The Dark Lady

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 THREE FRIENDS

  Chapter 2 THE ART OF ESCAPE

  Chapter 3 ASHCROFT MANOR

  Chapter 4 DO YOU PLAY?

  Chapter 5 THE CASTAWAY

  Chapter 6 THE BEACH TERROR

  Chapter 7 THE TALKING WARDROBE

  Chapter 8 A STRANGE GUEST

  Chapter 9 A DEAD MAN'S SECRET

  Chapter 10 HOTEL DE LA PAIX

  Chapter 11 VOICES IN THE NIGHT

  Chapter 12 THE DARK LADY

  Chapter 13 HOTEL DES ARTISTES

  Chapter 14 AN EVENTFUL DAY

  Chapter 15 A MESSAGE

  Chapter 16 THÉOPHRASTE

  Chapter 17 ALL FOR ONE

  Chapter 18 A WALK IN THE DARK

  Chapter 19 BEYOND THE DARKNESS

  Chapter 20 A GENTLEMAN'S MEETING

  Chapter 21 MOONLIGHT ACROBATS

  Chapter 22 6 RUE DE MÉZIÈRES

  Chapter 23 PARIS

  Chapter 24 A MAN WITH MANY NAMES

  Chapter 25 THREE LADIES

  Chapter 26 THE FINAL MYSTERY

  Chapter 1

  THREE FRIENDS

  Would you believe that I was the first and only girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective? When we met, though, he wasn’t a detective yet. And he wasn’t famous. I was twelve, and he was only a little older than me.

  It was summer — the sixth of July, to be exact. And I can still remember perfectly the time I first met him. He was sitting in a corner on top of the city walls, his back up against the creeping ivy. In the sky above him, seulls circled in slow spirals. There was nothing beyond him but the sea — an endless expanse of dark and sparkling blue. Sherlock had his chin resting on his knees and he was completely absorbed in reading a book. He was almost scowling at it, as if the world depended on him finishing it.

  I don’t think he would have even noticed me if I hadn’t spoken to him. Since I’d just come to Saint-Malo, I asked him if he lived here. “No,” he said without even taking his eyes off his book. “I live in a house. Forty-nine Rue Saint Sauveur.”

  What a strange sense of humor, I thought. Of course he didn’t live on top of a wall by the sea! I knew that a battle of wits had just begun between us.

  I wasn’t from the city of Saint-Malo. I’d only just arrived after a long carriage ride from Paris. We were on vacation, and staying there had been my mother’s idea. I was excited. Until then, I’d only seen the sea a few times when I’d gone with Papa to Calais, where he took the ship to England. I’d seen it once in Sanremo in Italy, too, but my parents said I was too young to remember that. But I did remember it. I really did. So the idea of spending all of the summer of 1870 at a seaside resort was wonderful. And my father had even said that we could stay longer if we wanted to. So, even though I eventually had to go back to school, this was going to be a nice and long summer. And it turned out to be the summer that changed my whole life.

  The trip to Saint-Malo had been terrible. The problem wasn’t the carriage, which my father had spent a lot of money to hire (as he always did when he was looking after my mother and me). It was a carriage fit for a king, with four black horses, a coachman with a top hat, and seats covered with silk cushions. Even still, the six-hour trip under the watchful gaze of Mama and Mr. Nelson made it seem like an eternity.

  Mr. Horatio Nelson was our butler. He was very tall, very quiet, and seemed very concerned about every little thing I did. The rest of the servants had left the week before to prepare our summer house for us. Mr. Nelson was the only one who’d stayed back. And he never took his eyes off me. He always seemed to be about to say to me, “Perhaps it is not appropriate for a lady to behave that way, Miss Irene.”

  Perhaps it is not appropriate, Miss Irene, I thought. Mr. Nelson always said that whenever I was doing anything fun. And that was probably why, at the first chance I got, I escaped from our summer house and climbed up the winding path to the top of the city walls.

  Our vacation home had two floors. Although it was small, it was very pretty, with a big skylight in the roof and bigger bow windows (which I used to call “boat windows” when I was little). There was a trellis covered in ivy that crept all over the walls. When we first got there, my mother said, “Heavens! That ivy will be just full of animals!”

  It took a few days before I realized what she’d meant. I’d left my bedroom window open one night, and the next morning Mr. Nelson found a snake slithering across the floor! “Perhaps it is not appropriate, Miss Irene, to leave the window open at night,” Mr. Nelson had said sternly, entering my room. He’d then taken the poker from the fireplace and began to walk toward the snake.

  “Please don’t kill it, Mr. Nelson!” I’d cried.

  Mr. Nelson then sighed, put the poker down, and grabbed the snake in his hands. “Then I shall politely escort our little guest to the garden.” Mr. Nelson was a grumpy man, but he always knew how to make me laugh.

  As soon as he’d left the room with my so-called guest, the wardrobe door popped open and a boy with a skinny face popped out. He was my other great friend during that long summer. His name was Arsène Lupin, the famous gentleman thief. But back then he hadn’t yet begun his dazzling criminal career. And he was hardly a gentleman, considering he was only a couple of years older than I was, and even younger than Sherlock Holmes.

  Now you know the names of my friends. If you’ve guessed that a lot happened that summer, you’d be right. But it’s best if I start at the beginning . . .

  Chapter 2

  THE ART OF ESCAPE

  After we arrived at our summer home, Mother was busy helping the servants unpack our trunks and suitcases. There was no way I was going to waste an afternoon doing that! So I escaped by the small gate at the back of the garden. From there, I found the winding alleyways of the town, the promontory, and then the walls. The first person I’d come across was the bookish boy I mentioned earlier. I didn’t know anything about him except that he was very rude and spoke English.

  I put my hands on my hips and tilted my head slightly, just like my mother did when she was trying to attract my father’s attention. “Hello,” I said.

  But Sherlock Holmes didn’t seem even a little bit interested in giving me any of his attention. So I tried another approach. “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “A book,” he said flatly.

  “And you’re still on the first page?” I asked.

  At least my joke annoyed him a little. He stuck a finger in the book to keep his place and looked up at me, his eyes blazing. “Have you ever heard of René Duguay-Trouin?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Ha!” he said. “Then your skills of observation are very poor.” Having said that, he stuck his nose back into his book. Normally I would have tossed some smart remark back at him, but that day I didn’t care to. I was too happy about having the whole summer ahead of me in that beautiful seaside town to bicker with the first person I’d met.

  I went over to the parapet and looked down. A strip of white sand stretched out in a jagged line in front of me. I gazed across at the little harbor, the promontory, and the two tiny islands that were no more than a hundred yards from the shore. Only then did I notice the statue of a man on top of a pedestal just a few feet from us.

  “That’s René Duguay-Trouin,” whispered Sherlock, pointing at the statue.

  I jumped up onto the parapet and sat down to inspect the statue. “He was a hero of the high seas!” I said. I could hear the waves behind me. The feeling of empty space from the top of those high ramparts made me feel giddy.

  “He was a pirate,” Sherlock said, correc
ting me. He turned a couple of pages then continued speaking. “He was born here in 1673, the eighth of ten children. Five of them died almost as soon as they were born.”

  “He didn’t die, though.”

  “No,” Sherlock said. “He went to sea and became one of the most famous pirates of his time.”

  I let my legs dangle in the air, pretending I wasn’t listening. He stopped talking and pretended to read. A few minutes went by. But then I caught him looking at me from behind his book. I started laughing.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he said.

  “I’m laughing because you were looking at me,” I said.

  “No I wasn’t,” Sherlock said.

  “Yes you were. You were peeking out at me from behind your book!”

  Sherlock grunted, and then moved around, trying to find a more comfortable position in his ivy-covered spot.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle as I looked at the statue of the man in his hat with a sword in one hand. I thought about all the useless information the boy had just told me about him. Pirates, swords, blah, blah, blah. Boys always talk about boring, meaningless stuff.

  “Anyway, my name’s Irene,” I said cheerfully. “How about you? Do you have a name?”

  “I have two, actually — William Sherlock,” he said in a mocking tone. “But everyone calls me William.”

  “That’s probably because Sherlock sounds a little odd!” I said. He thought long and hard instead of responding. After a few moments, I finally said, “Well, I think they’re wrong. William is very boring. Sherlock suits you better.”

  “If you say so . . .” he said.

  “Absolutely!” I said. “In fact, I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to call you Sherlock!”

  He shrugged. “If you like. It’s only a name.”

  “Have you and your brother lived in Saint-Malo a long time?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing.

  I smiled. “You said that my skills of observation were very poor earlier,” I said, pointing to the statue. “Maybe you’re right. But I do know that you’re not French, because we’re talking in English and your accent is too good for you to have learned it at school. Also, you’re not dressed like someone on vacation at the seaside, which probably means you live here. You have a sour expression on your face, like someone who’s just argued with someone or run away from home — like me. And when you told me that five of the pirate’s brothers had died, your eyes lit up, so I deduced that you’ve just had a fight with your own brother.” I took a deep breath. “So, how close did I get?”

  Sherlock’s eyes were full of honest surprise, an expression that was very different from the cold but brilliant sneer that everyone came to know him by many years later when he grew up to be the greatest detective in the world. He closed his book. I smiled to myself. Apparently, I’d finally gotten his attention.

  “You speak English but you’re not English,” he said.

  “I’m American,” I said, ruining the guessing game.

  “But you live in Paris.”

  “Yes, I do.” But I wondered how he’d figured that out. I was wearing a dress, shoes, and white socks. There was nothing particularly Parisian about my appearance. “Is it that obvious?”

  Sherlock chuckled. “Not at all. It was nothing but a guess. But you’re not wearing the right shoes for the beach or walking in the countryside. So you’ve probably just arrived. You said that you’ve just run away from home, so I assume you’re not just passing through. But you don’t look scared, like someone who’s running away from something they’re frightened of. So, you must have run away for some other reason. You’re probably here on vacation with your parents.” His voice was calm and reassuring. Almost musical. Our little game continued.

  “And do I have any sisters?” I asked.

  Sherlock thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Brothers?” I asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Sherlock said. “From the way you spoke to me, I’d say so. An older brother, probably.”

  “Wrong, Sherlock!” I said.

  “You’re an only child, then,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, swinging my legs. “You’re very good. You almost guessed everything, except for my parents, since only my mother is here.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Sherlock said quickly. “I didn’t mean to —”

  “Hold your horses!” I said. “My father’s fine. It’s just that he didn’t come on vacation with us because he had to work. He works with trains and railways. But he was the one who chose this place. The three of us came here today: me, my mother, and Mr. Nelson.” I noticed the shadow that passed over Sherlock’s face when I was talking about my father. I didn’t realize it then, but his father had died eight years earlier.

  “What are you reading?” I asked.

  He checked the cover as if he’d forgotten. “A General History of the Pyrates, by Captain Charles Johnson.”

  “Is it interesting?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Very.”

  “And you’d like to be one?” I asked.

  “Like to be one what?”

  “A pirate.”

  Sherlock chuckled before answering, “Quite frankly, it had never occurred to me.”

  “I’d like to be one,” I said. “And I’d be a good pirate. Or is that piratess?”

  “I don’t think there’s such a word as piratess,” he said. “There haven’t been enough female pirates.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “I’d be an excellent pirate! I’d give orders to everyone and have an island all to myself. Batten down the hatches! Hoist that mizzen! Ahoy, me hearties!”

  Sherlock smirked. Then I heard Mr. Nelson calling my name. He was some way off and his voice echoed from down among the alleyways. He kept repeating it. “Miss Adler! Miss Adler!” he called.

  How embarrassing! I thought. What a delightful way to be introduced to someone new.

  My new friend was looking at me, studying my reactions. I jumped down off the wall, looked at the harbor, the sea, and one of the little islands near the promontory. For a second I imagined it was a treasure island, complete with a galleon with a Jolly Roger waving in the wind. “I have to escape, Sherlock,” I said. “Mr. Nelson, our butler, will be here soon.”

  “Escape?”

  “You heard me,” I said. “I don’t want him to take me back home.”

  “He sounds worried,” Sherlock said.

  “He isn’t. My mother must have sent him. Whether I go home with him now or go home later in time for dinner, I’m going to get scolded. So I might as well make it worth the trouble.”

  “I understand,” Sherlock said.

  I went over to some stone stairs that led down to the beach and pretended to plan my escape down the stairs. “I’m not going to spend the rest of the day putting linen and clothes into closets,” I said. “Or, even worse, playing card games.”

  “How horrid,” Sherlock said. I didn’t know if he meant the clothes or the cards. It was all a game, though. I knew full well that the servants would put away all the linen, and my mother hardly ever played cards. But Sherlock couldn’t have known that.

  “Miss Adler!” Mr. Nelson called, closer now.

  I put my hands on my hips again. “So, Sherlock? Are you going to sit there and read your book, or are you going to help me escape?”

  Sherlock thought for a moment. He shut his book about pirates and put it in a small cloth bag. “This way,” he said. He walked over to a path that was so narrow it was little more than a crack between the rocks. He led me down. Our hands accidentally brushed and he immediately pulled away as if he’d been burned. He turned his back to me and we walked quickly and without talking for what seemed a very long time.

  When we go
t to the bottom of the walls, we began to follow them toward the harbor. “Where are we going?” I asked softly.

  “To a friend’s place,” Sherlock said. Seeing him on his feet made me realize he was tall and very thin. His cotton jacket flicked against his protruding ribs as he moved. Every time he stopped, he’d hunch over and kind of fold in on himself, as if he were trying to hide. But as soon as he started walking again, his back would straighten completely.

  “And who’s this friend?” I asked.

  “He’s got a rowboat,” Sherlock said. “A very small one. Well, it’s not his rowboat, it’s his father’s.”

  “And you want to go out to sea in it?” I asked.

  “That’s generally the function of boats,” he said with a grin.

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d just arrived in Saint-Malo and already I’d met a boy. Not only that, the boy was about to take me out on a boat. “That’s . . . wonderful!” I cried.

  And that’s how Sherlock Holmes took me to the harbor to meet his friend with a boat — and the time when all our troubles first began.

  Chapter 3

  ASHCROFT MANOR

  Sherlock’s friend turned out to be a skinny but strong-looking boy. His eyes and hair were as dark as Sherlock’s. He was busy cleaning out the bottom of a rowboat that was tied to the end of the pier.

  I wiped my brow. The sun was scorching hot. Seagulls were perched up on the masts of the boats, while fishermen were mending their nets. I only had eyes for the boats as they bobbed on the water, promising me relief and relaxation.

  “Apparently there’s an emergency, Lupin,” Sherlock said as soon as we reached the boat.

  “What kind of emer —” the boy began, but he went silent the second he saw me. He froze as still as a statue.

  “This is Irene,” Sherlock said.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello,” the other boy said.

  “And this is Lupin,” Sherlock said.

  “Lupin?” I repeated, puzzled. “That’s a strange name.”