The Adventuress (45 page)

“I... I do not recall. Of course my notes in Paris...” le Villard’s hands slapped his sides in self-disgust. “What foolishness I have shown.”

“You have no recall of the Christian name?”

“Ah, Gervaise, Guy—?”

“Godfrey?”

Le Villard’s dark eyes squinted. “Perhaps. I confess that Madame Norton was so distracting that I did not much notice the husband, or the woman who resides with them.”

“Ah. In what way distracting?”

“Monsieur Holmes, as you know, we French are connoisseurs of female beauty. Madame Norton is one to make any man who meets her regret that she—or he—is married. Her form is very perfection; her hair, her eyes—a medley of the shades of the sweetest honey, gold and brown, glossy and rich. Her voice rivals that of the Divine Sarah herself. Beyond this, she is intelligent and charming. A woman of great quality. She could have been a queen.”

“So she would have been—pardon, le Villard. I compliment your descriptive powers, although you must concentrate more on detail rather than on the overall effect if you wish to apply your observations to police work. In this case, it has sufficed; I believe I have, er, seen the lady.”

“Then the Norton involvement is not innocent?”

“I cannot say. Nor can I yet say what the full implications of this affair are. Certainly Madame Montpensier is innocent.”

“You relieve me, my dear Holmes. At least I was not unwise to heed Monsieur Norton’s warning.”

“The unfortunate Mr. Norton.”

“Why do you say that?”

I smiled again. “It is an unfortunate man who stands in the shadow of a beautiful wife; then, again, it would be a great advantage in detective work. I myself often wish for invisibility.”

“But Holmes, you accomplish it superbly through the art of disguise.”

I nodded in acknowledgement. “I must consider these matters, le Villard, and then we will act.”

“You see a quick end to the Montpensier affair, then?”

“Oh, to the Montpensier matter, certainly.”

“There is another?”

“There is always another, my dear le Villard.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

A
N
U
NPECEDENTED
E
NCOUNTER

What came
to Irene was Sherlock Holmes.

“Godfrey!” she said at breakfast the next day, shooing the birds from her chair with the lace-flounced sleeve of her pearl-colored velvet morning gown. “We must pursue the avenue that Sherlock Holmes has opened for us.

“The chemist who makes the sealing wax, you mean?”

“I do.”

“But, Irene,” I objected over my morning cup of tea, “the sealing wax is surely a side issue now. The viscount has nothing to do with it; the prince’s yacht sails within the week. We have a great deal more to worry about than a mere means when the end itself is in sight.”

“If it is worth the attention of other investigators, it is worth ours.”

“Ours?” Godfrey inquired.

“Yours, then.” Irene smiled bewitchingly. “Perhaps you should revisit this—” She glanced at me. I riffled my current diary for the name, then showed it to her. “—this Hyppolyte Cremieux and discover what Mr. Sherlock Holmes found so fascinating about the man and his sealing wax. You no longer need lurk about in disguise, but may go as your own dashing self.”

“How refreshing.” Godfrey rose from the table. “Have you any idea of what I should look for beyond the obvious?”

“None,” Irene admitted blithely. “Of course I would be most interested in knowing the direction that Mr. Holmes’s inquiries took.”

“Of course.” Godfrey was off with a last significant glance to me.

“What shall
we
do today, Irene?” I queried.

“I have not decided.” Irene began stirring her coffee, although her customary cream and sugar were well blended already.

Then she looked up, and her features sharpened with interest and alarm, changing from idleness to utter attention within the instant. She grasped my wrist as if she would break it.

“Nell, you have seen Sherlock Holmes in person.”

“I have seen him. We were both of us ‘in person’ at that first occasion at Godfrey’s chambers. Irene—!”

“You would recognize the gentleman again?”

“I should assume so; a year and a half does not ordinarily work great changes on most people.”

“Would he recognize you?”

“Possibly not. I was of no great significance to him, although he—”

“Nell, do stop chattering and listen. Look slowly, but quickly; that is, don’t be too tardy about it or we shall lose our chance. Behind you. Tell me that is not he!”

I turned. That is the only way to look behind one, although Irene’s hiss indicated that my turn was not sufficiently discreet to satisfy her. There on the terrace many people were lounging at tables, talking, laughing, and strolling toward the promenade.

One tall, top-hatted figure drew my eye. It was weaving between the tables, drawing nearer—but then, so were other gentlemen. The terrace of the Hotel de Paris attracted almost as many pedestrians as did the promenade.

“I cannot be certain, Irene. He had removed his hat when I saw him before, for one thing. For another, I have not on my pince-nez, and for yet a third thing, it was his voice that I most remember, so crisp and remote in its way.”

“Oh,
do
be still!” Irene’s hand throttled my abused wrist. “And look back at me! Of course it’s he, and he’s coming this very way. He shall pass right by us. Try to steal a glimpse of him then.”

Despite matching wits in the Bohemian affair, they had never met in their own guises. Mr. Holmes had gone from saintly old churchman to stable oaf. And Irene had worn heavy men’s outerwear when she’d skimmed past the elderly “churchman” entering the door of 221
B
aker Street and said in her best basso, “Good Night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

I did as instructed, my heart beginning to beat as rapidly as a rabbit’s, thanks to Irene’s air of urgency. She had languorously obscured her face by putting a hand to her temple, but her eyes glowed brighter than tiger’s-eye gemstones. I could almost see her figurative tail twitch.

I prepared to snatch a look as the presence passed, save that it paused instead.

“Good day, ladies,” said a voice I shall never forget. “I understand from the porter that I have the honor to address Madame Norton and Miss Huxleigh.”

“You also have the advantage of us,” Irene said, looking up. Only I would have detected that she was slightly breathless.

A small smile stretched those thin lips. “I am already known to you: Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, London. I believe that you are more than sufficiently familiar with the exact address, Madam.”

In the ensuing pause, I attempted to glance casually at the gentleman looming behind me. It could not be done without cricking my neck, so I continued watching his reflection as
mir
rored in Irene’s expression.

Sheer shock had given way to a wary kind of amusement. “Pray be seated, sir,” she said. “We have just finished breakfast.”

He took Godfrey’s vacated chair and removed his hat, revealing a head of black hair that matched his strong eyebrows. I was able to observe him as minutely as he no doubt dissected others in the course of his cases. His eyes were gray, but not the open, amiable, silver-gray of Godfrey’s. They viewed the world closely, as if looking through a microscope.

His long, thin fingers moved idly over the brim of
his
beaver hat and his walking-stick handle. All of his senses seemed restless, as if eager to be put to use. Certainly his eyes were gathering in every detail of our tabletop, of Irene, of myself, in glances that struck like summer lightning. Then he spoke again in that light, slightly high voice that barely veiled an almost chronic impatience.

“When I said that I had the honor to address Madam Norton, I might have been more explicit. I have the honor to address Madam Godfrey Norton,
nee
Irene Adler.”

Irene’s hands fanned eloquently. “Is that so remarkable a thing, my dear Mr. Holmes?”

A smile tightened the comers of his mouth. “It is, when the newspapers would have you and your husband dead, Madam.”

“The newspapers report many fictions as fact.” Irene’s honey-brown eyes grew ingenuous. “Is there some matter in which you wish to consult me?”

His laughter startled the pigeons into abandoning their posts on the nearby vacant-chair rails. “Indeed there is, Madam. There are many matters involving yourself that I would inquire into, but circumstances and civilized behavior allow me to pursue only one.”

“How unfortunate.”

“For myself, or for you?”

She shrugged, a slight, French shrug, and allowed her eyelids to drop for a moment. “For both of us perhaps, Mr. Holmes.”

He looked away, then spoke, the brisk detective. “I wish to know all concerning the disappearance of Louise Montpensier of Paris.”

“A rather sweeping request, Mr. Holmes.”

“I never ask for crumbs when I can have the whole cake. Come, come, Madam, you are too clever to deny the obvious. You and your husband returned Mademoiselle Louise to the family home after a day’s absence. Her disappearance came on the heels of that incident. You must tell me what you know.”

“Why?”

He considered. “Most people, when confronted, would prefer to make a clean breast of a rather messy matter. I suspect that Louise Montpensier is not dead; at the least, you could speak to spare her aunt further suspicion. The woman is utterly innocent, though I cannot say the same for the uncle.”

“Madame Montpensier will be cleared very shortly, I promise you.”

“Perhaps, but in the meantime, where is Louise? I believe that you know, Madam, and that you have always known.”

“Not always, Mr. Holmes. But I know that she is safe and happy now, as she was not before.”

“And her adventurous absence?”

Irene’s face dropped its mask of taut amusement. “The girl attempted to drown herself in the Seine, sir. Godfrey, my husband”—Mr. Holmes made a swift, dismissive gesture to indicate he knew that—“saved her. Then we returned her to her home, hoping that her family would not need to know of a young woman’s temporarily overwrought feelings.”

“Why did she attempt to take her life?”

“A young man whose attentions were not welcome to her uncle. At Louise’s age, such impasses can seem insurmountable.”

Irene had carefully adhered to the truth, as far as it went.

“And now she is—?”

“Where she wishes to be. She will notify her family as soon as possible. Or I can have her notify you, so you will not be defrauded of your solution.”

The thin lips pursed, then an arctic twinkle lit those icy-gray eyes. “I detect another romantic elopement here, Madam. You grow overfond of the device.”

Irene smiled. “It
is
a bit melodramatic, Mr. Holmes, yet I do have that weakness.”

The walking stick lightly tapped the terrace flagstones. “There’s more to it than the resolution of Louise Montpensier’s romantic escapades. I’ve seen the so-called mysterious letters, which are as plain as child’s play. Laughable as the scheme is, there is great gain in it— for someone. I do not imply yourself. I would imagine you to be quite nicely fixed now.”

“Retirement has been kind to me.”

“You must chafe,” he said suddenly, leaning forward intently, “at the pseudonymous life. I myself find extended idleness an... agony. You cannot perform on the concert stage as long as you allow that fiction about the train wreck to persist unchallenged. What else remains for you, but to meddle in other people’s affairs?”

“You do not call your own efforts meddling.”

“I am a professional.”

“As am I.”

“No, Madam. You
were
a professional, a professional opera singer. Now you are barred from your vocation. It is no wonder that you have taken up an avocation.”

“And that is?”

“You heard me: meddling.”

“I think, Mr. Holmes, that it is you who meddles in my affairs, rather than the other way around.”

“Then you admit that you are embroiled in something!”

“I admit that I have pursuits I follow, that is all.”

“Hmm.”
Sherlock Holmes gazed morosely at his amber-headed stick. “You have been indiscreet in Monte Carlo. You have drawn attention to yourself by consorting with palace hangers-on. You have even sung in semi-public circumstances.”

“What business is it of yours what I do, and where?”

His smile came quickly. “None, save that I would have attended your concert. I am a music lover, did you know?”

This time Irene blinked. “No, I did not. I must notify you of my next performance.”

“Your next
musical
performance. I believe you have others, less meant for public consumption,” he said obliquely. “So you will keep your knowledge to yourself. All the better! I do not like too easy a trail to follow.” Sherlock Holmes rose to his full, imposing height. “I would re
min
d you that if I have discovered your former identity, it is on the tongue-tips of all Monte Carlo.”