by Irene Adler
Mama did not reply. She was defeated. I had to stop myself from glancing at my father.
“So, are we really going?” I asked while Mr. Nelson took the dishes away.
“Well . . .” Papa answered. He wore a big smile. It was a polite way of acknowledging his victory.
I went upstairs to my bedroom just in time to avoid listening to more of their argument. From the stairs, I could still hear bits of their conversation. I went to my desk, grabbed some paper, ink, and an inkstand, sat down, and stared into the shaky light from the oil lamp.
I did not write a single word. I stood up and opened my window, letting the soft noise of the rain into the room.
The city was dark, and a curfew was in place. It was so quiet that each step on the sidewalk roared. I saw lightning far away to the east, and I pictured soldiers falling on the front line, wherever that was now. I could not even imagine it: war.
I thought about London, and, of course, I thought about seeing Sherlock and maybe Lupin again . . . if one of his father’s adventures landed him there.
At the bottom of his letter, my English friend had left an address. Maybe, once I got there, I could try to stop by and say hello.
Or maybe it would be better to let him know beforehand that I was coming. What were the odds that a letter sent during war could get there before its sender?
I sat down again, staring at the blank piece of paper. I chewed my pen, and then I began writing.
My dear Sherlock,
You cannot imagine what just happened to me . . .
* * *
The next morning, I hurried downstairs looking for Mr. Nelson. I found him standing at the front door, staring at the road that was still wet with rain.
I handed him the envelope holding the letter I had written last night and asked, “What say you, Horatio Nelson? Will it get there in time?”
Mr. Nelson took the envelope and read the name on it. He did not look surprised. He smiled and began walking away, taking the letter to whatever post office was still open in this war-torn city.
“Mr. Nelson?” I called to him.
“What is it, Miss Irene?”
“Will you come to England with us?” I asked.
He answered, raising the envelope as if to suggest a link between the letter and what he was about to say. “Your mother, Miss Irene, has asked me to look after you when she is not there and has told me not to leave you alone for a second.”
Why would she not be there? I thought. Does that mean she isn’t coming to London with us? And why not?
I quickly ran inside and found my mother fully dressed, eating breakfast.
When I asked if it was true that she would not be coming with us, she said, “I won’t leave my house. I won’t leave everything we have to those barbarians.”
At that point, I couldn’t imagine the looting and destruction that would haunt this town after battle. Could it be, perhaps, that my mother had a better grasp on this matter than I did as a young girl?
“And what did Papa say?” I asked.
“He said that this house is not important,” she answered mysteriously.
What he had actually said, I would later learn, was that the house and our belongings were not more important than our safety. He told her that if he could not take us all away, he would at least take me away.
Chapter 3
THE BLUE TRAIN
Considering it was the end of September, it was unusually cold the morning we left for London. My mother, in an effort to point out how opposed she was to the trip, chose not to even change out of her nightgown. She came to say goodbye and stood at the front door, wrapped up in a long robe with her hair undone.
I, on the other hand, was presentable for once. My hair was brushed, I wore a skirt that my Parisian non-friends would have found cute with my long legs, and I sported a pair of shoes with laces. I stood on my toes to kiss my mother goodbye, and I smelled something bad on her, something that, years later, I would learn was alcohol.
She got close to me — so close that she surprised me, as that was probably the first time I felt the touch of her body.
“You will be careful, right, Irene?” she whispered in my ear.
I remember that moment very well.
The person I saw at the front door that morning was a real person, showing all her stubbornness, fears, and weaknesses. It was as if the mask of etiquette behind which my mother always hid had slipped away.
While we hugged, I wanted to tell her that I had never felt that close to her. But I didn’t.
Since then, I’ve learned that the most important words, the real ones, often get trapped somewhere between heart and mouth and never come out. This is what happened to me in that moment.
“Of course, Mama. You take care yourself,” was all I managed.
My mother was not used to being defenseless for too long. I felt her arms get rigid with embarrassment. And when our eyes met again, she was back to being the distant mother that I knew all too well.
She turned toward Mr. Nelson, who stood at the door, and gave him instructions on a number of things. Then she made sure that all our luggage was in the carriage.
As she did so, Papa came downstairs from his bedroom. He looked at me, smiling, and then said, “Come on, come on! The train won’t wait for us!”
He affectionately patted my back as he prodded me down the stairs to the street. I knew that his hurrying me to the carriage was an effort to keep me away so my parents could have a private goodbye. I did as I was told, but I sat by a window in the carriage so I could witness the whole scene without them knowing. Mama and Papa faced one another for a few seconds. She shook her head and said the word “crazy.” He gestured around them, as if to say that it was more crazy to stay in Paris.
Then Papa grabbed her hands and pulled them toward him, asking her one last time to come with us. She shook her head, looking upset.
But this wouldn’t convince my father to stay. He then shook his head, kissed her forehead, and walked toward Mr. Nelson and me, while Mama slipped down into a chair like a withered flower.
* * *
Our black carriage crossed deserted roads and crowded squares. Many Parisians were meeting up for protests or rallies. There were men building a barricade with furniture, perhaps to hold off the Prussians.
I grabbed onto the window, asking my father, “Is this dangerous?”
“Yes,” he said, quite frankly.
He beat the coachman box with his cane to make the horse go faster.
We arrived at the big train station, Gare du Nord, and the carriage left us right on the platform. Papa grabbed my arm as if he was afraid of losing me, and guided me to our train track. And then the three of us, Papa, Mr. Nelson, and I, got on a blue train headed to Boulogne-sur-Mer.
The train whistled so sharply that I had to cover my ears. A few seconds later, the train began its slow march. A cloud of steam surrounded the train cars and then disappeared in the cold air.
I finally relaxed in my seat. It was like I had just realized what was happening to me . . . I was traveling to London!
My father was already busy with his newspaper, and Mr. Nelson held a book written by the American author Edgar Allan Poe. Mr. Nelson told me he liked Mr. Poe, but thought his writing was too vulgar to be suitable for me.
I fumed. I hated that other people could decide what was suitable for me and what was not. But I was only unhappy for a few minutes.
I got wrapped up in the beauty of the landscape outside my window — an endless green plain, interrupted only by some low hills.
“Just a few years ago,” said my father, lowering his paper and gazing at the beautiful French countryside. “Actually, some years ago, when I was your age, a trip like this would have taken at least a couple of days. We would’ve had to change horses twice, stop to eat, sleep,
check our packages . . .”
When he said that, I thought about my letter to Sherlock. Did the letter leave before us, and did my friend know about our arrival? I wondered.
“And now look . . . progress!”
We quickly stopped in Amiens, where many people got on and off the train. Leaning on the window, I realized that our blue train was full of people and luggage. It seemed that it was just the three of us who had the privilege of having our own compartment.
Three hours later, we arrived at the Boulogne -sur-Mer station.
“And now?” I asked my father.
“Now come with me,” he said, cutting me off like I was one of his employees.
I was not offended by it, however. I looked at his eyes, which sparkled with enthusiasm like a child’s and could not be angry. We either understood each other in a heartbeat or not at all, my father and I.
Mr. Nelson went to check on the luggage to make sure it followed us to the ferry, but my father was already making his way through the crowd in the station.
“Papa!” I shouted to get his attention. “What about Mr. Nelson?”
Like a soldier who had just been whipped between his shoulder blades, Leopold Adler straightened his back and stopped.
“Oh yes!” he said, emerging from his thoughts. “Where is he?”
Our butler found us a few minutes later. “Luggage is going to the ferry, sir,” he said, but Papa wasn’t listening. He started to walk again, satisfied that Mr. Nelson was by my side.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
Mr. Nelson shrugged. “And with you, Miss Irene?”
I looked at him. How did he always understand what was on my mind?
“I’m thinking about London,” I answered.
“London?” He smiled. “Or is it someone living in that city?”
“The truth is, I’m thinking about two people. Not just one,” I quipped.
“Ah, Miss Irene!” exclaimed Mr. Nelson, half serious. “Such friendships are not suited to a young lady like you! One of these days your mother is going have a fit about it. You know that, right?”
Instead of answering, I asked him a question. “And what would good friendships be like, Mr. Nelson? The daughters of my mother’s friends? Goodness no! Can you picture me talking about weddings, shoes, and hats all day long?”
“If you really want to know my opinion, Miss Irene, I actually do not think those things suit you. But maybe you can find some friendships that do not involve murders and criminals.”
“Sherlock and Lupin are not criminals!” I exclaimed.
“I didn’t say that,” Mr. Nelson said kindly. “But I don’t think I need to say anything else, do I?”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Nelson?”
“Nothing more than what I said, Miss Irene. I hope you’ll have the chance to meet your friends once again. And I also hope that a meeting doesn’t mean a —”
We were interrupted by my father, who stood in the middle of the street ahead of us, cursing.
We reached him in front of the battered door of a dilapidated building.
“I can’t believe it! This is the best inn in town!” he complained. The building looked like it had had some bad luck in recent years. “I came here with my father many years ago, when I was a boy, and I can assure you, I have never had such delicious duck breast in my entire life.”
His mustache made his expression look even more disappointed, the ends of it curling around the edges of his frown.
I laughed, and my father stared at me. “It’s a disgrace, I’m telling you! A disgrace!” he shouted.
“I wish you could see yourself, Papa!” I said, still laughing.
He opened his eyes wide, but when he saw that even Mr. Nelson could not contain his laughter anymore, he started to laugh with us.
And with a nice, big laugh, we all went to have dinner at another restaurant, Grand Cochon. Instead of duck breast, we enjoyed three wonderful baked pork legs with potatoes.
Chapter 4
AN UPSETTING ENCOUTER
I spent the whole afternoon on the ferry deck with my father. I will always remember the time we spent together, not speaking, watching the bow of the steamboat splitting the waves with such ease.
Mr. Nelson wisely decided to stay inside, for our brave butler was prone to motion sickness.
I enjoyed the breeze in my hair as I breathed in the salty air. I looked out over the bow, hoping to spot England like many other passengers. I knew that only one person could be the first to scream “Land!” and I had bet Papa that I would be that person.
But as we sailed away from the coast, the pleasant breeze became cold, the sky slowly darkened, clouds gathered over the sea, and heavy rain started to fall.
“We should get inside,” Papa said. “Otherwise we’ll be spending our first days in London in bed.” He was right, of course, so I had to give up on my bet.
We sat at a table, where we ordered some hot tea and butter cookies. Mr. Nelson went down to the lowest level in the ferry where he couldn’t see the stormy, gray sea. I realized that he left the book by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe on the bench. I grabbed it and started reading right away.
Papa laughed and chatted with some fellow businessmen until the ferry began to slow.
“Here we are!” people started to exclaim. I had to force myself to abandon my book. Wow, that American knew how to write — and his story was scaring me to death!
I leaned on the porthole and gazed out over the water. A ray of light tore through the clouds like a blade, and suddenly I could see the famous White Cliffs of Dover. I was so amazed, I could barely open my mouth.
We were in England, and I had spotted the cliffs before anyone else. But before I could say anything, I heard a lady yell to her husband, “Land! Look, Philippe! No, that way! We’re there!”
* * *
With a huge crowd of people greeting us, my father and I walked down the ramp to the dock. Mr. Nelson was one of the first people off the boat, and once on solid ground, he made the sign of the cross.
As we found Mr. Nelson waiting for us on the dock, I thought, happily, that England seemed much like France so far. The albatrosses flew low, circling over the piles of suitcases on the dock. Down the street, I could see sailors, people on vacation, and carriages moving about. We headed toward the action, looking for a carriage that could take us to the train station.
Distracted by all the noise and yelling at the port, we lost sight of one another in the crowd. While I looked around to find my father and Mr. Nelson, I saw a guard yelling at a homeless person.
As I watched, the homeless person suddenly began running toward me. Someone tried to grab him, but he easily managed to get away. He was onto me in a heartbeat.
I felt him grab my arm and saw a pair of hungry eyes that looked at me as if they could see inside my soul. It felt like I was in one of Mr. Poe’s scary stories.
My legs gave out and I fell to the ground. The homeless man then let me go, jumped up, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Irene!” Papa yelled as he hurried forward. He lifted me off the ground as easily as he might lift a bird. “Irene, what happened? Is everything okay?”
“Y-yes,” I answered, still in shock.
“Miss Irene!” Mr. Nelson came running.
“Horatio, you fool!” my father scolded. “I told you to always be with her!”
I had never heard him talk that way to Mr. Nelson.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Adler. I . . . got distracted for a second and . . .”
“It’s not his fault,” I said. “It was just a homeless person running away.”
“Nasty thieves!” said my father. “Did he steal anything from you? Is everything with you?”
I touched my pockets and then made sure my purse was intact. “No, he didn’t take anyt
hing.”
“Sure?”
I nodded. Actually, the homeless man had done the opposite of stealing, as I would find out later on. He gave me something.
Once we were settled in our seats on the train to London, I reached in my purse to give Mr. Nelson his book back and I found a folded piece of paper in my fingers instead. Not sure what it was, I opened it.
As soon as I laid my eyes on the script, I felt my heart beating fast in my throat. It took me a second to recognize Sherlock Holmes’s handwriting.
“Oh!” I said. “Coward!”
So those eyes that stabbed at me were his?
I had to breathe deeply to calm myself enough to read what he had written. No greeting, no “My dear Irene” — this letter took a more decisive tone:
I hope you haven’t become too posh since I last saw you and that you weren’t expecting a traditional greeting! Anyway, welcome to good old England. By a lucky coincidence, our friend Arsène Lupin is in London with his father now, too. Meet at Shackleton Coffee House, 11 Carnaby Street, on Monday morning, 10 sharp. Lupin and I will be there!
Chapter 5
OPHELIA THE DIVINE
I could not fall asleep that night. The room at the Claridge’s Hotel was nice and the bed was as soft as whipped cream, but there were too many things that were upsetting me. I kept seeing, again and again, the dark, deep eyes of the homeless man — or, rather, Sherlock Holmes — in Dover.
Thinking again about what had happened, I felt both angered and amused by what Sherlock had done. The gesture was original and brave, I’ll give him that.
When I wasn’t thinking about Sherlock, some other faces came to mind. Lupin’s, of course, since I had not even hoped I would see him again this soon, and then Ophelia Merridew’s face, like I had seen it in the paper. Soon I would admire her face in real life, and enjoy the privilege of listening to her enchanting voice. Then I imagined my mother’s face, severe and stubborn like when we said goodbye in Paris.
