“Lestrade!” I cried. “Good! Hold that carriage!”
Lestrade pivoted about, pointed one finger at the driver and said, “Stay,” in a tone that promised the man absolutely did not want to find out what would happen if he didn’t. Then he turned back to me and said, “What has happened, Dr. Watson? You say there has been a murder?”
“No, no! It’s worse than that!”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. After a moment, he asked, “Did somebody wear the wrong hat to the theater?”
“What? No! What are you speaking of?”
“Well, I couldn’t imagine what was worse than murder. But then I remembered: you are a rich Londoner, so…”
“No, it’s Irene Adler!”
I will spare the reader the account of the morning’s happenings I gave to Inspector Lestrade as we galloped down the lane, looking for our prey. Likewise I shall not delve too deeply into the hundreds of machinations I suspected Irene Adler of, or the silly precautions I took to counter her. We did not see anybody about who resembled either her natural appearance or that of Inspector Martin. She could be anywhere. And—though there was every chance the location she had given me was a blind—I thought we had better check the Thistle Wig Inn to see if we could find any sign of her.
Rather a plethora of signs, as it turned out. Lestrade’s badge saw us quickly into her suite where we found several sets of women’s clothes in her size, a surprising quantity of men’s clothes in her size, and her disguise kit still open upon the dressing table. By God, it was an amazing thing. There was row upon row of makeup. Putty to shape noses and brows. Glues to fix prosthetics. Hair in every different shade, ready to be sculpted into beards, eyebrows, moustaches and particularly hirsute moles. I was in favor of instantly confiscating the thing, but Lestrade disagreed.
“She has done no harm that we know of,” he pointed out.
“No harm this time, perhaps, but she’s the most dangerous agent I’ve ever encountered.”
“Holmes has many times told me you hold that opinion,” said Lestrade. “But he has just as many times told me not to encourage you in it. She says she wants to explain everything. We should let her.”
Which, eventually, we did. We waited. Well… Lestrade waited. I checked every surface she might ask me to sit on, to see if little poisoned pins might have been rigged to pop up through the upholstery and stick me in the bottom. There was a little dining table draped in a pure white tablecloth in the center of the main room. Lestrade threw himself onto one of the chairs—quite careless of any covert bottom-piercing weaponry that might have been deployed there—to watch me pointlessly ransack the room. Let me only say that if an eyeroll or an exasperated sigh landed upon a man with the same force as a slap, Vladislav Lestrade would likely have beaten me to death.
At five minutes to five, the door swung silently open. Irene Adler stood in the doorway, wearing a red and orange sundress. It was scandalously short; one could almost see her knees! How tropical it seemed. How out of place in this grim country on this grim day. She wore no shoes. To make it easier to sneak up on me, perhaps? Or… some other reason? In her right hand she held a bottle of red wine and two long-stemmed glasses, crossed in a dainty “X” across the neck of the bottle. Her left hand was concealed behind her body. She gave me a whimsical smile.
“Hello, John. I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
“Erm… yes,” I muttered, looking about and realizing just how much mess I’d made, searching the room for hidden pit traps and drop-from-the-ceiling nooses.
“And the man downstairs tells me you’ve seen fit to bring a chaperone,” Irene said, her eyes moving over Lestrade. Her left hand swung out from behind her hip and I flinched, sure she was about to produce a pistol to gun down either my companion or myself. Instead, she produced a third wine glass.
Hello, John. I see you’ve made yourself at home.
“As you please, I suppose,” said Irene, breezing into the room. “Now tell me: who is this staunch paladin you’ve brought along to safeguard your virtue?”
“I am Detective Inspector Vladislav Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”
“Ah. Yes, I have heard of you,” said Irene, her eyebrows going up, and I saw just a hint of worry cross her brow as she recalculated her position. With a little sniff, she flipped the third wine glass into the fireplace, where it burst with a dainty tinkle. “Won’t be needing that, I suppose.”
Lestrade frowned. “Actually, it is my custom to have a glass at my place with just a splash of wine. It helps to keep my true nature hidden from the casual observer and… well… it’s nice to feel included.”
“Of course. How rude of me,” said Irene. With a quick little flick of her hand, she produced a replacement glass, as if by magic. And yet… I had seen more than my share of actual magic; this seemed more like simple sleight of hand. Had she known Lestrade’s identity and anticipated this? Or had she been ready for a fourth person to join us? She set all three glasses down upon the tablecloth, tipped some wine into each and said, “Now, John, why don’t you stop ransacking my rooms and come and join us. I know you must think I’ve committed all sorts of horrible atrocities at Ridling Thorpe Manor, but I’m really not the one you want.”
Lestrade gave a derisive snort.
“Well…” Irene half-stifled a smile, then shifted her gaze to Lestrade and conceded, “I’m not the one Scotland Yard wants.” She plopped herself into the chair opposite Lestrade, had a little sip of wine and said, “If the official police force would like
