by Irene Adler
“Now what?” Lupin and Sherlock asked when I returned to them.
“A waste of time,” I said, disappointed. “According to Hortence, there is no tailor’s shop that has those initials.”
“We didn’t need this,” Lupin said, looking frustrated. “It could be a cloth that has been produced in the United States, France — anywhere else but here!”
Sherlock was disappointed. His theory — that the Spaniard’s shawl was from England — was not looking as likely now.
For the umpteenth time since we had started that investigation, we were stuck.
I began to think maybe we weren’t skilled enough to conduct such a demanding investigation . . . and maybe we would have to ask for help.
* * *
I stared at Mr. Nelson throughout dinner that night, continually asking myself if I should tell him about our investigation. I was waiting for the right time, but the moment never came.
Back then, it seemed to me that discussing our work with an adult would mean betraying the spirit of our group.
“There is good and bad news, Miss Irene,” Mr. Nelson told me in the middle of the dinner. “The good news is that your father let us know by telegram that your mother is doing well and that tomorrow or the day after, they will leave to meet you here in London.”
“And the bad?” I asked, slightly worried.
“Perhaps, among your many thoughts, you have wondered what my job here is, apart from making sure you are safe and keeping track of your questionable friends, while your father has been gone.”
“Actually, I haven’t, Mr. Nelson,” I admitted.
“Well, he asked me to look for an apartment rental here for all of you, and myself,” Mr. Nelson replied.
My eyes widened. “We are leaving Paris?”
“For some time, it would seem so, Miss Irene. I’m really sorry . . .” and here Horatio Nelson went beyond his call of duty, displaying a fake regretful grimace worthy of a Shakespearean actor. “At the thought of all the distinguished Parisian friends you must give up, instead of spending goodness knows how many months in this new city, where you know only Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lupin. Those two will be barely enough to distract you while things on the continent are sorted out.”
I kissed him on the forehead, which left him speechless, and ran happily around the room, imagining the moment when I would tell my two friends the news.
Then, when the excitement passed, I decided to keep the news to myself for the time being . . . at least until we saved Théophraste Lupin from the gallows.
* * *
I took a long bath, during which I let myself dream a thousand fantasies about my future in London, and when I returned to my room, ready to sleep, I noticed that someone had slid a thin white envelope under the door.
I picked it up and turned it over. There was my name and the address of the hotel written by a light and very accurate hand. I opened the envelope and there I found a short note, full of erasures.
Dear Miss Adler,
I’m sorry about this afternoon, but as you may have guessed by now, I have difficulty trusting other people. However, I think I can fix that — at least partially. Thinking back to the piece of red silk, I finally managed to remember something. And now I am certain that the shop you’re looking for is Wallace & Renfurm, not very far from Covent Garden. The reason why I did not remember immediately is because it is a very specialized shop, which only handles costumes — especially those for the Royal Opera House. Hoping to have been of some help. I offer my respectful greetings.
— Miss Hortence Cheepnis
The tailor of the costumes for the Opera House in London.
We had a new lead!
Chapter 18
THE MAGIC OF THE THEATER
The Royal Opera House was closed, but fans had been visiting the theater frequently in the days since Ophelia went missing. People had lit dozens of candles in prayer and left them burning at the entrance. On the lawn were hundreds of notes that wished Ophelia a speedy recovery and only a few expressing their mourning of poor Alfred Santi, whose death seemed to have already been forgotten.
Sherlock, Lupin, and I walked around the entire building looking for a way to enter. The fact that the mysterious Spaniard was wearing a costume made by the tailor Wallace & Renfurm convinced us that we had to look for the criminal among the singers, musicians, and employees of the theater.
Among those suspects, we knew we had to consider Henri Duvel, Barzini’s French assistant, although his stature did not match that of the Spaniard. We concluded that Duvel could have hired someone else to play that evil part for him.
Walking around the theater, we heard music coming from some low windows that were protected on the outside by iron bars. We heard a piano . . . timpani rolls.
“They’re rehearsing,” I said.
This meant that one of the musicians would have to come out of the building eventually. But from where?
“As soon as someone comes out, we try to go inside,” Sherlock said. “And if he doesn’t want to cooperate . . . we will try to convince him!”
He pulled from his pocket the bag of shillings he had earned as “Prince of Riddles” and suggested we divide them among us in case we had the opportunity to bribe someone to let us in.
But Lupin objected. “Do I have to remind you why we are here?” he asked, insisting he use his own savings for the cause.
In the end, we agreed that we should each contribute equal parts should we find ourselves in such a situation.
The three of us then spread out around the building, but made sure that we could still see each other from where we were posted.
Nothing happened for more than an hour. Then, after a good half of the morning had passed, a little man in a gray suit walked up to the front doors of the theater, which were on the side Lupin was guarding.
Lupin alerted us with a whistle. We surrounded the man just before he could put the key in the lock.
He glanced over us, alarmed, looking nervously from one of us to another like a fish caught in a net.
“Well! May I ask what you want?” he asked us sharply.
“Excuse me, sir . . . we have a simple request.Could you let us into the theater with you?” Sherlock asked.
“We assure you that it will be only for a minute!” Lupin said.
“Please!” I added.
The man began bouncing and nervously tapping his feet on the ground like a crazy dancer.
“Get out! Get out! Go away! The theater is closed, as you well know!” he yelled.
I touched his arm with one hand, and he suddenly stopped, surprised. “Please! I dream of becoming a singer . . . and I’ve never seen a great theater before!” I lied.
“And he plays the violin,” Lupin added, pointing at Sherlock.
“And you?” the little man in gray asked him. “What do you know how to do?”
“Me?” Lupin improvised. “I want to become a costume designer, and dress up the most beautiful women in the world!”
“Pah!” the man said, not at all impressed, trying to make his way through us to the door.
“Listen!” I pressed him. “Have you ever heard of Wallace & Renfurm?” I asked.
To that question, the man raised his eyes impatiently. “This then! Three amateurs sent by a competitor to snoop! Is there anything they wouldn’t do nowadays?” he exclaimed. “Never mind that! You made a bad guess. Costumes are not my business.”
“Well, surely you must know if Wallace & Renfurm supplies for the theater at least!” Lupin burst out.
At that point, the man forcefully knocked three times on the locked door and then stood watching us for a moment.
“Everybody knows this, young man,” he directed at Lupin. “Everything that’s down there,” the man went on as he looked toward the ground, “is made by them.”
“Down there?” Lupin repeated.
“In the basement — where the wardrobe is kept,” the man replied.
“Do you keep them all there?” I asked.
“All except the ones that are past their prime, wrinkled or faded or frayed,” the man said, raising his chin. “And then they are given to performers less prestigious than those who work here at the Royal Opera House.”
We exchanged an understanding glance. We knew, thanks to Lupin, that the Spaniard’s coat was not crumpled at all, and that, if our assumptions were correct, it would have come right from the wardrobe of this theater.
“And there isn’t any possibility that you could show us this wardrobe?” I asked, hopeful.
The little man in gray smiled pleasantly at us. “Sure, why not? But first I would like to introduce you to two of my good friends!”
At that moment, the door to the theater opened, and two quite scary-looking thugs appeared in the doorway.
“Have you called us, boss?” one of them asked.
“It must be our lucky day, Jack. We have a singer, an up-and-coming costume designer, and one who aspires to be the next Paganini! Where are you at with taking down the sets? Do you need to warm up your muscles a little?” the small man in gray asked them, chuckling.
The two big men rolled up their sleeves, each revealing forearms that were as thick as the ropes on a ship, and prepared to grab us.
“Just a second,” Sherlock muttered then, putting himself between the men and me. “I think there is a misunderstanding, Mr. . . .”
“Collins,” the man said, adjusting his round glasses on his little pig eyes, as if he had expected to be recognized.
“COLLINS?” Lupin leaped in enthusiastically, making me seriously fear that he had lost his mind. “Are you really Wilkie Collins? Wilkie Collins . . . the writer?” he bumbled.
The little man looked at him with curiosity.
“Writer, journalist, and playwright,” he specified. “As well as an assistant to and friend of Charles Dickens.”
“Charles Dickens!” I exclaimed. “What a wonderful writer!”
Wilkie Collins could not hide a grimace of annoyance. “I regret to inform you that he died three months ago, Miss.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“England has lost one of its best writers . . .” Wilkie Collins said with a false sigh. It was obvious that the event had not upset him very much.
“But I read your book The Moonstone, sir,” Lupin quipped. “It is simply gorgeous.”
“Are you being serious, young man?” Wilkie Collins asked.
“Of course!” Lupin insisted. Then he looked at me. “Irene, don’t you remember? I told you about it!”
I opened my mouth for a split second before I realized what he was doing. “Oh, of course!” I finally said. “It’s that book you devoured in a single day!”
The little man adjusted his glasses on his nose. “In a single day!” he repeated smugly. At that point, he gestured at the two thugs to back off.
“Without even stopping to eat, sir,” Lupin said triumphantly. Then he added, almost in a whisper, “Anything but Dickens. Quite frankly, sir, his novels bore me to death.”
The little man named Wilkie Collins looked indecisively at the small group of people around him.
“Do you still want me to do something about these kids, boss?” the beast named Jack asked.
“No, no . . .” Wilkie Collins stammered, raising both his hands. “Never mind. The boy here —”
Lupin asked, “Could I have your autograph, sir?”
The writer felt his waistcoat, looking for a pen, and then looked into the pocket of his gray jacket. “Of course! I . . . I thought I might even have a copy of . . . but where . . . where did I put it?”
“Mr. Collins,” said Lupin, grabbing his arm. “The autograph does not matter. But it would be an incredible honor for me to visit the theater with you. Tell me! Are you planning a new work yet?”
The writer waved his hands, confused. “Yes, something like that, perhaps even with Maestro Barzini. We have an idea from an old story of mine that has not yet been published.”
“An unpublished one?” Lupin asked excitedly.
Nothing else was necessary. Softened by the effusive compliments of our French friend, Wilkie Collins (whoever that was!) opened the doors to the Royal Opera House, which led us right to the stage.
At first, however, our mission did not go very well. In addition to the employees there to take down the sets and some musicians there to practice, there were also some agents from the Scotland Yard in the theater, which made any attempt to look around impossible.
Lupin and I left the theater after just a quick tour of the stage and the orchestra pit. At some point during our tour, Collins had stopped to talk to Maestro Barzini and seemed to have forgotten our presence. And Sherlock, meanwhile, managed to disappear during the tour without Lupin or me noticing. One moment he was behind me, the next he was gone.
We were led to the door by one of the officers in charge of interviewing the members of the theater company. Given the unexplainable absence of our friend Sherlock Holmes, we did not protest too much and allowed them to show us to the exit.
Once outside, Lupin and I searched for a bench and debated what we should do next. Not that we had much choice.
“We wait for him,” I said. “If Sherlock is still inside, he will find his way out sooner or later.”
“Or maybe he will get arrested,” Lupin muttered nervously.
We talked about this and that, hoping that our friend would find his way out of the Royal Opera House, but soon it was time for lunch, and I had to return to the hotel.
“Can I ask you a question, Lupin?” I said before saying goodbye.
“Of course.”
“The writer who allowed us to go inside — Collins. Did you really know him?”
My friend laughed, and pulled from his pocket a small book with a dark cover. The Moonstone, signed by Wilkie Collins.
“I took it from his jacket pocket,” he said. “And when I heard his name, I tried it. A writer who brings a copy of his own book with him is a writer who dreams of being flattered, I told myself. And so it was!”
I watched Lupin, full of admiration, and I wondered if my friends would ever cease to amaze me with their fearlessness and intelligence.
Then, before heading to the hotel, I lingered in front of the magnificent theater, wondering where Sherlock Holmes might be hiding inside.
Chapter 19
DARKNESS BEHIND THE CURTAIN
The process of waiting, that afternoon confirmed for me, slows time down to an unbearable rate. The seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and so on.
I knew Sherlock. If he remained in that theater, it was because he had a plan up his sleeve. And I could not wait to find out what that plan was. As I walked back to the hotel, I went over the possibilities in my mind.
When I got to the Claridge’s, I read and reread the telegram from my father a thousand times. He wrote that he and Mother were stranded in Calais because of the rough seas and that they would be off to London as soon as the weather improved over the English Channel. Then I tried to entertain myself by paging through my guide to London and chatting with Mr. Nelson, but the sleepy atmosphere of the hotel soon made me antsy.
I said goodbye to Mr. Nelson, and for once I told him the truth — I was going out for a walk. But at the end of this walk, I found myself standing in front of the Shackleton Coffee House. When I walked into the café, there was no sign of Sherlock or Lupin. And so I had to wait again, but this time in the company of a cup of hot cocoa. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long, and when I saw my friends enter the café, I noticed something in their eyes immediately — there was some interesting news.
My two friends joi
ned me, and Sherlock placed an old bronze key on the table next to my now-empty mug.
“Since you’re in London to sightsee, how about a visit to the Royal Opera House?” he asked.
“What a question!” I said excitedly. “Let’s go there now!”
But I soon learned that it was not possible to go there immediately. While Sherlock had been hiding in the theater, in addition to stealing a key to the back door, he had heard bits of conversation between some musicians. At five o’clock the orchestra would be done rehearsing, and the theater would then be empty. So we waited until five o’clock, drinking hot cocoa and getting lost in all kinds of theories relating to our investigation.
When it was finally five o’clock, we left the café and reached Covent Garden by carriage. When we arrived, the last of the musicians were saying their goodbyes in front of the theater. Once they were gone, we moved fast among the first coils of fog that were beginning to surround the city.
Lupin and I kept watch while Sherlock opened the door.
A few moments later, the three of us were inside, surrounded by almost complete darkness.
“Come on! I think I know where the wardrobe is,” Sherlock told us softly. “This way!”
We followed and found ourselves surrounded by the eerie, partly dismantled scenes of the stage. Some pieces of the set were attached to ropes that disappeared into the darkness above us. It felt like we were walking in a cemetery made of painted canvasses and wooden shapes. With each step, the stage floor creaked slightly with an unsettling sound.
Sherlock brought us to a steep and narrow metal ladder that led underground. He climbed down first, hunching his shoulders to avoid hitting his head against the low-vaulted ceiling.
The basement hallway was cluttered with stage tools, mirrors, mannequins, and drapes, and because of the darkness, it was difficult to walk. The soft lights at the ends of the corridor were barely enough to see by.
