Good Night, Mr. Holmes (13 page)

Aghast, I stood silent.

“Huxleigh,” Irene trilled loudly as she settled the tulips in a white pitcher. “Miss Penelope Huxleigh, late of Shropshire.”

“Penelope!” The poet seized upon my ungainly classical name as a rat terrier upon a bone. “Wise and loyal wife, clever and faithful spirit of hearth and home. These small blossoms swoon with scent and are said to attract nightingales to warble by one’s bed. Alas, this humble human nightingale will have to suffice for you.”

Picturing Mr. Oscar Wilde warbling by my bed was ludicrous enough to make me pale as I seized the nosegay and installed it in a tumbler on the table.

“Penelope was a fool,” I muttered ungraciously. “I certainly should have never taken that bounder Ulysses back after he’d wandered all around the Wrekin.”

“Wrekin?” The poet blinked, silenced.

“A Shropshire expression, Mr. Wilde. The Wrekin is a small mountain, which is what you are making of my poor molehill of virtues. But pray excuse me; I have ‘domestic duties’ to attend to.” Here I withdrew to my daybed niche and took up some darning.

My exit, although I was still within earshot and had left the draperies agape, seemed to wilt the poet’s demeanor until it drooped like the soft cravat of yellow silk at his throat. Irene led him to the shawl-draped sofa, where he sat languidly. She, being corseted, could affect no such easy posture.

“Your note mentioned a private matter, Mr. Wilde.”

He glanced in my direction.

“Miss Huxleigh is more than discreet, as I’m sure you discern. My dear Nell would no more reveal a secret not her own than a martyr would deny her God.”

“Of course. But the matter is extremely... delicate and of the most personal nature.”

“I see,” said Irene, her tone unencouraging. “I have occasionally shed light on mysterious events, but not on the shadows of the heart, I fear. I am no go-between.”

“Certainly not! Though the difficulty began as a matter of the heart, I fear it comes down to the rightful return of property now.”

“As do so many so-called matters of the heart, ultimately. What is the property in question, Mr. Wilde?”

“A gold cross—not of any great worth, I suppose, but valuable to me as a memento. You may not be aware that in the late seventies I was an admirer of that peerless beauty, Florence Balcombe. In that capacity I gave her the cross, as well as assorted poems and even a pencil portrait from my own hand.” The poet’s long melancholy face lifted in a smile. “I secretly sent a floral crown this past January when she made her Lyceum debut as one of a hundred vestal virgins in
The Cup.
Ellen Terry herself gave Florrie the offering, though she never revealed the sender.”

“Of course, Florence Balcombe is no vestal virgin now,” Irene pointed out. “She is Mrs. Bram Stoker, is she not, and the mother of a son, Noel?”

“Yes. And has been for a few years. Quite frankly, I would have married her, but she preferred another Irishman, and who am I to quarrel with so excellent a choice? Bram is such a hearty, straightforward fellow that I cannot be too bitter. But I would like my cross of gold back.”

“Then ask for it.”

“Ah, so direct, Miss Adler. After much hinting, that is exactly what I did. Florrie refused.”

“Refused? I suppose by rights it is hers, but the value was trifling?” He nodded and Irene controlled her expression. “Have you considered that the lovely Florence still harbors a
tendresse
for you that prevents her from relinquishing your gift?”

“My first assumption,” he admitted, “and I should respect her understandable sentiment, but she has shown an evasion in discussing the subject that is quite inexplicable. The cross is precious to my past; since Florrie is no longer mine in the present, I should like it back and she should be more than willing to return it. Her refusal is most... odd.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Speak to Florence. Find out at least why she so unreasonably refuses to give it up. Knowing her motives would compensate for the possession of the cross.”

“You are an easily satisfied creditor, Mr. Wilde. I shall inquire into the matter, but it is her business, at bottom.”

“Of course.” The poet stood and took Irene’s hand, bowing low over it. “I shall be most grateful.”

“Why come to me for such a service?”

“You are a woman of wit. You would have made a poetess, I think, except that when you see into the human soul you keep it to yourself and to your own ends. You are also possessed of a ceaseless curiosity. Witness your questions about this man Norton. You strike me as one bold enough to broach any subject with anyone. But then, you are American.”

“Indeed I am,” Irene said as she retrieved his greatcoat and showed him out. “I will look into the matter and let you know the result.”

“A popinjay,” I sang from my corner as soon as the door had closed. “Shan’t it be embarrassing to quiz Florence Stoker? And what will he pay you, after all, but compliments and posies?”

“Wilde’s good will is worth a hundred pounds. What he declares to be fashionable, is. Look at his devotion to Lillie Langtry; it accounts in good part for her notoriety.”

Irene had thrown herself on the sofa in that peculiar stiff, supine attitude seen in photographs of Sarah Bernhardt or the painted ladies of the pre-Raphaelites. Corseted “flowers” do not bend well; no wonder the Jersey Lily eschewed whalebone. Still, Irene managed to look comfortable despite her position.

“Ah, that Wilde Irish vanity,” she reflected. “I wager that Florence Stoker has utterly unsentimental reasons for keeping Oscar Wilde’s cross. They should be interesting to discover. I am tired of Mr. Tiffany’s foolish Zone, at any rate!” she burst out, putting a hand to her forehead as if an ache throbbed there. “A cul-de-sac, as I feared. I dread reporting my failure,” she added morosely, “but he leaves shortly and I must.”

A knock at the door interrupted her. I answered it to find thin-faced little Sofia—she looked like a shriveled rabbit—in the passage.

“A genelmun below said to give you this.”

I took a card and moved into the pale light of our dying fire. “That’s... odd.”

“Another visitor?” Irene objected. “I can’t! One poet is wearing enough. Send whoever it is away. How rude to call without notice.”

“I suppose I could scrawl a dismissal on his card and send it back with Sofia, but Mr. Norton might not call again—”

“Good! Let him go to blazes—Mr.
Norton!”
Irene sat bolt upright in defiance of the laws of corsetry. “My Lord. Yes, Sofia child, tell Mr. Norton he may come up. Nell, what does the card say?”

She rushed over to pry it from my hand.

“Only his name and address,” I explained.

“The Temple. He is a barrister—the very one!”

“A note on the back requests to see you, if you’d care to turn it over.”

“Such hasty, bold strokes. No sign of feebleness here. Old Norton is spry. Why did no one know of him? Why come to me? Quick, Nell, I need an impartial witness. Behind the arras, my love. You must take notes; my wits are too addled to be at their usual pitch. Hide yourself! Be quiet, like the dead; be my ears. Perhaps I will have good news for Mr. Tiffany after all. Oh, what a coup!”

“I am not an eavesdropper!” I protested through the muffling curtains just as a knock thundered on the door.

It clapped again, that external thunder, before Irene could answer. I heard the knob turn and the hinges squeak. Then silence. I considered that Old Norton must be vigorous to muster so commanding a knock at his age.

“Miss Adler?” a deep male voice barked.

He was testy, I concluded, despite his apparent robust health.

Irene’s voice sounded strangled with surprise as she replied. “I am Irene Adler. Do ... come in, Mr. Norton.”

Her invitation was uttered just as a pair of boots thumped over our sadly thin rugs. I envisioned a stout old gent, his ruddy face bristling with white muttonchop whiskers, his stomach bowed out like a punch bowl. Father William of the poem, if you will.

This Dickensian worthy stalked only in my imagination, but being restricted to sound alone made for fascinating speculations. I leaned my ear against the draperies.

“You seem surprised to see me,” the gentleman observed.

“I am indeed. Won’t you sit down?”

“That will not be necessary. What I have to say to you, Miss Adler, does not require civilities. You may sit if you wish. I fancy you will need to before I’m done.”

“Indeed,” Irene murmured faintly, sounding not at all like herself. I heard her clothing rustle as she followed his suggestion. His boots began pacing before the fire, which must have paled to ashes by now.

“To what do I owe your visit?” she inquired.

‘To your damn impertinent questions into my family life!”

“Your
family life?”

“Don’t deny that you haven’t been making inquiries about a certain Norton to every man jack around! I won’t have you stirring up the family scandal just when tongues have stopped wagging at last. I warn you—I’m a barrister and I know how to deal with people of your sort.”

“And just what is ‘my sort,’ Mr. Norton?” Irene asked, much too calmly.

The voice dismissed the matter even as it replied. “Some kind of performer, I understand. That’s irrelevant. I don’t care if you’re a ragpicker; your vicious inquiries into my family history must stop!”

“My profession is not irrelevant to me, Mr. Norton. And it happens that I am a vocalist and an actress.”

He snorted. “So claims Lillie Langtry these days.”

“She is an upstart. I am a long-time student of my art. And I do not sell soap.”

“I don’t give a fig for what you do—so long as it does not include snooping into my family matters. You may ride a horse bareback and whistle ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’ for all I care.”

“I also,” Irene went on, serenely ignoring him, “act as a private inquiry agent on occasion. Perhaps it is in this professional capacity that my actions have so troubled you.”

The boots’ restless pacing stopped. “Someone
hired
you to rake up my family background? I don’t believe it!”

“Why else should anyone want to delve into such an unpleasant clan?” Irene retorted. “Of course they must be
paid
to do it!”

I could imagine the fury pinking her cheeks and felt very sorry for old Mr. Norton.

“This is more perfidious than I had imagined,” he retorted. “If you think that being a hireling of some gossip entitles you to assume the airs of a profession, you are sadly mistaken. In the eyes of the law you are an irresponsible and malicious slanderer—a
mere tale-bearer. If I learn that you continue in your despicable inquiries, I will take whatever action—legal or otherwise—to ensure that you stop. Do I make myself clear, Miss Adler?”

A serpentine rasp of silk; she stood to confront him. I dared to part the curtain seam and press my eyelashes against the tiny split. Irene’s profile looked carved in alabaster. Her cheeks were flaming. Of old Norton I could see nothing but a pair of wet black boot-toes pressing into the hem of Irene’s skirt.

“I thought we were beyond courtesies, Mr. Norton,” she pointed out in cold, silken tones.

“You will see how far beyond courtesy I am if you force me to it. Stop this inquiry now, while you can.”

“And is that the mark of
your
profession—threats?”

“If you threaten me and mine, you shall be answered in kind.”

The boots rushed to the door, which screamed open on its hinges, then banged shut on the man’s exit. Boots thumped down the stairs until they dwindled into only the patter of rain on our roof. I launched myself at the bowed window, leaning over the daybed to press my nose against the rain-stained pane of glass.

A hansom waited below, its shiny black paint greasy under the gathering raindrops. A figure in a plush velvet top hat burst from our building, pausing only to turn and stare up at our window. I flattened myself out of sight against the wall, but not before he spied me, I fear.

When I peered out again, the man was bounding spryly inside the cab. Mr. Norton must have been in a tearing rage indeed to have taken so fine a hat out into the rain.

The reins danced on the horse’s slick flanks and then the hansom was rattling away. Something crackled like distant thunder beside me—Irene’s taffeta gown crushing as she crowded into the bay beside me.

She leaned her hot cheek on the icy glass as the hansom disappeared. I had never seen her so agitated, whether from rage or triumph it was difficult to tell.

“What an insufferable, odious man, Nell! But he told me the one thing he would never have wished me to know”

“What is that?”

“That there is something to Mr. Tiffany’s Zone of Diamonds story. If I don’t get to the bottom of it in Mr. Tiffany’s employ I shall pursue it on my own. ‘My sort,’ indeed! Mr. Norton has no idea what my sort is if he thinks to discourage Irene Adler so cheaply.”

Chapter Eight

I
N
D
UTCH WITH
D
IAMONDS