Irene Adler: Chapel Noir Part 29

I was startled to hear unearthly wails and screams coming faintly from beyond the heavy wooden door. When they continued beyond what even the most sorely tried human lungs could sustain, I realized that the sounds were vaguely predictable, and even abominably musical. A bagpipe? No. A violin belabored by one possessed. Although the violin may in the upper registers, under the fingers of a maestro, produce a high, keening beauty that is impossible to deny, it is more often a hoa.r.s.e, rasping instrument that teeters closely to the screech of a wood saw.

This was the side of the instrument I detected through the m.u.f.fling services of the door. How I was to compete with the whining instrument in announcing my presence I had no idea.

No bell was provided, so I lifted my parasol handle and rapped as forcefully as I could.

The caterwauling continued. So our black cat Lucifer had sounded on those nights when his lady friends were not in evidence. At last there was a pause in the day's apparent occupation, and, after a welcome silence, I raised my gloved fist high to knock even harder, when the door flew open.

My gesture rapped at empty air, and almost struck the impressive beak G.o.d had granted to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

"Oh! You startled me," I accused.

"You knocked," he riposted.

"I beg your pardon," I breathed in automatic apology.

"And I yours. Miss . . . Huxleigh?"

I had the rare satisfaction of viewing utter stupefaction on the face of the world's wisest detective.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked.

"Can't you deduce it?" I asked in return.

My question appeared to revive his usual overweening descriptive prowess.

"I see you have been opportuned to come here," he p.r.o.nounced crisply. "You were suborned at breakfast, and departed in obedience but in a temper. You almost turned away at the front desk, but after fleeing the lobby for the mezzanine, you decided to continue. You dislike living in France, but then you would dislike living anywhere. Your father was a country parson, but has died. You are shortsighted, detest luxury, and me."

"Impressive," I said icily. "May I come in?" I was of course violating every convention, but better I be sacrificed on the altar of impropriety than Irene.

He laughed, once and sharply, standing back from the door. "And you are an emissary from the alarmingly engaging Madam Irene, who no doubt has her higher purpose for both of us lesser beings."

"Really! You admit that you are a lesser being in relation to another?"

"I am the most humble of men, Miss Huxleigh," he said with a smile and bow, "unless I am in the presence of those who do not practice humility."

"Hmmph. That is good. Irene wishes you to be informed of my notes and drawings taken from the murder scene at the maison de rendezvous. I can't say that I approve."

"Neither do I," he said promptly. "And you seldom approve of much," he suggested with a raised eyebrow.

"Perhaps you would explain your litany of presumptions about me. Not that they are correct."

He nodded, pulling out a chair by a square card table for me.

"Your reluctance to be here is obvious in your att.i.tude. I apologize that I can offer nothing more concrete than that observation. Sometimes mere observation is so obvious, but no less true for that. There is a bit of relatively fresh scrambled egg on your sleeve, which implies breakfast. Your boot laces are tied low on the ankle rather than being hooked all the way to the top, which I saw when you lifted your skirts to cross the threshold. Both imply haste, which implies temper. Your left sleeve has picked up a bit of streaked penmanship from the hotel register, which means that you visited the reception desk, but left in confusion, no doubt because I am not registered under my name here.

"I notice that your hem has gathered some of the Turkey carpet fibers in the intense colors used on the hotel mezzanine, which implies that you walked up to the mezzanine, which implies distress and also a fear of elevator cars. The fact that all your clothes and accessories are of English manufacture reveals that you dislike living in France, despite having resided here for many months, as I know from my own encounters with your friend Miss Irene Adler in London's Serpentine Mews before the entire household's hasty decampment. If you dislike France, the belle of foreign cities, you would dislike anywhere. Your father was a country parson, evident from the portfolio you carry, a cheap leatherlike affair much favored in the outlands of England. His death is evident in your black gloves, quite unfashionable, except for mourning. I suspect that they are your last, but lifelong concession to his pa.s.sing. They also are practical and do not show dirt. I notice the impression on the bridge of your rather Roman nose made by a pince-nez, so you are shortsighted. Your entire appearance declares your detestation of luxury, and the fact that you wish you had announced yourself on my nose betrays your opinion of me. Any questions? No. Then perhaps you may proceed to your spurious reason for being here."

"I do not dissemble."

"No?" he added. "Are you truly eager to share the contents of your case with me?"

"Not really. But Irene has insisted."

"She is nigh impossible to resist, I imagine."

"Let that idea remain your imagination."

"Indeed it shall. You will find me most resistant to feminine wiles, Miss Huxleigh, not that you have any."

"Ah. At last. An impressive presumption." I laid my portfolio on the table. In fact, it was French-made Moroccan leather, an artist's dossier, and the only luxury I had allowed myself to purchase in the City of Light. It amused me that Sherlock Holmes had so soundly attributed it to my late father. Perhaps he could not imagine a woman purchasing a case for work.

Mr. Holmes undid the ties with his storklike fingers. What an Ichabod Crane of a man he was, ungainly yet secretly aspiring to a woman well beyond his reach. I glanced around, looking for the vile instrument, but saw no sign of a bow or violin. He must have been playing in the bedchamber. I quickly banished both bedchamber and violin from my mind.

At first glance of my sketches he drew back, braced his face on his lean, steepled hands, and lifted an eyebrow.

"Your sketch work?"

"Of course. Irene depends upon me."

"So I understand." A smile quirked his thin lips. "As I depend upon Watson."

"The good doctor no doubt means well." Certainly I had him to thank for my insight into the consulting detective's unnatural interest in Irene. "Why is he not here?"

"Have you forgotten my remark that a doctor in Whitechapel would have fallen under instant suspicion?"

"Of course not. I forget nothing, because I write it all down afterward. But, unlike the London constabulary, the French police are not blaming these latest atrocities on someone with surgical skill."

"That is correct." He gazed aside, as if protecting my eyes from what his had seen. "The injuries are not so . . . surgical here. The body organs are not . . . excavated as they were in Whitechapel."

He glanced at me through slitted, wary eyes, like Lucifer. I meant the cat, of course, not the Archangel of Darkness. "You are aware of the injuries that have been perpetrated here?"

"Of course," I said boldly. If I did not say too much, and listened well, I might leave here knowing more. "Quite distasteful."

His fingers drummed the tablecloth. I was disconcerted to encounter a habit I had thought of as Adlerian in a Sherlockian form. They had nothing in common, these two, but a natural rivalry, as a cat and dog. Naturally Irene was the elegant, pristine, and enigmatic cat, and Mr. Holmes was the s...o...b..ring, noisy hound with distasteful personal habits.

"I suppose Watson could have come," he said out of the blue with a trace of wistfulness, "but I had been sworn to secrecy by one so highly placed that even faithful old Watson was not allowed." His look sharpened itself on me like a razor on a strop. "Do you and your operatic adventuress have any idea what eminent personages would be outraged by your meddling in these frightful murders?"

"I am sure not," I admitted, "but we have a highly placed clientele of our own to answer to."

"Really?" He sat forward. "I will soon know whom, although I suspect already. I do not doubt that both our sponsors are concerned for similar, but perhaps not mutually inclusive reasons. Serving the mighty is always a difficult business. They expect loyalty, but are congenitally incapable of giving it, as your friend discovered with the King of Bohemia. So. She still insists in dabbling in private matters rather than sharing her magnificent vocal gifts with the world, does she?"

"She has a long history of private inquiry work, perhaps as long your own, beginning with the Pinkertons in America. That she should be sought out by persons of influence is not unlikely. As for 'dabbling,' is not your own investigative work a personal following rather than any official position? I would dare to say you also are a 'dabbler.' "

"I would much like to see you and good old Watson go head-tohead on this topic, Miss Huxleigh. I am not sure which of you would be the more vigorous in defense of your companion."

"I do not believe that I would ever care to engage in anything you would like to see, Mr. Holmes. As for Irene neglecting her vocal gifts, that is a true profession, almost nigh to a religious vocation, and a very demanding one. The operatic stage would consume all her energy and time, which is no longer possible now that she has been forced to live anonymously for some months, thanks to you and the King of Bohemia!"

"That may be, but she forgave him. Perhaps she can forgive me."

"I doubt it. Certainly I cannot."

He thrust a thumb into his waistcoat pocket as he settled into argument with familiar relish. I had the oddest notion that I was providing him with a favorite exercise. "Is it the events of last spring that have interrupted her operatic career, or her marriage to G.o.dfrey Norton?"

"G.o.dfrey encourages her to continue a stage career! How can you suggest otherwise?"

"He encourages her. Then he is more than a pretty face, I see. No doubt he is a forward-thinking man when it comes to women. To employ a typewriter-girl such as yourself at his office at the Temple, after all, was quite bold for these times."

"My employment was more a tribute to G.o.dfrey's kindness than his boldness, but he is not lacking in manly strength both physical and mental. I have never known a gentleman of such rare qualities: n.o.ble, wise, and yes, possessed of such chivalry toward women as only a knight of the Round Table could practice, especially in these latter days."

"Rare indeed to encounter such sterling testimony anywhere other than beside St. Peter's gatepost in Heaven. Given the man's virtues, it is a wonder that you did not yourself marry the gentleman."

"That is an outrageous suggestion, sir! G.o.dfrey would never encourage such a notion, and it is unthinkable that an orphaned parson's daughter should even dream of committing her mind and heart so far above her station."

"Yet a disgraced opera singer was not beneath his station?"

"There is no disgrace in expecting better of people than they are able to be. With the King you had a man who would have immured Irene away from her profession for his own convenience. With G.o.dfrey, you have a man who encourages her to rest.i.tch the shreds of her career."

"Why does she require encouraging? Perhaps she no longer wishes to devote long hours to practice, rehearsal, and performance now that domestic bliss has become her lot. I presume that her hasty marriage has led to domestic bliss."

"Hasty only because of your foul subterfuges on the behalf of that miserable Bohemian royal person! She was denied a proper wedding ceremony, with friends and, er, friends present only because you were harrying her for the photograph of herself and the King. That photograph, I'll have you know, was taken at the King's insistence. She kept it solely as a reminder of her misplaced loyalty. Only his guilty conscience made him fear that she might reveal evidence of their past a.s.sociation to doom his royal wedding to the unfortunate Clotilde."

"She never harbored ill feeling toward the King?"

"Quite the contrary. She was delighted to discover in the nick of time that he would cast aside true sentiment for a loveless aristocratic marriage, that he would further offend all reason by expecting her to enter into an alliance without honor."

"How was such an honorable woman misled by him in the first place?"

"You did not see them together, Mr. Holmes. He was the picture of devotion. Any woman might have expected such attentions to be purely honorable."

"Any woman, yes! But we are talking about a woman of unsurpa.s.sing wit, possessed of angelic talent. Why did she for a moment allow herself to be taken in by the then Crown Prince of Bohemia? It is not reasonable."

He was by then sitting forward, interrogating me like a barrister with a prisoner in the box.

I took a deep breath. How cleverly he had goaded and maneuvered me into presenting an apologia for Irene. In my zeal to defend my friend, I had revealed far more about her history and present life than I would wish the likes of Sherlock Holmes to know.

As I stared into his clear, gray eyes, afire with the heat of argument, I realized that I had fallen completely into his trap.

"Reasonable, Mr. Holmes?" I allowed my own temper and vocal tone to cool. "Human beings do not perform according to the syllogisms of logic, although consulting detectives may. If you have to ask these questions, you would never understand the answers. You may have an admirable mind, but you have no heart, so there will be some mysteries that all your reasoning and deduction and investigation will never solve."

He sat back, winded as if he had run a race against an invisible opponent. I could hardly dare think it was I. In fact, I believe that he was engaging Irene in some way, through me, humble subst.i.tute though I was. My own breath came irregularly. Odd how mental differences could excite the emotions.

When he spoke again, his voice was sharp, cool, and aloof.

"I agree that we do not speak the same language. Now. Show me your schoolroom sketches, Miss Huxleigh. I gather that you were sent here as a diversion. Then, divert me." His expression implied that very little in life, or even death, did.

"I do not claim to be an artist," I said briskly, "but I try to be at least accurate." I fanned a card hand of five sketches from between the covers of my case. "The murder chamber at the maison de rendezvous had a central carpet with an unusual black background. It took tracks very well, almost like fresh soil, Mr. Holmes, so I copied them and then enlarged the original drawings to match the measurements I made."

"Measurements! Tracks! On your knees in that chamber of horrors drawing footprints!" His voice rang with triumph, but his avid gaze was on my poor "schoolroom" drawings. "You are an unexpected form of bloodhound, Miss Huxleigh," he murmured. "As it happens, I consider footprints the keystone to the art of detection, especially if they maybe preserved. I have written a small monograph called The Tracing of Footsteps, with some Remarks upon the Uses of Plaster of Paris as a Preserver of Impresses.' Plaster of Paris is really gypsum, as you may or may not know, and great quant.i.ties of it underlie the granite that supports the city, which is why it is called plaster of Paris. As for my monograph, le Villard is translating it into French so that the police of this city will also find good use for their Paris plaster. Was it he who directed your attention to the footprints?"

As usual, he had prefaced the question he wanted answered with a great deal of superfluous details, the better to wear down his victims.

"Alas, no," I was happy to say. "Irene herself pointed out that the black background of the rug would take impressions, as black velvet will show fingerprints at the least provocation, which any woman who has worn such a fabric would know instantly."

"Indeed. My experience of black velvet has been confined to curtains, which are made of much st.u.r.dier stuff than gowns and far less subject to impressions. I am disappointed that le Villard missed this most interesting element. The fools! The entire Paris Prefecture had trampled that carpet before le Villard could stop them and I arrived from England. I did examine it, but by then it had been trampled into the chaos of a rugby field.

"I am most intrigued to learn what footprints were discernible to a fresh eye on the scene," he added as his long fingers pulled more of my recently disdained sketches into view with the almost-trembling reverence owed to lost Rembrandt studies. "And when did you and your friend set dainty foot on the scene?"

"Within three to five hours, I would think."

His forefinger speared one drawing to the tabletop. "I saw some female boot prints, but this first sketch is the boot of an early official on the scene, I think. Not le Villard. He has studied my methods and knows better than to tread so openly on the surrounding ground. But his hands-and feet, in this instance-were tied. This?" He held up another sketch.

"The first to discover the deaths. A Miss Pink. It is an evening slipper."

"I am familiar with Miss Pink and both her slippers." He sat back, patting his pockets for something. "What do you think of her?"

"I? You wish to know what I think? I thought it was your job to do all the thinking."

"Indeed. But you were there first. I am always interested in the testimony of witnesses. They often see more than they know."

"I know what I saw. Miss Pink is a brash American girl who finds it a lark to lead a scandalous life. She seems to have come from a moderately respectable family, save for a villainous stepfather, so I cannot imagine why she would wish to follow such a sordid course, of her own free will, it seems."

"She is indeed a puzzle, Miss Pink, but her presence on the murder scene is purely coincidental. And this?"

"The workman's boot. I cannot say how, or when it got there. Unless-"

"Unless?"

I hesitated. His energetic interrogation had surprised an unwelcome thought from my mind. I wished to share it only with Irene, but she was off on mysterious errands with Elizabeth. How much had she failed to share with me?

"Unless, Miss Huxleigh? Come. You are a moderately acute observer. Such treasures must be shared."

Moderately acute! Schoolroom sketches, indeed! "Unless, Mr. Holmes, the piece of furniture upon which the two women died had only that day been imported to the chamber, specifically for the er, occasion that was to follow. At least one workman would be needed to install it."

His trespa.s.sing fingers crawled under the folder of my case to withdraw my sketch of the exotic two-tier sofa in question.

"A workman or two." He gazed at the article I had so painstakingly sketched. "I confess that I do miss Watson. He would have more personal knowledge of such matters."

I recalled reading the secret text in Dr. Watson's London office months ago, in which this more worldly friend a.s.sessed Sherlock Holmes as an inhuman thinking machine, immune to any emotion, even the love between man and woman. Did this also exempt him from the l.u.s.t that rules so many men? If a man without love for women could still l.u.s.t, might he not also be able to kill?

"That is to your credit," I found myself saying, to my horror, referring to his admitted ignorance of the bordello world compared to his physician friend. "Not his." How galling to have to approve of anything about Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who already approved of himself so very much.

The look he gave this speech was icy and imperious enough to stop an Attila in mid-gallop. Luckily, I am an English parson's daughter, and less impressionable than a Hun.

"I have been much disappointed in the Prince of Wales, as a result of these events," I said stoutly. "It matters not the high position one occupies, but rather the high ideals with which one pursues life."

"And death," he added, referring to the crimes that had brought us together. "Knowledge, Miss Huxleigh," he went on sternly, "is always superior to ignorance, however obtained. I agree with you, though, that the less one is subject to the intemperate pa.s.sions, the more completely one may serve such higher ends as science, intellect, and the battle against those evil souls among us who ruin lives and disrupt society and murder if they must."

"Really? You agree with me? And who are these evil souls whom you suspect of being the Ripper?"