Author's notes:
- the line Contre nous de la tyrannie l'étendard sanglant est levé is a quote from the French national anthem and means "the tyranny's bloody standard is raised against us"
- "A Scandal in Bohemia" was actually published with the title "The King's Sweetheart" on some American magazines
- The title "there is a house in New Orleans" comes from the song "The house of the rising sun" by the Animals
Gwenn's POV
Eastbourne, July 14, 1943
Another wartime Bastille Day.
My thoughts go to my family in Paris. Are they alive and well? Will I ever hear from them again?
We seem to make progress. Our forces started invading Southern Italy some days ago, the Nazis are not advancing anymore. But I am afraid that the sufferings of so many people are not over yet.
Today I went to the movies and watched Mr. Curtiz' Casablanca. That scene with the people singing La Marseillaise on this very day broke my heart. But I found it comforting in the end.
Contre nous de la tyrannie l'étendard sanglant est levé...
OOO
While the train ran away from Pittsburgh, I noticed that I was travelling alone for the first time in months.
Sherlock and I had been married for just a few months but I was already so used to his presence that it seemed unreal to be alone. I found myself worrying for him more than I had done in our small flat in Pittsburgh.
Had he arrived in New Orleans? Was he safe? What if he didn't show up at the hotel? Was I really going to Baton Rouge without looking for him?
I kept telling myself that these rhetorical questions didn't make any sense, that I would find an answer upon my arrival... but my head was not able to convince my heart.
Because of the luggage, I could not travel as quickly as I wanted to. I spent the first night in Cincinnati. On my arrival I was so tired that I went straight to my hotel without even taking a look at the city. On Wednesday, in the afternoon, I arrived in Nashville. There was a train to Jackson but since I would arrive there late in the evening I decided to stay for the night. At first I wanted to keep to my hotel but after an hour of pacing and worrying about Sherlock I decided that I had to do something. I went for a walk in the city center.
Nashville was a beautiful city with elegant, classical-style buildings and well-tended parks. The weather was pleasantly warm and I walked through the grounds next to the State Capitol enjoying the sun. The view from one of the bridges on the Cumberland river was mesmerizing. There was a unique mixture of new buildings, older ones and even small lawns and gardens.
But signs of poverty, crumpled buildings and streets, were noticeable. I knew that the city had suffered several cholera epidemics, the last one less than twenty years before. The signs of segregation were everywhere and I had the distinct feeling that I was in another country, very different from the northern part of the States.
On the way back to my hotel I spotted several bookstores. Nashville was beginning to gain a reputation for its schools and I noticed several young boys and girls examining the shops' windows. Eventually I decided that a book or a magazine was exactly what I needed to occupy myself and walked into a small bookstore.
While I looked around, my eyes fell on the sentence "The newest Sherlock Holmes' adventure by Arthur Conan Doyle". It was written on the magazine Inquirer's cover.
I instantly forgot that I had wanted to buy a book in order not to think about Sherlock for a while. I picked the magazine up without even thinking and went to pay.
I ate a quick dinner and went straight to my room, looking forward to reading Dr. Watson's new story.
I expected the first chapter of a new novel and I was surprised to find a short story instead. It was titled "The King's Sweetheart".
When I finished it, less than two hours later, I didn't know what to think.
The story was great and well-written. Sherlock Holmes had been defeated by an intelligent woman in a priceless way. However...
Sherlock had spoken about Irene Adler with great consideration in the story. But he had never mentioned the whole adventure to me at the time, although he often told me about his cases. He had briefly mentioned the lady only once, while we were travelling through New Jersey. Was there something I didn't know? But then again: if there had been something, would Dr. Watson write about it knowing that Sherlock and I were together?
I didn't sleep well that night.
OOO
On the following day, I resumed my travel and spent another restless night in Jackson, Mississippi.
I tried my best to think about something else and sleep but I just couldn't.
I knew that I was being emotional. Sherlock had been in danger many times in Europe as well. There was no reason to worry more than I had done in London. But my worry had nothing to do with reason. I remembered our departure in Saint-Nazaire, when I had been terrified that Sherlock might not show up. I was feeling exactly the same way now.
Finally, on Friday 25th September, I arrived in New Orleans.
I had read a lot about New Orleans' beauty. But I was so anxious that I didn't even look around and I just looked for a cab.
Twenty minutes later, the cab left me in front of Jackson's Hotel in Toulouse Street.
I walked to the counter, trying to keep my composure. The concierge, an elderly man with a grey beard, stood with a smile.
"Welcome at the Jackson Hotel, madam. How can I help you?"
"I am Mrs. Cooper. My husband, Mr. Alexander Cooper, should be here"
"Ah, yes!" he said turning to pick a key "Mr. Cooper said that you would arrive one of these days. He went out but said that he would be back before 5 p.m."
I felt as if a heavy stone had been lifted from above my chest. I didn't want the concierge to notice my relief, though, and I simply thanked him with a smile before taking the key.
While waiting for Sherlock I freshened up and changed into a summer dress. Although it was almost October, the weather was incredibly warm.
It was half past four when someone finally knocked on the door.
I opened it cautiously.
"Alexander?"
"That would be me!" answered Sherlock's voice cheerfully.
I let him in and hugged him tightly without saying anything.
"Are you unwell, Gwenn? I did tell you that the travel..."
"I am fine!" I interrupted him "I was just worried for you. I didn't know whether I was going to find you or not..."
"You found me, didn't you?" he whispered.
In a few words, I told him about my three days long travel.
"But what about you? Have you made any progress?" I asked eventually.
"Yes. I found valuable information about the judge Sydney Auger on the local newspapers"
He sat, leaned back on the chair and stretched his legs like he used to do when he was going to tell a story.
"Sydney Auger was born in Illinois and was fifty-eight. He was appointed here straight after the Secession War. He mainly dealt with political crimes: secessionist organizations, people who did not want to lay down their arms after the war and everything of that sort. Since some of those rebels acted by robbing banks and trains, he also became an expert in robberies. In the last years, since political crimes are declining, he worked for the most part on trials for robbery. He had a reputation for being uncompromising"
"It looks like a lot of disreputable people might hold a grudge against him" I sighed.
"Definitely so. The way he was murdered, however, tells me that Penrose was involved. And Penrose does not rob trains or banks"
"Then why was he murdered?" I asked.
"I have no answer yet. I can make some assumptions, however: Moriarty's men do not kill for revenge only. They kill or threaten in order to prevent someone from doing something. Auger's murder has likely nothing to do with something he did in the past but with something he was going to do in the future" Sherlock explained.
"So Penrose wants to prevent a trial from taking place" I guessed.
"That is my conclusion. And it is probably not a trial for robbery" he confirmed.
"But this murder is not going to cancel the trials, another judge will be appointed. So what's the point in killing the judge?"
"First of all, Sydney Auger was not an average judge. He was something like a... detective himself" Sherlock said with a light smile "He was very thorough and always tried to gain his own perspective on the case. He had a well-kept archive and was often able to link one crime with similar ones. Second of all, the trial will not be cancelled but will certainly be postponed. The new judge will need to study the cases before the trial starts. I need to find out what Sydney Auger was working on".
After dinner, Sherlock suggested a walk in the downtown. I appreciated the gesture: he looked just as tired as I did but he also guessed that I was curious to see the city.
New Orleans was unlike any other city I had seen so far. The palaces rarely had more than two floors, the external walls were decorated with colorful renders and there were verandas and balconies everywhere. During our short walk we ran into two brass bands. They played a whimsical kind of syncopated music I had never heard before. I never heard anything like that in Europe until the first jazz music arrived in the 1920s. Many people passing by spoke a sort of a French dialect.
I felt both in France and in the United States and in a completely different place at the same time.
OOO
"I have a small surprise for you" I told Sherlock an hour later. We were back in our hotel room, preparing to go to bed.
I showed him my copy of the Inquirer with a smile.
"A new story by Dr. Watson!" I said.
Sherlock took it eagerly. No matter how much he might complain about Dr. Watson's style, he was always glad to read his records.
He grimaced at the title: "The Kings' Sweetheart? Oh, honestly..."
I was curious to see how he would react to the story. Was he going to tell me something about this lady?
"Dr. Watson is a hopeless romantic, as usual" he said affectionately more than an hour later, putting the magazine on his night table.
"Romantic or not, the point is... Sherlock Holmes defeated by a lady!" I replied.
"And that pleases you, doesn't it?" he answered indignantly.
"It pleases me to no end, my dear!" I said giggling.
Sherlock sighed dramatically and didn't reply.
"You never told me about this lady" I said more seriously after a moment.
"I do not enjoy telling people about my professional failures" he huffed.
"Oh. So this is the reason why you didn't tell me about it" I whispered.
"Of course! Why else?"
"Well, I thought you might have... sweet feelings for her"
He looked at me, bewildered.
"I cannot have feelings for a lady with whom I spent no more than twenty minutes" he replied quietly. "She did not know me at all. She knew nothing about my personality, my views and my life. How can there be closeness without mutual knowledge?"
"There are attraction and love at first sight" I pointed out.
"There are certainly, but not for me. You of all people should know that. I have known you for years before allowing myself to become close to you and before admitting my affection. I believed that I would never love and never marry and the woman I married needed years to make me change my mind. So no, I was not close to a lady I have barely spoken to"
"You wanted her photograph..."
"Yes. She defeated me, she did so brilliantly and, if I may, the Co... the King was more to blame than she was. So yes, I wanted a memory of the case"
I did not miss the fact that he was about to say another name and had corrected himself. But I already knew that the story's protagonist could not be the king of Bohemia since there was no such thing as a kingdom of Bohemia at the time.
"Very well" I answered softly.
"She was an intelligent lady and she was fair-looking. And I have met other intelligent and fair-looking women. But it takes me more than that to become close to someone, Gwenn"
"It's alright. I trust you and I know that you are telling the truth"
Irene Adler -or Norton- was not her real name but I've never known how she was called. On the contrary, almost two years later I discovered the identity of the so-called king of Bohemia. That night, however, I didn't think about both of them any further.
OOO
We didn't have enough money to stay at the Jackson Hotel much longer.
Some days later, Sherlock started looking for a job and I for a flat.
In New Orleans there weren't as many factories as in Pittsburgh but an experienced chemist was always welcome. Sherlock found a job in a paint factory.
Since we could not pay an exorbitant rent, I feared that my search for a flat would be long and difficult.
But soon I found out that my French heritage gave me a head start. In New Orleans, there were many Creoles of French origin and other French-speaking people. After the Secession War, the use of French had been discouraged to say the least, but there were still lots of people who could speak it. Being French made me likeable.
So after just a few days I found a small flat in Burgundy Street, in a neat-looking light green building.
Sherlock spent almost all of his free time working at the case. But despite his continued commitment, he needed another good week before he found the information he was looking for.
One evening, he arrived home slightly later than usual, with a newspaper under his arm and a tense expression.
"You look like you have found something" I said.
"I know why Sydney Auger was murdered. I know what Penrose is trying to do" he whispered
"What?" I asked.
