A Statement of Intent

“I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the Downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.”

—Sherlock Holmes, “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane”

May First Revels took place under grey skies this year; rain threatened all day, the heavens windy, dark and damp. A day with new meaning for us as the Haymarket Affair was also commemorated.

Now the clouds that had skittered in the gusts broke, the driving downpour rattled and splashed our windows. Mrs. Hudson brought a warming dinner up to our table. Miss Rachel back from her school day entered and caught me in a hug which became more of a dance as I lost my balance over her exuberance and we laughed together at the surprise. “Miss Rachel, you are our very own Queen of the May,” I said.

She hung her cap and tweed jacket on her father’s bedroom coatrack and helped Mrs. Hudson at the table.

“Mr. Holmes hasn’t returned, but that shouldn’t stop us, help yourselves, Doctor, Miss Rachel.” She joined us.

As a delightful dinner progressed, presently, we heard the door open and slam against the storm, footsteps running two at a time up the stairs, and a drenched Sherlock Holmes in the hall. Mrs. Hudson bustled about him, “Oh, sir!”

“Mrs. Hudson, it is simply water!” He shook it off his hat and hung it up. “I left my coat dripping down in the entranceway.” He went into his room from the hall door, changed, stepped out of his boots, and robed in his dressing gown and slippers.

“Mr. Holmes, must you wear such disreputable clothes?” She took his wet things down to hang with his coat at the hearth.

Finding Miss Rachel’s jacket caused him to call out, “Rachel!” He joined us, still towelling his hair, dropped the towel on the settee and put his arms around her, she hugged him. “It’s a wonderful night, don’t you think?”

“Papa?”

He looked at me. “I’m famished. Have you eaten?” The two women re-joined the table, the gentleman after.

“Holmes, are you on a case? Please include me if you are.” I said, “I am at your disposal.”

“Not a case, Watson.” He briefly touched his finger to his lips. “Or it was a case once and you helped me out splendidly then.”

“Papa, you’re talking in riddles.”

“Am I?” He smiled briefly and filled his plate.

At the bell, Rachel ran down and Wiggins came up our stairs, touched his cap to us. “Mr. Holmes, the yachtsman is still docked at Cadogan Pier.”

“Wiggins sit down and join us for dinner.”

“When he’s not on his boat, he spends ‘is time at Swan Inn Chelsea, near Albert Bridge.”

“Keep him in sight; he is a suspect in this case.”

When our meal came to an end and the table was cleared, Holmes said, “I’d like you to expand your clandestine investigation. Go inside the pub when he is there and have a meal, take your time. Remember everything you witness. Continue to keep abreast of where he docks his yacht and report back to me tomorrow.”

Holmes paid him plus enough to purchase a fine lunch at the Swan Inn. The boy fairly skipped down to the door.

“Watson, this inn may be his base of operations or just his favourite pub. The answer to whether a visit is necessary hinges upon Wiggins’ next report.”

He stood up as Miss Rachel re-entered and put out his cigarette. It was her bedtime and I could see he had something he couldn’t wait to share with her. I lit my pipe and opened The Evening Standard. Holmes tuned his violin and knocked on Miss Rachel’s door.

He moved her desk chair over to the bed.

“Papa, there’s something about you that’s different.”

“Rachel, I wanted to talk with you first before anyone else. You do know I am always your father and will be by your side. Nothing will change that. I may do more traveling, Paris, Rome. But you may always reach me wherever I am, thanks to Mr. Bell’s invention or Mr. Morse’s. And my business is here in London, so I will not be away for long.”

“Thank you, I know what a dedicated father you are, Papa.”

He took her hands in his. “How would you feel about my marrying?”

“Papa, I would be ecstatically happy for you!”

“Thank you that is what I’d hoped you’d say.”

A rather more spirited lullaby was heard throughout the house that night. Holmes came down and tucked away his Stradivarius. Unlocked his desk drawer and removed a cabinet photograph. This he opened and stood on his bedside table. “Watson, Mrs. Stanton was kind enough to inform me she thought I was on the wrong side in the Bohemia case. You also had some misgivings at the time, did you not?” He gathered up all the ghastly portraits on his walls, and dumped them on his file cabinets. “These have outlived their usefulness and can now be filed appropriately, possibly as part of Rachel’s summer studies.”

He sat cross-legged in his chair next to mine, lit his pipe and the smoke curled above his head.

“Holmes, I felt we were conspiring with a powerful king against a gentlewoman who was being unfairly treated by him. Yet I didn’t realize this until it was too late, when I witnessed with what tenderness she cared-for you. I chose to support our plan as it would have failed if I walked away.”

He was smiling at me. “My faithful Watson, it wasn’t until her letter that I was compelled to see it. The scent of the hunt was stronger than the scent of her perfume.”

Our discussion was interrupted by Peterson, the commissionaire; who delivered a letter from Irene Adler. Holmes scrutinized it for a second, then opened it, grabbed his jacket and hat, and ran down to catch Peterson. He questioned him in the street and took the next passing cab.

He later shared with me that his haste derived from the note’s demand for an Independent Irish Republic! Alighting at the Royal Opera House, he arrived backstage to find Irene dismayed at the turn her concert had taken. There was an opened half bottle of claret and empty stemware on her makeup table. When Holmes appeared at her dressing room door, she burst out laughing.

He smiled. “I am glad to bring humour to your evening, Madam Adler. Do you know the sender of this letter?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Forgive me I was surprised to see you out of costume.” She laughed. “And please call me Irene. We are old acquaintances after all. And I have returned to my stage name.”

“Is there any reason why this message should implicate you?”

“A fan?”

“Irene, I have been tracking the movements of a murderer who has killed two young women, one a suffragist, and left them hanging in a crypt beneath St. Bart’s the Greater Lady Chapel. The hand that wrote this note was a man’s. If it were in a women’s hand I’d ask for a sample.”

“You think me capable of that?”

“Madam, I follow where the clues lead.”

She poured out two glasses, “Join me in a May Day toast?” She offered one to Holmes and raised hers, “The return of Sherlock Holmes!”

He lightly touched his glass to hers and said, “The return of Irene Adler!”

She drank her glass and refilled it. “Why did you not steal the photograph when you had the chance? Taking a page from the anarchists, Mr. Holmes, you and your friend created the perfect means for eliciting its whereabouts. Yet you walked away emptyhanded into the night. Did you change your mind? Maybe you realized that you had already achieved your goal? Did you lose your nerve?”

“Irene, we can joust some other time.”

“Yes, of course. Over the past six years, I have anticipated this moment many times and you must admit it is delicious.”

Holmes took her hand and looking into her eyes said, “The fact that this note was found here signifies your very life may be at stake, Irene.” He let go her hand, resumed his mask. “Is there anyone working at the theatre who may have done this?”

“I believe that is a question for the manager. I’m only here for two weeks of performances. But all I’ve met are dyed-in-the-wool theatre people who would give you the shirt off their backs, lovely people.”

“Irene, has anything unusual happened before or after your receipt of this letter?”

“One of my costumes disappeared right after I brought my wardrobe in for rehearsal.”

“Please describe it to me.”

“It was from Penzance, a red jacket with military trim in gold and blue, tricorner hat with white feathers.”

“Thank you, one last question. Who are the Fenians?”

She laughed again. “Mr. Holmes, I’ve heard the name, of course, but know nothing of your underworld. I am an artist, a peaceful musician. I do side with the suffragists—the peaceful ones. And I will never again give up my art for any reason. I use my voice to remind the world that beauty exists even in troubled times.”

“I recommend you go to a hotel for the rest of this engagement. A comfortable room with a guard from Scotland Yard will keep you safe. I have made the arrangements. Please ready yourself, we must leave.”

“Oh, I was hoping you would be available.”

“Madam?”

She laughed. “Now you sound like the kindly old parson you once played for me.”

He shook his head and left to hail the third cab.

She met him at the stage door and joined the constables waiting inside the four-wheeler. Holmes sat above with the cabby and led them surreptitiously to St. Pancras. He directed through alleyways, mews, back streets, and finally inside the enormous hotel. She was happily surprised when she found she would be living in Queen Victoria’s suite on the second floor. The constables dressed like royal guards and took their positions.

“Sherlock, this is wonderful, thank you. Please come in.”

“It is the safest and best guarded apartment outside of the palace. Irene, it has been a pleasure to see you again, but I have work to do. Goodnight.” He bowed to her.

“Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”