep, all of his strength and control were gone, and he was simply a man. I realised in that moment that I had become his friend.
Holmes slept for three hours, and I spent them in contemplation, examining my feelings one by one and trying to put to rest as many as I could. I had never been so near death before, and I found that I was different afterward—calmer, less afraid that the world would pass me by, and happier just to be in it. Time would tell how far that difference went.
Holmes finally awoke in the late morning and came into my room, instantly alert. ‘You look better,’ I commented. ‘Better still with food.’
‘Agreed,’ he said simply, so I had some brought up, soup that tasted canned, a beef dish with noodles that the hotel called ‘stroganoff,’ and a bakewell pudding at the end. Both of us ate with abandon and determination. I had read Dr Watson’s descriptions of the succulent dinners he and Holmes sometimes enjoyed, but I’d never actually seen Holmes eat heartily before. With amusement, I realised the accounts weren’t lies after all. The detective was quite capable of taking in energy when he needed it.
Once finished, Holmes perched on the ancient divan in my room and gazed at me with an uncertain expression. ‘I feel I owe you some explanation of the events of the past few
days.’ I met his eyes, and he looked away, almost as if he were avoiding the intimacy.
‘After you recognised the solicitor, I began to suspect where matters stood. If harming or capturing me had been the man’s sole object, it would have made little sense for him not to have devised a way to entrap me the night we first met. He had a decided advantage since he knew my face, but I did not know his. He would, at least, have had a good chance. As it was, I knew he must be waiting for something else. The presence of the letter pointed two ways, to you by its content and to Mycroft by the ease with which it was procured and the presence of the photograph in Sanchez’s office. I couldn’t dismiss the notion that if the man knew my brother well enough to target him, he would also know what an impossible target my brother would be. The Florida connection would have been senseless in that situation. As a result, I began to be convinced that you were as much a target as I, if not more.’
‘That’s why I insisted that we separate. I realised that the man knew of my presence but did not appear to know of yours. I surmised that he’d known you were coming to Florida for your singing tour and assumed that I would follow Sanchez here, but he didn’t seem to know that we were together and both in Fort Myers. I decided to force him to make a move.’
‘That’s why you used me as bait,’ I put in.
‘Yes, I—’ For once, the detective looked as if he were at a loss. ‘I understand that it caused you a vast amount of—unpleasantness—’ he trailed off. It was the least fluent speech I’d ever heard him give.
I rose from my chair and went to him. ‘Get up, Holmes,’ I said forcefully, hoping to startle him into obedience. He did as I asked, his tall frame dwarfing mine once he was standing.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and I stood on my toes and wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him tightly for a few seconds. When I pulled back, he looked more shocked than I’d ever seen him. I returned to my chair, but he seemed entirely unable to speak for quite a while, sitting on the edge of the divan with a bewildered face.
