A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
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 still a
spectacular woman. Her curvaceous yet slender figure still
induced men half her age to fawn over her whenever she deigned to
attend some ball or soiree. The hair that had once been purest
auburn was now only a little less so, and the added silvery
highlights only made the total picture all the more eye catching.
Her skin still possessed a smooth, youthful suppleness that women
twenty years her junior envied. Her eyes were a challenge for
they seemed to change color with her mood - green when excited,
gray 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 be of
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,
and 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 reticule, a
paper parcel and an 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".
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 or Mr. Sherlock Holmes. At
least, if Irene was to believe the letter of introduction, and
she had not 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
mementoes 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 standing very close to a tall young man attired in a
very ornate, Germanic dress uniform. A great array of metal
decorations and badges of rank adorned his tunic. The woman in
the picture was a much younger Irene Adler. "I rather thought
this had been destroyed when the King did not continue to pursue
me after he had hired Mr. Holmes to run me to ground."
"You disappeared too well, but in any case, he knew that Sherlock
Holmes, that is, I had it in my possession and that I had
promised to keep it safe. Dr. Watson kept it in his little
museum of souvenirs from many of my cases."
"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
that, or know who is responsible. You might have broken into his
home and stolen what you 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."
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'd 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? 20, 21 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 sure, 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 fine I am almost willing to be convinced. It should
be vastly entertaining in any case."
