Disclaimer: I thank Arthur Conan Doyle for the inspiration. It deviates, I promise. Anything you recognize, I don't own but love shamelessly.
A Scandal in AcademiaChapter Three
We were in Holmes' room at about noon the next day, eating toaster struedels when Tiffany burst in and rushed at Holmes, grasped her by either arm and looked eagerly into her eyes.
Holmes wrenched her hands out of Tiffany's so quickly that she upset the glass of orange juice on the table beside her. Tiffany took no notice even as I jumped up with a towel to clean it up. "Do you really have it?" the girl fairly shouted.
"Sorry, Watson. Not yet, Tiffany."
"But you will?" Tiffany pressed.
"I will."
'Well, can we go now?" There was a petulant whine in the girl's voice that was really beginning to annoy me. She was definitely used to getting her own way.
"By all means," Holmes replied, the very definition of patience.
The three of us left the dorm and began to walk to the theater.
"He has a girlfriend, you know," I said to Tiffany.
She snorted. "Ian has a lot of girlfriends."
"Then why are you so concerned?" Holmes asked, a trace of irritation at last showing in her voice. "If he doesn't love you, what incentive does he even have to keep this picture? Why would he really care that you're getting married?"
"Spite," she replied, snorting again. "He wants to ruin me and make my life miserable. We ended very badly."
Ian Adams had not struck me as the spiteful type—quite the opposite, in fact—but then, I had only known him about five hours, so I said nothing.
We had reached the theater. No one stopped us from going backstage. Someone knew Tiffany and shouted hello. No one recognized Holmes or me, but no one stopped us as we made our way toward the dressing rooms, either.
Ian Adams' room was open. Carrie, the costume girl from last night, was sitting on his couch, doing, of all things, needlepoint. She looked up when she saw us enter the room and smiled broadly. "I'm guessing you're Shannon Holmes?" she asked, pointing at Holmes.
"However did you guess," Holmes said, utterly without feeling.
The girl squinted, shaking her head. "Yeah, I can see Aggie in there, if I just picture you with glasses, a little more makeup, and without that perpetual glower on your face. Damn, you even seem taller."
Holmes allowed a corner of her mouth to twitch briefly. "Hello, Carrie," she said. "Yes, it's not much fun for a person of my height to stoop down for hours at a time. I suppose Ian is in class?"
"Oh, yes. He expected you, you know," Carrie replied.
"Yes, I know."
"You do?" I said, lost.
"Oh god, then it's over," Tiffany announced, collapsing onto the couch. Dust actually sprang up in her wake. "What am I going to do?"
Holmes did not answer her, but reached past Carrie's shoulder to the newel post of the green couch. To my surprise, it screwed right off. Inside was a manila envelope, rolled into a tube shape, with Holmes' name on the front. We three stood and read it together as Carrie smirked and sat down on the couch again to stare at us.
"MY DEAR MISS SHANNON HOLMES—
You really did it very well. Of course, I knew from the beginning who
you and your friend 'Gloria Scott' (yes, hello to you too, Miss Watson)
were, and who you were working for. Did you think that an actor would
not recognize another actor? Granted, you are good, and your talent for
disguise is quite amazing, I will admit, but did you really underestimate
me so much? I am a student of literature as well as theater. Your own
client is doing The Sign of Four in another theater. I suspect you took all
of this into consideration and knew exactly how it would all turn out
before it ever began. You are admirably clever. You did fool the rest of
the production. The cast and crew is quite taken with 'Aggie Escott,'
though I can guess it may amuse them to find out that they were actually
being duped by Shannon Holmes. I do hope you will finish your part in
our production of Hamlet. I know the cast would hate to see you go, and
it would be very inconvenient to have to find yet another actor this late in
the game.
As for Tiffany, you have absolutely nothing to worry about from me. I
want nothing more to do with you or your childish games. I kept the
picture as a way to protect myself from you—with Miss Holmes' word,
I know I will not have to do that anymore. I have destroyed the photo and
the negatives. I wish you luck with your Mr. Lothman.
To Miss Holmes, I only again wish to say once more that I am a student of
literature. I too have read 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' So you don't have to
ask, I'll leave a picture of myself as a memento. I know you'll treasure it
forever. It will warm my heart to imagine that you may place this picture
on your mantle, and think of me as the man. Will you? Or are you so
much like your illustrious predecessor that you cannot allow yourself to
give in to such emotions? I hope not, for you are the rarest of the rare
among women. You are a beautiful girl who does not know that she is
beautiful; a rare flower among weeds whose intellect surpasses even the
appeal of your quiet grace and beauty. I should not like to be your
adversary; should we ever cross paths again, I very much hope to call you
'friend.' I remain, dear Miss Shannon Holmes, very truly yours,
IAN ADAMS"
Holmes snatched up the letter, folded it, and shoved it into her pocket, turning away from us and clearing her throat before saying in a crisp tone, "I suppose it's over, though not exactly in the way we would have liked."
Tiffany was looking at Holmes in a very strange, almost gentle way. "No, it's fine. The picture has been destroyed; he said it himself and I trust his word absolutely. That's the most satisfying conclusion there could be."
I had the envelope containing the picture Adams had mentioned. I pulled it out slowly, to find a glossy 8 x 10 that had been taken in this very room, seemingly the night before. All the principle players from the Hamlet production were in the picture, with Ian Adams in the middle, looking gloriously handsome as usual, with one arm around Nora Gordon in Ophelia costume on his right, and Holmes-as-Aggie-Escott-as-Gravedigger on his left, that arm draped lazily about her shoulders as if they were old friends instead of new acquaintances. Holmes-Aggie was smiling widely, looking less scary in the creepy makeup surrounded by all the other smiling faces.
I felt Tiffany at my elbow, looking at the picture. I handed it to her. "He actually is a really good guy," she admitted. "We're just on different levels."
"From what I have seen of the man," Holmes said. "He seems to be on a very different level than you." Her voice was pure ice and she did not even look at Tiffany, but held her hand out for the photo. Tiffany slowly gave it to her.
"Is there something I can do to reward you for all of this?" Tiffany asked.
Holmes thought a moment, then gave a short laugh. "Yes, you can do Watson's laundry. She is severely behind."
I could feel myself blushing as the smile disappeared from Tiffany's face for a fraction of a second, then reappeared even bigger than before. "Okay, sure," she said. She reached out and shook my hand, glanced at Holmes, and thought better of it. She said good-bye to the two of us and Carrie, and left the room.
Holmes glanced at her watch. "I have class in thirty minutes. I had better go and get ready. Carrie, will you please tell Mr. Adams that Aggie will be here in time for the show tonight?"
"'Aggie' will?" Carrie asked.
"Yes, well…I suppose, Holmes will," she said.
"Sure thing," Carrie replied, smiling.
"Thank you."
We left the theater. Holmes was very quiet. She walked very slowly, staring down at her shoes, and held the envelope with the picture and the letter in a vise-grip in her hands. Usually at the completion of a case she was on a high for a couple of days before slipping into her usual gloom and introspection. What made this one different? Was it the letter? Had Adams' words really affected her that much?
"Holmes? Are you all right?" I asked, tentatively. I was fully prepared for her to, at the very least, wave me off, or hit me with some sort of scathing remark. Instead she surprised me.
"Yes, I'm fine," she said, quite gently, with a sad smile. "Things did not turn out the way I expected, but…"
"Is it the letter?" I ventured. "The things he said?"
"Uh—"
"Because, you know, Holmes, he's right. You don't give yourself enough credit. You should—"
She actually stopped on the sidewalk and stared at me. "My dear Watson," she said. "Have you forgotten who you are talking to? Do you really think that I would be so distracted by flowery words and pretty flattery? By—by drivel? That's what it was…drivel. He was good, I will give him that, but not wholly original. Having a familiarity with my literary obsessions is not sufficient enough to truly impress me."
"If you say so, Holmes."
It was not that I did not believe what she said, but there was just something about her whole attitude concerning the situation that rang false to me. He had gotten to her, I suspected, but it was as Adams himself had said: she would not allow herself to give in to it. I would not press the matter with her, as it would only make her angry. Whatever had happened to her to cause this suppression of her emotions, of her self (and indeed, though by this point we had been friends for quite sometime, she still had not told me exactly what had caused her scars, both obvious and unseen, though I knew small bits of it), was forceful enough to do permanent damage to our friendship if I were to continue to make her speak about things that made her uncomfortable.
Fortunately I knew this—and she knew that I knew this, and was, I suspect, grateful for both my friendship and my sensitivity. She smiled briefly, and then, linking her arm through mine, walked back to our dorm.
Despite her words, she did place the photo in a frame on her desk. She also went back to the theater that night, and for the next week, playing the Gravedigger every night until the play was over. She saw Ian Adams, but there was none of the easy camaraderie or flirting between them as there had been between Adams and Aggie Escott. Eventually the play was over, but somehow I suspected that this would not be the last we saw of Ian Adams.
Tiffany did my laundry for a whole month. I don't think my clothes have ever been so clean and pressed (I also called Mark Morgan, who was, if I may say, very happy to hear from me). Tiffany and Adams gave each other no more trouble; in fact, when she married Claude Lothman the next summer, Adams sent them a bouquet of flowers and his good wishes.
And that was how a mini-scandal threatened the reputation of the Lothman department store empire, and how Shannon Holmes' plans were defeated by an actor's wit. When she speaks of Ian Adams, or refers to his photograph, she does it reverently, with humor and respect, but she has never quite given him the title of "the man."
The End.
Holmes and Watson will return…