“Irene!”
“Then there was that peculiar pattern of roots fanning out into a sort of sunburst. That, too, would catch an unfocused eye. Old Norton was senile, not ordinarily mad. He must have had moments of clarity. In such a moment he secreted the things most important to him in this chest, then buried it.”
“The Zone?” I eyed the bucking box between us with more respect. “You really think the Zone of Diamonds lies in this very receptacle?”
“And Mr. Sherlock Holmes does not have it!” Irene crowed. “Mr. Charles Tiffany does not have it. Mr. Godfrey Norton does not have it. But I do.”
“Greed,” said I, my heart pounding nevertheless at the notion of opening the box. So Pandora must have felt.
“Not greed.” Irene teased me with a smile. “Glory.”
How I survived that headlong return trip to London I shall never quite know. The chest was heavy, which very fact encouraged our dreams of booty. Irene and I were forced to cart it like some ungainly valise between us through the length of Victoria Station. The cabman we hailed outside offered to lift our “luggage” to the box. Irene refused so adamantly that I expected him, suspicions aroused, to whistle for the nearest bobby.
Our hansom rattled ‘round the curve of Buckingham Palace along The Mall and across Trafalgar Square onto Charing Cross Road. I was so guilt-ridden by now that I anticipated the Royal Guard riding out and commanding us to “stand and deliver” our ill-gotten goods on the spot. Every nearing hansom seemed to conceal a Scotland Yard man. Every pause for traffic congestion to untangle seemed a plot to detain us.
“Amusing how convenient our rooms are to Baker Street,” Irene commented as we turned onto New Oxford Road and away from the northwest section of the town.
I said nothing, wondering if our efforts to smooth over The Sycamores’ disturbed earth would escape the notice of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“He is sure to be suspicious,” she said, as if anticipating my thoughts. “He may even find our ‘dig.’ But then what? The Misses Saunders and Rushwimple have naught to do with us.”
“Our descriptions—”
“—could match a thousand women’s in London—more, perhaps a half-million of these busy four-and-a-half million souls around us! Besides, even if he catches us eventually, we have the prize now.”
My shoe-toe touched it gingerly.
“Yes, it’s plain and ugly,” Irene admitted. “Yet great beauty can dwell in a lowly exterior, do not Scriptures tell us, Penelope? As the earth accepted the remains of old Norton, so it gives up the better part of him, that prize which was bought, people say, and so does Godfrey Norton testify by inference, with the sacrifice of wife and sons.”
“What will you do with it?”
Irene stared at me, her face uncharacteristically blank. “I have not considered. I thought only of obtaining it. I can hardly pawn it and I don’t know... yet... how to sell it. Perhaps I’ll wear it on the stage. I can do so more honorably than my sister singers who collect their stage jewels from rich admirers.”
“You are still in the chorus.”
“I will not always be.”
“Oh, Irene.” I found myself laughing wearily, fatigued by the day’s surprises. “You are such an optimist. Why can you not aim lower—a supporting role instead of a starring one? A respectable marriage instead of such fevered independence? A modest suite of garnets instead of Marie Antoinette’s diamonds? Such things are more naturally within your grasp.”
“Such things are within any woman’s grasp—which is why so few women make anything of themselves. I shall try at least.”
She settled back in her seat, saying no more as the familiar streets rolled past, but I felt that I had offended her—even worse, had cast a shadow over her moment of triumph. I simply did not wish to see her fail, and she always reached so far beyond herself that ultimate failure seemed inevitable to me.
“ ‘A man’s reach must exceed his grasp, ‘else what’s a heaven for?’ “ Irene declaimed suddenly from her quiet corner. “Why not a woman’s reach?”
I need not describe the bruising progress of two women and one inexcusably heavy piece of baggage up four two-hundred year-old flights of stairs. Once our rooms had been reserved for hard-working eighteenth-century servants. We two were equally as prostrate as they after a day’s labor when we finally dragged the accursed little trunk over the threshold. I panted in the doorway, loosening hairs trailing like witchweed around my face, as Irene rushed to light the gasolier and the lamps.
“Now, Nell, do you think we can swing it atop this table?”
“We can try,” said I, preparing to heave up my end as she joined me.
We finally had the trunk posed like a homely centerpiece on the dining table, the gasolier’s light directly above, glittering on the dull nail heads.
“It looks rather like a stage chest from ‘The Merchant of Venice,’” Irene said.
“The one made of lead,” I couldn’t help adding pointedly.
Irene laughed as she seized a carving knife and ran it under the strapping. The buckles were rusted shut and the leather as stiff as whalebone. More fingernails snapped before we had pried the three leather tongues through their steel bits.
“Now.” Irene paused to brush fallen hair from her brow with her forearm. The elegant lady of the morning was gone; she looked like a washerwoman after a long day’s labor over the steaming tubs—save for the mud.
“Now,” she repeated, pushing at the lid. It resisted. She snatched the knife again and ran it under the rim, ramming the handle with the heel of her hand.
There came a snap and a visible exhalation of earthy dust, then the lid sprang back.
“You show alarming signs of prophecy,” Irene said, surveying the interior without a change of expression. She lifted out a score of small grey metal bars.
“Lead,” said I.
An inventory revealed the remaining items to be lighter but no less puzzling than the lead bars: among them a box of starch, a huge ring of keys, and a piece of lambskin.
Irene scraped the knife over the lead bars as if peeling potatoes; no gold glimmered through.
“Perhaps this is the Zone of Diamonds in disguise.” I lifted a long string of dusty amber beads.
Irene held them up to the light. “Hand-knotted Russian amber, not my favorite. Worth a few pounds, but—”
“But hardly the find of the century.”
“You grow sarcastic, Penelope. It does not become you.”
“Nor does chagrin become you.”
“Still, old Norton went to considerable trouble to secrete these items. Think of a feeble old man toting and burying this monstrosity. He must have had a purpose.”
“Yes, Irene! Purposelessness! He was muddled, don’t you see? If ever he had the Zone, he’d forgotten where it is now. These few pathetic ‘treasures’ of his old age are only that.”
“Mementos merely, you think, Nell? Lambskin and starch could signify the barrister’s wig and stiffened collar bands.”
“No doubt this necklace is some petty trinket that he extorted from his long-suffering wife!”
“And the lead bars—the keys?”
“Keys to the Kingdom of Afterlife, where he’d meet his Maker and receive justice when he died. He must have mused upon salvation in some disconnected way. And the lead bars signify... the weight of his sins against his family and fellow man—like the chains binding Marley’s ghost!”
“Excellent, Nell! You find the makings for a sermon in this paltry array, but there is more order in your interpretation than Norton’s disordered mind could muster. Though he did have the foresight to weight his casket with lead so it would stay hidden if the pond rose to engulf the tree roots someday....
“Hmm,” Irene murmured, shutting the lid. “We’ll think upon it Certainly I’d rather have a trophy of our successful forestalling of Mr. Sherlock Holmes than nothing. Some happy find may help us interpret this jumble of objects.”
“I’m g
oing to bed,” I announced, exasperated by her everlasting optimism. “Perhaps Rumplestiltskin will have made the amber into diamonds by morning.”
The last I saw before I drew my curtains shut that evening was Irene standing bowed over the ugly chest, contemplating it as soulfully as Hamlet regarding-the skull of Yorick. I fancied the box would yield as little to her, despite her hopes, as the skull had tended the melancholy Dane.
In the morning the chest had vanished, arduously buried, I suspected, under the effluvia in Irene’s bedchamber. She never mentioned it again, but I knew that she had not forgotten it for a moment.
Chapter Thirteen
ASTOUNDING PROPOSITIONS
One of life’s peculiarities is that necessity oft becomes preference and preference, necessity. This rule has governed some of the more famous love affairs of history as well as the daily habits of the least romantic among us.
My four-year association with Irene Adler had been fraught with surprise, even shock, and the most unpredicted turnings in my own life. We had lived the poor but unfettered life of Bohemians, which is what the French call gypsies and the label modern social pundits pin on followers of the convention-scoffing artistic life. Even as Irene inexorably climbed the ladder of the London theatrical scene, singing often and seldom resorting to acting, monetary security never dulled the edge of her fierce independence.
Our Saffron Hill quarters suited us long after we could afford lodgings elsewhere, and though the quality and quantity of Irene’s clothing increased as her theatrical presence grew, we remained content with our unlikely neighborhood. Even I had grown to like waking to the street peddlers’ Italian serenades and was as close to developing a sense of pitch as ever in my unmusical life.
Irene still accepted—even sought—any puzzles that came her way. I had steady work as a “typist,” the word freshly minted that year to describe my skill. I confess to taking a pinch of pride in bearing a title reminiscent of the violinist and the artist (although similar words of far less noble connotation, such as atheist, swiftly humble one).
It must be borne in mind that Irene is the artist, the Bohemian, the free spirit. I have always been the mere chronicler. Yet over the course of our friendship I had altered many of the firmest prejudices of my sheltered upbringing, surprising myself at times—and even Irene.
Nothing, however, was to test my resolve and loyalty as did the long train of events that began in the wet and drear October of 1885.
The initial incident began innocuously enough. I shall never forget the transparent grey curtain of rain and fog buffeting our windows day after day. My shoes were seldom dry, though I faithfully deposited them by the fire each night. Typewriting assignments had been brisk. Irene’s and my paths were in a state of what she called “Transatlantic crossing.” We met only when each was bound in the opposite direction.
I was toasting my soggy stocking toes upon the fender late one Thursday afternoon when Irene came flying in the door, wearing the chill and damp like a cape. She could not doff her hat and gloves quickly enough, laying her indispensable muff so near the fire that the fur would have singed had I not rescued it.
“Let it burn! I’ve an opportunity that will permit me to buy a dozen muffs if I succeed.” She began pacing in excitement, struggling to untie a bundle of oversize papers she carried.
“You must dry your shoes at least,” I urged. “Sit down and have some Twinings—”
‘Damn tea! Damn shoes. I shall wear glass slippers from now on, Nell.”
Irene rushed to the piano stool and sat, pausing only to spin from side to side for a moment before facing the instrument and poising her hands over the keys.
“Are you mad, Irene?” I demanded, rising in consternation.
“No, merely wildly fortunate. Look at this! Music in the composer’s own hand. Listen!”
She laid some sheets of music on the stand and began picking out the notes. The first hesitant rhythms soon smoothed into a lively and varied melody.
“Quite nice. A country piece, is it not?”
“Absolutely correct, my dear Nell. But what country?” Irene asked over the music.
“Not ours? Well, then... Germany, I should think.”
“A very near guess. Read the lyrics.”
I came over as she broke off playing, then I donned my pince-nez. “What an odd language—virtually nothing but consonants. I should go quite mad if I had to type this routinely. It can’t be German, nor even Dutch.”
“It is Bohemian” Irene beamed at me in smug triumph, though I couldn’t fathom why.
“Bohemian? Who would write songs in Bohemian?”
“Mr. Antonin Dvořák, the noted Czech composer, that is who. And I shall sing them. Or one, at least”
“You don’t speak Bohemian.”
“It is not necessary to speak it, only to sing it.”
“How will you... pronounce such unspeakable sounds?”
“I have transcribed a pronunciation guide with the aid of a visiting Czech violinist. By Sunday afternoon I must be letter-perfect. I perform at a concert honoring Mr. Dvořák at Henry Littleton’s home. It is more than an honor for me, it is an unparalleled opportunity.”
“Could they not have given you more notice? I would refuse such an imposition. How can you learn new music and a new language so quickly?”
“Practice,” Irene intoned in the same stern way she instructed hopeless little Sofia, her fingers rippling over the keys. “I hope you have employment tomorrow and Saturday, for I must be a quicker study than I have ever been. I will eat and sleep at this poor piano until Sunday noon.”
“I will not sleep at all then,” said I. “Can I do nothing to help you?”
“Can you sew?”
“Certainly I can... oh!” I sank to the arm of an easy chair. “I see. You must not only learn Czech and a new song by Sunday, but must have something splendid to wear for the occasion. I will try my best. What else may I do?”
Irene sang a long, lovely phrase in gibberish so thick her mouth seemed full of potatoes. “Only tell me I sound Bohemian-born.”
“My dear Irene, I would not know a Bohemian from a Fabian.”
With that I fled the premises to pursue errands in a larger and infinitely more comprehensible world.
By Sunday morning I felt that I knew more Bohemian than I had ever wished. Irene’s song was No. 4 in the Dvořák opuses, a peasant ditty titled “Kydžmne stará matka.” I cannot transcribe here the bizarre diacritical marks that littered the lyrics like so many dead flies. Irene said the phrase translated to “Songs My Mother Taught Me.” I would have accepted any translation as truth, including “Songs That Kept Me Awake.”
Still, Antonin Dvořák was not one to ridicule. The Czech composer had become something of a sensation in London over the past few years. I remembered reading that his opera, The Spectre Bride, had been well received, so I understood Irene’s enthusiasm for this Bohemian’s music. Dvořák’s favor could mean much to a young singer like herself, for the hidebound London operatic establishment forced an American abroad to pursue more out-of-the-way support.
Irene insisted that I accompany her to this private concert. I really would rather not have gone. I do not tolerate suspense well—and frankly feared that this time Irene had tackled a higher hurdle than even she could comfortably clear. I did not want to see her fail.
She had set me to stripping her best navy-blue moiré gown of its trim: serpents of flounces, frills and braid coiled at my feet as the abominable syllables of songs my mother distinctly had not taught me fell on my undefended ears. Small wonder that the vowel-ridden romance languages of French and Italian serve opera best; yet Irene slowly and surely endowed the unfortunate assemblage of consonants with dignity and even emotional appeal.
Despite her progress on the song, I despaired of finishing the gown in time. Irene dismissed my anxiety about new trims.
“We must improvise, Nell. When there is no time, we must improvise.”
/> On Sunday morning she ignored my eleventh-hour suggestions for trimming and decorated the gown with only white lace collar and cuffs. Despite the richness of the moiré and the fineness of the lace, she looked but one step above a well-dressed serving woman.
“Plain black suited Lillie Langtry quite well once, Nell,” she consoled me. “Navy is black’s first-cousin and Mr. Dvořák is a simple man; these are peasant songs, after all.”
So we went in a hansom cab as black as my expectations through the grey day to Mr. Littleton’s flat in Victoria Mansions. For once I unwittingly outshone Irene in a tea gown of pale beige Sicilienne trimmed in some of Whiteley’s amber velvet, which Irene had insisted I have for special occasions. The gown had elbow-length sleeves to which I was not accustomed and a narrow open neckline edged in a froth of lace.
Thus I was the peacock and Irene the wren for a change, all of which—taken with the hasty circumstances of her appearance—made me exceedingly anxious.
Irene was expected and I was accepted as her friend. Mr. Littleton’s airy quarters were furnished with eighteenth-century antiques, including the piano. Many songs and singers made up the programme. I waited impatiently for the chitchat to cease, for guests like myself to be seated and the music to begin—or, in Irene’s case, to be faced.
Each unpronounceable song title was introduced. Each song was performed. All the other vocalists were men, and they preceded Irene. I waited, wringing the cords of my reticule, as tenor or baritone delivered song after song. The music was enchanting enough—quite different from our English country songs—but the tenors and baritones all sang with a stiff operatic zeal that ill-suited the simple subject matter, even when conveyed in the incomprehensible Bohemian words.
Disaster. That was the one English word that rang in my skull. I had a headache and my neck and forearms were cold, not being used to such exposure, although the other ladies present were equally revealed.
Good Night, Mr. Holmes (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) Page 14
