A Study in Satin

by Tigger

 

Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici.

Chapter 2: Enter THE Woman

 

Irene Adler looked up from her two-day old London Times when her house-servant, Katrina, entered her sitting room. "Yes, Katrina?" she asked with a gentle smile. Her voice still retained the rich, full tones that had once made her a major operatic star throughout Europe.

At something over fifty years old, Irene Adler was nontheless a spectacular woman. Her curvaceous yet slender figure induced men half her age to fawn over her whenever she deigned to attend some ball or soiree. A few silvery highlights now gleamed in hair that had once been purest auburn, but they made the total picture all the more elegant. Women twenty years her junior envied skin that was still smoothly supple. Her eyes were a challenge for they seemed to change color with her mood - green when excited, amber most often and utterly black when enraged. Katrina had only met the black-eyed mistress once and did not care to ever repeat that experience.

"A carriage has arrived, Madame. The driver says he has a lady who needs to see you, but that she is very ill. He seems to think that she needs your help. I told her you were not a physician, but he insisted his 'la petite' said you were the only person who could help her."

"How very remarkable. Let us see what we can see, shall we?"

Katrina looked very uncomfortable. "Madame? The Monsieur is away in America and we are alone. This driver, Madame, he is very large and. . "

Irene understood. "And you are worried that it might be a ruse?" The maid nodded. "Very well, then we shall go prepared." Irene walked to a desk and opening a drawer, withdrew a small revolver. She checked that the weapon was loaded, and then, to Katrina's amazement, the gun seemed to disappear into her hand. "Let us go see what this is all about."

The picture that greeted them was one of a very large man, just as the maid had described, but his hands were too full to present any danger to Irene and Katrina. In his arms was a well dressed, very slender and lovely young girl of perhaps no more than twenty years. *I can see why he called her 'petite',* Irene mused, *she can't be much more than five feet tall.* Her wet hair was dark, but would probably look black as midnight even when dry.

She was also clinging to the man as if her life depended on it and shuddering visibly. Her face was flushed and her breathing was obviously labored.

Irene had never seen the girl before in her life, but she was obviously in need of help. "Bring her inside and settle her near the fire for the moment," Irene ordered. "Katrina, prepare the guest room and lay a fire in there. Vite, vite! Call me when you are ready for her." She then turned back to the driver. "You will wait to help us get her into bed?" It was not really a question.

"Oui, Madame. Should I bring in her luggage while we wait?"

Irene almost said no, but then thought that there might be something to identify the girl in her things and nodded her head.

A short time later, the girl was bundled into bed and attired in one of Irene's rarely used flannel night gowns while Irene's guest's reticule, paper parcel and now-opened portmanteau rested on the floor in Irene's parlor. Katrina had been set to keeping a cool compress on the girl's forehead while Irene dealt the coachman.

"What are you owed?" she asked him after she'd returned from getting her new guest settled.

"Your pardon, Madame, but la petite. . I mean, the mademoiselle paid us in advance with a bonus for non-stop service from Calais to here. We would have been here yesterday if not for the terrible weather."

"I see, and you know nothing of her, then?"

"Only that her name is Mademoiselle Holmes," he began, not noticing how Irene's finely shaped brows rose at that name, "that she is from London and that she said it was vitally important that she see you. On the road, she said she was ill and that no docteur could help her, only you."

"I see," Irene said, not really seeing at all. "Very well, I will do what I can for her. You may leave for your own home, sir. You have my thanks."

"Merci, Madame. La petite was a very good customer and we hope she regains her health."

"What I can do, my friend, I will."

~-------------~

The coachman and his party departed, leaving Irene with the puzzle of a "Miss Holmes from London." *I KNOW the man never married. A love child? Not bloodly likely. A man needs to feel passion to father a child out of wedlock. Passion for something other than the more intellectual pursuits, in any case.*

No answers presented themselves so she went over to the small pile of personal items. The only thing of interest in the reticule was a passport in the name of "Miss Daphne Barnstable" and yet, the driver had said "Miss Holmes", had he not?

Irene's eyes started when she looked into the portmanteau and saw a medical case. She reached for it and was about to open it when her own name emblazoned on the paper parcel caught her eye.

"Madame?!" Katrina's worried voice called from the door. The little one is become delirious. She keeps calling for her drug. She says she must have it so she can talk to you. Over and over again."

"Drug?" Irene asked, and then opened the medical case. Inside was a hypodermic needle, a small bottle of alcohol, cotton swabs and a brown apothecary bottle. She took the apothecary bottle and read aloud. "S. Holmes. 2 cubic centimeters daily." She held the bottle up to the light. "Barely half that there, I would say. I wonder what this is?"

She opened the bottle and sniffed at it delicately, catching an almost flowery scent. "Some type of herbal preparation." Irene set everything down on the table and quickly searched the case for any other signs of medication. There was nothing else.

With a knowledgeable hand, Irene cleaned the needle and carefully drew the remaining liquid from the amber bottle into the needle.

"As I thought, barely half the prescribed dosage. Hope this works long enough for us to find an apothecary that can resupply this. It certainly makes my thought she might be his daughter seem laughable. He would never permit his daughter to go aboard so inadequately provided."

Irene strode into the bedroom. "Hold her right arm, Katrina," she ordered, and then injected the drug.

As close to instantaneously as made no real difference, the girl seemed to collapse. Her delirium, shivering and panting stopped, and her body went limp. Irene snatched up a wrist, fearing that the girl had expired only to heave a sigh of relief as a slow, but strong pulse was clearly evident. "Amazing," she breathed softly. "Katrina, sit with her and call me immediately if she awakens. I must see what I can learn of her."

In short order, Irene had unpacked the girl's things and laid them on the large dining room table. Her clothes were of good quality and quite fashionable. . . .considering she had just come from England. She evidently kept a journal using a very expensive pen. And Irene's initial assessment of how well she was provided for had to be revised when she'd found the case's hidden bottom filled with almost one thousand pounds-sterling in gold coins. There was also that very fascinating parcel with her name on it and two passports. The one she'd found earlier in the reticule, and one that had also been in the portmanteau's false bottom.

Made out in the name "Sherla Joan Holmes." *Twenty one years old?* Irene mused. *Looks younger than that - barely out of the schoolroom. Not that it matters all that much until I know more about her. Might as well start with the package that appears to be intended for you, Irene,* she thought, and then went off to find her scissors and letter opener.

~-------------~

The girl really WAS the daughter of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. At least, if Irene was to believe the letter of introduction, and she had no reason not to believe it.

No reason, that is, other than the fact that Irene Adler prided herself in knowing whatever it was she wanted to know, and she had always wanted to know EVERYTHING about Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It was inconceivable to her that Holmes could have fathered a daughter and Irene not have known of the birth. And yet, when she had gathered up every sample of Mr. Holmes' handwriting she possessed, she had been forced to conclude that this letter of introduction had been written by Holmes. It was so imperfect it had to be perfect. There was sufficient variation among all the samples for Irene to conclude that the latest sample had not been the product of a forger trying to match Holmes' handwriting perfectly.

Still amazed, she reread the letter again.

221B Baker Street

London

I do not know when you shall read this missive, but permit me to assume the most opportune of times and greet you as you once greeted me:

"Good Evening, Miss Irene Adler:"

I have sent my daughter, Miss Sherla Joan Holmes, to you. You may have already read of a successful attempt on my life. If so, my need for your assistance on my daughter's behalf is all the greater.

I will not lie to you and tell you that there is no risk involved in granting this boon. As noted above, there is a violent game afoot, but I hope, I pray that you will see fit to give her what assistance you are able.

I have included with this letter several mementos from our earlier associations in the hopes that they will convince you that this letter originates from me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and more importantly, that what Sherla tells you is true and genuine.

She will tell you what she needs. I have thought long and hard on this subject and have concluded that you are the only woman, no, the only PERSON in the world who can help her at this point in her life. I can only trust in your fond memory that you will find it within you to make the attempt.

Thank you.

I am,

Most Sincerely Yours,

Sherlock Holmes.

*What a remarkable document,* Irene thought for what must have been the tenth time. *Unfortunately, it does not tell me what I need to know, and with the girl unconscious, she is unable to tell me what I need to know , either. She is going to need more of that herbal preparation if I am any judge of things and she will need it quickly. Unfortunately, there simply are not that many English apothecaries in Paris and even fewer that carry true English pharmacopoeia and herbal remedies. The sooner I know what is required the sooner I can find a chemist who can provide it for me.*

With a shake of her head, Irene reached for the locked journal. *I have no choice but to look inside. Hopefully there will be some mention of this preparation,* then Irene chuckled ruefully. *As if you wouldn't find some other apparently plausible excuse to peek in this book if the prescription one wasn't so handy,* she chided herself before heading back to her sitting room in search of her lock picks.

~-------------~

Three hours later, Irene set the journal aside. She'd read it through three times, and had read the final entry several times more than that. It was, as one of the entries had admitted, cursed preposterous. Irene was a woman who had done and seen many strange and inexplicable things, but this?

*And yet, there is something odd about the entries. Something I cannot quite put my finger on. Not what he or she says, but more about . . *

Irene was reaching for the journal yet again when Katrina found her. "Madame? The little one is awake. She had an urgent need to relieve herself, but she said she desperately needed to speak with you when she'd finished."

"Not as desperately as I wish speech with her, dear. Go and prepare a light breakfast for us, please? Coffee for me and I suspect tea for her, and some fresh bread and butter. Oh yes, and whatever fresh fruit we have on hand. We will take the tray in the guest room, I think."

"Oui, madame," Katrina answered with a quick curtsy.

Sherla stepped from the facility to find Irene Alder seated on the bed Sherla had been sleeping in. Beside Irene was the journal, a package Sherla recognized as coming from the parcel and an opened envelope, also she concluded, from the parcel. The maid entered with a tea tray that she settled in front of Irene.

"Come, sit down and have some breakfast while we talk," Irene ordered, "I am sure you must be famished."

"Thank you, Madame Adler. It is very important that I talk with you."

"So I gathered from your final entry in this," Irene replied holding up the journal. "I am sad to say that you proved accurate in your assessment of my lamentable curiosity. I would apologize, but I was trying to find some reference to that potion you had in your portmanteau."

"If you've read the journal, then you know that there is no way to replenish my supply of that drug, Madame."

"Oh, I have read it, Miss Holmes, rather avidly and several times, I assure you. A most remarkable document, Miss Holmes, if that is who you really are," Irene said as she tossed the journal to Sherla.

"But I must admit that I find this," she continued as she held up a yellowed document, "equally remarkable.". It was a photograph of a woman dressed in an operatic costume. A glittering cascade of diamond-like jewels graced her throat and bosom. The picture had been taken after a particularly successful performance at one of the great opera halls of Europe, and the woman in the picture was a much younger Irene Adler. "I left this picture for the king as a replacement for the one he truly wanted when Mr. Sherlock Holmes nearly ran me to ground. Nearly twenty years ago."

"Dr. Watson kept it in his little museum of souvenirs from many of my cases. Not that I should ever have willingly parted with it in any case."

"To accept that explanation, young woman, I would have to accept that you are somehow Mr. Sherlock Holmes changed into a female. I assure you that it I find it far easier to accept that you are some type of adventuress playing out some strange game that I do not yet understand," Irene retorted. "The Times reported Mr. Holmes' death two days ago. You might have been responsible for his murder or know who is responsible. You might have broken into his home and stolen what you have brought here to me to prove you are who you say you are. You might have labored hard and long to make that journal. If so, you or one of your compatriots is an excellent forger for I have checked my own samples of Mr. Holmes handwriting and you are "i" and "t" perfect in your rendition of his rather unique hand."

Sherla started to respond, but some instinct stayed her. Irene was presenting her case, building up the suspense while laying out the evidence. As Sherlock, Sherla had often used just such a strategy to tease the truth out of a villain. She decided to see where Irene's arguments led her.

"So who are you?" Irene continued. "I could almost believe that you are his daughter. There is something about the eyes and ears that remind me of him, although your nose is far more attractively sized and shaped." Sherla instinctively wrinkled that appendage, causing Irene to momentarily smile. "You'd be what? Twenty? Twenty-one years old by the look of you? That would mean your mother is that modiste - the one who was once a member of the demimonde."

"HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?!?" Sherla blurted out, too surprised by the woman's conclusion to keep to her decision to say nothing.

Irene merely shrugged. "I made it a point to keep track of Holmes. I knew of that case and knew that he'd spent a great deal of time with the woman. . .what was her name? She used a French identity. . .Marie Jeanne?" Then a light went on. "And that is the woman your journal told me to seek out if I take up this harebrained quest of yours."

"Madame Jeanne Marie," Sherla corrected quietly, "but her name is Jennifer, or Jenny Deavers.

"It all fits. So, why are you here trying to convince me that you are your father, girl?"

"Because I am. . .or rather was, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and for all the reasons I mentioned in that journal, I need you to carry on this fight."

"I am still unconvinced that you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, girl," Irene said quietly.

Sherla sighed. *I will have to try. This worked with Jenny - eventually. Unfortunately, I may not have the time to finish with that partial dose I got.* "Very well, this will take some time, and I had rather hoped not to expend in this fashion, but until you are convinced, we can go no further."

"All right. Convince me."

"You and Mr. Holmes, or rather, you and I came in contact in several cases. Two of them were never published by my friend, Dr. John Watson as I wished to protect your anonymity and thus not call the attention of the Bohemian King down upon you. I will now relate the particulars of those two cases. If I am an imposter, how would I know the details I am about to relate? And if I am only Holmes' daughter, why would I try to convince you otherwise? You would help me in any case."

"You are very certain of that," Irene murmured.

"You are Irene Adler, and you were and are the only person, man or woman, to best me twice, but you always did so fairly and honestly."

Irene suddenly grinned. "It was more than twice, but pray continue. I find I am almost willing to be convinced. It should be vastly entertaining in any case."

 

 

 

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