The Detective and the Woman Read Free Page B

defeat in the Bohemian affair, and now, as he saw her before him, the impression was strong once again. Nevertheless, he knew, the human heart was consistent—consistently susceptible, even in a genius. Men and women, both the stupid and the clever, had been taken in by the opposite sex since the dawn of time, he didn’t doubt, and would be taken in until it ended. Like many others, Irene had seen what she desired to see and ignored the rest. She had been foolish—understandably so, perhaps, but she had also been strong. A weaker person would have succumbed to despair long before three years had passed, and he could hardly fault her for being deceived by another when he had been deceived by her. He could not, however, keep himself from wishing that her suspicions had served her better. Weakness was more painful than usual when he saw it in one to whom he had attributed unusual intelligence. But, as he knew too well, no mind was infallible.
    The detective leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, looking into The Woman’s delicate face. He wished, as he had throughout the evening, that he had his pipe. The oversight had been deliberate, however, as it had no place in his chosen disguise, and he satiated himself by thinking of it lying snugly in its leather pouch in his hotel.
    ‘The story starts,’ he began, ‘with my death.’ He relished the quick look of surprise that flashed across her features. He always had enjoyed a shocking beginning. ‘After your departure, my life proceeded largely as it always had, except that I began to detect a hidden pattern that I had never before seen, as if the underworld of London were running according to a shared agenda. There was a regularity to it, a deadly efficiency that nothing so vast can reach without someone or something orchestrating its movements. I will not tax you by explaining all of my processes, but I discovered the unmoved mover, as they say, to be a man named James Moriarty, an Irish professor of unassuming appearance and remarkable mind. He set out to kill me, and it became evident fairly quickly that I would not be safe while the man remained at large, free to use his vast organization as he willed. Watson went with me to Switzerland, and I met Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, arranging things so that my friend would find evidence of a scene that appeared to be the death-place of both Moriarty and myself. The first assumption was correct; Moriarty met his death by equal parts my hand and the inexorability of the Falls. I escaped, however, and traveled immediately to Florence, Italy, from whence I contacted my brother. My object was to remain absent from England, or, indeed, from the knowledge of the public, until enough of Moriarty’s associates had been apprehended that I might return without unreasonable risk to Watson or to the investigation. Such is still my intent.’
    ‘Now to the part of the story that concerns you. During my time in Florence, my brother, who works for the British government in a diplomatic role, sent me a letter, a request that I sail to America, and a note insisting that I not open the enclosed missive until I arrived. More than that, he asked that I wait until I had reached a town south of here called Fort Myers, an outpost during the American Seminole and Civil Wars. I didn’t know what he meant by the request, but my brother’s mind is very like my own, so I did as he asked. Truthfully, without a firm objective, I grow irritable, and I was glad of having a purpose.’
    Holmes’s deliberate omission of the scope of Mycroft’s influence was, he considered, entirely necessary. What he had said was technically true and hopefully sufficient to satisfy Irene’s immediate curiosity. He trusted her mind enough to believe that she would not betray him in a naive manner, but he did not trust her nearly enough to be willing to share internationally sensitive information in a wanton way. Whatever else was true, Mycroft must be