Chapter 14
The afternoon that followed was rather exciting. Before I got back to the Claridge’s, we went to Baker Street, where Lupin’s father had met the Spaniard after stealing the jade statue.
It was a pretty street lined with low-slung, brightly colored houses, but there was nothing that intrigued me about it.
Sherlock stopped in front of the house at number 221B Baker Street, looking at it with interest. It was there where the three of us agreed on our plan of action.
It was clear that there was a link between the disappearance of Ophelia and the trap that Théophraste had found himself in, but there were still many assumptions floating around.
Sherlock pointed out the possibility that there may have been tension between Ophelia and Santi. Maybe Santi had decided to leave her and she, mad with jealousy, had commissioned the Spaniard to carry out his murder.
I pointed out that I had heard the laundress say that Santi had been happy to see Merridew, so it was unlikely that he left the singer. Then Lupin said that maybe Santi was just pretending to be happy to see her.
“But some things you cannot fake!” I protested, silencing him abruptly.
We decided to start from where the mediocre reporter had stopped.
“Hortence is not a common name in London,” Sherlock said. “And the tailor shops are almost all clustered around a street called Savile Row. With a little luck, we could track her down and find out more about Merridew.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Lupin, hopefully. “Then let’s go. If she really is Ophelia’s only friend here in London, maybe they have been in contact!”
Sherlock told me to consult the map in my guide to London to find Savile Row.
“And will you be coming?” Lupin asked Sherlock.
“I . . . I can’t today,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit embarrassed.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“My mother . . . she needs me . . . for an interview. We have to choose my school for this year.”
I knew that Sherlock Holmes did not like to talk about his family, his brother, Mycroft, or his little sister, Violet.
“Choose a school?” Lupin asked. “My father is likely to be hanged, and you have to choose a school?”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured.
“And I’ll have to check in with Mr. Nelson, or there will be trouble for me,” I said.
Lupin looked at us, and I read the disappointment in his eyes. “Do as you wish,” he said as he buttoned his coat. Then he went off at a brisk pace without saying goodbye.
“Do you think he’s mad at us?” I asked Sherlock.But he had turned his back to me, and was gazing at the building marked 221B with interest. So much interest, in fact, that he ignored my question.
“I like it here,” he murmured.
* * *
Mr. Nelson huffed and protested, holding my two bags of clothes in one hand as we stood before the tailor shops on Savile Row.
“But do we really have to go in all the shops?” he asked with a sigh.
“If I’m not mistaken, you asked to look after me, is that not the case? Well,” I said, smiling at him, “young ladies do this — shopping.”
He pretended to believe that “shopping” was the reason I was dragging him on this adventure of mine, and he followed me into another shop.
“And do all the nice young ladies who go shopping ask every shopkeeper if they know a certain Hortence?” he asked slyly.
“If they are looking to find a certain person,” I replied.
“And once they find her?” he asked.
“You know what, Mr. Nelson? You ask too many questions.”
But at the end of the day, when I was about to lose hope, it was Mr. Nelson who found Hortence for me. In the last tailor shop we visited, Mr. Nelson asked about orders made to Hortence, and the owner wrote down an address for us.
“I guess we’ll go there right now.” Mr. Nelson smiled at me when we were on the street again.
“It would be nice of you to come,” I said.
“You’ll only go if I come with you, Miss Irene.”
I stole a glance at him. He lifted the bags. “Now I’m curious, too,” he said.
We knocked on the door of a private house two blocks farther down Savile Row, and a little girl only a few years old opened the door.
“Hello, little one,” I said. “Is your mother home?”
A middle-aged woman appeared from behind the door. She had a beautiful, round face, big blue eyes, a small mouth, and brown hair tied back in a ponytail.
“Are you Hortence?” I asked politely.
The woman looked at me and then at Mr. Nelson, who smiled at her and said, “Say yes, please. We’ve spent the whole day looking for you.”
“Looking for me?” the seamstress asked. “And why is that?”
“We are looking for Ophelia Merridew,” I said softly, and I noticed Hortence move as though she wanted to close the door. So I added, “Do not be afraid, please. I’m not a meddler or a journalist. I’m just a fan of hers, and very worried for her safety. I know you were friends with her, and I wondered if, by chance, you have heard from her in recent days. Answer yes, so that I know she is fine, and I will trouble you no more.”
Evidently that little speech that I had prepared and repeated in my head all day had the effect I desired, because the seamstress cheered up, moved away from the door, and invited us in for a cup of tea.
“In fact it is almost dinnertime, but . . .” she said.
“A cup of tea will be fine,” I told her.
“Olive and I were born in the same month,” the seamstress began, “and we shared the same difficult life.”
They had grown up in the poor district of Bethnal Green, where, fortunately for Olive, the good priest of the parish of St. Mary had started a chorus of girls who sang in church.
“It did not take long for all of us to realize Olive’s talent,” said the seamstress. “And so one day the priest introduced her to a gentleman with whom he was acquainted, and this man was impressed with her talent.”
“Do you remember the name of this gentleman?” I asked.
“Unfortunately I do not,” she admitted. “But I know he was very rich and influential, and, above all, it was he who introduced Olive to Giuseppe Barzini.”
“Got it,” I said. I imagined that the mysterious gentleman who was very rich might have had a Spanish accent. “Go on, please.”
“They went to have dinner in one of those restaurants in the center of the city,” the seamstress reminisced, “where those like us dream of drinking at least a cup of tea once in a lifetime. Olive was very nervous, but the dinner went beyond our expectations. Maestro Barzini heard her singing and immediately decided to take her with him to Milan, Italy, to study, certain that she would become an opera star. Olive returned home to gather some of her belongings. And then we read her name in the papers. After a few years, her family moved to France, away from the misery of Bethnal Green. Can you blame them?”
“And Ophelia has never asked you to go as well?” I asked.
I noticed Mr. Nelson stiffen, just as Hortence did, and I realized that without meaning to, I had touched on a sensitive topic.
“Maybe for you it is not easy to understand, young lady. I can tell from your attire, and who accompanies you, what your social class is . . .”
Mr. Nelson nodded.
“But, you see, those of us who have less, more importantly, care a lot about our own dignity,” she continued.
I bit my lip. “Excuse me. I did not mean to offend you.”
“But you did,” she said. “Unintentionally, of course, but you did. And so, that’s how I felt every time my friend Olive offered me money to help out. I have never envied her talent or her success. I’ve always loved her from the heart. And I expected, therefore, the same treatment. I hoped that she wouldn’t feel pity, but compassion for how I live.”
I looked down. The small house that surrounded me reflected what Hortence was trying to explain. It was tiny and modest but was kept decent and clean.
I realized that our conversation was coming to an end. So I got up, sighed, and put forth my last question, “As far as you know, did all of Olive’s family go to France? I’ve heard of an aunt who stayed in the city,” I said.
Hortence nodded, leading me to the door. “Dear old Aunt Betty.”
She said goodbye to us, but remained at the door as Mr. Nelson and I walked away.
“She was an old, crazy maid, who did not want to know anything about travel . . .” she called out, making me stop again. “But of all her family, she was the only one who really wanted something good to happen to Olive. She wanted Olive to do well simply because she was her niece — not because she hoped Olive would become the best opera singer in the world. And I believe that she is still in Bethnal Green.”
Hortence closed the door slowly.