Chapter 1: Fight or Flight?
The events of the couple of days following Godfrey's death blurred into a haze of sympathy cards, well-wishers, lawyers, and reporters. Only a few things remained clear in Irene's mind: Godfrey's last words and the killer's face.
Go to Sherlock Holmes.
The irony was almost painful. After all of her efforts to slip under his seemingly all-seeing eyes, her husband wanted her to willingly return to the one man who had almost cost them their happiness. I am perfectly capable of finding the murderers myself. And God help them when I do...
Yet, a small inner voice reminded her, You have nothing to lose by going to Sherlock Holmes. There is no better person to see, and you know it.
Irene wrestled with her pride as she sat gazing out the window down the busy street below. The world moved on as usual, paperboys yelling in the street corners, carriages rattling in the street, couples walking hand-in-hand...
Irene swallowed against the burning sensation in her throat. She had not shed a single tear since Godfrey's death; her mind was too much in turmoil between her choices. She looked around the room. Leaving it meant leaving everything that she had worked for since her marriage. Godfrey's presence still lingered, the scent of his tobacco in the parlor, his favorite hat hanging on the hook, his collection of rare books, his photographs with his wife...
The loss of a great man means nothing to your oblivious minds, she thought bitterly, glaring at the people in the street. His death will not go unpaid.
Her mind resolved, Irene abruptly stood up. She gained nothing with idle thoughts. She gathered her coat and hat, and prepared to leave. It was time to make some travel arrangements.
Samuel McBright panted as he ran up the path to an opulent, Tudor-style mansion. He awed at the splendor of the building, but could not slow down to enjoy it. There were more pressing matters on hand. The door opened before he had a chance to bang the knocker. A young maid stood there, her face an undisguised expression of contempt as she took in his battered clothing.
"My mistress has been expecting you, sir," she said, almost mockingly.
Without another word, she led the way into the parlor, where a lady sat waiting. She was in her forties, and beautiful. Her manner was queenly, clearly a woman who exuded power and control with her flashing eyes and thin lips. The Nymph.
"You have news, Mr. McBright?"
"Yes, madam. Irene, Mrs. Norton, is –"
"Gone? I had figured," she interrupted icily.
"I ransacked the entire house. No trace of her. Except for this." He pulled out a scrap of paper that he had retrieved from the Norton's fireplace, a hand-written memo that had not been entirely burnt.
"Hand it to me." She glanced over it once, twice. Slowly, a satisfied smile spread across her chiseled features. She produced a brown sack, and threw it at a surprised McBright.
"I believe a reward is in order," she said.
Bowing and muttering his thanks, McBright turned to leave.
"Wait."
He turned back. Maybe she felt that he deserved a bonus.
"You know, McBright, letting Irene Norton escape complicates things for me greatly. I am afraid that I cannot risk your services any longer."
Bang. A shocked McBright crumpled to the floor, relinquishing the money sack in his hands. The Nymph lowered her pistol, and disdainfully stepped over McBright's dead body before picking up the money sack.
"I am not worth your mistakes," she whispered.
Her next step was clear, at least. She looked at the scrap of paper in her hand.
London.
"Thank you, sir," the paperboy said to Sherlock Holmes as he paid him.
Holmes merely grunted in reply, his eyes already roving the headlines of the morning papers. Nothing worth reading. No mysterious deaths, no stolen artifacts, no runaway brides. Nothing. He turned back towards Baker Street. At least he still had his chemical experiments to keep his mind active.
He sighed. His rooms have lost much of the familiar warmth that was present when Watson still lived there. No doubt that Watson was enjoying his new life as the master of his own home now. Marriage suited him well, almost too well, as he had gained a significant amount of weight since. Holmes would never have admitted this to Watson, but he felt quite lonesome at times. True, his cases were as numerous as ever, and he still separated himself from many of the Victorian frivolities that were almost everyday occurrences. It was during the evenings when Watson's absence was most acute, when Holmes would return home to his rooms expecting the doctor's usual greetings before remembering his lone state of affairs. He had even advertised for a roommate for a while, but as his reputation was widely known, no soul in London had the courage to share the rooms with the world's only consulting detective.
"Mister Holmes?"
Holmes turned from the entrance of 221B to face a thin, young man, heavily wrapped in a thick coat and scarf.
"How may I help you, lad?"
"I need to talk to you, sir. I cannot disclose information out here. If I may..."
"Of course, of course! Come on in, then; just up the steps and we shall be there!" He felt elated as he positively ran up the stairs to his lodgings. Finally, a case! There was no shortage of troubled people and their problems in London, after all.
Holmes hurriedly unlocked the door and showed the young man his sitting room.
"Please, take a seat in that armchair over there. I do apologize for the mess; I am afraid I have been behind on cleanliness since my companion moved away."
He turned back towards his caller, holding a cigarette case. "May I offer you a cig- My God!" The case dropped to the floor, spilling cigarettes everywhere.
Irene Adler Norton sat in his armchair, smiling at his reaction.
"Am I correct, Mr. Holmes, in assuming that you have a love for the theatrics as I do?"