The Soprano's Last Song Read online

  He pretended to believe that “shopping” was the reason I was dragging him on this adventure of mine, and he followed me into another shop.

  “And do all the nice young ladies who go shopping ask every shopkeeper if they know a certain Hortence?” he asked slyly.

  “If they are looking to find a certain person,” I replied.

  “And once they find her?” he asked.

  “You know what, Mr. Nelson? You ask too many questions.”

  But at the end of the day, when I was about to lose hope, it was Mr. Nelson who found Hortence for me. In the last tailor shop we visited, Mr. Nelson asked about orders made to Hortence, and the owner wrote down an address for us.

  “I guess we’ll go there right now.” Mr. Nelson smiled at me when we were on the street again.

  “It would be nice of you to come,” I said.

  “You’ll only go if I come with you, Miss Irene.”

  I stole a glance at him. He lifted the bags. “Now I’m curious, too,” he said.

  We knocked on the door of a private house two blocks farther down Savile Row, and a little girl only a few years old opened the door.

  “Hello, little one,” I said. “Is your mother home?”

  A middle-aged woman appeared from behind the door. She had a beautiful, round face, big blue eyes, a small mouth, and brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Are you Hortence?” I asked politely.

  The woman looked at me and then at Mr. Nelson, who smiled at her and said, “Say yes, please. We’ve spent the whole day looking for you.”

  “Looking for me?” the seamstress asked. “And why is that?”

  “We are looking for Ophelia Merridew,” I said softly, and I noticed Hortence move as though she wanted to close the door. So I added, “Do not be afraid, please. I’m not a meddler or a journalist. I’m just a fan of hers, and very worried for her safety. I know you were friends with her, and I wondered if, by chance, you have heard from her in recent days. Answer yes, so that I know she is fine, and I will trouble you no more.”

  Evidently that little speech that I had prepared and repeated in my head all day had the effect I desired, because the seamstress cheered up, moved away from the door, and invited us in for a cup of tea.

  “In fact it is almost dinnertime, but . . .” she said.

  “A cup of tea will be fine,” I told her.

  “Olive and I were born in the same month,” the seamstress began, “and we shared the same difficult life.”

  They had grown up in the poor district of Bethnal Green, where, fortunately for Olive, the good priest of the parish of St. Mary had started a chorus of girls who sang in church.

  “It did not take long for all of us to realize Olive’s talent,” said the seamstress. “And so one day the priest introduced her to a gentleman with whom he was acquainted, and this man was impressed with her talent.”

  “Do you remember the name of this gentleman?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately I do not,” she admitted. “But I know he was very rich and influential, and, above all, it was he who introduced Olive to Giuseppe Barzini.”

  “Got it,” I said. I imagined that the mysterious gentleman who was very rich might have had a Spanish accent. “Go on, please.”

  “They went to have dinner in one of those restaurants in the center of the city,” the seamstress reminisced, “where those like us dream of drinking at least a cup of tea once in a lifetime. Olive was very nervous, but the dinner went beyond our expectations. Maestro Barzini heard her singing and immediately decided to take her with him to Milan, Italy, to study, certain that she would become an opera star. Olive returned home to gather some of her belongings. And then we read her name in the papers. After a few years, her family moved to France, away from the misery of Bethnal Green. Can you blame them?”

  “And Ophelia has never asked you to go as well?” I asked.

  I noticed Mr. Nelson stiffen, just as Hortence did, and I realized that without meaning to, I had touched on a sensitive topic.

  “Maybe for you it is not easy to understand, young lady. I can tell from your attire, and who accompanies you, what your social class is . . .”

  Mr. Nelson nodded.

  “But, you see, those of us who have less, more importantly, care a lot about our own dignity,” she continued.

  I bit my lip. “Excuse me. I did not mean to offend you.”

  “But you did,” she said. “Unintentionally, of course, but you did. And so, that’s how I felt every time my friend Olive offered me money to help out. I have never envied her talent or her success. I’ve always loved her from the heart. And I expected, therefore, the same treatment. I hoped that she wouldn’t feel pity, but compassion for how I live.”

  I looked down. The small house that surrounded me reflected what Hortence was trying to explain. It was tiny and modest but was kept decent and clean.

  I realized that our conversation was coming to an end. So I got up, sighed, and put forth my last question, “As far as you know, did all of Olive’s family go to France? I’ve heard of an aunt who stayed in the city,” I said.

  Hortence nodded, leading me to the door. “Dear old Aunt Betty.”

  She said goodbye to us, but remained at the door as Mr. Nelson and I walked away.

  “She was an old, crazy maid, who did not want to know anything about travel . . .” she called out, making me stop again. “But of all her family, she was the only one who really wanted something good to happen to Olive. She wanted Olive to do well simply because she was her niece — not because she hoped Olive would become the best opera singer in the world. And I believe that she is still in Bethnal Green.”

  Hortence closed the door slowly.

  Chapter 15

  INTO THE FOG

  Bethnal Green was not included among the neighborhoods in my city guide. When I met Sherlock the next morning at the coffee house, he explained why. It was one of the poorest neighborhoods in London, he explained as we waited for Lupin to arrive.

  After waiting for nearly half an hour, I started to wonder if Lupin was offended by the way Sherlock and I had departed the day before. But as we waited there for our friend, Sherlock and I decided we must continue to follow the trail of Ophelia’s past to Bethnal Green, even if we had to do it without Lupin.

  Sherlock had to argue with the coachman and pay the fare in advance to get him to take us to Bethnal Green. When I had settled in the carriage I asked, “But is it really so terrible?”

  “Not in the sense that you imagine,” Sherlock answered.

  We plunged into the London fog. It was so thick that it even seemed to dampen the sound of horse hooves on the pavement. The pale sunlight gave way to a mass of uniform, compact gray. I noticed the houses become smaller and uglier, and then all I could see were pale shadows swallowed by the gray, wet, dripping sky.

  The carriage left us at a crossroads, where Sherlock chose a direction at random. “Welcome to Bethnal Green!” he said sarcastically.

  The only hint we had was a name — Betty. I looked around, thinking it was a hopeless mission.

  “Let’s try here,” Sherlock said, taking my hand. We went into a tavern that smelled of rotten cabbage and tobacco and was lit by a forest of candles although it was still morning. It was little more than a big room with a floor covered in sawdust and a few people perched at tables like vultures on branches.

  Sherlock tried to ignore them. He leaned against the counter next to some piles of dirty mugs. “I am looking for a woman,” he said to the owner, who was a big, flabby man with a patch over one eye. “A woman named Betty — an elderly lady who had a niece named Olive,” he continued.

  The host kept on rubbing an empty mug with a greasy towel and repeated the question to his customers, who gave us hungry looks. I shivered, moving close to Sherlock for some protection.
r />   “Betty, you said?” a bearded man asked while chewing. He had the aura of a gallows bird. “Betty? Perhaps it’s old Betty who is living nearby?” He nudged another customer beside him, then added, “She had a little girl, yes! But then the girl left.”

  My heart felt as if it had jumped out of my chest. Could it be that we had a stroke of luck?

  Mr. Scapegallows rose suddenly from his chair. “Come with me,” he said as he passed by me. He stank in an unmentionable way. “I’ll show you where she lives. If she is the Betty you are looking for . . .” the man continued.

  We found ourselves back in the fog. It wrapped us in its cold, damp embrace once again.

  Our guide muttered a few unintelligible phrases and led the way into an alley that seemed like a sewer between two decrepit buildings. “This way, come . . . this way.”

  We had just entered the alley when we heard the door of the inn behind us creak open again, at which point Sherlock stopped. “Run away!” he shouted.

  Our guide turned toward us, pulling out a knife with a rusty blade. But he did not threaten us in time. Sherlock Holmes pulled a filthy beer mug that he had taken from the counter of the inn out from under his jacket and, pouncing on the man with the knife, hit him in the face. The man shouted, and his accomplice began to run toward us.

  “Come! Quickly!” Sherlock grabbed my hand.

  We ran away, quickly out of sight in the fog, turning in a completely random pattern through the alleyways and the little muddy streets. Following our instincts, we tried to get out of that hellish area, choosing to go down streets that seemed larger and avoiding buildings that looked as if they might crash to the ground. We slowed only when we were quite sure nobody was chasing us, and we leaned on the scuffed wall of a house, looking at one another.

  “We were idiots,” Sherlock said.

  “Yes. That was foolish,” I said.

  He moved toward me, pushing the hair away from my face. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded and then looked down.

  “All right,” he whispered, forcing a smile. He took a deep breath and looked around, trying to figure out what part of the neighborhood we were in.

  “Do you hear that noise?” he asked me.

  I paid attention. It was like the sound of coins clinking together.

  We followed the noise through the fog and reached an old beggar woman on a street corner. She was playing with a few coins, dropping them into a tin bowl on the ground.

  When she saw us coming, she looked up, smiled in our direction, and suddenly began to rant and rave.

  “The devil is out there!” she whimpered, opening a horrible, toothless mouth. “The devil!”

  She pointed to a window across the street. The milky, flickering light that came from inside was frightening.

  Then the old woman grabbed at me, and suddenly my wrist was locked between her skeletal fingers.

  “He has no face!” she shouted, pulling me toward her. “With his cloak and that hat from hell! He has no face! Only a big red spot! It’s the devil!”

  I found myself a few inches away from her wide eyes, and I let out a scream. Sherlock intervened to release my wrist from the woman’s grip, shouting, “That’s enough, old fool!” Then he grabbed me by the shoulders, hugged me, and led me away — far from the fog and the madness that seemed to hover like a curse among those decrepit houses.

  We wandered around until Sherlock found a carriage. We hopped in eagerly, and Sherlock ordered the coachman to go to my hotel. I sat back and finally began to breathe again. When the carriage arrived at the Claridge’s, Sherlock and I said goodbye.

  I was relieved to sit down to lunch with Mr. Nelson. The waitress served me a delicate filet of sole with a side of golden potatoes. I could not help but smile, thankful for the company of Mr. Nelson, the news of my parents’ return, and especially the bright, artificial light that shone down on us in that warm, welcoming, and luxurious hotel.

  * * *

  Later that day, I discovered that Lupin was not at all angry with us. We hadn’t heard from him because he had received permission to visit his father. The visit had exhausted Lupin. A meeting that was supposed to last little more than fifteen minutes had lasted the whole morning.

  That afternoon, the three of us met at the Shackleton Coffee House. I was very happy to see Lupin and hugged him hard.

  There was an eerie feeling in the air. The city outside the windows of the café seemed immense and dangerous. Lupin’s mood seemed to fluctuate between moments of genuine despair and near euphoria as he told us about meeting with his father.

  He repeated, word for word, the conversation he had with his father. Only at the end, when Sherlock stood up from the table to order another cup of cocoa, did Lupin reveal that his father had given him a more accurate description of the Spaniard.

  “He was very tall, as we know, and he was wrapped in a very long cape, with a wide-brim hat that hid his forehead and eyes, and a long, red scarf that he lifted up to his nose,” Lupin said.

  “What a striking image!” I muttered. “Did you hear that, Sherlock?”

  Sherlock sat between us, and I invited Lupin to repeat the description of the Spaniard. As soon as he heard it, Sherlock’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Has he . . . has he really told you so? W-with those exact words?” Sherlock mumbled.

  “Sherlock? What’s wrong with you?” I asked him, alarmed.

  He frantically pulled a handful of coins out from his pocket to pay the bill and said, “We have to return to Bethnal Green! Immediately!”

  “Don’t even think about it!” I said.

  Lupin grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve — or at least he tried to. But with a rapid movement, Sherlock pulled away and went out into the dim light of the cloudy afternoon, shouting for a carriage.

  “Why does he always act like this?” Lupin asked as he stood up. “Couldn’t he try to tell us what he’s thinking before he departs at lightning speed?”

  I didn’t answer him because I was too distracted just then. “I’m not going back there,” I muttered, thinking back to Mr. Scapegallows, the muddy alleyways, the bare branches that emerged like skeletons in the fog, and that madwoman who was talking nonsense about the devil on the street corner.

  I had no intention of returning to Bethnal Green, but I followed my two friends out of the café anyway.

  “Sherlock!” Lupin called after our friend. “Can you please tell us what is on your mind?”

  Sherlock turned to look at us with the same glinting eyes that I had seen at the Port of Dover. “We need to find that woman again. The beggar!”

  “WHAT?” I exclaimed. “Sherlock! You —”

  He faced me. “Do you not understand, Irene? She saw him! He entered that house with the light flickering in the window. That beggar saw the Spaniard!”

  I could not follow his reasoning. I shook my head in disbelief. “Sherlock, I — I mean . . . that woman is crazy! She might not even know her own name!”

  Sherlock stopped a carriage with a gesture of his hand and went to open the door, continuing to look me straight in the eyes. “I’m not asking you to come with me, Irene.”

  I felt fear and pride fighting furiously in my mind. Pride finally won. I stared into the eyes of my friend. “There is no need to ask me anything. Let’s go!”

  Chapter 16

  THE DEVIL OF BETHNAL GREEN

  According to Sherlock, we were going to Bethnal Green in search of two people — the mysterious Spaniard and Betty, Merridew’s aunt. But then, I wondered, why were we seeking out the madwoman on the sidewalk?

  “The old beggar says she saw a devil, right?” Sherlock asked as the carriage passed over bumpy, muddy streets. “She described him in a very precise way . . . wrapped in a large cloak, without a face . . .”

  “With a red spot instead of a face!�
� I almost shouted.

  “And, in your opinion, do you think that would be the way a crazy old woman would describe someone with his face hidden behind a red scarf . . . like the Spaniard?” Lupin pondered.

  “How do we even know the ‘devil’ that crazy woman was talking about and the Spaniard are the same person?” I objected.

  “I’m not saying they are,” Sherlock corrected me. “But they could be . . . especially if that lit window is the house we are looking for — Aunt Betty’s house!”

  I was struck by that possibility, and I began to look out the window eagerly. I had sworn to myself that I would not set foot again in that neighborhood — not for any reason at all — and now, a few hours later, I was gushing at the thought of returning!

  Since those days, I have learned that adolescence is an unpredictable, reckless age. Anyone looking for evidence of this fact can find plenty by simply following my actions during those chaotic hours.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” the coachman cried, stopping the horses so we could get off.

  Sherlock passed him his last coins, asking him to wait in the area. The man placed a top hat on his head and smacked his lips noisily. “I’ll wait for you for a few minutes, boy, but any longer and I’m afraid that someone might jump out of the shadows and eat my horses,” he said with a wary grin on his face.

  At first, the three of us headed off in different directions to try to find the old beggar, but before any of us turned a corner, we decided it would be best not to separate from one another.

  We teamed up again, peering around buildings into the shadows and the dense fog that hovered on the roads like a small army of ghosts.

  After a few minutes, I heard the voice of the coachman behind us, and then the sound of horses’ hooves. “That fool is already gone!” I exclaimed.

  But I was wrong. Soon the carriage appeared in the fog on the street next to us. “May I know what are you looking for, you three?” the coachman asked.

  We told him, and he snickered, spitting tobacco onto the street. Moving forward on the streets accompanied by the slow creaking of the carriage and the heavy breathing of the horses was even more frightening than walking alone.