Chapter 6
It is pointless for me to try to find the right words to express what I felt that night listening to Ophelia Merridew, but I haven’t been so stunned and enchanted by anything since.
The piece performed was The Plot of Destiny by Giuseppe Barzini. The tragic love story ended when Miss Merridew morphed into an angel, leaving her lover forever. Looking at Ophelia through my binoculars, I was spellbound by her big eyes. They were full of emotion, and the feelings she expressed seemed as real as anything in this world.
Shocked by the sad story we had just watched unfold on the stage, my father and I were quiet as we exited the theater. I remember the trip back to the hotel well. We spent the whole time in silence, and that peaceful silence was only interrupted by a few long sighs that came from his or my lips.
Years later, when I thought about moments like these, the fact that Leopold Adler was not my biological father (as I would find out later) lost all its importance. We were father and daughter, and we were, in fact, very similar despite everything.
* * *
The Plot of Destiny left a mark on my soul. That night, I dreamed of Ophelia Merridew. She was wearing a white, angelic gown, and she walked toward me, crossing through a foggy field. I saw a dark look in her eyes. Then she got closer to me and whispered, “Help me!”
I moved closer to hug her, but she was just a shadow. I ran toward her, but I got lost in the fog surrounding me. Then the dream ended and I fell into a deep sleep, which lasted quite a while — too long, to tell the truth.
When I opened my eyes again and turned toward the window, I realized it was late morning. That was one of the strangest sleeps of my life. It was like I had been trapped in a bubble, surrounded by Barzini’s music and the voice of the great soprano singer.
But now I was back in the real world, where time passed in its usual way. It was Monday morning already.
“Sherlock! Lupin!” I jumped up from my bed. I ran to open the curtains and glanced quickly at the clock. It was 9:30! I was supposed to be at Carnaby Street in half an hour to meet my friends.
The thought that they might tease me, saying I was “posh” for making people wait, made me hurry to get ready. I was dressed in just a few minutes. I ran downstairs to look for my father in the restaurant, but he wasn’t there.
Anxious, I started wandering around the hotel like a fool. I finally found my father in the basement, where the telegraph was. It didn’t take me long to realize his mood had changed dramatically from the evening before. He looked very upset.
“Are you sure? Check again!” he said to the telegrapher.
“I’m sorry, sir. Again — no news from Paris,” the telegrapher answered.
“Your mother,” Papa said, without saying hello. “I asked her to confirm when she left Paris, but . . . nothing.”
“Papa, she probably forgot. Nothing to worry about.” I did not have time to console him, although I wished I could have. Instead, I immediately asked for permission to meet my friends.
“All right, my dear,” he said, trying to smile. “But Mr. Nelson will go with you. And don’t go far away from him — understood?”
I hugged my father hard, forgetting that last piece of advice. Then I ran off.
I found Mr. Nelson outside the hotel smoking a pipe and asked him to find a carriage for me as soon as possible. Our butler was efficient, as usual, and in a matter of minutes we were in a small carriage.
I promised the coachman double pay if he managed to get to Carnaby Street by ten o’clock. He did his best, but the traffic was awful. He tried to squeeze the carriage through the crowd at the market on Carnaby Street. Since I was already ten minutes late, I decided I better walk the rest of the way. I paid him some extra money anyway and got out of the carriage with Mr. Nelson.
The colors, smells, and sounds of the market surrounded us. Despite the confusion, I immediately noticed a tall, but slouching young man, wrapped in a light wool cloak on the other side of the road. My heart started beating faster. It was Sherlock Holmes.
Even Mr. Nelson saw my friend and turned toward me, looking at me like he wanted to say, Don’t worry, I’ve got everything, Miss Irene. Just try not to get in trouble!
“I’ll be here waiting for you with a carriage at twelve o’clock sharp — understood?” said Mr. Nelson.
“Understood!” I confirmed.
I hugged the butler, not even considering the fact that it was probably not considered a proper gesture.
I was very happy to see Sherlock once again, and I wished I could have hugged him as well, but first we had to set something straight.
“Good morning, Holmes,” I said. I made sure my voice was cold. “I see you managed to get some decent clothes. I’m glad! Even if that . . . vagabond attire gave you a certain charm, you know?”
Sherlock laughed, throwing his head back. “Welcome, Irene Adler!” he greeted me. “So you really did become all posh like I feared!”
“Well I couldn’t have become very posh if I’m here now,” I answered.
Sherlock didn’t say a word. I saw wrinkles forming on his forehead, and I knew he was worrying that I was truly offended by what he had done at the Dover port. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He looked so troubled then that I decided I’d had my revenge.
“What do you say we wait for Lupin inside?” I suggested. I smiled at him. “You can buy me something warm, and then tell me what you were thinking at the port!”
“Great idea!” agreed Sherlock, and he started smiling again.
We entered the Shackleton Coffee House, an old wooden cottage. Looking around, I saw merchants eating before going back on the road, ladies with bad reputations sipping coffee, and people who worked at the market lying on benches. Sherlock had promised me in his letter that he would take me to the most “disreputable places” in town, and it seemed that so far he was keeping his word. He ordered two cups of hot cocoa and grabbed two chairs.
“It’s very simple,” he began, handing one to me. “When I got your note that you were coming to London, I thought it would be nice to greet you.”
“But how did you know that I was coming on that boat?” I asked, surprised. “I didn’t write that in my message!”
Sherlock smiled. “I just needed to think,” he answered. “That kind of trip requires a few days to prepare. Knowing that your father seeks only the best service, I knew that he would want to sail on the new ferry Northern Star, which does the Boulogne–Dover trip just once a week. Putting those two pieces of information together, I solved the mystery. Then I took advantage of a lucky coincidence. My mother had been begging me for months to bring some pillows to an old cousin who lives in Dover. For once, I was happy to help with one of her requests!”
We laughed together. I was happy to be with my friend and his curious mind again. But I also wondered where Arsène Lupin was.
In the meantime, the two cups of hot cocoa were ready for us. I immediately noticed Sherlock’s ecstatic look, and he did not wait a second before diving his nose into the cup.
“It’s delicious,” I said, sipping the thick, dark-brown liquid.
“I don’t like the taste,” confessed Sherlock.
I looked at him in shock.
“I’m not interested in the smell. It’s the effect it has on my mind. Cocoa makes me more . . . vibrant! Ready, sparkly — do you understand?” he said.
“I think so . . . it’s like the effect that music has on me,” I answered.
I described the extraordinary experience I had the night before in detail to Sherlock. “I am not used to this type of emotion,” I said in the end. “Because you know . . . a good young lady must be continuously bored — even during war times!”
Sherlock nodded, then sighed. “Boredom is our biggest enemy. By the way . . . do you ever think about what happened this summer in Saint-Malo?”
“All the time, my friend. It was such an exciting adventure! I’ll never forget it.”
“I won’t forget those days either,” said Sherlock.
We spent some time recounting the details of all that had happened that summer in Saint-Malo . . .finding the dead body washed ashore on the beach, solving the mystery of the man’s murder, and discovering the identity of the Rooftop Thief.
“I wonder why those things cannot happen all the time!” Sherlock said.
I burst into a laugh. That was Sherlock Holmes at his best. “Mr. Holmes, you’re a monster,” I joked. “Crimes are like toys for you!”
My friend laughed and tried to defend himself, but our conversation was soon interrupted by a commotion coming from the street. We stopped speaking and looked out the window.
This is what I saw . . . or what I thought I saw. A young boy had stolen a woman’s wallet and ran away. Another boy, a little bit older, walked over to the woman and spoke to her, then followed the thief, yelling, “Not to worry, Madam! I’m gonna get him!”
I held onto Sherlock’s arm and said, “Let’s hope he can catch him!” But when I turned to look at my friend, I saw that he looked like he was about to play one of his favorite games.
“Follow me!” said Sherlock all of a sudden, pushing back his chair.
My friend went into the kitchen and grabbed a big knife. I wondered if he had gone crazy, but I followed him anyway. We went out the back door into a narrow alley. Sherlock started to run, like a tiger pursuing his prey, and I did the same.
He stopped suddenly by a brick staircase that led underground. “I’d let that wallet go if I were you!” Sherlock yelled, pulling the knife out of his pocket. The two boys lurked in the shadows. They were dividing the money! The older of the two tried to escape, but Sherlock pointed the knife at his chest.
“If you give me the wallet back with all its money and you don’t make another attempt to escape, I will let you go without calling the police,” Sherlock said.
The thieves exchanged a disappointed look and nodded. They put the money back inside the wallet and gave it to Sherlock, then disappeared down the alley. They looked back at us with pure hate.
Sherlock and I made our way back to Carnaby Street. The woman was surrounded by a crowd of curious people.
When Sherlock handed her wallet back to her, she looked surprised. “Thank you, my dear! God bless you!” she said, checking to make sure the wallet wasn’t missing any money.
“Hey! He’s not the boy who ran after the thief!” cried an Irish fishmonger. “What happened to that other guy?”
“He went to . . . fight other crimes! The boy has got such kind heart, you know?” Sherlock lied, and he found that funny.
And I was having fun with him. But then I spotted Mr. Nelson with a carriage. A clock on an old building confirmed that it was past noon, but I could not leave without first asking my friend for an explanation.
“How did you know that those two —”
“From their hats, Irene.”
“Hats?!”
“Of course. They wore identical ones. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It was more likely that it was because they had stolen the hats from some unlucky shop. An easy connection to make, don’t you think?”
I did not think so, but I didn’t have time to object. “I must go, Sherlock! Mr. Nelson’s waiting.”
“How long will you be in London?” he called.
“A week. I’m staying at the Claridge’s!”
“Then we’ll see each other again!”
I ran off, hoping it was the truth.