Chapter 4
I spent the whole afternoon on the ferry deck with my father. I will always remember the time we spent together, not speaking, watching the bow of the steamboat splitting the waves with such ease.
Mr. Nelson wisely decided to stay inside, for our brave butler was prone to motion sickness.
I enjoyed the breeze in my hair as I breathed in the salty air. I looked out over the bow, hoping to spot England like many other passengers. I knew that only one person could be the first to scream “Land!” and I had bet Papa that I would be that person.
But as we sailed away from the coast, the pleasant breeze became cold, the sky slowly darkened, clouds gathered over the sea, and heavy rain started to fall.
“We should get inside,” Papa said. “Otherwise we’ll be spending our first days in London in bed.” He was right, of course, so I had to give up on my bet.
We sat at a table, where we ordered some hot tea and butter cookies. Mr. Nelson went down to the lowest level in the ferry where he couldn’t see the stormy, gray sea. I realized that he left the book by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe on the bench. I grabbed it and started reading right away.
Papa laughed and chatted with some fellow businessmen until the ferry began to slow.
“Here we are!” people started to exclaim. I had to force myself to abandon my book. Wow, that American knew how to write — and his story was scaring me to death!
I leaned on the porthole and gazed out over the water. A ray of light tore through the clouds like a blade, and suddenly I could see the famous White Cliffs of Dover. I was so amazed, I could barely open my mouth.
We were in England, and I had spotted the cliffs before anyone else. But before I could say anything, I heard a lady yell to her husband, “Land! Look, Philippe! No, that way! We’re there!”
* * *
With a huge crowd of people greeting us, my father and I walked down the ramp to the dock. Mr. Nelson was one of the first people off the boat, and once on solid ground, he made the sign of the cross.
As we found Mr. Nelson waiting for us on the dock, I thought, happily, that England seemed much like France so far. The albatrosses flew low, circling over the piles of suitcases on the dock. Down the street, I could see sailors, people on vacation, and carriages moving about. We headed toward the action, looking for a carriage that could take us to the train station.
Distracted by all the noise and yelling at the port, we lost sight of one another in the crowd. While I looked around to find my father and Mr. Nelson, I saw a guard yelling at a homeless person.
As I watched, the homeless person suddenly began running toward me. Someone tried to grab him, but he easily managed to get away. He was onto me in a heartbeat.
I felt him grab my arm and saw a pair of hungry eyes that looked at me as if they could see inside my soul. It felt like I was in one of Mr. Poe’s scary stories.
My legs gave out and I fell to the ground. The homeless man then let me go, jumped up, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Irene!” Papa yelled as he hurried forward. He lifted me off the ground as easily as he might lift a bird. “Irene, what happened? Is everything okay?”
“Y-yes,” I answered, still in shock.
“Miss Irene!” Mr. Nelson came running.
“Horatio, you fool!” my father scolded. “I told you to always be with her!”
I had never heard him talk that way to Mr. Nelson.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Adler. I . . . got distracted for a second and . . .”
“It’s not his fault,” I said. “It was just a homeless person running away.”
“Nasty thieves!” said my father. “Did he steal anything from you? Is everything with you?”
I touched my pockets and then made sure my purse was intact. “No, he didn’t take anything.”
“Sure?”
I nodded. Actually, the homeless man had done the opposite of stealing, as I would find out later on. He gave me something.
Once we were settled in our seats on the train to London, I reached in my purse to give Mr. Nelson his book back and I found a folded piece of paper in my fingers instead. Not sure what it was, I opened it.
As soon as I laid my eyes on the script, I felt my heart beating fast in my throat. It took me a second to recognize Sherlock Holmes’s handwriting.
“Oh!” I said. “Coward!”
So those eyes that stabbed at me were his?
I had to breathe deeply to calm myself enough to read what he had written. No greeting, no “My dear Irene” — this letter took a more decisive tone:
I hope you haven’t become too posh since I last saw you and that you weren’t expecting a traditional greeting! Anyway, welcome to good old England. By a lucky coincidence, our friend Arsène Lupin is in London with his father now, too. Meet at Shackleton Coffee House, 11 Carnaby Street, on Monday morning, 10 sharp. Lupin and I will be there!