The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes
April 11 (continued)
The traffic was slow going through Westminster, so I made a quick phone call. Normally I'd text, but this required clear acknowledgment of my request. I dialed up Molly Hooper.
"Hi," she chirped.
I forced down a feeling of nausea. "Hello, Molly. I need a favour."
"Okay," she said in that kicked-puppy-I'll-do-anything voice. "What do you need?"
"I need you to gather up all of the glass from the back seat of the car."
"I can do that."
"And reassemble it."
"Oh," she breathed in surprise.
"Text me when you're done."
I hung up. My taxi had made it up to the front of the queue and in no time, we pulled up at the Kensington address I had specified. I tipped the cabbie, got out, and surveyed my destination. It was clearly a nice place, one of many terraced Victorians. It even had a fenced in front garden, with a row of newly blooming crocuses that was bordered by river stones.
There was no space for a car in the back. Clearly a public transit commuter. Checking through the post slot, I could see envelopes and a magazine on the floor. Post not yet retrieved, so nobody home. I made my way over to the garden, and examined the river stones. One of them was a slightly unnatural pink. I picked it up and flipped it over. There was a little sliding panel, and underneath that, a key hidden in the slot. I set the stone back in place, and then made my way up the steps and let myself into the house.
Just as I was picking up the mail, the security system beeped an alarm. I glanced at the number panel set into the wall, which was counting down from thirty. Without thinking, I jumped over the divan and went to the basement door. I took the steps in two bounds and looked around for a fuse box. There was one set above the washer and dryer. I pulled it open and hit the main breaker. The beeping stopped. I ducked under the stairs and pulled out my flashlight, shining it on a cadre of wires that ran along the insulation. The security system, I knew, was an upgrade, and recently installed. The backup power would be coming on any minute. I examined the wires, and found a bundle that was zip-tied, and was relatively free of dust.
Using my multi-tool, I snipped the wires in half, then went over to flip on the breaker. The house was quiet. I went back upstairs into the sitting room, and had my first good look at the Adler residence.
It was sunny and spacious, with black damask furniture and a black lacquered coffee table. A Japanese screen stood in one corner, complimenting the white-on-grey damask patterned wall. There were also several vases with bouquets of red roses dotting the room. Fresh roses, a dozen in each vase. Above hung a black wrought-iron chandelier. The overall effect was stark, but really quite tasteful. But then, Irene Adler was nothing if not a woman of taste.
I made my way into the kitchen and dug through her liquor cabinet until I came to a half-full bottle of Glenfiddich scotch. I loaded a glass with ice from the stainless steel refrigerator's automatic dispenser, and filled it with scotch. Thus fortified, I continued my tour up the stairs into her bedroom. The spread was basic, but comfortable. Thick white curtains, a bed done up in black, with white sheets. Solid mahogany bedposts, on one of which there hung a white satin negligee.
I went in to her closet, which was converted from the next bedroom. It ended in a vanity with an large mirror. Inside were rows and rows of outfits, all of them carefully pressed. I did notice, however, that there were a pair of sweats and an oversized NYU tee-shirt piled in the vanity's chair. The negligee was clearly not her regular sleeping apparel. She wore it for someone specific. The colleague from the hearing, no doubt.
The drawer in the vanity was locked, but probably wasn't a strong lock. I set down my glass and slid the file into the keyhole, and twisted until I heard something click. I pulled out the drawer. The first thing to catch my attention was the silver plated British Bulldog revolver. Cute. Beneath that was a file folder that simply read: LWT-CB. I pulled it out and flipped it open. It was the Last Will and Testament of Caleb Marcel, Entrusted to His Barrister Irene Adler.
Most of the money went to Caleb's next of kin, with various cuts delegated out to extended family. But there was one little caveat. Six percent of Caleb's holdings had been left to Irene. I did a quick calculation in my head. Caleb's had been worth at least fifteen million sterling. Irene would get £90,000, a not inconsiderable sum. She was, however, quite wealthy herself, and in light of that, 90,000 quid was too paltry a sum to kill for, especially in light of the fact that Caleb generated more capital alive than dead. Irene had mined his family for three years, it was unlikely she'd slaughter such a profitable cash cow.
There was an indigo silk handkerchief that had been stuffed into the back corner of the drawer, wrapped around something. A velvet box. I pried it open. There, nestled inside, was a set of diamond stud earrings, five carats at least. Irene would never wear something that large and ostentatious, but the fact that she had kept them was suggestive. The blond associate had not given her these. Too flamboyant by half.
I looked at the handkerchief. It was of very expensive manufacture, probably imported from India, given the quality of the dye. I lifted it to my nose, and detected a trace of cologne. Clive Christian No. 1, at £550 a bottle. I turned it over and saw in the corner, stitched in silver, a character in Arabic script. I was not as proficient in the language as I'd like, but I knew enough to know that the character translated to the letters CB.
I leaned back in the chair, and absorbed this information. I dismissed the idea that the earrings had been merely a gift of gratitude. Caleb Marcel and Irene Adler, lovers? Clearly I had overestimated her good taste. But this was Irene; she must have an ulterior motive. What better way to cement the alliance? It was a perverse stroke of genius, the ultimate manipulation. It certainly proved one thing: she was far, far more involved with the Syndicate than she had ever let on. Not only that, she was duplicitous to the extreme. She'd even had another lover on the side. Strictly business, or was there something genuine? The word "genuine" was hardly in her repertoire.
I considered the myriad of roses downstairs, all of them fresh, a dozen in every vase. I pocketed the handkerchief and the pistol, picked up my scotch, then went out into the bedroom to examine the negligee. Fine silk, but not as fine as the handkerchief. There was also a faint whiff of cologne, but far less. Ralph Lauren, far more conservative than Caleb's chosen scent. Less nauseating, as well. The pillow cases were the same, but with the added hint of rosewater-scented conditioner. The blond lawyer must have spent the night, and she hadn't washed the sheets yet. Interesting.
I went down the stairs and back into the kitchen. I bent down and pulled open the doors to the cupboard underneath the sink. There was a rubbish can, stainless steel like the icebox. I took it out and lifted the lid. At the bottom, a bit of gold tissue paper and cellophane. I lifted it out, and looked for the card. It read:
"To my darling. Love, Geoff."
Gag. I shoved the wrapping back into the can, and put it back under the sink, nudging the door shut with my foot. I sauntered back into the sitting room, and retrieved the mail I'd pilfered. I sank back into the armchair near the window, and filed through the letters, most of them bills, one of them a magazine for Barney's New York. One letter caught my eye. The return post address was a Children's Preston Memorial Fund, Suite 1507 at the View Tower, City of London. I slit it open, and tapped out a single sheet of paper, which read thus:
"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Board,
"As a reminder, our annual meeting is approaching. Please take some time to outline any concerns you may have, as well as organizing any pledges you have received.
The Preston Fund is stronger than ever, but given the nature of charitable work, every leap we make will benefit our cause. Thousands of underprivileged and impoverished children depend on our organization, and every year that number grows. We must be equally diligent by continuing to support the Preston Fund.
"Please join us next week, so that you can contribute to the improvement of the Fund, and discuss any changes you would like to see made within the administration.
"Yours,
Preston Fund Director
-"
Beneath this was an incomprehensible scrawl of a signature. Even I couldn't discern it. Possibly intentional. I memorized the address, then slid it the paper back into the envelope. I checked my phone for the time. I had perhaps a half an hour to wait. I set the pistol down on the coffee table nearby, and took a good slug of the Glenfiddich.
Quite a few surprises had cropped up in my investigation. The idea that Irene contributed to a charity was throwing me a little. I did entertain the notion that it might be a matter of appearance. I filed it in the back of my mind for later, and nursed my scotch.
In no time at all, I heard the key turn in the lock, the tumblers falling into place. Irene nudged the door open with one hip, her arms filled with a paper grocery bag and a leather case. She kicked off her black trainers, which clashed with her cream-coloured two piece suit. I noticed a pair of cream-coloured pumps sitting at the top of the paper bag. She walked right past me and padded into the kitchen, dumping the groceries and the case on the counter.
She noticed the scotch I'd left out. For a moment, she frowned, then shrugged. She added some ice cubes to a glass and poured herself a few inches. She took a long sip, then rolled her head back, her neck vertebrae making a popping sound. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she walked back into the sitting room. Her view of me was blocked by her hand. I couldn't have that.
"Hello, Irene," I said.
The glass of scotch shattered on the hardwood floor. She stared at me, stunned. Her mouth opened, wordless, and it took her a moment to find her voice. "You...what are you- ?"
I grinned.
She looked at the glass of liquor I had just polished off. "My scotch."
"Let's begin sentence with another word..."
Her eyes flickered down to the coffee table. "My gun."
"Excellent," I said, taking the pistol and minutely adjusting its position, making sure it was pointed directly at her.
"You broke into my house."
"Technically, I let myself in," I said, tossing the key down next to the gun. "After you change the locks, you might want to find a less predictable place to hide that."
Her shock was melting away, and she was quivering with rage. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I stretched out my arms. "You should probably pour yourself another drink."
"To hell with another drink!"
"Then have a seat." I indicated the sofa opposite.
She sneered, her fists balled up at her sides. "Screw you."
I picked up the Bulldog and cocked the hammer, aiming it between her eyes. "Don't be tedious. Sit down."
She eyed the gun, and slowly took a seat at the edge of the sofa. She gripped it, her manicured fingernails digging into the upholstery.
"What do you want?" she said in staccato voice, her body rigid.
"Oh, relax," I said. "I'm only going to shoot you if you do something stupid, which is highly unlikely."
She did not relax. I shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"Stop fucking around with me."
"You're right, I'm being unfair. I'm not here to kill you. I'm not petty enough to steal from you, though I hope you'll forgive me for appropriating your scotch. I just want information."
She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of information?"
I considered. "Let's start with the basics. Excepting the night before last, how long have you been sleeping with Caleb Marcel?"
She fell back into the couch, and her body went from stiff to limp. "How did you know that?"
I pulled the handkerchief out of my pocket. "Clumsy, especially for you. Also, my pocket reeks of cologne. I'm sending you my dry cleaning bill."
She took a deep breath. "A year."
"What was the appeal, Irene? I mean, Caleb Marcel? Could you have chosen anyone more crass?"
"It was just good business, at first. There's a club where I used to sing. I sang a lot in college. I'd already agreed to take him on, and he started coming to see me sing. He said he loved my voice."
"The same voice that defended him in court," I said, shaking my head. "Have you considered the possibility that he was controlling you as much as you were controlling him? If you'd ever betrayed him, he could drop the dime on you at any time."
"No," she insisted. "His family would have abandoned him. They're very close knit, the Marcels. He'd just shoot me. You know how trigger-happy he is. Was."
I nodded. "Did you break it off?"
"Yes. Two days before he was murdered."
"Why?"
"I was sick of it. He was...he wanted a mistress, a gutter-queen. He wanted me on his arm for all of his drug deals, and he was a junkie himself. As time went on, the more his mind disintegrated from the drugs, he would lose it, tell me he hated me, that I thought I was better than him, that he'd put me in my place. He'd always give me gifts afterwards, try to buy me off with hideously expensive things. Like you said. Crass."
"Like the diamond studs in your vanity."
"You went through my vanity?" she snapped.
"Obviously," I indicated the pistol. "That was the last straw, wasn't it? Those are valued at 10,000 quid. Insulting to someone who came up from the bottom, surviving on scholarships from prestigious schools. You might spend a £5,000 on a pair of earrings, but never £10,000. You're very practical about luxury, Irene."
She sighed in lieu of telling me to sod off. "Why do you know so many things you have no business knowing?"
"You're unrelenting, tenacious. You offer no quarter. You strive for perfection. You don't take no for an answer, and you don't take time off. You don't aspire to contentment." I paused, steepled my fingers and watched her over my fingertips. "A life of privilege doesn't lend itself to the kind of rage that drives you, Irene."
I could tell I'd struck a chord. Angry tears welled up in her eyes, but she took a deep breath, and used the her thumb to wipe them away. There was something irresistibly decadent about her vulnerability. I felt a deep and sudden urge to take advantage of it, to exploit it. To make those tears fall. But that would be unwise. I spared her.
"Some of these roses are wilted," I said quietly. "Tell me about the man who gave them to you. Geoff."
She did not gasp, but stared at me. "Have you been stalking me?"
I grinned. "A little. I went to see you at the Old Bailey. You don't whisper into a colleague's ear like that unless there's some kind of intimate attachment."
"Okay, fine." She smoothed her skirt. "Why did you say that about the roses?"
"Going by the rate of decay, the ones in the vase on the mantelpiece were given to you at least a week ago. Not to mention the note I dug out of your rubbish bin."
She wrinkled her nose. "That is disgusting."
"I've done worse. I could tell you stories."
She held up a hand. "Please don't."
"Okay. Tell me about Geoff. You were involved with him before you ended your affair with Caleb. How far back?"
"A month and a half. It started when I brought him on to help with the workload. Defending the Marcel family is, well..."
"Complex," I supplied.
"We'd work late, order Chinese, and outline strategies. After awhile, he asked me out. He's very charming, Geoffrey.. He has manners, and a sense of propriety. It's refreshing, after Caleb. All that drama."
"It sounds spectacularly boring," I remarked.
"Like you'd know," she shot back.
"Granted. I have no interest in dull, ordinary affairs."
"I thought that was the job description," she said with a smirk. "Peeking through windows, taking pictures of cheating girlfriends."
I arched a brow. "My job description is completely unique. I'm not some kind of flatfoot detective in a Sam Spade novel. I'm a consulting detective."
She grinned. "Sounds like a flatfoot to me."
"And that is why you will always resent me," I said. "Because you'll never understand why I do what I do."
"You do it because you're a freak. You've always been a freak, but now you get to use it to show that you're smarter than anyone." She sat back and brushed her hair away from her face. "But you're not smarter than a bullet, Sherlock Holmes, and sooner or later one is going to catch up with you."
"Yes, and you're at the mercy of any freaky thing I might do to you." I casually reached down and picked up the revolver. Irene shot out of her seat and made as if to run. I stepped in to her and she took a step back. I backed her all the way to the wall. She she glared up at me, and actually pouted. "You said you weren't..."
I grinned, and jerked the trigger back. It clicked. She flinched, anticipating death, and when she realized it wasn't going to come, she turned on me, murderous. Catching me completely by surprise, she landed a hard punch to my solar plexus. Pain shot through me and my spine bent forward a little. Despite the pain, I still had the presence of mind to body-check her, seize her by the wrists and slam her back against the wall before she could hit me again. The gun fell to the floor between us with a clatter.
"Now, that was just rude," I panted, a little winded.
"Let me go," she demanded, struggling against me.
"If you try that again I'll put you in a sleeper hold and lock you in the basement. I don't make idle threats."
She bit her lip, smoldering mad. "I could call the police and report this."
"Weak threat. I'll declare to all and sundry that you were having an affair with Caleb. You'll be as good as dead the moment you set foot out your door. Lestrade doesn't like you very much, Irene. The most protection he'll offer you is arrest on suspicion of complicity, and the holding cell in Scotland Yard. And while I'm confident you will have a sobering effect on the disenfranchised, the entire Marcel family will have a score to settle with you. It would be very easy to get to you."
She scoffed. "I've had a backup plan for years."
"Believe me, they have too. They're crude, but not stupid enough to overlook the threat you could pose. Your life won't be worth the paper the contract put on you is printed on." I pulled away, releasing her hands."Count on it."
She rubbed her wrists, and gave me a resentful look. "What do you want from me?"
"Cooperation. I want to know whatever you know. But I have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment." I put my toe under the Bulldog and flipped it up into my hand. I moved forward, and she automatically took a step back right into the wall.
I smiled and shook my head, then stepped forward and pressed the gun into her hand. "Keep this loaded, and close by. Much worse than me could come through that door."
She waited until I was at the door before calling to me, "Sherlock."
I whirled around, and fixed her with a stare. "What?"
Her eyes were a little wide. "I...never mind."
"Take care of yourself, Irene." I turned and walked out the door, stuffing the letter from the Preston Fund into my pocket.
