Chapter 4
GRACEFUL HANDWRITING
“Mr. Nelson?” I called, going back into the house. “Did someone arrive? Do we happen to have guests?”
It would not have been the first time that — shut up with my books and my thoughts — I was unaware someone had come, perhaps the village doctor or a colleague of Papa’s.
Mr. Nelson was supervising the cleaning of the sitting room. He replied without ceasing to give orders to the household staff in grand style, scarcely moving a white-gloved hand. “Guests, Miss Irene? None today. Why do you ask?”
I stopped in the middle of the carpet, which I sank into almost up to my ankles. “Have you seen a gardener, perhaps? Or the mailman? Someone passing along the river?”
“Has something happened I should know about?” Mr. Nelson asked.
“Yes, maybe …”
I hid the note in my hand so he could not see it.
“Should I suspect something, Miss Irene?” he said without looking at me. “Or perhaps prepare the guest room? For one person? Or maybe two?”
I laughed. Certainly my two distant friends hadn’t come this time.
“It’s not what you think!” I replied, seeking refuge in my room.
“It’s never what I think, Miss Irene,” I heard him respond from his command post.
* * *
It was obvious that Lupin and Holmes had nothing to do with the note. To me it seemed certain that it had been written by a woman. The writing on the envelope was in a bluish color, sketched with a slanted hand:
To be delivered to Miss Irene Adler.
Inside the envelope was an ivory-colored card with a brief message:
I beg you to come to the cathedral garden this afternoon at four o’clock. I would like to tell you about Mr. d’Aurevilly and your mother.
That was all. I read it a second time, wondering what Mr. d’Aurevilly could have to do with my mother. Then I went to check the time on the pendulum clock. It was less than a half hour before four, a sign that whoever had delivered the note had expected me to find it much earlier.
Had it already been under my swing that morning? I wondered.
If Sherlock had been with me, he would certainly have been able to give me an answer, possibly figuring it out from the dampness of the envelope and the card. But Sherlock was on the other side of the sea, and the clock showed that it was past 3:30, so I did not think about it for long. I decided to leave the house right away, careful to pass by my mother’s room to say goodbye first.
I found her standing, walking slowly from one side of her room to the other, as the doctor had recommended she do in order to regain the strength in her legs.
“I’m going to go for a walk into the village,” I told her.
“What a splendid idea!” she replied. “I can’t wait until I am able to go with you.”
I bit my tongue, hesitating in the doorway to her room. “Mama?”
She looked at me. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I responded, rejecting the idea of asking her if she personally knew Mr. d’Aurevilly.
Without another word, I headed for the park.
* * *
The Evreux Cathedral seemed to capture every ray of light. It was made of light gray marble. The brightness of the marble contrasted with the shadows from the arches, pointy spires, and tall bell tower. The cathedral was supported by bold buttresses that made it look more like a rocky mountaintop than a place of prayer, at least to my eyes. And the large rose window in the front looked like a big eye staring at me instead of the flower its builders probably intended.
The village was as sleepy as ever. The few passersby loafed at the intersection of the two main streets, acting as if they had nowhere to go.
It was not hard for me to find the garden specified in the note. It was a green space beside the cathedral, divided into sections by spoke-like paths and the gravestones of local people. I spotted a bench and sat down, looking around.
I saw a family of crows perched on the spires of the cathedral like sentinels, and I followed their flight. They glided across the grass and pecked at the gravestones. They seemed to display a wicked familiarity, as if they knew better about the past, present, and future events in Evreux than anyone else.
“Forgive me for having asked you to come here,” a woman’s voice interrupted my thoughts at that point. The voice was both soft and deep. “I am truly sorry, Miss Irene.”
I had been so focused on studying the crows that I had not realized a bejeweled woman had drawn near. She was a few steps away, staring at me.
I started with surprise. I stood up, embarrassed, but tried to act nonchalant. I could not figure out how that woman had been able to sneak into our garden all the way to my swing, leave the card for me, and then depart undisturbed.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s only a short distance,” I replied. “If anything, I found your method of communication … intriguing.”
“I know, I know. I can imagine it!” the woman said, sitting down next to me.
I could not see her eyes, which were hidden behind the veil of an elaborate little hat. I was amazed to note that her style of dressing, which would have been bizarre on any London street, seemed perfectly appropriate in an Evreux garden.
“May I at least ask who you are?” I began, but she was quicker than me.
“Poor little girl, poor treasure that you are … Your mother has told me so much about you!”
“My mother? You know her?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” the woman replied. “I have known your mother for many years. I knew she had a lovely daughter, honest and intelligent. But to see you now before me and discover you are just as she said … Ah, believe me, it is truly thrilling!”
She went to pat me, but I pulled back instinctively, almost without being aware of it.
“Please excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “but … you know I’m here because of a strange note.”
“Yes, exactly. And thank you for coming, despite the times we live in.”
“You mentioned my mother …”
The lady sighed, but she seemed to do so to buy time. It was strange — I felt no warmth from her, and yet it was as if there was something burning between us.
At that point, staring right at me, the lady pulled the veil away from her face. I studied her closely, but I did not recognize her. I had never seen her before.
“Your mother would probably kill me,” the woman continued, whispering, “if she only knew I had come to you and what I intended to do. But I have to do it. And you, miss, will certainly forgive me for this bizarre request.”
And then, in a faint voice, the lady with the pale eyes and broad, white forehead with a single wrinkle, begged me to return home to the d’Aurevilly house and retrieve an oilcloth envelope that was hidden behind a portrait in the library. She explained that the object had no monetary value, but that it was crucial it did not fall into the wrong hands. It would save Mr. d’Aurevilly, and as result, said the lady, my mother, too.
There seemed to be a number of holes in her story, not the least of which was her wanting to meet me, a young girl, in great secrecy, and promising a reward for delivering this precious envelope to her. But before I could even ask her a few of the questions that came to mind, her expression grew distressed, as if something worrisome had just occurred to her.
The woman stammered a couple of words quickly. “I — I’m sorry, but I must go,” she said. “I beg you to believe me. That item is of utmost importance to me … Meet me tomorrow at this same place and same time. Farewell!”
Confused, I found myself staring at that strange person as she rushed away toward the cathedral. Just then, I noticed that a carriage had appeared over where the main street crossed the bridge and was lost in the countryside.
“Wait!” I cried, but it was too late. The woman pulled open the small side door of the cathedral and went in.
I ran after her. In the meantime, the carriage that had arrived from the countryside turned down one of the village lanes.
As soon as I flung the door open, I was hit with the organ’s thundering chords. A dull, funereal song rose from the depths of the church. I staggered in the incense-rich air and leaned against a column. It was warm inside, and a service was taking place. The notes of the organ dissolved in the air, accompanying the choir, which was singing in Latin.
I felt short of breath. I searched in vain for the woman with the hat and veil among the faithful sitting in the pews. Thinking I heard the sound of her heels echoing along one of the naves, I anxiously followed it and found myself under the light of the rose window, completely paralyzed.
“What is this, here?” I whispered.
I went back out to the park and somehow forced myself to pass the time until mass was over.
When the main door opened, I stayed to watch all the faithful leaving for their homes. The sun began to sink behind my back, lengthening my shadow like a sad scarecrow.
I waited until no one else came out, but the woman with the blue handwriting did not leave the church. I had guessed she would.
What I could not have guessed would happen on a day like that was hearing the voice of my friend Arsène Lupin, instead. “Excuse me, miss, could you tell me where the Adlers live?” he asked me.
“ARSÈNE!” I shouted, overwhelmed with surprise and joy.
“I’m honored that you know me, miss,” Lupin said, taking off his hat like the most seasoned of theatrical folk. “But I was asking you about the Adlers. They’re quite reserved. You may have met a tall, dark-skinned butler and an adorable young girl with red hair …”
“A sea of freckles,” I think he also said, but I cannot be sure, because I suddenly found myself in his arms. I held him tightly, and he hugged me back. His skin was hot and smelled of sweat under his coarse shirt and waistcoat.
He kissed my hair and held my face between his hands, moving far enough away to look me directly in the eyes.
I could not believe it.
“How did you get here?” I asked him. As I asked him that, I wondered if Mr. Nelson had seen him this afternoon and if perhaps the note and the lady were nothing more than one of my friend Lupin’s jokes. But there was enough time to look back at him and see that his gaze was somehow lost and desperate.
“I pedaled on my new boneshaker,” he said, presenting me with one of his irresistible smiles.
I did not understand my feelings.
Even today, from the distance of so many years and after the thousands of adventures and encounters I have had, I cannot keep myself from hesitating as I write that yes, that day, in front of the Evreux Cathedral, with the blood-red sun shining between the hills and the river, it was I who kissed Arsène Lupin.
Perhaps my father was right. Perhaps I really did need a tutor. But like so many other things that should have happened, by then it was already too late.