Chapter 2 ― Irene Adler's Challenge (Part 4)

My eyes acclimated to the darkness no more quickly than they had on the first visit.

Madame Richborough was seated on the far side of the table with the crystal ball; behind her hung a thick, black velvet curtain. Her mask-like face was awash with pale candlelight. Three wooden chairs were fanned out before the table.

“I am familiar with your career, inspector,” smiled the madame after Lestrade had introduced himself. Most people would have been intimidated, knowing that they were talking to an officer of the law, yet she did not seem fazed in the slightest. “I see that Sherlock Holmes is not with you.”

“Holmes is a stiff-necked fellow, and it would take a great deal to persuade him to come here,” I replied. “Instead we’ve brought something that may serve as a clue: a record of a case which occurred twelve years ago.”

I placed the leather-bound notebook on the table and described in brief the facts of the case. Madame Richborough’s eyes gleamed as she leaned forward. It seemed that her interest had been aroused.

“You suspect that Miss Rachel was the girl in the crystal ball, then?”

“Indeed. Madame Richborough, you said to us that that girl was the cause of Holmes’ slump. Holmes’ behaviour has been curious, and he is so loath to speak of his past cases that he went to the trouble of hiding away this notebook. I do not believe it can be a coincidence.”

“And you are quite correct, Dr. Watson. This is no coincidence,” said she, pulling the leather notebook across the table. Spreading it open upon the table she read it slowly, as if savouring each page. I imagined she was leaving no potential clue unturned. After she at last finished the journal, she sat back in her chair and gazed into space with a dreamy, vacant expression in her eyes.

“I sense a powerful spiritual energy radiating from this notebook,” she murmured. “I suspect it is a vector for an entreaty from the other side. Miss Rachel is urgently trying to tell us something. It is no wonder that Mr. Holmes is in a slump, for there are spiritual energies constantly at work, pulling him back towards that unsolved case from twelve years ago.”

“What is Miss Rachel trying to say?”

Madame Richborough sank into thought, her gaze lowered at the notebook.

“I wonder what would cause Holmes to suddenly abandon the case,” she said. “The notebook ends abruptly after the account of the student breaking into the manor. What could have happened?”

We had also wondered the same thing. Lestrade recalled that the investigation had petered out due to political pressure. But Holmes had been hired to investigate privately by Reginald Musgrave, and was not subject to the direction of Shinchō Yard. Even if someone had tried to persuade him to withdraw, I could not imagine the obstinate, haughty Holmes I knew would stand down without a fight.

“If I may?” ventured Mrs. Hudson, hesitantly raising a hand. “As I went over the notebook in the waiting room, I noticed that that incident is not indeed the last entry in the notebook. There is a curious poem written near the end of the volume.”

Madame Richborough began to flip through the notebook, and after passing a number of blank pages her hand paused.

“Yes, indeed there is,” she said, and began to read it aloud.

“‘Whose was it?’

“‘Theirs who are gone.’

“‘Who shall have it?’

“‘They who will come.’

“‘What shall we give?’

“‘All that is ours.’

“‘Why should we give it?’

“‘For the sake of the great awakening.’”

We looked at each other. It seemed to be a list of questions and answers for a ritual of some sort, but we had no idea what it meant. Why would Holmes have written such a thing in his notes?

“Have you any ideas?” I inquired.

But Madame Richborough did not reply. She studied the notebook, her plump, indigo-swathed figure arched over the table intently. A crease formed on her brow, and her eyes were narrowed, as if she were trying to dredge something up from the well of memory.

At last she sucked in a deep breath, her bosom swelling, and opened her eyes wide. Her countenance reminded me of Holmes, each time he declaimed the facts of a case. But Madame Richborough’s expression now was even more exaggerated than that. A fervid light burned in her eyes, and her lips were pulled back in an uninhibited grin. It was a sinister sight, and one that I felt I was not meant to see.

Lestrade suddenly struck my arm.

“Dr. Watson, look!”

I looked in the direction that he was pointing, and observed that the crystal ball was glowing. Leaning forward I saw once again the faint figure of a mysterious girl, her head downcast. Was it Miss Rachel? Yet there was something different about her this time―and no sooner had that thought crossed my mind than she looked up, a defiant spark in her eyes. I gasped, shaken to my core.

“But isn’t that Mary?” cried Mrs. Hudson. “What is she doing in the crystal ball?”

Mary waved, and it appeared that she was calling out. Then she held up a piece of paper, and written on it were the following words:

You are all being deceived.

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“What’s the meaning of this?” I inquired sharply, facing Madame Richborough.

Just as I did so, the door behind me burst open, flooding the room with light. Standing in the doorway was the gallant figure of Irene Adler, come to chase away the darkness.

Madame Richborough stood and grasped at a bell-rope on the wall, trying to summon a servant.

“No one is coming to save you,” snapped Irene Adler. Madame Richborough released the rope and turned to face the intruder. Her expression was as inscrutable as a Noh mask.

“Our appointment is over, Miss Adler,” said she in a grave tone. “I must insist you leave at once.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” replied Adler, striding into the room. Passing between Mrs. Hudson and me she walked up to the table and without a moment’s hesitation picked up the crystal ball in both hands. So bold was her act that even Madame Richborough could not stop her. The crystal ball rapidly lost its lustre as it rose from the table, revealing a hole emitting light in the cushion below.

“There is a studio directly below this room,” said Adler with an air of triumph. In that studio was an apparatus of mirrors and lenses, by which an image powerfully illuminated could be transmitted upwards into the crystal ball. Once it was explained to us it seemed an absurdly simple optical trick. Yet we had not seen through it because it had never occurred to us that anyone would set up such an elaborate deception.

“With this apparatus one can show an audience whatever one wishes,” said Irene Adler. “As I have just had Mary demonstrate.”

There was no denying that Mary had indeed shown up right before our eyes inside the crystal ball. That must mean that the Miss Rachel we had previously seen must have been projected in the same way. Now that Irene Adler and Mary’s demonstration had exposed the trick, the mystique which I had felt surrounding Madame Richborough had faded away like mist burning away in the morning light.

I looked around and saw Mrs. Hudson, who looked so crestfallen I could not help but feel sympathetic for her. She had certainly put a great deal of faith in Madame Richborough, whom she had thought as the greatest medium the world had ever seen. On the other hand, Lestrade was staring at Irene Adler with the utmost admiration in his eyes. Certainly her bold execution of this manoeuvre was reminiscent of the exploits of Holmes’ golden age.

Madame Richborough stood up, the black velvet curtain looming behind her.

“You understand nothing of spiritual phenomena, Miss Adler,” said Madame Richborough calmly. “The spiritual phenomenon is that which hovers between the subjective and objective. It is influenced greatly by that which resides in the heart of the beholder. The believer will see what the doubter can never. Suspicion is the enemy of the spiritualist. In order for the medium to do her work, she must eliminate every doubt from her client, and induce in them an absolute faith in the spiritual realm. Sometimes that may require a contrivance, no more. Your declaration of triumph is premature, I am afraid.”

“You admit that you are deceiving your clients?” pressed Irene Adler.

“I do not,” said Mrs. Richborough, shaking her head. “Perhaps Dr. Watson is familiar with what I speak of. Sometimes when faced with an anxious patient, a doctor may tell a harmless little lie in order to assuage their fears and aid in their treatment. I am a doctor of the spirit, and all the world are my patients. Perhaps one day when the world has awakened to and embraced the truth of the spiritual realm, these measures will no longer be necessary.”

“That day will never arrive,” said Irene Adler, leaning forward. “Why, you yourself do not believe in the spiritual.”

As they glared at each over the table, Mary appeared at the doorway.

“How did it come off?” she asked.

“Perfectly,” growled Irene Adler, not taking her eyes off Madame Richborough.

For her part Madame Richborough did not cower.

“What do you propose to do now?” she asked defiantly, rising from her seat, she asked defiantly. “Will you take me in? Inspector Lestrade sits there.”

“There is no need for haste,” shrugged Irene Adler, rising from her chair. “I had come today merely to exchange courtesies, but that has changed. You have attempted to win Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson to your side. Yes, I see through your deception. You seek to seize upon this weakness and bend Mr. Holmes to your will.”

“I wish to help Holmes, that is all.”

“Mr. Holmes does not need the help of the likes of spiritualism!” Irene Adler said forcefully. She turned on her heel and looked at me. An intense anger, and disappointment, burned in her eyes.

“Dr. Watson,” she began severely; “I trust that you understand now Madame Richborough’s modus operandi. For you of all people to be taken in by such a trick! Your role ought to be to support Mr. Holmes, not pull him into silly farces such as this!”

Her words cut at my heart like a knife. Shame, and a deep despair, rose up in me until it was almost more than I could bear. I had pinned my hopes of lifting Holmes from his slump on Madame Richborough, but now it was clear those hopes had been misplaced from the start. Once again, I was left empty-handed.

“You are entirely correct, Miss Adler,” said I, stricken by her words. Turning around, I saw Mary watching me. The light silhouetted her in the partially opened door, and I could not make out her expression to tell what she was thinking.

“Come, the show is over. There is nothing to be gained by staying here,” said Irene Adler with a tone that brooked no discussion. In the heavy silence, we stood up and departed from that gloomy chamber.

It was then that a curious shadow crossed my mind. It was clear that the spiritual phenomenon which Madame Richborough had demonstrated to us had been a fraud. Yet the facts of the disappearance of Miss Rachel Musgrave twelve years ago, and Holmes’ involvement in that case, remained.

“Dr. Watson,” called Madame Richborough from behind me, as if she knew at that very moment what was going through my mind.

I stopped in the doorway and turned around. In the flickering glow of the candles, Madam Richborough’s face levitated in the gloom. Seeing her lone figure shrouded in that intimate darkness, I felt that sense of mystique return.

“Tell Mr. Holmes this,” she said to me. “He cannot escape the mystery of the Musgraves.”

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We returned to 221B Teramachi Street in the pouring rain and found that Holmes and Professor Moriarty had just beaten us home from Mt. Daimonji. Both of them were wrapped in blankets in front of the fireplace; Holmes glowered sulkily at the fishbowl on his lap, and Moriarty appeared to be in a dead faint with his eyes rolled back into his head. Clearly their quest to seek a tengu master had gone considerably worse than they had planned.

Holmes looked up from the fishbowl when we entered the room.

“Where have you been, Mrs. Hudson?” he scowled. “I’ve had the most horrendous day. We lost our way in the downpour, and Professor Moriarty had a tumble. We could have died on that mountain. Yet after enduring an arduous trek all the way back, what do we find but an empty house, and not a person to boil a drop of water for us. You weren’t consulting that fraud of a medium again, were you?”

“In fact you are right,” she replied in a biting tone. “We were consulting that fraud of a medium.”

Mrs. Hudson had been brooding ever since Irene Adler had revealed the trick of the crystal ball. She had not said a word during the carriage ride back. I supposed that Madame Richborough’s deception must have come as a great shock.

Holmes’ careless remark ignited all at once those feelings of outrage and disappointment she had carried back. Without warning she flung off her bonnet.

“You are entirely correct, sir. Spiritualism is nothing but a hoax!” she erupted. “Are you satisfied now, Mr. Holmes? How pleased you must have been to witness us bumbling around. Yes, Madame Richborough was a fraud. Yes, we were grasping at straws. But for whose sake do you think we went to such lengths―why, yours!”

After this vehement tirade she stormed from the room. I had the impression that she was simply letting out her ire on the first available target, but I did not disagree with the sentiment.

“What in the world was that?” said an amazed Holmes, holding the fishbowl tightly.

In his armchair, Professor Moriarty had roused up from his stupor.

“Has something happened? She was such an ardent devotee of Madame Richborough.”

“It seems that the veil has been lifted from her eyes,” said Lestrade, and he related what had occurred at Pondicherry Lodge. There was a particular ring of admiration in his voice when he told them what Irene Adler had done, and his eyes lit up like a schoolboy. He seemed to have been taken with Irene Adler’s skills of detection, and the more he lauded her exploits the more sour Holmes’ expression became.

“Well, I suppose she may have some talent,” he admitted.

“Some talent?” cried Lestrade passionately, leaning forward. “There’s no mistake, Miss Adler is a genius. I say, Mr. Holmes, why don’t you consult her for yourself?”

“And what would I consult her about, dear Lestrade?”

“You could ask her for advice on the science of deduction, or her habits as a detective. I am positive that her advice would be of great value. Perhaps it would be enough to help you escape this slump of yours.”

Holmes’ expression went blank, but it was the pale blankness of suppressed fury, and a heavy silence descended upon the room.

“That will not do at all,” said he at last, coldly. “Why should the famous Sherlock Holmes beg and scrape before that amateur detective for advice? But if you wish to seek her wisdom for yourself that is your own affair. After all, you are a public servant with a reputation to uphold.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Lestrade hung his head, and his words trailed off dejectedly.

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Just before we left Madame Richborough’s mansion, Irene Adler took my arm and drew me aside in the foyer. From outside I could hear the quiet patter of the rain.

“Why won’t Mr. Holmes take on any cases?” she inquired, regarding me evenly. “What purpose is there in my having issued that challenge to him now? Victory by default is no victory at all.”

A fierce rage smouldered in her eyes, and behind it I sensed a sort of expectation towards Holmes. Few others, I suspected, longed more ardently for Sherlock Holmes’ restoration than the woman standing before me, who had issued that challenge to Holmes for all the world to see.

“You must restore him to his old self,” said she. “That is your duty, Dr. Watson!”

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Holmes stared gloomily into the fireplace, still wrapped in a blanket. I took the leatherbound notebook from my bag and thrust it before his nose. He glanced down at it, a furrow in his brow which was soon undone by a jolt of recognition, and without a word he took it from my hand.

“What happened at the Musgrave manor twelve years ago?” I asked.

Holmes scowled and averted his eyes. “That was long before our acquaintance, Watson, and it’s no concern of yours. I was young. I was naïve. I failed. That is all there is to it.”

“Tell me the truth, Holmes,” I said, stooping down in front of him. “If that really was all there was to it you would not have gone to the lengths of hiding that notebook away. Something about it still bothers you. Won’t you be straight with me now?“

But Holmes’ lips were sealed tight. He clutched the blanket tight around him and glared disdainfully at me.

My suspicions grew ever stronger. Why was Holmes so determined to conceal the facts of this case? Madame Richborough had told me: He cannot escape the mystery of the Musgraves.

“You have been keeping things from me as well,” he suddenly growled.

“What do you mean?”

“The latest edition of The Strand Magazine. What the devil do you mean by that?”

I had not opened the pages of the Strand since I had been forced to put the Holmes chronicles on hiatus. Reading it now would only make me envious of the other authors.

“So you insist on feigning ignorance,” he snorted. “Well then, how do you explain this new column?”

From within the blanket he produced a magazine and tossed it in front of me. The new column he spoke of was grandly located on the very first page, and the editorial staff had breathlessly splashed gaudy copy such as “A star is born!” and “Kyoto’s most popular mystery writer!”

When I saw the title and the author I reeled as though I had been hit by lightning.

I saw in my mind’s eye once more Mary standing there in the drizzle. As we had left Madame Richborough’s mansion, Mary had been close at Irene Adler’s side like a shadow, watching me through that cold veil of rain. For some reason she had not registered as my wife, but as an unapproachable, mysterious presence.

“Mary has joined forces with Irene Adler,” said Holmes coldly. “How can you have failed to notice the betrayal of your own wife?”