Sussex Downs, April 12th, 1926

My dearest Watson,

I was deeply amused by your last letter. Do you imagine for a moment that I do not know to what you refer? I beg you clarify your inquiries in the future so that I may answer them directly and apprise you of the full story. I know you have expressed the desire to publish certain accounts posthumously, I leave the inclusion of these recollections to your discretion.

I will admit it was wise of you to wait until our twilight years to broach the subject. My pride has never fully recovered, though time has softened the blow. I see it now as an ultimately necessary humiliation, for one can be blinkered and fettered by pride. I suppose I must thank my malfeasant schoolmistress for that hard-learned lesson.

You would be surprised to know that during the latter years of my practice, I had word from her, not too long after the death of her second husband. She herself shuffled off the mortal coil just last year, and to my surprise, I find myself feeling a distinct sense of loss, just as I did when Moriarty disappeared from the field. For all the ills she visited upon me, I will always feel a certain perverse affection for the woman. I am not normally given to nostalgia, Watson, but it has occurred to me that the lady merits a more candid epitaph, which I feel compelled to provide.

That is not to say she had a particular hold over me. I have never allowed myself to be compromised by the fairer sex, and she was no exception. The pain she caused me would have been the same if I had overestimated the character of any person whose nobility and virtue I had previously held in high esteem.

But I digress. It is evident to me that you wish to know all that occurred between the woman and myself. I had best begin with when I left you so rudely after the performance at the Albert Hall.

My curiosity aroused, I followed her down to the omnibus. She boarded the lower level, and I ascended to the roof, the ideal vantage point for observing those entering and exiting. We jogged along for a half an hour towards Regent's Park. She disembarked at the southern entrance and made her way into the park. I quickly paid my fare and scrambled down just in time to see the pale figure slip into the trees and out of sight.

It was too dark to go by footprints, but my hearing is keen. I could discern the rustle of skirts, and plunged into the foliage after her. You know I am no mean tracker, Watson, but she somehow managed to elude me. The park was busy with late night traffic, and there were a number of cabs lined up along the Outer Circle. By the light of their lamps, I was able to see the faint indentations in the grass as they led off into the road. I had a clear view of the field, but the shape had disappeared. I made a cursory check of the cabs and found no sign of her.

Dejected and wondering what I had gained by my pursuit, I decided to give up the cause and make the short walk back to Baker Street. When I arrived, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for me. It was obvious she had been roused from bed, for she was in her dressing gown.

"There is a young gentleman in your rooms. I told him you weren't here, but he insisted that it was urgent and that he would wait."

I told Mrs. Hudson I would not need anything else and bid her goodnight.

I ascended to my rooms and found my guest standing by the window, peering down into the street. The figure was silhouetted against the lamplight, a bowler hat pulled low to obscure the face, but I could see the slight stature, the delicate hands folded at the back.

"Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" I asked, pulling my coat off and tossing it on the sofa. My guest turned around, and lifted the hat. There stood the woman herself, dressed in a smart gray towncoat, her hair neatly pinned. The smile on her lips was satisfied, and her eyes sparkled with mirth.

"It is true, we have never been properly introduced," she said, offering one of those spare, slender hands. "Irene Norton, lately Adler."

Of course it was she. I felt a stab of annoyance. It was the second time she had employed such a trick against me. More fool me for being so easily deceived. But then, Irene Norton was far more skillful than I ever gave her credit for while she was alive.

I reached across and accepted the proffered hand. Her grip was cool and unexpectedly firm, her expression relaxed. I motioned her to a chair, noting that the excellently tailored suit had the effect of giving her a boyish grace. The taffeta dress must have been sacrificed in Regent's Park, and the hat purchased from a cabbie. As for the jacket, it might be difficult, but not impossible to conceal. A few elastics sewn inside the train had probably have done the trick.

"Tell me, is it your usual practice to wear men's clothing under your skirts?" I asked, my consternation slowly turning to amusement.

"Shocking, Mr. Holmes," she said with mock reproach. "Asking a woman what she wears under her skirts."

"I hardly think you are in any position to admonish me for flouting convention, Mrs. Norton. It isn't often a woman parts with such an expensive frock, especially for a gentleman's gaiters."

She laughed throatily. "I think it is fair to say we are both rather unorthodox in our ways. To answer your question, it is a technique I employ when I wish to travel unhindered through the world. A female alone after dark is subject to a great many inconveniences, not least the danger of being followed by predators."

"I do apologize if I frightened you," I said. "It was not my intention."

"Your intention was to discover if I was up to any mischief," she said frankly. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

I waved a dismissive hand. She offered me the cigarette case, and I accepted one of the thin black stags. She struck a match, lit my cigarette and then her own. She leaned back, and inhaled deeply. A plume of thick Turkish smoke curled from her lips, and she regarded me impassively.

"Mr. Holmes, my visit to London is purely social in nature. My intention is to call on old friends, and I would much prefer to do that unmolested."

"Madam," said I, flicking ash into the fire, "it is my business to know what goes on in this city, to the extent that it is possible. Your past conduct has not been admirable."

"Oh, indeed," she said icily, rising from her chair. "This from the man who aided my enemy in chasing me from the home I loved."

I remained in my seat, cool as you like, and gave her my most beatific smile. "Are you certain you did not come seeking vengeance?"

"It would serve you right if I had," she said, playfully stabbing her cigarette at me. There was a subtle animation to her movements that fascinated me. Not constricted by female accouterments, the deliberation of her gestures were agile and pronounced, with the most subtle hint of threat.

A lesser soul might be intimidated by her attitude, but I felt a wave of derision rise within me.

"So you came here merely to upbraid me for my insolence?" I asked coldly. "Madam, you may have bested me once, but I must caution you against attempting it a second time."

She became quite still, and fixed me with a penetrating stare. Then she took a deep breath and resumed her seat, but her cheeks were still flushed.

"While I do believe you would benefit from a lesson in humility, that was not my entire purpose."

"Pray tell, Mrs. Norton."

She looked at me intently. "Mr. Holmes, I think it is not beyond us to be civil. Perhaps even friends, given time."

My hackles were immediately raised. "I do not seek the friendship of the fairer sex as a rule. It always complicates matters, and I find the experiment invariably ends in disappointment. Then there is the inescapable fact that I simply do not trust you."

"Friendly adversaries, then."

"That is fair enough. You are a worthy opponent...for a woman."

"How generous of you," she said archly, tossing the rest of her cigarette into the grate.

I rose. "Mrs. Norton, I am very sorry to cut short this little visit, but I must say I have other business to attend to. I regret I must bid you good night."

She rose, and turned to go, but hesitated at the door. She reached into her jacket, drew out a card and laid it on the sideboard with a faint snap. "Good night, Mr. Holmes."

I said nothing, but waved a hand towards the door. She inclined her head, and disappeared down the stairs.

Mrs. Norton certainly left me wondering, Watson. Her outrageous behaviour was clear evidence that despite her declaration to the contrary, her maneuver was not intended merely to prick my vanity. I was filled with suspicion, nay, certainty that she had come to Baker Street with a deeper purpose.

Had you asked me last year whether I would see Irene Norton, née Adler again, I would have answered with a resounding negative. I could not predict that we might cross paths again. To my cost, Watson, I underestimated her. I have taken the view Moriarty was my deadliest enemy of my career, but it is just possible that if Mrs. Norton had ever wished my destruction, she might have superseded him.

I must continue this narrative at another time. I am long overdue at the hives, and I have much work to do before the summer harvest. Please, Watson, give me news of yourself and look for my next letter.

Yours, as ever,

Sherlock Holmes