I approached the table with some anxiety, suspiciously eyeing the glass of wine Irene had left for me. So far, she seemed to be approaching the situation from a friendly position, but who could tell her true motivations? And wasn’t there an old saying? Poison me once, shame on you. Poison me twice… I decided I wasn’t all that thirsty at the moment. Instead, I asked, “And you propose to tell me this Abe Slaney is the source of the coded messages received by Elsie Cubitt?”
Irene gave me a knowing smile, as if she were charmed by my naiveté, and said, “There is no code, John.”
Lestrade shook his head. “No. It is clear to me that these letters had meaning to Elsie Cubitt.”
“Oh, meaning, certainly. But no code. That was the marvel of Abe Slaney; the man was a dirty little genius.”
“Was?” I asked.
Irene shrugged. “Or perhaps is. I’ve no way of knowing just yet. The agent I dispatched to bring him is a terrifically powerful thing, and not known for his subtlety.”
My jaw dropped open. “You… you sent one of the nine? Lestrade, she’s got control of two of these trinkets—they can summon horrible creatures, built to control the wills of all men. You sent one of those—”
“Please, John, I would never do something so foolish. First off, Allan Pinkerton has bound all nine guardians; they cannot be summoned, except by his order. It’s why the foci are momentarily safe to play with. Second, even if I could call one of the nine, I never would. They are powerful, yes, but not controllable. The agent I’ve chosen is… well… eminently controllable. Still, I fear I may have been a bit rash in sending him and I want you to understand my position.” Irene Adler stared into her wine for a moment, then said, “I haven’t any family anymore. My father and mother are gone, my sister, even my grandfather. I’ve got a number of enemies I’m close to—like you, John—but no real friends, you know? Elsie was my best friend. Back at The Joint… how rare it was for me to share the limelight with someone really worthy of it. And Elsie was special. None of the grit of that place stuck to her. None of the grime and desperation. She was light in a dark corner. She was an angel in an outhouse and I loved her more than I can say. That’s what makes Slaney’s crime so despicable. She was our friend. So maybe I wasn’t too careful when I sent for him. There’s no crime in that, is there?”
“There may be,” said Lestrade, in a warning tone.
“Then perhaps we’ll have to see if you care to pursue charges against my agent when he arrives. Until then… oh, have a glass of wine with me, won’t you, John? I’m sad!”
“No.”
“Oh, right! Because—I forgot—I’m an inhuman monster who deserves to die! Present company excepted, of course.”
“Of course,” said Lestrade.
“Which did I poison, do you think? The entire bottle, or only your glass? Look here: if I wanted you gone, I could easily have moved against you while you thought I was Inspector Martin. I know how long you tend to dither before you act, John. I could have poisoned the trigger of your gun, knowing even if you caught me, you’d have stood there with your finger on that trigger letting the poison seep into your bloodstream. Which…” Irene shifted about in her seat, then directed her gaze at the ceiling and muttered, “…which I might actually have done. Only as a precaution. Still… may want to give it a wash before you shoot anybody, all right?”
I stared down at her, incensed that she’d once again laid a trap for me, but grateful she’d admitted it. Because she was right: I’d have fallen for it. How much of what she said was true, how much an act? It was always impossible to tell with her. Nonetheless, slowly and without taking my eyes off her, I sat down, lifted the glass to my lips, and took a little sip.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s quite good!”
“Of course it is! Who do you think you’re dealing with?” she snapped, then pulled her glass close and took a healthy slug.
I had a second drink myself, and let it swirl in my mouth a moment, while I watched her. She really was quite remarkable.
“How’d you turn your eyes brown?” I asked.
“Mmph!” she said, halfway through a swallow. “Yes. I had to use real magic. I don’t like to do it, you know, but what choice did I have? You’ve seen me too many times, John. You know me too well.”
I nodded. “Without the eyes...”
“And the beard,” she said, waggling a finger at me. “I had to break up the line of my jaw or that would have done it, too.”
“Oh?”
“Trust me, you’d have known in an instant.”
“Well, you’re the expert, I suppose.”
“Damn right.”
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Much as I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, there is the matter of Hilton Cubitt’s murder.”
“And Elsie’s too,” Irene insisted. “What you just saw was a Slaney Special. He’s used it time and again in America. How many New York politicians have been found in Slaney-owned, out-of-state houses of ill repute, having just shot their mistress and then themselves? Or vice-versa?”
Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know. How many?”
“Seven. Slaney’s got a special cocktail of opiates he uses to absolutely pickle the brains of one of his victims. Makes them pliable as a kitten. Then he dances with them. ‘Dum, dum, dum,’ he
