Prologue: A Midnight Caller
New York City, 1888
The harsh, February winds swept through the dark, cold street while small snowdrifts collected at the feet of a lone, shadowed figure. The occasional pedestrian who would casually glance in the figure's direction shook his head and wondered what kind of dishonest intentions would bring such a person to the posh neighborhood. Really, they would say in their wood-paneled parlors, you cannot escape the sight of beggars no matter where you turn.
However, the man was no beggar; he had a small fortune waiting for him for what he was about to do. His name was Samuel McBright, one of those types of men who resorted to devious means to feed his lust for gambling and drinking.
Curse this weather, he thought, stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. That money better be worth the liquor I could be drinking right now. He had been standing in the shadows of the tall brownstone house for hours, watching, waiting. As he hastily lit his fifth cigarette with calloused fingers, he noticed that the number of passersby had waned. Perfect. He didn't want any unnecessary witnesses. McBright checked his pocket watch, squinting in the dim light. Forty minutes past eleven. They should be home by now.
As if in response to his thoughts, a lone horse-drawn cab pulled up in front of the very house he was watching. A tall, elegantly-dressed young man stepped out, and turned to offer his hand to his fellow passenger. Seconds later, a woman emerged, and though McBright could not discern exact details from his position, he could see her grace, her elegance. She was evidently one who knew her place in the world, one who was accustomed to turning the heads of those she passed by.
"Thank you, Joseph," the tall man said as he paid the driver.
"Good night, Mr. Norton!" Joseph tipped his hat, and with a flick of the reigns, the cab disappeared into the night. The street was quite deserted now. Arm in arm, the couple made their way up the stairs, careful to mind the thick coat of ice that covered the stone steps. The woman was laughing softly at a clever comment the man had made. Their voices faded and died out as the front door shut behind them.
McBright kept his eyes on the house, whose windows now gave off a soft, yellow glow. He took his time with his last cigarette, enjoying the thick, pungent smoke that permeated his entire upper body with a comforting warmth. Finally, he ground the stub into the snow with a patched boot. He cast a last, furtive glance around the street. It was still empty, but anybody could be walking around, even at this hour. McBright stepped out of the shadows toward the house. It was time.
"That was a wonderful performance tonight, don't you think, my dear?"
"Oh, please, Godfrey. The lowliest chorus girl sang better than that Giselle Lefeuvre."
"Of course you would say that, you prima donna!"
Standing in front of the mirror, Irene Norton paused lacing her nightdress long enough to send a glare at her husband's casual reflection. He was sitting in his chair, glancing over the evening headlines. He caught her fierce look, and gave her such a sly grin that it was all she could do from giving in to the smile that threatened to tug at the corners of her mouth.
"Just the same, I kept on thinking this entire night that you could have easily outshone Miss Lefeuvre herself," Godfrey added lightly.
Irene sighed. "Darling, you know why I decided to leave the opera."
It had been a difficult decision to retire at her prime. She was still Irene Adler then, the star of both Poland's Imperial Opera and Italy's La Scala. The idea of life on the stage had appealed strongly to her young, adventurous heart; it had certainly sounded more attractive than life in a quiet estate home. So, she had traveled and seen the world, attended countless balls and socials, and met the most influential people in the opera business. Life had become a whirlwind of sights and sounds, of fleeting and broken relationships. Men of the highest rank sought her heart, concerned only for the opportunity to display her as a trophy, an acquisition. Especially that Bohemian Crown Prince...
Thus, the opera world lamented at the departure of Irene Adler. So young, so talented! So much to lose! She moved to London, yearning for a somewhat quieter life at last. Of course, with her past, she needed means to protect herself. Even from London, she kept a considerable amount of influence over her past suitors. It was quite amusing at the way those men sought to regain control over items that could compromise their reputation. She had always managed to pull the wool over their prying eyes, averting and escaping their pitiful attempts at robbery.
Irene cast a secret glance at her husband. She had truly been blessed when she met this man in London. Godfrey fulfilled her desire for an honest, caring gentleman, and accepted her strong will. Her marriage did not come without a cost though; she had been closely watched and followed in the days leading up to her marriage. After a careless mistake and a very close call, she managed to slip through the grasp of none other than Sherlock Holmes, the great detective himself. Irene had known that the ridiculous Grand Duke of Bohemia was bound to employ Mr. Holmes. Truth be told, she had to gather all her wits about her to marry and to escape across the Atlantic. The man far exceeded his reputation as a "consulting detective"; he was practically machine-like in his ways of deduction...and yet, his tendencies toward the theatrics proved to be both effective and entertaining.
Irene was startled out of her reminiscences by a loud knocking on the front door. She was not expecting anyone, and judging by the look on Godfrey's face, neither was he. She let out an exasperated sigh and implored him, "Darling, will you get that, please? I am hardly dressed to see anybody right now." He strode downstairs, muttering about the indecencies of some people, calling at this hour. Undoubtedly, their midnight caller was one of his acquaintances from the gentlemen's club. Irene heard the front door open and close, followed by low voices as they moved into the sitting room.
Her curiosity overcame her. Throwing on a dressing gown, Irene silently padded down the dark stairs. She would not let herself be seen, of course; she merely wanted a glimpse of whoever happened to be visiting at this hour. Slowly, she followed the light emitted from the sitting room, and peered over the doorframe.
It was all she could do from gasping in shock.
A man dressed in a filthy black coat and boots stood with a revolver aimed at Godfrey Norton's heart. Godfrey looked quite calm, with the stoic expression taking over his lawyer's instincts.
"Put the weapon down, and I will give you anything you ask for."
"I don't answer to the likes of you," the man sneered, "I will be well-paid for my services tonight. For your life."
Heart pounding, Irene shrank back against the wall. Godfrey would not have revealed her whereabouts. However, thinking back, she now recalled seeing a dark shadow loitering near their house when they returned from the opera; she had passed him over as a mere tramp. He knew she was in the house. How could I have been so blind?
"I send you fondest greetings from Mr. Harold Blake," the intruder continued.
"I believe that his death sentence for high treason has already been carried out!"
"Then consider this a favor from the Nymph!"
A gunshot rang through the house. Irene fled to the adjoining study, hands shaking as she retrieved a pistol from a hidden compartment in Godfrey's desk; one could never be too careful in New York City. The brief training that she had in marksmanship would come into use; if her husband was in any way injured, the intruder was not escaping alive. She crept to the doorframe.
Creak.
She froze, her foot in midair as she cursed the loose floorboard that she stepped on. A shadow fell across her figure as she raised her head to face the man's malevolent grin.
"Well, well. I don't even have to go looking for you; the songbird herself has come to me."
Irene dove to the ground as the doorframe beside her exploded in splinters. Several more bullets followed, and she sought refuge behind the large mahogany desk.
A knock came on the front door again. She whipped her head towards the sound. An accomplice, perhaps?
"Mr. Norton, are you there?" Joseph's anxious voice called through. Irene let out a silent sigh of relief. "You left your pocketbook in the cab. Is everything all right? I thought I heard some banging..."
The intruder, with a look of panic, turned on his heels and ran. His steps grew fainter as they hurried towards the back door. With a bang of the door, he was gone.
Bruised and bleeding from splinters, Irene staggered to her feet. He had escaped. She considered chasing after him, but instead ran to the front door. A gust of wind chilled her through her thin dressing gown, and she was met with Joseph's pale face.
"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Norton-"
"Joseph, I need a doctor here now. And the police. An intruder just shot Godfrey."
"Yes, right away, madam!"
Perhaps it was the shock that made Irene so calm. She gazed at the sprinting form of the cabman before rushing into the parlor where Godfrey lay. Blood had seeped through the front of his white shirt, but he was still conscious. She pressed her hands into the wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding.
"Darling, the doctor will be here any minute now," she said, gritting her teeth.
Godfrey Norton gasped for breath, and gripped her wrist.
"You have to...leave," he whispered, "They will come back for you. You've seen his face. You've heard too much..."
"I am not leaving you!"
"Irene, my...case files...look up Howard Blake...the Nymph..." Godfrey's voice waned as he struggled to retain consciousness. He felt so tired, and he wanted to sleep, to close his eyes just for a while... He loved his wife, and wanted to tell her so. But, there was one last thing she needed to know. It pained him to see her looking so pale as she desperately tried to lessen the bleeding.
"Don't speak, Godfrey," she soothed, "Save your strength."
"No," he gasped, "one more thing...go to London...go to..."
He was overcome by a fit of coughing. Irene cast an anxious glance at the door. Where was that doctor?
Godfrey was cold, and could feel his strength draining with his blood. He summoned the last of his energy to say one more thing.
"Find...Sherlock Holmes."
His last memory was of Irene's dark eyes widening in shock at his words. Then, Godfrey Norton breathed his last and knew no more.
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