The Detective and the Woman Page 9

When Holmes awoke, he ate absently, downing enough of his repugnant canned wares to keep him moving for the time being, and dressed himself in the expensive clothing of Bernard James. He did not, however, leave his face untouched, but altered his features to resemble a slightly older and less angular man. His walk as he left the shop was that of someone shorter than his six feet. Holmes had long before learned various ways to alter the appearance of what could not be changed. Most witnesses, questioned under oath, would have estimated his height as significantly below the reality when he chose to employ these methods aggressively. He would spend the day uncomfortable, but that was a small price to pay for relative anonymity.

  Holmes followed the path Irene had trodden the previous day, moving quickly, like a man with an agenda to keep. He did not greet anyone in the street and gave the impression of someone who considered himself far above the section of town in which he found himself. When he moved into the more fashionable sector, he relaxed slightly and nodded to those he passed, making his way to a tall, imposing red brick structure. This part of town seemed more permanent, somehow, as if even the buildings of the rich were less transient than those frequented by the migrant workers who kept the city’s economy moving.

  Entering the building, Holmes saw an extremely young, smartly-dressed man at a desk. ‘I understand this to be the office of Mr Alberto Sanchez,’ he said, his voice clipped and impatient.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said the secretary, slightly abashed, ‘but he’s out.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the detective, feeling fortunate. ‘Will he be in today?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ the young man answered, taken aback at Holmes’s harsh tone. ‘He has appointments here all evening.’ The secretary’s eyes were wide. Holmes hadn’t expected to be quite so fortunate as to learn his object’s plan for the night; the boy’s fear had been oddly helpful. The detective studied his face for a moment before determining that he wasn’t lying.

  ‘Give him this, please.’ Holmes handed the young man a card, turned, and left the building before the recipient could realise that the object in his hand read ‘Irene Norton.’

  Holmes’s next objective was the Keystone Hotel, a small establishment at the end of Park Street. Its small size and white-washed block exterior hardly suggested the grandeur of establishments in larger cities, but it was one of only two hotels offering rentable lodging in town beyond the odd room to let in places like Mrs Stillwell’s. Still, as modest as it might appear, it catered to rich speculators and vacationers, the only people wealthy enough to afford its rooms. As a result, it was one of the few places in the city where Lavinia James would be expected to feel comfortable within her own class.

  Holmes positioned himself at a table outside a café across the street and ordered coffee from a smiling girl who seemed delighted at the prospect of a tip at a time in the morning when most had finished breakfast and lunch was far away. With impatient bad temper, the detective requested a newspaper and opened it to shield his face. The Ft. Myers Press was hardly a goldmine of journalistic scintillation, but he scanned it anyway, looking for inconsistencies and anomalies. Force of habit drew him to the classified advertisements, as the Americans called them. He read down the list: animals for sale, jobs needed, jobs open, and finally, just above the bottom of the paper:

  Birds leave their nests and migrate south. M.

  The meaning was obvious. How Mycroft had contrived to plant an advertisement in this particular paper, his brother had no idea, but he mentally scolded himself for not thinking of the likelihood before. He understood what the message indicated; Barnett had journeyed to Florida. He gathered that Mycroft did not yet know that Barnett and Sanchez shared a body in addition to a scheme.

  Holmes waited through three cups of decent coffee. He watched an elderly couple leave the hotel and a young boy enter and leave again with a parcel, no doubt bound for the town’s tiny post office. He scanned the area with his eyes, noting the lack of anyone who seemed to have a particular interest in the hotel beyond the usual. He had hoped he might see Irene leave, but his primary object was to reassure himself that no one was tailing her—or himself.

  Satisfied, the detective settled his bill and set down the none-too-generous tip that his character of the day would deem appropriate. He stood to leave, but as he did so, Irene emerged from one of the side doors of the Keystone, dressed in an elaborate green frock, her expression one of wide-eyed innocence. The detective abruptly resumed his seat and watched her over his open newspaper, taking care to keep his face in shadow. He was gratified to note that she scanned the area carefully and obviously noticed the presence of a man at the café, though his newspaper and apparent lack of interest appeared to convince her that he was not a threat, and she continued down the street without alarm.

  After a few moments, Holmes left his table and newspaper and set off, following the same path as The Woman. He could see her far ahead, walking with the decorously slow pace of a polite lady. He slowed his walk to match hers, trying to look interested in the insipid shop windows he passed. For the moment, he wished Fort Myers were a bigger town so that two people on the street wouldn’t be so conspicuous a sight. He had a close call when Irene turned to look behind her, but he was able to duck into a tiny alley and escape her eye. Holmes approved of her watchfulness. He was glad to know she wouldn’t be taken easily.

  Irene’s path terminated at the edge of the Caloosahatchee River, where the River Cottages Hotel stood, another establishment catering to wealthy visitors. Holmes watched her enter the large vestibule and then exit again, following a young girl who led her around the side of the massive brick building. When the two were safely out of sight, Holmes entered.

  ‘I’m an associate of Ambrose McGregor,’ he told a stout, middle-aged woman who sat behind a counter reading a novel. ‘Please point me to his room.’

  ‘He’s a popular guest,’ she said. ‘If you wait for the girl to get back, she’ll take you to him, same as she took the lady.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Holmes, putting impatience in his voice. ‘If you give me the number, I’ll go there myself.’

  ‘Fine,’ said the woman. ‘Number sixteen, that way.’ She jerked her head to the right, and Holmes nodded curtly and left. Once outside, he went back in the direction from which he’d come. Thus far, Irene was doing exactly as he’d asked, and things were progressing in the direction he’d hoped. Variables were never welcome, but he felt somewhat confident that her side of things would proceed along expected lines—as long as she stuck to plan.

  The detective’s next stop was the tiny telegraph office that adjoined the post office, where a sleepy elderly man was hunched over an old machine. He grinned broadly when Holmes appeared, apparently delighted at the prospect of an actual customer with a message to send. The man turned out to be a surprisingly quick and able operator, fortunately for him, since it meant he escaped the ire of the impatient businessman Holmes portrayed. The detective sent a message that he hoped would reach Mycroft in good time.

  Our mutual friends are one not two STOP S STOP

  After sending his telegram, Holmes made the long walk back to Sloane’s General Store and transformed himself back into Tom Perkins. He took his place behind the counter, waiting, watching the road, and thinking.

  Chapter 11: Irene

  I remained irritated at Holmes for the amount of time it took me to hail a cab, ride to the Keystone Hotel, and engage a room. Once I saw the accommodations, my annoyance evaporated almost miraculously. I hadn’t realised, until I saw the comfortable bed with clean white sheets, the immaculate bureau, and modern plumbing, how much the accommodations at Mrs Stillwell’s less-than-pristine boardinghouse and the apartment above Sloane’s General Store had begun to wear on me. I was willing to endure a great deal to achieve a goal, but I certainly didn’t glory in grime and dirt. Holmes didn’t like filth any more than I did, but once on a cas
e, his mind was solely taken up with his purpose. I, on the other hand, had plenty of room to think extraneous thoughts about the vermin that might be crawling on my person while I slept. I was glad for the relief of cleanliness.

  I waited a few moments in order to give the impression of fragile travel weariness and then rang for stationery. Lavinia James had no calling cards, of course, but I would make do with notepaper supplied by the hotel. I wrote first to Mina Edison and then to Tootie McGregor, stressing my delicate feelings of embarrassment at the brief disappearance of myself and my husband and explaining my current position of loneliness in an unfamiliar city. When I’d finished, I almost believed my own pathos.

  The hotel supplied a porter, a fast-moving boy by the name of Simon, who was only too pleased to run an errand for an exorbitant price up front and the promise of the same when he returned an answer. I sent him to Seminole Lodge with both letters, anticipating that Mina would make sure her friend received the one intended for her, wherever Tootie might be. I was willing to perform detective work of my own if this attempt failed, but I saw no reason to take the roundabout way when the direct one would most likely suffice.

  As I waited, I rested on an old grey brocade divan by the window and tried to wrap my mind around Holmes’s plan. I knew he would take care of Barnett—I trusted him enough to believe that he would not let me be endangered by recogntion, but I couldn’t think of a good reason for Lavinia James’s reemergence, and my lack of understanding irritated me. Did Holmes also have plans for the inventor and his associates? I wondered, and I mused, and I could not reach an answer.

  Thankfully, Simon quickly returned with two notes in tow. The feminine compassion of Tootie and Mina had not failed me. In fact, Tootie invited me to call on her and Ambrose at their suite in the River Cottages Hotel the next day, and Mina offered her home for the following evening. Holmes would be pleased, I thought, if he knew.

  The rest of the afternoon and evening, I did something I had not done for some time—I read a novel, taken from the recesses of my trunk. It was about a lost soldier, a young detective, a flat, a German word scraped on a wall, and the colour red. I thought of Holmes, and I thought of Dr Watson and what I knew of them, and I smiled to myself. Most people thought the Holmes of reality was somehow less than the one they read about—less sharp, less brilliant, less exacting. The few who knew him well realised that he was actually more.

  I slept well, and the morning found me ready to continue my half of the investigation, not that I understood what it was I was actually meant to be accomplishing. With a clear, rested mind, I could almost imagine that Holmes had good reasons for what he’d asked me to do, reasons beyond ridding himself of my presence.

  I dressed in dainty green ruffles, all the better to appear as a timid and bereft wife for my visit, and ordered a vast breakfast. I derived a small amount of satisfaction from the notion that wherever Holmes might be, he certainly wouldn’t be as comfortable or eating as well as I was. Sacrificing one’s self for a case is well and good, but there’s nothing wrong with a little enjoyment, one fact of which Holmes seemed sadly ignorant. I considered, though, as I speared an egg yolk and watched the decadent liquid spread, that enjoyment is a most subjective thing.

  I waited until midmorning before asking the porter the way to the River Cottages and setting out on my way. I considered a cab, but the weather was too fine, and I fancied a walk to the river. For the first time since I had agreed to help Holmes, I took the gun from my trunk and tucked it into my handbag, imagining Lavinia’s horror at such a thing. Nevertheless, it made Irene Adler feel secure.

  The sun was bright as I made my way outside and swept the area with my eyes. I noticed a businessman engrossed in a newspaper at a café across the street, but otherwise, the street was clear. As I walked, I checked for followers a few times, but found no one. Still, I kept my hand on my bag, ready to retrieve my weapon if needed. I couldn’t entirely shake the nagging fear that Sanchez—Barnett—had recognised me as his client during our previous interaction.

  I reached the River Cottages in good time and was shown to the McGregors’ vast suite, which overlooked the Caloosahatchee River. Tootie admitted me herself with a smothering embrace, though I noticed that she had a maid with her, a tall, middle-aged woman who looked as if she might be near-equal in determination to her employer. Ambrose stood up from a chair as I entered and greeted me gravely and politely. His eyes were curious and insistent, and I knew that I was not likely to escape an explanation. I considered trying to attach myself to his wife to avoid a private encounter, but considering how long Ambrose had lived with her, I didn’t doubt he would have plenty of ways to get around her insistence. I decided to let things unfold as they would.

  ‘My dear, you look positively famished,’ said Tootie, as soon as I was seated on a plush chair. ‘Look at her, Ambrose. She’s wasted away since we saw her.’ I managed not to smile at the thought that it had been a mere few days since the Edisons’ dinner. I was gratified at the thought that I looked slightly unwell. I had chosen the particular shade of green I was wearing because it made my fair complexion look even paler than usual. All the better for Lavinia to appear frail. Tootie called for a meal, which turned out to be a somewhat appalling array of baked beets, fried artichokes, greasy beef, and canned pineapple. My long walk had made me slightly hungry, but I was relieved that the decorous Mrs James would never have been expected to eat very much at a time. I could pick at the fare without appearing impolite.

  ‘Now,’ said my hostess, spearing an overcooked beet with great force, ‘tell us what happened to your Mr James. I sent a note to your boardinghouse and was told that the two of you had simply vanished. It was quite shocking, my dear! Quite shocking!’

  ‘I apologise,’ I said weakly, covering my face with my hand as if I were somewhere near tears. Tootie found a large yellow handkerchief somewhere on her person and handed it to me.

  ‘I don’t blame you, dear, but I’m terribly curious,’ she continued. I thought quickly. I had considered a few different explanations I might use, but had ultimately decided to let the inspiration of the moment guide me.

  ‘It was very surprising,’ I began, which was true, since whatever I was about to say would certainly be a surprise to myself. ‘The morning after we left the Edisons, we received a telegram that my husband’s London partner had fallen ill, a man named Smith, who has been in business with him for many years. As a result, Bernard was needed right away so that the directorship of the English branch of the company would not be left vacant.’ I said some of this as if I were slightly confused, the way a business-ignorant Lavinia might be.

  ‘What sort of business is your husband in? I’m afraid I didn’t catch it the other night,’ Ambrose put in quietly. I resisted the impulse to react, wondering what he was trying to accomplish.

  ‘Canning,’ I said. ‘He was hoping citrus might be a helpful avenue of expansion, as he likes to say. That’s why I’m still here.’ I turned to Tootie, smiling. ‘He was so upset about his partner that he was ready for us both to go home, but he decided after thinking about it that I should remain here for the time being, in the hope that he will be able to return.’

  ‘All by yourself!’ Tootie shook her head, ‘without even a companion! Well, don’t worry. Mina and I will take good care of you. Even Marion seemed to like you, and she’s usually difficult to impress.’ I smiled thankfully.

  ‘I’m ever so grateful, Mrs McGregor.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear. That man is so delighted with you that he won’t be able to stay away. And who could blame him?’ Holmes’s face came into my mind, and I had to exert great effort to keep from laughing. The detective hadn’t warned me of the odd moments during a case when something so strange or humourous happens that staying in character is an almost superhuman skill. Maybe he didn’t find it so.

  I spent another hour with the McGregors, admiring the
ir river view and listening to Tootie’s plans for them to purchase property and build a home of their own in town. Finally, she declared that I looked weary (after purposeful yawning and dullness on my part) and that I must rest until the evening’s dinner engagement. She said that she would hire a cab, but I said that I would prefer the fresh air. I had not anticipated that Ambrose McGregor would insist on accompanying me, though I wasn’t surprised. His wife beamed and sent me off with a kiss.

  Once we had cleared the hotel grounds, Ambrose spoke. ‘You’re a very good liar, Mrs James—Holmes, I mean.’ I fought the automatic urge to say thank you, as any polite American child is raised to reply when praised, but he hardly meant it as a compliment.

  ‘First, Mr McGregor, I didn’t intend to lie to you at dinner. I planned to meet with you and explain, but unforeseen complications beyond my control arose that required my husband and me to disappear briefly.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said drily.

  ‘As you said, my husband is not Bernard James, but Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. We came here to investigate a case that concerns interests both here and in England, but he was called back by developments there. I will remain here until he returns, learning whatever I can.’

  ‘Are you investigating my family or anyone else who was present at the Edisons’ that night?’ The direct question was in keeping with the man’s direct nature, and it did not shock me. I was relieved to be able to answer honestly.

  ‘No, we are not. Our investigation concerns others. I wish I could tell you who they are, but I must keep my husband’s confidence.’ The last bit was half true. I wished I could trust him with the details of the case. At the same time, his very impression of solid respectability made me doubt him. Had he truly been the chance receiver of a comment by Sanchez about Holmes’s identity, or did he play a larger part? I wished Holmes were with me, hearing and seeing what I encountered so that he could give his opinion. I disliked coincidences as much as he.