Good Night, Mr. Holmes (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes)

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  I soon found myself in modest demand as a “temporary” employee called into offices throughout the City and surrounding villages to spin copperplate into cold type, so to speak. Other than needing spectacles—a tasteful if inhalation-inhibiting pince-nez that perched upon the bridge of my nose—to decipher these often illegible scribblings, I found the work congenial. Unraveling the mysteries of various hands to produce readable type gave me a strange satisfaction. In grander moments, I saw myself as revealing Rosetta Stones of lost meaning to a waiting world.

  Surprisingly, my nomadic employment suited me. Perhaps I had acquired Irene’s taste for the ebb and flow of sudden assignments. More likely, my humiliating experience at Whiteley’s had converted me to the benefits of will-’o-the-wispery: since I seldom stayed long at any establishment there was small opportunity to make enemies or edge into office intrigues.

  I became a fearless patron of the ubiquitous omnibus and soon knew the major streets of London as if they were limned upon my palm. I had money in my handbag and feathers on my new workaday bonnet. In other words, I felt myself an independent woman.

  If Parson Huxleigh’s orphan daughter was surviving, Irene Adler was thriving. Her jaunt to Bram Stoker’s tea had earned her an audition for the latest Gilbert & Sullivan light opera at the newly built Savoy Theatre on the Embankment. Her soon-won role did not suit her voice, she said dismissively, but she relished immersion in the theatrical life again and rigorously pursued the Zone of Diamonds among the Chelsea set.

  I fretted that she must travel about town so late at night, but as usual was dismissed.

  “You worry about me, Nell? You who so nearly donated all your worldly goods to a Whitechapel waif when we met? My profession requires the freedom of the city. I must go about alone at night; how else would I rehearse and perform?”

  “I would feel better if you had escort home.”

  “Oh, that could be arranged,” Irene said with flashing eyes. “A good many gentlemen of the town stand ready to escort even a bit player like myself home after the performance—with a detour to a private restaurant, a carriage ride through Hyde Park... No doubt you should sleep easier if I obtained such shepherding.”

  “Heavens, no! It’s simply that I worry for your safety.”

  “Worry not. I have my devices.”

  “Wit will not talk you out of every corner,” I warned.

  “This will.” Irene produced a sinister little revolver from her all-purpose muff.

  “Gracious! I’ve never seen such a fierce mechanism. It’s somehow more intimidating than a typewriter was to me at first.”

  “It’s meant to be intimidating, darling Nell.”

  “You could actually discharge it at someone?”

  “If it meant my life.”

  “Put it away! Its very existence proves that you take my point. London streets at night are dangerous for a woman alone.”

  “It is dangerous for a woman alone anywhere at any time,” Irene retorted. “Such is the nature of the society and century in which we live. It is up to women to reverse the situation.”

  “You fancy yourself as dangerous?” I had never thought of a woman as a weapon, only as a bulwark and that of the home, not the larger society.

  “Oh, I am very dangerous, Nell. You have no idea what a Bohemian you reside with. If I had my way, we would live in a very different world.” She smiled and tucked the gleaming black revolver into a pocket inside her muff. “And I doubt you’d like it all.”

  “Hmph,” I sniffed, knowing better than to pursue such a conversation. Irene would have her anarchist moods. I refused to let my own sensible opinions serve as a lucifer to light her incendiary ideas.

  So Irene came and went at her late hours, and I came and went at my more conventional times. Often our paths would not cross for days. It was mere chance that I happened to be at home one windy and wet April afternoon when a note was delivered to Irene, who had risen late and was sipping chocolate in her Oriental wrap.

  A sudden rustle of stiff silk jolted me from the latest novel of Mrs. Oliphant, which I had obtained at a circulating library.

  “We must neaten up at once, Nell! We are to have an eminent guest.”

  “A guest?” I leapt up guiltily, straightening the antimacassars covering my easy chair’s worn arms. Our only guests hitherto had been Mr. and Mrs. Minucci or their singularly untalented daughter, Sofia.

  I began sweeping the scattered newsprint into the fireplace to both warm our environs and eliminate clutter.

  “Not the Agony Column!” Irene shrieked, rushing to rescue the lurid pages from the blaze. “And it is ourselves we must first make presentable—very presentable. Mr. Oscar Wilde is to arrive at three.”

  “Oh. Him.” I dropped the armful of ribbons I had swept from the seat of Irene’s sewing chair back to the cushion. “A most nonsensical person. I don’t doubt that disarray ‘inspires’ him.”

  Irene paced, fanning the note before her face. “However you judge him, he is a man of the moment in London’s artistic circles. Notorious, yes, but with notoriety comes... notice. This is exactly what my poor stalled career needs. And”—she turned triumphantly to me, her eyes shining—”he mentions a private matter I might help with. I believe he is a client.”

  “Truly, Irene, I prefer you walking out at all hours to rehearse an opera over continuing in this tawdry investigative sideline of yours. Better Mr. Wilde be a sponsor than a client.”

  “Why not both?” Irene said lightly. “Besides, I am so put out at my failure with the Zone of Diamonds. All my inquiries have led no further than this ‘old Norton,’ whom I begin to swear does not and never did exist. If I successfully assist Oscar Wilde, who knows what doors shall open to me?”

  “Unsavory ones, I’ve no doubt,” I murmured.

  “But I am a ruin!” she suddenly cried, shaking out her wrap. “I must make myself respectable.”

  I held my tongue as Irene dashed into her chamber, leaving me to tidy the main room and conceal my daybed niche behind the threadbare curtains that masked it. With our best efforts at our separate talents—mine domestic and Irene’s cosmetic—our rooms and persons were ordered if not ordinary by three o’clock.

  A knock did not come at our door until three-twenty. Irene opened it to the same tall, pale young man who had praised my pouring abilities at the Stokers’ reception. Of course I did not expect him to remember me.

  “Miss Adler.” He bore a bouquet wrapped in tissue, which he changed from hand to hand as I unobtrusively removed his damp greatcoat and arranged it on the unnamed (and unclothed) dressmaker’s dummy that Irene used in the front room as a coat rack.

  Mr. Wilde noted the bizarre stratagem with an approving nod and began unpeeling wet tissue from the wind-chilled flowers. I thought of onion skins.

  “I confess myself at a loss, Miss Adler, in selecting a floral offering to adequately pay you tribute. I rejected the lily for obvious reasons: another, although equal, beauty has claimed it. The sunflower, although greatly favored, is too full-blown for your refined loveliness. I considered the regal iris, but it is a touch common. Thus I have—”

  Oh, get on with it, I thought uncharitably while subsiding into the background. Irene smiled politely at this flowery discourse as if she cared what blossoms he would produce. They would be wilted within a week in any case.

  “—decided upon the rare Holland tulip!” With this he whisked away the last of the tissue, revealing a cluster of blood-purple blooms ruffled to cerise along their extravagant edges. Even I gasped at their glory.

  “They are called Borgia Tears, but, alas, have no scent.”

  Irene laughed, delighted, as she took the glamorous bouquet. “You are not only a wit and poet, Mr. Wilde, but a sublime diplomat. You have chosen perfectly—give me the royal color and velvet sheen of the opera house curtain, give me mystery and drama over mere odor any day.”

  “And for your charming companion...” Here, to my horror, Mr. Wilde turned to me
. “I see you were as taken with her pouring at the Stokers’ as I and have stolen her away to preside at your hearth. I anticipated no other lady, but could not resist lily of the valley at the florist’s for my rooms. Accept this nosegay, dear Miss...?”

  Aghast, I stood silent.

  “Huxleigh,” Irene trilled loudly as she settled the tulips in a white pitcher. “Miss Penelope Huxleigh, late of Shropshire.”

  “Penelope!” The poet seized upon my ungainly classical name as a rat terrier upon a bone. “Wise and loyal wife, clever and faithful spirit of hearth and home. These small blossoms swoon with scent and are said to attract nightingales to warble by one’s bed. Alas, this humble human nightingale will have to suffice for you.”

  Picturing Mr. Oscar Wilde warbling by my bed was ludicrous enough to make me pale as I seized the nosegay and installed it in a tumbler on the table.

  “Penelope was a fool,” I muttered ungraciously. “I certainly should have never taken that bounder Ulysses back after he’d wandered all around the Wrekin.”

  “Wrekin?” The poet blinked, silenced.

  “A Shropshire expression, Mr. Wilde. The Wrekin is a small mountain, which is what you are making of my poor molehill of virtues. But pray excuse me; I have ‘domestic duties’ to attend to.” Here I withdrew to my daybed niche and took up some darning.

  My exit, although I was still within earshot and had left the draperies agape, seemed to wilt the poet’s demeanor until it drooped like the soft cravat of yellow silk at his throat. Irene led him to the shawl-draped sofa, where he sat languidly. She, being corseted, could affect no such easy posture.

  “Your note mentioned a private matter, Mr. Wilde.”

  He glanced in my direction.

  “Miss Huxleigh is more than discreet, as I’m sure you discern. My dear Nell would no more reveal a secret not her own than a martyr would deny her God.”

  “Of course. But the matter is extremely... delicate and of the most personal nature.”

  “I see,” said Irene, her tone unencouraging. “I have occasionally shed light on mysterious events, but not on the shadows of the heart, I fear. I am no go-between.”

  “Certainly not! Though the difficulty began as a matter of the heart, I fear it comes down to the rightful return of property now.”

  “As do so many so-called matters of the heart, ultimately. What is the property in question, Mr. Wilde?”

  “A gold cross—not of any great worth, I suppose, but valuable to me as a memento. You may not be aware that in the late seventies I was an admirer of that peerless beauty, Florence Balcombe. In that capacity I gave her the cross, as well as assorted poems and even a pencil portrait from my own hand.” The poet’s long melancholy face lifted in a smile. “I secretly sent a floral crown this past January when she made her Lyceum debut as one of a hundred vestal virgins in The Cup. Ellen Terry herself gave Florrie the offering, though she never revealed the sender.”

  “Of course, Florence Balcombe is no vestal virgin now,” Irene pointed out. “She is Mrs. Bram Stoker, is she not, and the mother of a son, Noel?”

  “Yes. And has been for a few years. Quite frankly, I would have married her, but she preferred another Irishman, and who am I to quarrel with so excellent a choice? Bram is such a hearty, straightforward fellow that I cannot be too bitter. But I would like my cross of gold back.”

  “Then ask for it.”

  “Ah, so direct, Miss Adler. After much hinting, that is exactly what I did. Florrie refused.”

  “Refused? I suppose by rights it is hers, but the value was trifling?” He nodded and Irene controlled her expression. “Have you considered that the lovely Florence still harbors a tendresse for you that prevents her from relinquishing your gift?”

  “My first assumption,” he admitted, “and I should respect her understandable sentiment, but she has shown an evasion in discussing the subject that is quite inexplicable. The cross is precious to my past; since Florrie is no longer mine in the present, I should like it back and she should be more than willing to return it. Her refusal is most... odd.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Speak to Florence. Find out at least why she so unreasonably refuses to give it up. Knowing her motives would compensate for the possession of the cross.”

  “You are an easily satisfied creditor, Mr. Wilde. I shall inquire into the matter, but it is her business, at bottom.”

  “Of course.” The poet stood and took Irene’s hand, bowing low over it. “I shall be most grateful.”

  “Why come to me for such a service?”

  “You are a woman of wit. You would have made a poetess, I think, except that when you see into the human soul you keep it to yourself and to your own ends. You are also possessed of a ceaseless curiosity. Witness your questions about this man Norton. You strike me as one bold enough to broach any subject with anyone. But then, you are American.”

  “Indeed I am,” Irene said as she retrieved his greatcoat and showed him out. “I will look into the matter and let you know the result.”

  “A popinjay,” I sang from my corner as soon as the door had closed. “Shan’t it be embarrassing to quiz Florence Stoker? And what will he pay you, after all, but compliments and posies?”

  “Wilde’s good will is worth a hundred pounds. What he declares to be fashionable, is. Look at his devotion to Lillie Langtry; it accounts in good part for her notoriety.”

  Irene had thrown herself on the sofa in that peculiar stiff, supine attitude seen in photographs of Sarah Bernhardt or the painted ladies of the pre-Raphaelites. Corseted “flowers” do not bend well; no wonder the Jersey Lily eschewed whalebone. Still, Irene managed to look comfortable despite her position.

  “Ah, that Wilde Irish vanity,” she reflected. “I wager that Florence Stoker has utterly unsentimental reasons for keeping Oscar Wilde’s cross. They should be interesting to discover. I am tired of Mr. Tiffany’s foolish Zone, at any rate!” she burst out, putting a hand to her forehead as if an ache throbbed there. “A cul-de-sac, as I feared. I dread reporting my failure,” she added morosely, “but he leaves shortly and I must.”

  A knock at the door interrupted her. I answered it to find thin-faced little Sofia—she looked like a shriveled rabbit—in the passage.

  “A genelmun below said to give you this.”

  I took a card and moved into the pale light of our dying fire. “That’s... odd.”

  “Another visitor?” Irene objected. “I can’t! One poet is wearing enough. Send whoever it is away. How rude to call without notice.”

  “I suppose I could scrawl a dismissal on his card and send it back with Sofia, but Mr. Norton might not call again—”

  “Good! Let him go to blazes—Mr. Norton!” Irene sat bolt upright in defiance of the laws of corsetry. “My Lord. Yes, Sofia child, tell Mr. Norton he may come up. Nell, what does the card say?”

  She rushed over to pry it from my hand.

  “Only his name and address,” I explained.

  “The Temple. He is a barrister—the very one!”

  “A note on the back requests to see you, if you’d care to turn it over.”

  “Such hasty, bold strokes. No sign of feebleness here. Old Norton is spry. Why did no one know of him? Why come to me? Quick, Nell, I need an impartial witness. Behind the arras, my love. You must take notes; my wits are too addled to be at their usual pitch. Hide yourself! Be quiet, like the dead; be my ears. Perhaps I will have good news for Mr. Tiffany after all. Oh, what a coup!”

  “I am not an eavesdropper!” I protested through the muffling curtains just as a knock thundered on the door.

  It clapped again, that external thunder, before Irene could answer. I heard the knob turn and the hinges squeak. Then silence. I considered that Old Norton must be vigorous to muster so commanding a knock at his age.

  “Miss Adler?” a deep male voice barked.

  He was testy, I concluded, despite his apparent robust health.

  Irene’s
voice sounded strangled with surprise as she replied. “I am Irene Adler. Do ... come in, Mr. Norton.”

  Her invitation was uttered just as a pair of boots thumped over our sadly thin rugs. I envisioned a stout old gent, his ruddy face bristling with white muttonchop whiskers, his stomach bowed out like a punch bowl. Father William of the poem, if you will.

  This Dickensian worthy stalked only in my imagination, but being restricted to sound alone made for fascinating speculations. I leaned my ear against the draperies.

  “You seem surprised to see me,” the gentleman observed.

  “I am indeed. Won’t you sit down?”

  “That will not be necessary. What I have to say to you, Miss Adler, does not require civilities. You may sit if you wish. I fancy you will need to before I’m done.”

  “Indeed,” Irene murmured faintly, sounding not at all like herself. I heard her clothing rustle as she followed his suggestion. His boots began pacing before the fire, which must have paled to ashes by now.

  “To what do I owe your visit?” she inquired.

  ‘To your damn impertinent questions into my family life!”

  “Your family life?”

  “Don’t deny that you haven’t been making inquiries about a certain Norton to every man jack around! I won’t have you stirring up the family scandal just when tongues have stopped wagging at last. I warn you—I’m a barrister and I know how to deal with people of your sort.”

  “And just what is ‘my sort,’ Mr. Norton?” Irene asked, much too calmly.

  The voice dismissed the matter even as it replied. “Some kind of performer, I understand. That’s irrelevant. I don’t care if you’re a ragpicker; your vicious inquiries into my family history must stop!”

  “My profession is not irrelevant to me, Mr. Norton. And it happens that I am a vocalist and an actress.”

  He snorted. “So claims Lillie Langtry these days.”

  “She is an upstart. I am a long-time student of my art. And I do not sell soap.”