The Detective and the Woman Read online

  She hadn’t slept well; he had seen that the moment he’d entered the hotel in the guise of the coachman. Her vibrantly blue eyes had been ringed by dark shadows, her reflexes had been delayed, and her responses to spoken questions had been slightly slower than usual. He reminded himself, too, that her failure to recognise him had not entirely been a compliment to his abilities. He wondered if he had sprung things on her too quickly. He’d known much of the information she had related, but not the depth of unhappiness in her marriage. In the past, his quick perception had made him suspect that The Woman would not be happy in a traditional marriage, the kind he had suspected the ostentatious lawyer sought, but he had not had enough contact with the man to discover the true depths of his designs. Perhaps he’d been too quick to reveal the betrayal of one of her only remaining friends, but he shook his head in denial of the idea. If the intended victim had been himself, he’d have wanted to be told as quickly as possible so that he could assimilate the information and act accordingly. Irene, with her quick wit and systematic mind, wasn’t so very different. No, he was sure she’d have wanted to know as soon as possible, even if the knowledge was distressing. Mrs Lavinia James was a formidable force, and he would not have wanted to be the one with designs on her, whatever they might be.

  * * *

  ‘The sun doesn’t appear to realise it’s autumn, Bernard,’ Irene observed as the train pulled into the Fort Myers depot, if the dilapidated shack and tiny excuse for a platform could possibly warrant that name. Holmes helped his companion exit the locomotive, taking care to hold her hand gently and smile down at her like a benevolent stork. He was still wearing the driver’s costume of the morning, though his bearing made it appear completely different than it had earlier. Still, he left his companion at the door to the grimy women’s facilities as quickly as possible and went to the men’s, which were unspeakably dirty. He emerged moments later, dressed in a hat and black coat befitting a gentleman of Bernard James’s station, which he had retrieved from the depths of his trunk. He was a much neater and more efficient packer than his companion, and his clothing had not suffered much during the journey. He smoothed his collar and proceeded to find a cab to bring him and Irene to Mrs Stillwell’s on Monroe Street, the boardinghouse where he had lodged since his arrival. The Woman joined him as he conversed with a quick-looking young man who loaded their two trunks onto his tiny wooden cart straightaway. ‘Very efficient, Americans,’ observed Holmes, half as himself and half as Bernard James.

  ‘My dear, I think we must find a new home,’ said Holmes as their cab bounced roughly down the street. ‘You will hardly be comfortable in the humble accommodations that have served me these three weeks.’

  ‘Not at all, Bernard, I will make do as I always have.’ Irene took the opportunity to slip her hand into Holmes’s with a sickeningly sweet look, which he acknowledged with a benign smile before giving her an amused sideways glance. He had noted with satisfaction that the driver’s face as they entered the cab had clearly registered the opinion that Bernard James was vastly and undeservedly fortunate to have married such a beautiful wife, an impression he hoped would be repeated by everyone they met.

  In his three weeks of residence, Holmes had become used to the tropical foliage that lined the road—the flowers that bloomed brightly in mid-autumn and the palm trees that shed large coconuts onto the roads. Someone even grew pineapple a few miles outside of town. He had always been affected by atmospheres. The hubbub of London was like a steady hum that called to him and told him secrets about its inner workings. Florida was different, almost silent, save for the growl of the animals that prowled the night-time. He couldn’t feel a pulse nearly nonexistent underneath the beating sun, and the lack of bearings unsettled him. But she was here now—The Woman. Perhaps in talking to her, he would see a pattern emerge from the confusion.

  * * *

  Mina Edison was the first to greet Holmes that evening as he guided Irene into Seminole Lodge, the home Thomas Edison had commissioned for his family. It was a large white house, not opulent, but beautifully situated on grounds the inventor was already filling with the evidence of one of his many passions—botany. The sound of laughter echoed throughout the premises, and the lady of the house came forward quickly to greet her guests. At twenty-six, Mina Edison was a handsome woman in the height of good health, black-haired and sturdy. She was not a classic beauty, but Holmes thought he understood the middle-aged inventor’s fascination with her when he saw the spark of intelligence and wit in her eyes.

  ‘Good evening, Mr James,’ she said with a friendly smile. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve finally brought your wife.’ Mina took in Irene, dressed in a long, demure blue gown, her chestnut hair piled atop her head, and her eyes widened.

  ‘This is Lavinia,’ said Holmes, pushing the perfect note of pride into his voice.

  ‘Welcome to Seminole Lodge,’ said Mina warmly, taking Irene by the hand. ‘Let me introduce you. We’re always happy to have new women down here. It evens the numbers against the male onslaught.’ Holmes watched Irene smile shyly and laughed to himself. He doubted Irene Adler had ever had a shy moment in her life. ‘I suppose you can come along, Mr James,’ said Mina, looking back at him with a mildly teasing smile. Holmes rarely had trouble creating rapport with any woman he chose, and Mina was no exception. It helped that he genuinely liked her.

  Mina led them through to a large room with several simple wooden chairs, a white sofa, a grand piano, and a fireplace, something Holmes doubted the Edisons needed frequently, even in the dead of winter. On his first visit to the Lodge, he’d wondered why they had chosen to include it at all, but he had come to learn that Floridians were as enamored of old-world glamour as their northern counterparts, and that those who had come from New England were particularly likely to reproduce their northern comforts in their southern dwellings, whether they needed them or not. And yet, a hint of something different was also present in the light colours and relaxed furnishings, an acknowledgment of the coast and the sea, a curious mixture of familiar and tropical.

  Holmes’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the evening’s participants. To his disappointment, Sanchez was not among the guests. Instead, he saw the inventor engaged in conversation with a short young man he didn’t recognise. Another unfamiliar man, tall and broad-shouldered, stood to the side listening to the laugh of a loud, stout, middle-aged woman whom Holmes recognised as Jerusha McGregor, who went by ‘Tootie.’ He didn’t blame her. Her husband Ambrose, a quiet, prudent businessman who seemed almost extraordinary in his averageness, spoke to Marion Edison, Thomas Edison’s eldest child, a strong-willed, attractive eighteen-year-old who seemed to have inherited the bulk of her father’s brains. At only eight years older than she, Mina Edison acted as a fond older sister, but was far from maternal. A small party, then, which was fortunate. Easier to draw out individuals with fewer from whom to choose.

  Mina brought Irene to her husband, and Holmes followed obediently behind. ‘Tom, this is Bernard’s wife, Lavinia, whom we’ve heard so much about.’ Edison’s deafness wasn’t apparent immediately; he was an excellent lip reader, and his speech was normal. Nevertheless, Holmes noted the way his wife turned toward him when she spoke and took care to enunciate her words clearly. Irene smiled demurely, and Edison greeted her politely. The younger man smiled very shyly and submitted to being introduced as Nelson Burroughs. ‘I understand, Lavinia, that you are musical,’ said Mina eagerly after pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘I hope that after dinner, you will favour us with a song, if your journey hasn’t tired you out too much.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so too,’ put in Tootie suddenly, wandering over. ‘Marion plays, so it will be a huge treat for her.’ Ambrose calmly followed in his wife’s wake, and her conversational partner, the tall stranger, stood at the edge of the group, looking on without comment.

  ‘Oh, Mr Murphy,’ said Mina, turning toward him after a moment, ‘I’m so
rry I haven’t done the honours. Our newcomers are Lavinia and Bernard James. This is Mr John Murphy of Montana, enjoying his first taste of south Floridian life.’ The large man’s voice was predictably booming as he greeted hostess and guests.

  ‘No one’s done the honours for us, either,’ said Tootie once he had subsided, ‘but we’re quite capable of it ourselves. I’m Tootie McGregor, and this is my man himself, Ambrose.’ Far from embarrassment, Ambrose McGregor seemed massively pleased to be possessed of such an outgoing wife. He smiled at Irene, who said her hellos in a quiet voice. ‘My goodness, you’re lovely,’ said Tootie, taking a good look at her. ‘And American. I’ve no wonder you chose one of those British men to marry. If our boys talked like that, this state would be far more populated.’ Mina Edison looked vaguely horrified. Her stepdaughter, the only non-speaking participant remaining, appeared vastly amused.

  To the relief of the hostess, a young maid came in just then to signal the beginning of dinner. Holmes held his arm out for Irene, who took it and seemed relieved—whether genuinely or not, he was unsure. ‘I’m afraid I must insist on taking my own wife through, Mrs Edison. Our time apart has been most distressing,’ he explained, with a benign smile at their hostess. Marion Edison made her own introduction of herself to Irene on the way to the dining room, smiling in a genuinely friendly way before taking the arm of the Montana cattleman. Holmes wondered what age the others ascribed to Irene. She looked younger than her thirty-two years, though she could also look older. Mina seemed to regard her as an equal, which was fortunate under the circumstances.

  Holmes’s wish for the evening would have been to take on the inventor, to listen to Thomas Edison and exchange ideas with his brilliant mind, but Bernard James did not have such capacities. Instead, his real objective was to draw out Tootie McGregor and her husband, whom he had only met once before in a larger party. They were prominent in south Floridian society and undoubtedly knew the business of everyone in town. The wife hardly seemed like a difficult subject for such a task, though he was less sure about her quiet husband. Burroughs, too, was an unknown quantity, though any connection to a plot between an English solicitor and a Central American entrepreneur seemed farfetched at best. Nevertheless, Holmes kept his eyes on everyone.

  Chapter 5: Irene

  I was nervous, I’ll confess, as I took my seat at the large dining table. Holmes had spent the afternoon briefing me and then quizzing me about the details of the lives of Bernard and Lavinia James, and I had dutifully learned locations and dates and pleasing filial anecdotes. But facts, even emotionally affecting ones, are far from the reality of taking on a character. Holmes had assured me I could behave as myself, but at the same time I was strongly aware of the fact that Lavinia James was far from Irene Adler in her experiences and habits. In addition to this, I would also be required to concentrate on the others in the situation, some of whom Holmes would have met, but all of whom would be strangers to me. Once or twice, I nearly told Holmes to continue the investigation if he liked, but to consider himself divorced from the unfortunate Lavinia, who wished to return instead to her much less complicated life as the celebrated contralto Irene Adler. Each time, one look at Holmes’s provoking face steeled my resolve. The great detective might be wildly skilled at this sort of thing, taking roles and probing for information as easy to him as breathing air, but it was new to me, and I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me give up. If he believed I could successfully pull it off, I would do more than that; I would be magnificent.

  The beginning of the evening had asked little of me in terms of conversation or activity, so my nerves were on edge when I looked up to find that John Murphy, the mild-mannered cattleman, was to my right. Ambrose McGregor was on my left, but he had already been forcibly engaged in conversation with his wife and the young Burroughs on the way into the dining room. He would have to be left until a lull, which I doubted would ever occur where Tootie was involved, or for after dinner, when Holmes might engage the men separately.

  I took a sip of the beverage in front of me and nearly coughed. It was Coca-Cola, an impossibly sweet, fizzy beverage America had produced during my time in England. Mistaking my expression as one of enthusiasm, Marion Edison, who was next to Holmes across the table, eagerly declared, ‘They say they’ll be selling it in bottles any day now, but Papa has it brought in from the drugstore for parties.’ I couldn’t help enjoying her excitement, though I’d have much preferred a glass of wine. Holmes had warned me not to expect the spirits to flow freely, as Mina Edison was a devout Methodist, her husband also held to Methodist teaching, and both were staunchly opposed to the consumption of strong drink of any kind. I smiled politely, and Marion beamed. I appeared to have unintentionally passed some sort of test in her eyes. All the better, I thought. Young people often have open ears and the benefit of not awakening others’ suspicions. At eighteen, I had known plenty of things with the potential to embarrass any number of other people. I thought I might find out what sorts of things Marion knew.

  The first course included a large green gelatin mould containing all kinds of fruit, and the conversation for a time was taken up with admiring it and with Tootie’s insistence that Mina’s cook should give her the recipe for her cook, who lacked the proper finesse in preparing such creations. Mina dutifully (and, I thought, with some measure of amusement) offered her cook’s services for lessons at any time. In my view, the modern craze for outlandish gelatin was ridiculous. It would have been one thing if the stuff tasted good, but it was horrid. The pile of sticky, indifferent fruit that ended up on my plate reminded me of the one thing I missed about my life in Yorkshire—the plain, unfussy cooking that still predominated in the English countryside. But I soldiered on and managed to fit in a comment about the superiority of American cooks’ mastery of the dish.

  After a few minutes, the men began to grow restless, and Murphy asked Edison what he was working on. The inventor’s eyes lit up at this, and my own interest increased. Everyone else at the table, even the loquacious Tootie, grew silent out of respect for the man. ‘I will show you all the new Kinetoscope tonight, if the ladies won’t mind the laboratory,’ he said deferentially. Several enthusiastic heads nodded, and Mina looked toward those of us who were newcomers.

  ‘Tom means the new motion-picture device he’s been working on. It’s terribly clever.’ She smiled sweetly at her husband and touched his hand lightly, which brought forth an answering smile from the inventor. ‘The best explanation will be seeing it for yourselves, I think,’ Mina continued, and I saw that Edison seemed disappointed not to be able to elaborate further.

  As the meal progressed, conversation became less formal and more diverse, and I finally found myself able to engage Murphy in conversation over the main course of oyster stew. ‘I understand that you are from Montana, Mr Murphy,’ I began, watching as he nearly knocked his delicate china bowl off the table. ‘I have never been so far West. I was born in New Jersey, and I have spent all my time in the United States on the East Coast. I must ask if the stories of street shootouts and wild Indians are as common as we’re told.’ I wiped my lips daintily on my napkin, priding myself that my inane question was exactly the sort of thing Lavinia James could be expected to wonder.

  Murphy smiled broadly and began speaking in a tone of voice that would have worked marvellously if he’d been addressing a ten-year-old child. ‘Now, Mrs James, you fine ladies with your novels mustn’t assume we’re all uncivilised. Most of my business is done in banks and offices, and I have employees just like the offices back East do.’ He leaned closer to me. ‘Of course, if there’s the occasional bit of trouble, we know what to do.’ His eyes twinkled, but I wondered exactly what sort of trouble he might actually have encountered and whether or not it extended to south Florida. He seemed a laid-back man, but there was a feeling of steel behind his good humour that I wouldn’t have wanted to test. I saw that Holmes, while he was engaged in charming Mar
ion, had also been listening, and I wondered what he had gleaned from the interaction that I might have missed.

  Dinner was uneventful after that, finishing with brownies, an American dessert that resembled a chocolate cake with the consistency of a plum pudding. I thought it the best part of the meal. Drawing people out over food was more difficult than I’d expected, especially without alcoholic beverages to lower the barriers of the diners. I determined to try harder as the evening progressed. Holmes smiled at me, his face angular in the electric lights against the shadows of falling dusk.

  ‘We should wait for sunset to see the Kinetoscope,’ said Mina as we took the last sips of our coffee. ‘It’s marvellous in the dark.’

  ‘Let’s have music until then,’ Tootie put in loudly, grinning with chocolate-stained teeth. ‘I can’t wait to hear Lavinia. If she’s half as good as Bernard claimed last time, we’ll all be in tears.’ I looked over at Holmes, who was staring innocently at the floral wallpaper. He hadn’t ever heard me sing before the last time he’d dined with the Edisons and their guests, at least as far as I knew. Impossible man.

  Mina seamlessly moved her guests back into the piano room, where the ambiance was pensive in the half light. She gently motioned to the instrument as the others sat down on the sofa and chairs. Nelson Burroughs took the chair closest to the instrument and seemed to be excited at the prospect of the music, the most emotion he’d shown all evening. I wondered if he was a musician himself.