Chapter 21
The morning after those events occurred, a couple of local newspapers had been tipped off and had come out with a special edition.
“Have you read this, Miss Irene?” Mr. Nelson asked me at breakfast. The paper was still hot from the press, and the large, dark letters of the headlines left spots on my fingertips.
“Ophelia Merridew regained consciousness,” continued Mr. Nelson. “They are expecting ‘shocking revelations from the singer’!”
“Yes,” I muttered in resposne. “It seems that nothing happens in this city without the journalists knowing about it.”
“Modern times, Miss Irene, modern times . . .” Mr. Nelson said, followed by a brief sigh.
“They also have their positives, these modern times,” I replied.
“What do you mean, Miss?”
“The newspaper also reports the address of the place where Merridew has been hiding and the exact time it is expected she will leave to go home,” I said.
“So . . .”
“So this will be an important event for London. And for us, as future Londoners! I do not think we should miss it, my dear Horatio!”
He looked at me, puzzled, then smiled. He must have thought that waiting in front of a house was, after all, better than taking me shopping!
“I’ll call a carriage, Miss,” he said.
Even though I was supposed to meet Sherlock and Lupin at Shackleton’s that day, I thought it likely that they, too, had heard the news about Ophelia.
Mr. Nelson and I got ready quickly, hopped into the carriage, and headed toward Whitechapel — the location of Ophelia Merridew. When we arrived, there was already a large crowd of curious people. Merridew’s refuge was a three-story building with white windows and a blue door, which indicated that it was owned by the queen.
Every time a shadow passed behind the lace curtains, a timid applause emerged from the crowd, and someone shouted, “Ophelia!” hoping to see, sooner or later, the singer finally free from danger.
I looked around the crowd. They were all ordinary people — people who had probably never seen Ophelia perform. But these people knew that Ophelia was one of them, and they knew that she never had forgotten her roots.
This was, pretty much, what Mr. Nelson said to me, while we were waiting for something to happen. He insisted that a person’s true roots are links that, though they may be invisible, never cease to operate between a person and his or her origins.
It was mid-morning when Ophelia Merridew appeared at the door, escorted by a nurse who helped steady her. She looked pale and in pain, but smiled a little and made a small gesture of greeting. The crowd responded with applause, full of emotion.
I looked at Mr. Nelson, as if to ask permission to get closer, and he said kindly, “Go, go! You came all this way for her, after all!”
And so I got off the carriage, squeezing through the crowd. I do not know what came over me then. All I know is that I felt an impulse to get as close to Ophelia as I could. It took determination and some good elbow strikes, but I finally managed to get to the front, where a police barricade barely held back the crowd. I felt very excited to see Miss Merridew safe and sound again after our last tragic encounter.
“Ophelia!” I called, imitating those around me. While the singer was slowly heading to her carriage, something happened that I still remember with great emotion.
She turned toward me. Toward me, I tell you. And when she saw me, her eyes looked full of surprise, and her gaze remained on my face.
Ophelia Merridew recognized me among all those people. And so, if only for a moment, I was a little bit famous.
She approached me, accompanied by the nurse, and gave me her hand. “Are you . . . I still see your face . . . like that of an angel,” Ophelia said. “An angel who came to save me in Bethnal Green.”
“My name is Irene,” I said. I smiled at her.
Ophelia showed me to the blue door from which she had come out. “Would you like to come in? We need to talk. My carriage can wait!” she insisted.
I ducked under the outstretched arms of a police officer and joined Ophelia, who took me by the arm, welcoming me. We went through the blue door and sat in a small living room.
Ophelia said goodbye to the nurse and, once we were left alone, she looked at me tenderly. “Tell me everything, my young angel.”
I described all that had happened until that fateful afternoon, when we had arrived just in time at her Aunt Betty’s home. Then I told her about all that had happened since, including the plot of the Maestro.
“My friends and I heard Barzini say that poor Alfred Santi was a magnificent man and he was punished for it, but . . . what that might mean, we do not know,” I said.
Ophelia Merridew looked down before speaking. “There are many things you do not know, and you would never have known them, my young angel,” she said. “There was a secret . . . a secret that Barzini did not want revealed to anyone . . .”
I expected that she would confess to meeting secretly with Santi, and that what was born between them had sparked the jealousy of Maestro Barzini. But I was surprised when Ophelia, with a simple sentence, revealed that this secret hid a different story, and with it, the real motive behind the evil that took place.
“Barzini’s latest works were not, in fact, written by him. And that is why they are probably among the most beautiful he has ever had his name on,” Ophelia explained.
I suddenly remembered what Baron Trudoljubov had said about the “second youth” of Barzini, and my eyes widened in surprise.
“The most recent two works that everybody thought were composed by Barzini were, in fact, composed by my poor Alfred,” she told me, her voice cracking.
I took her hand and looked into her eyes. “If you find it too painful, you do not have to . . .” I said as I shook my head.
“On the contrary,” Ophelia said, wiping away her tears. “On the contrary . . . I feel it will do me good to talk to you, Irene.”
I squeezed her hand more tightly, and she began to speak.
“At the beginning, Alfred had been honored to work side by side with the famous Barzini — the great Maestro! Who would not have been? But as time passed, it became clear that Barzini was using him. Barzini’s inspiration had dried up, and he began to take credit for Alfred’s works. Alfred realized that his talent would never be recognized like that — like Barzini’s had been. Month after month, Barzini promised to print Santi’s name next to his, indicating the two of them as composers. But he never kept his promise. Santi became more and more determined to get recognition as time went on. And then that snake Barzini hired the petty Henri Duvel. He did so only to make Alfred believe that his position was in danger. And so Alfred worked. But finally he realized Barzini still needed him, and he mustered the strength to rebel against him. Alfred refused to give him his last composition, a work called Semiramide.”
That’s why Santi was always so dark and angry, I thought while listening to the story. He was at odds with Barzini!
“The Maestro then lied to Alfred one last time,” Ophelia continued. “Barzini had assured Alfred that this time, his name would be featured on posters at the largest theaters in Europe. Alfred was convinced that Barzini was serious.” Ophelia smiled bitterly before continuing, “But Barzini had no intention of keeping his promise even at that time. He confessed it to me one night at dinner after having one drink too many. He said Alfred had learned everything he knew about music from him, and that he was ungrateful for it. He regarded Alfred in the usual dismissive way he treated all those who worked for him. He treated them all as his subjects — as if he were the sole, undisputed King of the Opera!”
Ophelia drew a long breath in and then exhaled. “It was Barzini’s own fault. Because he was so blinded by his own ego, his own fame, he hadn’t even realized that Alfred and I had become much more than friends over time. Alfred loved me and I . . . well, I loved him with a strength that I thought my aging heart was no longer capable of. I loved him, Irene. And that’s why I warned him about Barzini’s true intentions. I told him not to give Barzini his last work, to hold on to it, and, if necessary, to hide the score in a safe place.”
“And did he do it?” I asked, captivated. “Did Santi really hide his last work before . . . before . . .”
Ophelia nodded slowly.
“Yes. He hid it by giving it to me. And I . . . when Alfred was found dead in his hotel room and the Frenchman was arrested, I thought I might go crazy. Everything seemed so absurd and terrible. I just wanted to hide, disappear, and not imagine that Barzini would . . .” She paused, then continued. “Luckily, I handed Alfred’s work off to a trusted person who has kept it safe so far,” Ophelia explained.
“That’s why Santi’s hotel room and your aunt’s house in Bethnal Green had been turned upside down!” I exclaimed. “Barzini was looking for Alfred Santi’s latest work!”
“That’s right, Irene.”
I looked at her, waiting.
And then, because it seemed that Ophelia Merridew did not have anything more to say, I asked her, without hesitation, “And where did you hide the score in the end?”