The Detective and the Woman (5 page)

‘I apologise, Holmes.’ The Woman’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘I have no cause to bring my private feelings into the case.’ Holmes stared at her as if she had suddenly acquired the power of speech after profound muteness.

‘Ah,’ he said.

‘Quite,’ she replied, blushing and staring at the thick white plate on the table before her. Holmes felt fortunate when a plate of irregularly-shaped sausage arrived a moment later, accompanied by white pillows of dough the waitress called biscuits, though they were nothing like the English variety.

‘Don’t you intend to eat?’ Irene asked once she had taken a few bites and noticed his lack of movement.

‘Not hungry,’ Holmes answered. ‘I rarely require food while I work.’

‘Well, that’s one difference between us,’ his companion replied between bites, her good humour apparently restored. The biscuits seemed to meet with her approval, as she downed three of them and two large sausages. ‘I always eat well when I’m on tour,’ she continued after she had finished her last crumb. ‘Otherwise, I’m inclined toward irritation.’ Holmes caught a mischievous glint in her eye.

Watson might be easier to handle, but he was hardly given to mischievous glances.

Chapter 7: Irene

I found, after breakfast, that I looked forward to the day. The sense of impending danger was not entirely absent from my mind, but my unfamiliar clothing and the paint on my face gave me a measure of freedom I had not enjoyed while still in my own guise. I would have to be more vigilant, I realised, not to allow myself to strike at Holmes for being the only available representative of the non-female species. The detective hardly deserved that, and any debt he owed me from our previous skirmish he had more than paid by taking the case.

We returned to the shop shoulder-to-shoulder, and Holmes briefed me on the objectives of the day. For the first time, we were to separate. He intended to visit the site of Sanchez’s citrus grove, while I tended the store and learned what I could from anyone I met. Rather than being a cause for apprehension, the idea of being on my own invigorated me.

The idea of it invigorated me, that is. I was less thrilled when no one had come into the store after two hours and I had checked the sign for the third time. I decided to do some reconnaissance on the rest of the street, keeping an eye on the unprepossessing space where Holmes and I plied our temporary wares. My object was the store we had visited the previous day to purchase our ragged clothing, a well-kept secondhand shop with a matriarchal owner who considered herself far above her clientele. On our first visit, I’d been dressed as a boy, and I hadn’t spoken. As a result, I hoped and expected that she wouldn’t recognise me in my current incarnation.

A doorbell announced my entrance, and I was surprised to find a young man behind the counter instead of an elderly woman. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said, his voice thick with the slow drawl of the American Deep South, and I acknowledged his greeting with a nod. I moved quickly through the main room, which held glass cases that cradled expensive items such as silver spoons and brooches of dubious origin, and passed through to a cluttered side room that held clothing racks, piles of dilapidated shoes, and hats stacked high on top of one another. For several minutes, I was the only patron in the store, but my waiting was finally rewarded by the entrance of a woman. I watched her surreptitiously, ostensibly holding up a threadbare coat to test its suitability. She held a baby in one arm, nearly a newborn by the look of it, and her face was worn, though I thought she was no older than I was, if as old.

I listened casually as she began to address the youthful shopkeeper. ‘Tommy, you better be glad you ain’t out today. Bill’s gone crazy cause Sanchez is in some kind of hurry to get it all in before the end of the month.’ At the name Sanchez, I stopped moving and listened intently.

‘What for?’ asked the boy in a conspiratorial tone.

‘Dunno,’ was the disappointing answer, ‘but my Jim says Bill’s in a temper and screaming at everybody.’ I took note. Even if this was the only thing I learned all day, at least I had something to tell Holmes. After the woman had left, I bought a pair of shoes with worn-out soles and departed with a word to the young man about the store I’d just opened with my husband. I walked back toward Sloane’s General Store, not overly concerned at the prospect that someone might have stolen some of our cheap wares. On my way, I watched the sun’s glare in shop windows and discerned nothing important or significant to the case.

Fortunately, the woman from the secondhand store stepped into the store right after me, balancing her tiny baby on her hip and holding a bag of purchases in her other hand. She stared at the cheap cookware, used furnishings, and non-perishable foods that lined the shelves almost haphazardly, picking up a jar of crushed sage. After a while, she brought it to the counter and asked me its price. In order to loosen her tongue, I quoted her an amount much lower than its value.

‘You’re new in town,’ she said, with a slight air of distrust. ‘I saw you in Morgan’s just now.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘My husband and I just came here from Iowa.’

‘Well, you’re lucky not to be in the groves.’

‘Why is that?’ I asked as nonchalantly as possible.

‘Things are getting worse these days. My husband Jim went to work for a new boss because the pay is better, but it looks like he’s going to force us all out in the end. It’s the deadlines—most of the bosses’ll need pickers for at least another four weeks, but he wants it all by the end of the month—only two weeks—and that means the foremen drive the men like slaves.’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said sympathetically.

‘Well, it’s the way of this life,’ she said, giving me a few coins and leaving.

* * *

I was vastly relieved when Holmes finally stepped through the door of the shop, looking pleased. ‘I can see that your day has proved more successful than mine,’ I said by way of a greeting.

‘Indeed,’ he answered, locking the door and leading the way up the narrow, rickety stairs to the tiny upstairs flat. As we cleaned our faces, he began his story.

‘My first object was Sanchez’s citrus grove outside of town. I was admitted after a wheedling promise that my shop might be able to stock necessaries like tobacco and liquor at lower-than-market prices. Almost as soon as I stepped onto the premises, I learned a vital piece of information.’

‘Sanchez is forcing the men to work much more quickly than the other growers’ men,’ I inserted.

‘Exactly so,’ said Holmes, looking gratifyingly surprised.

‘I was introduced to an unpleasant character called Bill, who brought me into his office.’

‘The foreman,’ I put in, but Holmes ignored me this time.

‘I was given to understand that a company office exists somewhere in town, but the field office is in a shed on the edge of the grove itself. I did not expect to be treated well enough to be introduced to the head foreman, and when I was, I began to be concerned that Sanchez himself might be in evidence, a possibility I would like to avoid for the moment. Thankfully, Bill mentioned offhand that his employer would be conducting business in town all day.’

‘But here’s the rub, Irene,’ he said, stopping dramatically as he finished wiping off the remnants of his altered nose. ‘
The photograph was on his desk
. There I was, having a normal conversation, if somewhat dishonest in the common way, about cost and supply, with a picture of myself and my brother staring up at me. The man did not appear to recognise me, but I confess I was not entirely comfortable with the situation. The other odd thing is—’ and he fixed his eyes on my now-clean face with intensity, ‘the photo wasn’t the one I predicted. I was wrong. It was one from several years ago, a picture of my brother and me on the day of my graduation from Cambridge. I was not aware a copy existed, other than the ones Mycroft and I possess.’

‘How long has it been since you looked at that photograph, Holmes?’ I asked quickly, feeling myself start to blush.

He shook his head. ‘Not since the day I received it in a letter from my brother three months after the occasion. Since then, it has resided among my personal papers.’ I stood with my back to him, trying to will my face back to its usual colour.’

‘Do you remember when Mrs Hudson tried out a new maid, a girl named Sally Hawkins, while you were away?’

‘Yes,’ said Holmes, ‘but I don’t see—’ and then the detective fell silent. I winced. He grasped my shoulders and spun me around to face him. ‘But that was before the King of Bohemia approached me for the first time. What could you possibly have meant by it?’

‘I knew that he was planning to come to you, and I decided to strike first in case some sort of bargain was necessary. Mrs Hudson hardly took her eyes off me, but I found five minutes to look through your small collection of photographs. Your disorganization was beneficial to you, or else I’d have come away with much more. As it was, I only had time to conceal one very old photo of you and the man I now know to be your brother, though I did not realise it at the time. I hoped I had been lucky—that if I ever needed the photo as a bargaining tool, it might be worth at least something small to you. I would have tried again, but Mrs Hudson very wisely did not trust me and put me out of the house.’ Holmes listened to this speech impassively, and I had no idea what sort of thoughts might be going through his mind.

‘Listen, Holmes,’ I finally said, ‘at the time, I did not know you, and I felt the need to arm myself against the most skilled detective in London.’

‘And, I’ve no doubt you would do the same today, if you felt the need,’ he said drily, looking down at me with a half smile.

‘Yes, that’s probably true,’ I replied without flinching, ‘but I’m sorry it’s become a player in whatever it is we’re trying to investigate. I kept it with my papers, stored at my bank in London. Barnett must have helped himself to it and probably to everything else as well, whatever your brother’s people were unable to access.’

‘Well, at any rate, we still don’t know for sure whose likeness he was after, whether my brother’s or my own.’ He patted my shoulder awkwardly. ‘I’d have done the same if I were you.’ From him, the compliment was a high one.

‘Well, it appears my news is less than cataclysmic,’ I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘We had one customer, a world-weary woman who was eager to share her unhappiness with Sanchez’s operation with anyone willing to listen. It seems he lured workers from other growers with the promise of higher pay, but now seems to be driving them like Pharoah and the Hebrew slaves.’

‘So I gathered,’ Holmes said, taking his place in the chair opposite me. ‘I’m glad to hear the comparison, since I did not know if the conditions I witnessed were typical or not. One wonders how long the men will endure the unpleasantness. Certainly, Sanchez could hardly hope for more than two more weeks from them under such conditions.’

‘I assume they’re in something of a bind,’ I said. ‘Would the other growers be likely to take them back this late?’

‘Doubtful,’ said Holmes. ‘Whatever his part in your matter, this Sanchez seems an unpleasant character. Of course, the pertinent question is why he’s so eager to get his harvest in before anyone else.’

Holmes opened his notebook. ‘Let us evaluate our position.’

‘First, we now know that a photo of Mycroft and me has changed hands, leading to recognition. The specific nature of the connection between Barnett and Sanchez remains unknown, but is confirmed, at least, by that. The presence of the photo on the desk confirms that Sanchez considers it important, at any rate.’

‘Second, we know that Sanchez not only intends to bring in the harvest, but to do so two weeks before his rivals. There is no market value to this; demand is steady. His motive must be completion itself, but why? That is suggestive, I believe, of the fact that whatever part of the plot is to take place on his end will be completed within a fortnight.’

‘Third, we know that Barnett has tampered with your private papers. We can safely assume that he has been notified by now that his prized songbird has flown the coop, but he should not know where, at least not yet.’

‘Fourth, we know that Sanchez was not unwilling to mention my presence to someone else, dismissing it as harmless. This suggests that he either does not think I am on his trail, or he is trying to double bluff by appearing not to care. This also assumes Ambrose McGregor is entirely truthful, which seems likely, but is not certain.

‘Fifth, there remains no indication that Sanchez is aware of your presence or appearance. That suggests Barnett intended to conduct the Adler side of the affair himself.’

‘But Holmes, why would Barnett think it necessary for his associate to receive a photograph if he was doing the work on the English side?’

‘It could be a precautionary measure, but it’s more likely that he expected either Mycroft or me to turn up here.’ Holmes shook his head. ‘I begin to think my movements were somehow anticipated.’

‘Do you think I betrayed you?’ I asked the question point-blank, which seemed to me the most logical course of action.

‘The thought has crossed my mind,’ he answered, not unpleasantly.

‘Mine too,’ I said, ‘I mean, it has crossed my mind that if I were part of the plot, then some of the things we’ve learned would make much more sense.’ Holmes let out a dry laugh.

‘That would make me the object, rather than yourself,’ he said.

‘That can’t possibly—’ I stopped. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you.’

Chapter 8: Holmes

Holmes watched Irene dig her fingernails into her palms. ‘Three months after I was married, Barnett contacted me. He came to our house in Yorkshire and requested, as my former solicitor, to see me. My husband was angry, but he didn’t want to make a bad impression on a prominent fellow solicitor, so he allowed the meeting. Barnett’s reason for coming was to make an offer to help me out of my marriage. He said he could prove Godfrey was an unfit husband and extricate my money if I would only do as he asked. I was suspicious, but I knew that he had connections in the law and on the bench. Obviously, I declined his offer.’

‘All he asked was for one favour, one job and he would take care of all of it for me.’ She paused for a moment and smiled at Holmes. ‘I was told to break into a flat in a dull part of London, the part of London where no one fashionable lives and nothing happens. Once inside, I was to take a particular case and bring it to Barnett’s office. This flat and case, he said, belonged to a very bad man, a man who deserved to be thwarted. I asked him the man’s name, and he told me: Mycroft Holmes, the brother of the famed detective.’

For once, Holmes listened with his eyes wide open and his body alert. Irene continued, ‘Barnett was aware of the role you played in my marriage and the events surrounding it, but he did not know that our skirmish had convinced me that you were an honourable man or that I considered us fully even and had no desire to continue our little war. You may not believe that I also objected to the idea of petty thievery against someone about whom I knew nothing except his connection to someone I respected. At any rate, Barnett did not seem angry, but he refused to help me if I did not do as he wished. At that point, I owed him nothing, as all my funds were my husband’s.’

‘You will no doubt be wondering now why I appealed to such a man after my husband’s death. I am not entirely sure myself, as I can’t imagine my doing so under normal circumstances. At the time, however, I was nearly paralysed with fear. I was terrified that the law would somehow contrive a way to keep me bound, to keep my fortune in the estate and leave me penniless. I believed that Barnett could prevent this, and I had never found him dishonest in his dealings with me, but I was surprised when he agreed to look after my property without anything in return except a small fee. I had expected some sort of request like the previous one. I should have known that he had found another way to use me.’

Holmes found himself resisting the urge to let his mind travel through the murky hallways of psychological theorising. ‘You believe he is attempting to use you to get to Mycroft, then,’ he finally said.

‘Yes,’ she answered decidedly. ‘I believe it to be the only scenario that fits all the facts. Unfortunately, I have no idea how the man Sanchez fits into it.’

‘Nor I, yet,’ answered the detective, ‘though your disclosures point to the original letter reaching my brother by design.’

‘You have not asked me the reason for my reticence,’ said The Woman after a pause. ‘Does that indicate that you doubt my veracity?’

‘Not in the least,’ answered Holmes, beginning to fill his pipe with inferior tobacco from the shop. ‘You and I have limited trust in one another. With knowledge of this condition, you chose to withhold information that had the potential to make you appear to be a possible criminal accessory in the current case.’ He paused to close his eyes and take a drag from his pipe. ‘More importantly, you’re telling the truth now.’

Irene folded her arms. ‘I hoped you’d at least doubt it for a moment,’ she said, sounding disappointed. The detective opened one eye.

‘You have tells, like anyone else, Miss Adler. If you haven’t figured them out yourself, I’m certainly not going to enlighten you.’ Irene let out an unintelligible sound that resembled a
hrff
. ‘Your solicitor is not a stupid man. He may have misjudged Mycroft’s likelihood of involving himself personally, but he did not mistake his willingness to act on information that pointed to criminal activity.’

‘But what could Barnett have against your brother?’ asked Irene curiously. ‘He’s certainly not visible or famous. You said he was some sort of diplomat.’

At this, Holmes laughed silently for some time. ‘That, Irene, is perhaps the easiest thing of all. My brother is entirely unknown and unseen, except by those who have cause to despise him. He is an important man; even I do not understand the full extent of all he knows.’

‘Is he a bad man, then?’ The question was innocent, almost like that of a child, but the tone was ironic.

‘Only to those who consider power wielded in the service of order to be an evil.’

Irene placed a delicate hand over her mouth and yawned. ‘What do you intend to do now?’

‘Tomorrow, we will deliver supplies to Sanchez’s field office, and I very much hope the man himself will be in evidence.’

* * *

For the first time in a good while, Holmes’s mind had enough to consider to keep it fully active through the night, mulling over the facts that had come to light through the day and evening. Ever since the concert, he’d suspected Irene of hiding information, and he wished devoutly that she had revealed what she knew earlier; nevertheless, he didn’t blame her for her reticence. She’d been through a great deal, and her still-frayed edges proved that her experiences continued to eat at her psyche. No sense lamenting what couldn’t be. The case was beginning to take shape as a simple plot of misdirection, a red herring by the name of Irene Adler, put out to somehow entrap Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft was an audacious target, but Holmes realised that his own presence in Florida was proof that the plot had not been entirely ill-conceived. If he had indeed been dead, would Mycroft have come himself? The detective doubted it, vehemently. Mycroft would have sent an associate to protect Irene, whether she liked it or not, as was his usual practice. Holmes wondered why such otherwise thorough plotters had been so sure his brother would do what his brother had never in his life been likely to do. There must be something, he thought, that he was missing. Now that Sanchez knew he was alive, had the plan changed? Surely, Barnett would be only too eager to use him to get at his brother. Was Sanchez trying to find him? If so, he was doing a fairly incompetent job. And why hadn’t he made any effort when he had a chance at the Edisons’ party? Holmes had many questions, but they were focused questions. He preferred those to vague certainties.

* * *

The citrus grove was pleasant in the early morning. A breeze blew the leaves of hundreds of trees, and Holmes enjoyed the pleasantly overpowering aroma of the fruit. The workers were not yet tired from the day, and the serene organization of the harvest gave no hint of the owner’s dark purposes.

Holmes led Irene around row on row of trees to the small shack on the far side of the grove. No one accosted them along the way, and he surmised that the foremen knew he was expected. ‘I wasn’t anticipating the smell,’ said The Woman.

‘Indeed,’ said Holmes. Tom Perkins was a taciturn fellow. His ‘wife’ carried a bag of cigarettes in one hand and held his arm with the other, while he hoisted a box of canned soup on his shoulder. Together, they formed a less-than-savoury picture, he with his sagging eyes and florid face, and his wife with unkempt hair and soiled dress.

Holmes pushed open the door of the office, and Bill, the tall, broad grove supervisor greeted him with a less-than-enthusiastic
eh
. ‘Good morning,’ said the detective, his voice ingratiating. ‘My wife and I have brought the items you requested.’ Bill ushered them into the tiny building, pointing to a dusty room covered with piles of non-perishable goods.

‘We’ve no mind to leave these until we’ve agreed on a price,’ said Irene shrilly, holding tightly to her tobacco and nodding to a dull-acting Holmes not to relinquish his cans.

‘I told you yesterday,’ said Bill, glowering at Holmes and ignoring Irene, ‘that I can’t set a price until I’ve asked the Boss.’

‘Well, then, I guess we’ll have to take these things back to town,’ said Irene, staring boldly at the foreman and hugging her sack like a prized turkey.

‘Aye,’ said Holmes after a pause. Bill stared at the couple for a long moment in which he seemed to be contemplating inflicting bodily harm before stomping into a room at the back of the shed and leaving them alone. Holmes winked at Irene.

After a moment, two voices could be heard, one Bill’s angry growl, the other quieter and calmer. Bill’s irate complaints were easy to understand, but Holmes couldn’t make out the contributions of the other man until the door opened and both emerged.

The second man was considerably shorter than the foreman, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with a well-kept moustache and immaculate clothing. He smiled at Holmes and Irene, showing rows of perfect teeth that somehow put the detective in mind of a self-satisfied shark.

‘Sir, Madam, what may I do to assist you?’ The man’s English was perfect, too perfect for a native, too well enunciated. He touched his chin and contemplated the pair placidly.

‘Look, Mister, do you want our things or not?’ Irene stepped forward defiantly.

‘My associate (he indicated Bill with a nod) informs me of your offer. I hope this will be sufficient.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, peeling two off the top and handing them to Irene, who eyed them greedily before surrendering them to Holmes, who glowered at her wordlessly.

‘That’s…satisfactory,’ said Irene, attempting to look as if she were excited and trying not to appear so.

‘Aye,’ said Holmes.

‘Come back next week with more of the same,’ said the Central American, smiling and throwing out his arm theatrically. ‘I’m Sanchez, the owner.’ Irene nodded sycophantically and took Holmes’s arm. The unprepossessing couple left the shack with many thanks from the animated boss and glares from his second-in-command.

The detective led Irene away from the grove, as silently as befitted his character, until they had reached the wagon and he had unceremoniously dumped her into it, like an unprized sack of potatoes. ‘I thought you might have made a hole in my arm,’ Holmes finally ventured, once the scrawny rented horse had begun the trek back to town and carried them a safe distance from prying eyes. ‘You held on so tightly a crowbar couldn’t have dislodged you. I’m not entirely sure Jane Perkins is quite so enamored of her lord and master as to make that necessary.’ He half-smiled drily.

When Irene failed to answer after many moments, Holmes looked over at her and found her pale under her makeup, her eyes fixed straight ahead and hands clasped tightly together. ‘Holmes,’ she said, ‘Alberto Sanchez is James Barnett.’

Holmes let the horse drive itself for a moment, blinking rapidly and staring at his companion. For a moment, he wondered if she was foisting some kind of ill-advised joke on him, but her face was far from amused. ‘You are absolutely sure of this?’ He drove again, and his brain began to work.

‘Without doubt,’ answered The Woman, sounding steadier. ‘When he first came out of his office, I noticed something familiar about him—something about the way he walked, but it was that gesture, when he touched his chin, that let me know for sure. After that, I couldn’t stop seeing it—in the shape of his head, his eyes, the way he smiled. I would swear it in court.’

‘Watson would love this,’ Holmes muttered.

‘Eh?’

‘Just like something out of one of his stories, no embellishment needed.’ The detective felt somehow that a plot twist so outlandishly dramatic was a personal insult, a thumbing of the nose at the rationality he tried to project. Ridiculously irritating.

An unexpected sound interrupted his reverie. Laughter, unfettered. In spite of her fear, Irene’s face was filled with amusement. ‘Well,’ she said, putting her hand over her mouth, ‘we will have to tell him all about it one day.’ Holmes thought so, too, but he didn’t answer.