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“When I say run,run!”
***
Sherlock’s exhortation attached a pair of winged sandals to her feet and she ran. She ran with all her might, faster than she’d ever run before. Behind her the din of harsh guttural voices rose in a wave of incredulous outrage mixed with sounds of combat and an explosion that billowed outwards, pushing her out of the dark compound into which she’d been dragged perhaps half an hour earlier towards what had felt like certain death. She’d been petrified with fear, her mind blanketed with nefarious despair.
During the whole of her imprisonment she’d been so confident he’d come for her. He wouldn’t let her die, she’d reasoned with herself while she kept pacing the ten square feet of her prison cell, almost literally walking a rut into the hardpacked earthen floor.
For Irene knew what people liked. Sherlock Holmes liked puzzles and hadn’t she provided him with those? Such enchanting riddles she’d spun for him to solve. True, she had been the one to set the rules, and initially he’d scoffed at the boundaries she imposed, but then, between the two of them, she was the dominatrix, wasn’t she? It had been a delight to toy with him, to watch how he parried each of her probing jests with a dazed yet still knightly elegance. Once he’d grasped the concept – and he was a phenomenally quick learner – he’d enjoyed their interplay every bit as much as she had. The look in his eyes told her that when they had locked gazes shortly before he turned to hand her phone, her protection to his brother and started walking out of the room.
“Sorry about dinner.” Those parting words further kindled the flicker of hope in her breast, even as she turned to confront the hardnosed English bureaucrat whose whole world she had been on the brink of shattering.
Mycroft Holmes’ face was a perfect blank that made her shiver, despite the fire roaring in the hearth fewer than ten feet from where they were standing. He couldn’t wait to send her to her doom, but only after he’d wrung every single shred of information out of her. Then he’d kick her bottom and cast her out on the streets.
He did it in the politest possible way
Obviously.
***
She ran and ran.
Two weeks she’d spent in that stifling hellhole, observing her captors through the small slit between the stones that provided her with the only source of fresh air into the room. Tainted with the smell of goats and chickens as it was, it had been infinitely preferable to the stench that rose from her armpits and the bucket in the corner. In a vain attempt to ward off the flies Irene had covered the bucket one day, with a broad strip of cotton she’d ripped from the cheap shalwar kameez they’d made her wear. Her jailers had taken that as insolence and punished her with a twenty-four hour regimen without food or water. The flies, meanwhile, had remained as plentiful as ever.
She’d fought an increasingly hard battle against the despondency growing inside her each time her eye slid away from the dismally unaltered scene outside. All her attempts to escape – and she’d resorted to every weapon in her arsenal, from seduction to feigning a severe illness – came to naught until at last she’d run through every one of her tricks and all she was left with was insane and desperate hope. She’d been so sure he’d come. Just a few months ago, he’d wished her a Happy New Year. He wouldn’t let it be her last.
He wouldn’t.
***
She ran and ran and ran.
To her astonishment Irene found she was making her way down a lane winding its way through a slum. They’d covered her eyes with a blindfold before driving her to the place of execution but she wouldn’t have thought it so near to an actual human settlement if her life had depended upon it. Electric lights flickered in the darkness, outlining the shapes of houses and compound walls and the many people still milling outside in the alleys and bystreets. Several times she nearly stumbled over a prone form, which rose with a snarl each time; whether man or beast she couldn’t have said. After a while she discerned she was running over and next to a carpet of threads and she realised she must be in the weaver district. Instinctively she started to follow the threads, letting them guide her through the impossible maze that were the shantytown’s back lanes.
“Please, Miss, over here,” a boy’s voice suddenly shot out at her in surprisingly good English from a doorway on her right. Still running Irene swivelled her gaze towards him. A sharp jab in her left bicep made her gasp in pain. The next instant she lay crumpled on the coarse woollen filaments she’d been following and the black night closed its furtive wings over her head.
***
The instant the aeroplane hit the runway with a slight bump, a collective breath of relief swept through the cabin.
Irene kept her eyes on the page they’d been skimming for the last two minutes. She’d lost the thread of the story since the plane first started its descent but held on to the pretence of reading by turning the pages at regular intervals. On her right side Sherlock was a mass of badly curbed energy. His hand had already unclasped the seatbelt, and he sat poised to leap up, grab their luggage and get off the plane the instant the cabin crew allowed it.
The seatbelt sign was extinguished. Slowly, Irene closed her book and reached for her handbag. Sherlock sprang from his seat, opened the locker and stashed his laptop into his travelling case. After donning his own coat, a non-descript beige raincoat which didn’t suit him at all but rendered him virtually unrecognisable, on a CCTV-camera at least, he pulled forth hers and held it up for her.
“Ah, thank you, darling,” she murmured, throwing him a look of gratitude for this act of marital chivalry.
“It’s nothing,” Sherlock replied as he let the black poplin settle on her shoulders and reached up to pull their luggage from the locker. The inscrutable mask was back on his face and he’d flipped up the collar of his coat. It lacked the Belstaff’s flamboyance but served well enough to block all visual access to his throat and the carotid artery running there.
“I appreciate it all the same,” Irene answered, her tone airy. “Let’s go, shall we?”
She brushed past him and took hold of the handle of the compact case he’d provided her with. It was a smart accessory, slick and chic and entirely in line with the picture of a well-to-do couple Sherlock wanted them to portray. A faint smile fixed firmly at the corners of her mouth, Irene began wheeling the case out of the plane with Sherlock following close on her heels.
Once they were out of the gate and inside the sterile anonymity of the airport he fell into step beside her. Irene heaved her first deep breath of European air in what felt like ages. She didn’t feel entirely safe yet – in all probability she would never feel safe again – but so far every detail of Sherlock’s plan had played out according to his predictions. The sheer German efficiency of the gleaming surfaces surrounding them boosted her belief they would pull off his daring mission of snatching her away from right under his brother’s omnipresent, inquisitive nose.
They walked along in silence for about a hundred yards until the sign Irene had been dreading for the past hour came into view.
“So this is goodbye,” she said, flicking her gaze at the toilet facilities sign.
“Yes. Shrug, would you, and smile at me.” Back in Karachi they had spoken about this too, over the map of the Frankfurt airport he’d brought. He would dart off to the loo and she would breeze ahead, apparently intent on buying them a coffee in the nearest café.
“Sherlock, I…” she started, but when she slanted her head for the prerequisite smile he had already turned and all she saw was the long line of his figure and the riot of curls eddying on top of that obnoxious coat.
The next moment he went around the corner and she lost sight of him. A sound tried to wring itself out of her throat but she stifled it and strode on with her gaze fixed firmly ahead of her.
***
She woke up to a pounding headache and the incongruous sight of Sherlock Holmes in a pair of fawn flannel slacks, a matching striped shirt and a merino-wool jumper slung casually around his shoulders. He sat huddled on a footstool, tapping away at his laptop, as blithe to his surroundings as if he were sitting in his chair opposite John Watson in 221B Baker Street.
The faint pitter-patter of the keys smashed into her skull with the force of a sledgehammer wielded by Vulcan himself. Fireworks of agony erupted behind her eyes and she groaned. Immediately, the hammering came to an end, to be replaced by the low rumble of his voice. Irene had taken an immense liking to that particular resonance from the moment it first entered her ears but now she just wished he would shut up. She closed her eyes in an attempt to dissuade him but of course that strategy didn’t work. All she accomplished was to feel dissuaded herself so she kept her eyes closed in resignation to her fate.
“Ah, only half an hour later than calculated,” he spoke in that same self-satisfied voice he’d used in her drawing room when he’d tricked her into revealing the location of her phone’s vault. “You lost a little more weight than I’d reckoned so that explains the slight overdosing. There shouldn’t be any long-lasting effects, though. I prepared the solution myself. How do you feel?”
“Absolutely rotten,” she spat. “My head feels like it’s about to explode.”
“Highly unlikely and a good sign overall. If a certain group had had their way you wouldn’t have a head left to feel anything with.” He sounded so smug she would have lashed out at him if she could have so much as dragged herself from the bed. The mere idea of doing so was beyond her.
“You should drink something,” he remarked and redirected his attention to the laptop for another torrent of key clattering. “Ah, welcome to Pakistan,” he exclaimed at last, sprang up from his low seat to park his laptop on it and make for the door. “I’ll find you some chai.”
Left alone, Irene scanned the room from behind the screen of her lashes. The weak glow of the single naked bulb dangling from the ceiling pierced her retinas with the intensity of a 1,000-Watt searchlight. Emitting another loud groan of misery Irene pushed herself up to a more or less sitting position. The next instant had her groping for support as a wave of dizziness overtook her. Leaning against the wall on her left she rested a bit before opening her eyes to survey her surroundings.
She was in a small, scrupulously clean room, its mud walls freshly whitewashed and the beaten floor swept. All it contained, apart from the bed she was sitting on and the abandoned footstool with Sherlock’s laptop, were two obviously expensive but otherwise non-descript travelling cases, one black, the other a sleek graphite and both a bit the worse for wear.
The suggestion to get up and inspect them flitted through her mind, but before she’d decided whether she was up to it the door opened and a small woman carrying a tray with a metal beaker and plate of rice entered. She smiled at Irene and put the tray onto the floor. Then she stood back and waited with her hands clasped in front of her.
Irene reached for the cup and guided it to her lips for a small sip. The tea was revoltingly sugary, with black spots of tea dust floating on the surface, but she drank it anyway. It made her feel slightly better. The woman gestured towards the plate of rice but the mere sight of the food made her stomach turn and Irene shook her head. “I can’t,” she mumbled.
As Irene had more or less expected the woman broke out in a stream of Urdu. She let it wash over her, assuming Sherlock – who spoke Urdu apparently or the woman wouldn’t be here urging her to eat – would return soon to send the woman away. After a few more utterances the woman fell silent, stared some more at Irene, then pivoted on her heels and went out.
In a short while she was back, hauling a tub of hot water over the floor. Her face was red and moist, both from the exertion and the steam that rose from the water sloshing against the sides.
“Oh,” Irene exclaimed, “thank you. That’s…” Then, realising the woman didn’t understand a word, she smiled, tipping her chin and touching her chest. Her hand brushed the cotton of her shalwar kameez, stiff with dirt and sweat, and the next instant she was tearing at it to free herself from the horrible garment that was quite literally the stuff of nightmares. A jolt of pain shot through her right arm when she lifted the dress over her head; her muscles were sore from the jab she’d been dealt, presumably. The first dip of her toes into the water felt like heaven. She stepped into the tub and bent to ladle up the water and sluice it over her head.
The steam swirled around her, lapping at her skin, its wispy curlicues concealing her body as if she were a nymph bathing in a mountain stream half-hidden behind a screen of water plants gracefully swaying with the fast flowing water. Giving in to the seductive pull of the water she knelt, immersing herself up to the hips. It was highly unlikely Sherlock would enter the room while she was bathing – once he would have, but, she mused, if he were still that same person he wouldn’t be here – so she closed her eyes to enjoy the luxury of her bath to the fullest. While she soaked the repulsive grit that clung to the outside, the grit inside – far more desirable – returned, together with her usual pluck and acumen. She dabbed at her face, breathing deeply into her palms. Oh, but it was great to be alive.
The woman materialised at her side again to hand her a bar of soap and Irene set herself to the task of scrubbing every square inch of her skin twice. By the time she had restored her battle dress to its pristine glory the water was reduced to a dullish grey sludge of industrial waste. Irene stepped out of it, accepted a towel and cast the tub one last look of horror before turning her attention to the graphite travelling case the woman had hoisted onto the bed.
Inside Irene found a short trench coat, two dresses, a soft cashmere cardigan, a Miss Marple omnibus, a rather smart pair of black slacks, a pair of men’s socks size eleven, a blouse, three sets of underwear, two pairs of low-heeled shoes and a small toiletry bag. The clothes and shoes were of good quality, not exactly fashionable but stylish enough; the kind of items a woman who had made a career for herself might wear to the office. The toiletry bag contained a small bottle of body lotion, body wash and pot of face cream, all nicked from various four-star hotels across the UK, some make-up and a toothbrush and toothpaste, an expensive but otherwise unremarkable watch and a pair of sunglasses.
After laying aside the book and the socks Irene lifted the silky blouse and the trousers out of the case, the only items remotely attractive to her. Was this, she mused, what Sherlock Holmes liked? A well groomed but altogether sedate woman who might have married a Cambridge professor, or be one herself? She fingered the knickers and the bras. The cut and the material, a blend of silk and cotton, were decent enough, but the stark austerity of the garments was frankly depressing. If only he’d thought to add a riding crop and some knee-high boots as well…
Here she checked her mind. Reasoning she would best serve her interests by playing along with the game for now Irene stepped into the knickers. The fit was perfect. But then, Sherlock Holmes had already proven himself a master at taking her measure.
***
She walked into the nearest café, dawdled a bit in front of the coffee machine, pretending to be unable to decide whether she wanted to buy something or not, and left through the entrance on the other side. A man lifted his head as she passed him on her way to the nearest WC facilities and she could feel his stare trailing after her. Her heart stuttered but her feet kept moving and a voice in her head scolded her for panicking.
When Irene looked at herself in the mirror over the sink a stranger stared back at her. She smiled at the other woman who – she conceded – a considerable number of men, and women, would think attractive. Small wonder they liked to rest their eyes on her.
Ultimately she would have liked to lock herself inside a booth and have a good cry. Instead she drifted into the terminal again and directed her steps towards a bookstore. Here she flicked idly through a few travel guides, saving the one that covered her final destination for the last. There was just one picture, a snapshot of the main square. Irene had never even heard of the city that was to be her abode – for some weeks at least – until Sherlock told her about it. That, he’d argued, was why it was such a perfect hiding place.
He’d arranged it all. A passport, a bank account with a debit card and a credit card and a deposit of € 10,000, and a place to stay. The rent had been paid for three months in advance. By Sherlock’s account the apartment was the property of a grateful client who’d been happy to give him a special deal. Apparently, lots of people owed Sherlock a favour and he’d gone on a round of collecting them, all for the sake of orchestrating her extraction from the clutches of a terrorist group and the scrutiny of the omnipresent eye of Mycroft Holmes.
Irene was about to close the book and put it back when her eye fell on a name, Naxos. Good God, it couldn’t be… she curbed the peals of hysterical laughter welling up in her chest. Such bitter irony. Had Sherlock been aware…? Oh, but of course he had. The great consulting detective, who literally didn’t have a clue as to Miss Marple’s identity, was liable to know all about some obscure archaeological site, scattered across an island, which, from what she’d gathered, was virtually built of them. Perhaps the site’s proximity had even induced him to contact her future landlady, who, he’d assured her, was safely stashed away amidst the remains of the family fortune in some crumbling Neapolitan palazzo, and talk her into letting the apartment to a Mrs Norton.
Immediately after the elder Holmes brother had evicted her to roam the terrifying maze of her own construction, she’d started planting clues, stealthy and invisible, safe for one who knew where to look, all in the hope Sherlock would be the first to pick up the end of the thread she was spinning. With her protection gone the man she’d humiliated to the very core of his being was her only hope for ultimate survival. She’d predicted she wouldn’t last six months. By using every shred of wit and will power she possessed she’d made it to seven. She hadn’t dared look behind her, just stumbled along while wielding her spindle as she was sucked, with the inexorableness of a piece of driftwood caught in a maelstrom, into the heart of the maze where danger and death lurked, locked in perpetual night.
And Sherlock, like a twenty-first century incarnation of the Hellenic ideal, had guided the yarn through his fingers, following her into the heart of darkness to slay the beast – or rather beasts for there had been six of them, including the one who’d aimed the Cyclops eye of the video camera at her – and sweep her up and fled with her over the seas, only to drop her off at some godforsaken island.
Luckily the travel guide was a paperback so the pages didn’t protest too loudly when Irene slammed the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf. She’d nearly fallen into the dangerous trap of sentiment again. Sherlock Holmes’ mind wasn’t equipped for such flights of fancy, and if it was, he’d sooner project himself as a dashing pirate in an adventure story for boys, rather than a tragic hero acquiescing to the vagaries of a gang of dissolute gods.
You stupid, deluded fool, it was never about you, remember, a voice inside her head scolded her.
Oh, if only it were time for her departure right now. The prescribed lingering in the obscurity of the terminal, where each man or woman glancing at her, passing her, pivoting on their heel to stare after her, might be an agent in the employ of Mycroft Holmes, Jim Moriarty or one of her countless other enemies, flayed her nerves as efficiently as a cat-o'-nine-tails ripping at the skin it was flogging. Irene shivered when she stepped out of the shop to cross the hallway in search of an inconspicuous seat where she could hide in her book until her flight was announced.
They Do It with Mirrors. So far the book hadn’t delivered on the promise of its title. Perhaps she didn’t like detective stories after all. Or detectives.
***
Sherlock came heading into the room shortly after her nameless assistant left, the tray with the plate of rice and another cup of chai in his hands.
Cutting straight to the chase his first words were, “You must eat. Our flight leaves in nine hours and I want to arrive at the airport in time.”
“And a very nice day to you too,” Irene purred, lolling at ease on the bed with her feet tucked snugly beneath her. The bath had restored her self-assurance to almost its customary level and she was fully at leisure to notice the slight stiffening of his posture at her welcome. Surely he hadn’t expected a declaration of gratitude? Pleased with the effect of her greeting she added a dollop of acidic sweetness to her voice. “I’d rather not. The smell makes me want to puke all over these lovely clothes. Now that would be such a shame.” She trailed her hands from her shoulders down to her hips. The ensemble’s effect, once donned, did actually please her. Both the cut of the trousers and the texture of the blouse aided her in flaunting her best assets, and she tipped her hat to Sherlock for his choice.
His recovery was remarkably quick. “You like them?” he enquired in what was not quite a sneer. “They’re hardly your usual style. I sent the most tolerable female member of my homeless network on a shopping spree with very strict instructions not to buy anything too sensual. You’re Mrs Eileen Norton, accompanying her husband, the owner of a small firm in chemical supplies, on a trip with the aim of combining business with pleasure.”
“And you’re Mr Norton,” she deduced, tamping down the pang of disappointment about the provenance of the garments. To hide her discomfiture she stretched her legs and assumed an even more languid posture.
“Problem?” Sherlock asked, the impatient scowl she remembered so well disfiguring his face.
“Oh, not at all,” she dismissed the suggestion with an airy wave of her hand. “It’s just, as you told me our flight departs in nine hours there won’t be any time left for the consummation of the marriage. That is, if one wants to do it properly, of course. Which I assume is what you’d desire for you don’t believe in half-measures. And it is your first time. Virginity is nothing but an overrated cultural concept, but most people value it highly and you seem to be excessively attached to the state.” Now she used her hand to hide a yawn and engaged in a study of the ceiling. “Ouch, whatever you gave me, it’s vile.”
Sherlock’s face, Irene was gratified to learn when she surreptitiously redirected her glance from the ceiling, hosted a whole gamut of clashing emotions, running from fury through exasperation to temerity and, just for an instant but her quick eye had detected it, naked need. It made him look almost adorable, she decided. The next instant his features adjusted themselves and his mask of detached boredom was glued back in place.
“Must you reduce everything to sex?” It was a brave attempt at haughtiness. Only the slightest remnant of a tremor gave him away before he found a firmer tone again. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh no,” Irene acceded readily, “you’re here to set up a sock-trafficking gang, naturally.”
“There have been several social studies that show men tend to leave items in hotel rooms, which are then unearthed by the wife and crammed into her own luggage,” he said, clearly expecting her to grasp the relevance of this information to their current situation and allow him to move on to the next subject on his agenda.
“Is that so?” she crooned. “How absolutely fascinating. You still know how to impress a girl.” As proof of her appreciation Irene pressed a hand against her chest before lifting her chin to send him a long gaze overflowing with fawning admiration. Then, deeming it was about time she confronted his conceited behaviour she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pushed herself to a standing position.
“Though I would have been even more impressed if you’d popped up a little sooner. Bad form to keep a lady waiting. Especially when surrounded by a group of wicked, wicked men about to do nasty things to her.”
“I could have intervened sooner but I chose not to,” Sherlock replied, every part of his person radiating smug self-satisfaction. “I wanted every inch of footage right up to your execution. It looks very convincing, just let me...”
“What?” Irene asked, astounded by the casual insensitivity of his answer. He might fancy himself a pillar of reason and cold logic in a world seething with irrational sentiment but even he had to understand this was not on. “I was scared out of my wits, you fucking twat!” she screamed, clenching and unclenching her fists to keep herself from slapping the conceit off his face.
Puzzled by her sudden fury, Sherlock blinked once before his eyes moved rapidly over her figure, searching for clues. The inspection enraged Irene even further. She took a deep breath to steady herself and summon every particle of coldness stored within her.
“Oh well, it takes all sorts,” she scathed in her iciest voice. “If you’d told me back in London you needn’t have gone to such trouble. I know of a man who’s got just what you like, asphyxiations, stabbings, whatever you prefer. All most tastefully done. Not quite up my alley but to each his own.”
Sherlock blanched. “What…” he spluttered but Irene overrode him and pressed on heartlessly. “Of course that explains your penchant for spending all your free time at a morgue as well. Does Miss Hooper know of your passion? How devious to exploit hers to facilitate yours.”
In launching her attack Irene’s object had been to dent Sherlock’s defences of complacency and force him to acknowledge her emotions. The hard set of Sherlock’s features suggested she might have accidentally breached his walls of cool detachment. Probably someone had once suggested he got sexual gratification from poring over corpses.
His voice, when he found it again, was even colder than hers. “That video has to convince my brother, the world’s leading expert at dissembling, of your death. Unlike some, I’m not an amateur. The fear in your eyes will persuade him the next few seconds of film, which show the actual beheading, are real. That’s why I had to wait until the last possible moment, Miss Adler.”
“The actual beheading?” Irene asked, confused.
“Like I said, not an amateur,” he answered in a clipped tone. “Don’t worry, your stand-in was already dead. Approximately a month from now an envelope with the M-JPEG file of your execution on an USB-stick will be deposited into the Prime Minister’s in-tray. Your phone will follow a few days after that. Both items will end up at Mycroft’s desk not five minutes later, as he’s the person to which nasty little problems with a high probability of spinning out of control are delegated. Mycroft will waste an enormous amount of taxpayer money ascertaining beyond any reasonable doubt you are indeed quite dead. The Bond Air debacle cost him considerable goodwill with several of his boring allies so he’ll be anxious to present them with proof of your untimely demise. He’s saving a bottle of the 2001 Saint-Émilion for the occasion.”
An inadvertent shudder slithered down Irene’s spine at the mention of the name of her most formidable enemy, an adversary even greater than James Moriarty, who was only interested in people who could help him expand his empire of crime and subversion. For him she was nothing but an outwitted mercenary, and as such she’d lost her usefulness. Not that he wouldn’t do her in, should he get the chance.
(That moment, she determined, she refused to think about the fate of her beautiful phone, to be locked away forever in some horribly stuffy vault in the SIS-building.)
“Am I supposed to be flattered?” she enquired, raising one eyebrow in an ostentatious show of nonchalance.
“The only thing my dear sibling is interested in, apart from controlling the world and everyone in it, is tickling his palate, so I suppose it’s a compliment of sorts,” Sherlock yielded with the lack of grace that was characteristic of him whenever Mycroft Holmes entered the conversation.
“True; unlike some, he didn’t strike me as a man to decline a dinner invitation.”
“Not when it furthers his ultimate interests, no.” Sherlock coloured slightly. “But he prefers to dine alone. That way he can stuff himself with cake for dessert.”
He threw her a wary eye but took a step in her direction nevertheless. “We must leave this country as soon as possible. I doubt Mycroft is yet aware that you slipped into Pakistan but he has sources of information I can’t tamper with. An obviously well off married couple won’t attract any undue interest from the custom officials, which is our main aim. Once we’re on the plane you’ll be safe. Here.” He fished something out of his jacket pocket and held it out to her on the flat of his palm. It was a wedding band forged out of white gold. Its partner, she noticed, already graced his finger.
“Thank you. But I’m considering a divorce,” Irene declined the offer, shoving at his hand with such violence the ring bounced from his palm and onto the floor, whence it proceeded to roll under the bed.
“For God’s sake, woman,” Sherlock exclaimed, “be serious for once. This is no time to play games.” He fell to his knees and peered under the bed.
“I’m not playing,” Irene informed him. “I have my own professional standards to hold up. Throwing yourself to your knees won’t soften my stance. Right now I’m too seriously annoyed with you.”
For a split second she was convinced she heard the snap of vertebrae ring through the room as Sherlock whipped up his head to stare up at her. The ring sat between his thumb and forefinger but he didn’t hold it out. Instead he studied her, his piercing gaze gliding from her face down to her hands and back up again, as if he were cataloguing her and comparing his observations with a reference map in his mind. His scrutiny bounced her back to those moments he’d sat examining her in her champagne drawing room in Eaton Square and the exciting chill she’d felt course through her when she first was the object of that intense focus.
This, Irene felt with a pang, was why she’d been drawn to him. Her skin tingled at the memory. Sherlock hadn’t ogled her with lust-glazed eyes, as so many other men and women – ordinary people, like John Watson and Kate for example – would have done. No, he had been genuinely looking at her, willing her features – the way she’d adjusted her arms in front of her breasts, the arch of her foot – to reveal everything about her.
Never before had she undergone such intense scrutiny. For her it had been one of the most erotic moments of her life. For him – obviously – one of the most frustrating. A serene smile firmly attached to the corners of her mouth, she’d sat gloating over his bafflement and anticipating the glorious ride ahead of them, convinced that she held all the cards in her hand; all she needed was play them in the right order. Except looking back now she recognised that even then, when she was so sure her choice of armour parried every strike of his eyes over her skin, he was already denting it beyond repair.
But then, she’d believed herself impervious to such base cravings as ruled the hearts and minds of those she dominated so effortlessly. She’d imagined she was teasing him and making him squirm while – and she would scarcely confess this to herself – in reality she was scratching her own itch. Every time she sent him another text her fingers danced over the buttons of her phone with the passionate enthusiasm of a debutante savouring her first ball. Her face burned with the memory of the smug smile it had worn when she reset her password.
The world’s leading dominatrix, brought to her knees by a virgin. Oh, the sheer humiliation. But then, wasn't it always the exceptional creatures which let themselves be tamed by virgins in myths and fairy-tales, like white unicorns and wild lions roaming the desert and such? Except those virgins were usually demure and soft-spoken maidens with golden tresses and robes the colour of freshly fallen snow. A presumptuous, obnoxious thirty-five-year-old in a thousand-quid suit was a bit of a novelty on the virgin front. A post-modern addition perhaps.
But he did have the requisite gorgeously wavy hair. Though it looked a bit bizarre paired with his outfit of higher-middle-class leisurewear.
“I see,” Sherlock said at last, his expression indicating he’d hit upon the source of her anger. “You resent the fact I had you sedated and treated you as a liability instead of an accomplice.”
“Oh, well done you,” she jeered. “Such remarkable insight. Especially for a vicar with a bleeding face.”
Her flippant remark made him glare at her in cold fury, his pupils shrivelled to tiny pinpoints amidst seething seas of boiling ice. The next moment he’d recovered himself, his face once again an impenetrable mask when he raised his hand and offered the ring to her.
Was that the look he’d cast her when she’d called him ‘Junior’ in front of his brother? Irene wondered. She’d been so certain of her triumph then, assured she held two Holmeses in the palm of her hand. She was already contemplating tugging at the thread connecting her to the younger, reeling him in as slowly and meticulously as an angler spinning the wheel on his rod, after finishing her business with the elder.
What have I done? she thought, and her heart plunged at the sudden understanding. One indiscreet word she’d let fall from her lips and with it she’d lost his trust, irrevocably.
The realisation hit her like a sucker-punch in the solar plexus and she gasped as if in physical pain. Inside her she felt something precious crumple and wither, like a fast-forwarded film montage of the last stages of a flowering rose, leaving nothing but an empty, desiccated stem.
The reason Sherlock Holmes was sitting with her in this small room somewhere in Karachi after having delivered her from death had nothing to do with Irene Adler at all. In changing her passcode, in letting him take her pulse, in humiliating him in front of the one person in the world whose opinion he probably truly cared about, she’d shed every ounce of leverage she once held over him and reduced herself to a pawn in the perpetual war of wits waged between the Holmes siblings
Quietly, not meeting his eyes, she accepted the ring and put it onto her finger.
***
Irene made sure she was the last passenger to board the aeroplane, shooting apologetic glances at the crew and the passengers already buckled into their seatbelts. They were a holiday crowd mostly, excited at the prospect of long days on the beach. None of them looked like they might belong to Mycroft Holmes’ contingency force, but recently she’d made frequent use of the average holiday gear of drab zip-off pants and a loudly clanging sweater herself, having discovered it transformed a person almost beyond recognition.
The Italians – the women easily recognisable by their flashy clothes – she ignored. With a demure smile at the man placed next to her she seated herself. His glance travelled from her face down to her breasts to linger there for a few seconds before straying towards her hands. Her own gaze was pointed when she directed it at the ring on prominent display on his own finger. Caught, the man frowned and looked away. A smug smile tugged at the corners of Irene’s lips. Apparently the state of marriage carried some unexpected boons.
To ward off any further shots at intimacy she resumed reading the book Sherlock had provided her with. The previous night, after the worst of her mortification had worn off a little and she’d been able to talk to him again, she’d asked him about his choice of flight literature.
“You said you liked detective stories,” he’d answered, matter-of-factly. “Mrs Hudson is addicted to them so I asked her for advice. She recommended this writer. I reckoned the idea of a female detective would appeal to you given your inclinations.”
“Thank you,” Irene had breathed. “That’s very considerate of you.” Clearly, he hadn’t the faintest about Miss Marple’s age. There was a time once when the discovery would have made her smile.
The Catania airport proved to be dismally small, distinctly lacking the numbers she would have preferred to experience a modicum of safety. With the aim of boosting her self-confidence she lowered the sunglasses onto her nose, immediately realising they had the additional advantage of shielding her eyes, which she could now allow to roam freely without being caught out.
She made it to the exit and put up a show of expecting to be picked up – by a loving husband for example – repeatedly checking her watch and all the while furtively scanning the people milling around her. When she was certain no one was following her she shrugged as if tired of waiting and made for the nearest taxi. The driver didn’t hide his surprise at her mastery of the Italian language and launched into an enthusiastic eulogy of the city, using his hands to underscore his words and honk his horn simultaneously.
The palms of her own hands were sweating for the duration of the ride. She cursed herself for a fool; she’d been far less nervous at the plane. The Grand Hotel Excelsior looked as busy and anonymous as Sherlock had promised. The taxi driver honked his horn a last time before tearing away and she strode into the lobby exuding the confidence of a woman who’d booked the most expensive suite.
Once she would have considered the surroundings not up to par. Now she barely paid heed to them either but that was due to her focus on finding the service exit Sherlock had shown her on the map he’d drawn of the lobby. Once she was outside again, filling her nose with the insalubrious smells coaxed out of the bins surrounding her by the heat of the sun, she heaved a deep breath. Remembering Sherlock’s directions she made her way to the Via Monsignor Ventimiglia. From there it was a long walk to her final destination in the Via Crociferi but for the first time in months the bounce was back in her step.
***
She might actually like living here, Irene mused a few weeks later, pretending to contemplate the steady stream of traffic crawling up and down Via Etnea over the edge of her cup of cappuccino. Of course the city’s attractions were a far cry from those of London or New York – the place was in fact as shockingly provincial as every connotation of the term implied – but rather than struggling to live up to a pretence it wouldn’t be able to maintain, both the city and its inhabitants cheerfully submitted themselves to reality and chose to consider themselves blessed in their spot between Mount Etna and the Ionian Sea. And some of the Italian women were exquisite. Irene sighed when the elegant girl she’d been observing bent forward and reached over the table for the hairy paw of her companion. Such a waste. However, her station in her new life was still too insecure to start misbehaving at her customary level. Yet.
So far everyone she’d had to deal with had accepted the yarn Sherlock had concocted for her to spin, should her accent raise any eyebrows. Her Sicilian mother had passed away when she was nothing but a young girl and she hadn’t spoken the language in years. Then after her father’s recent death she’d felt the urge to find out more about half of her origins and decided to go and live for a few years in the city where her mother had spent her youth. At this part of her story her conversation partner usually broke in to enlighten her with an account of their family history and she could safely refrain from feeding them more lies.
“That’s what makes it such an ideal hiding place,” Sherlock had elucidated once she’d grasped he meant to drop her off in some obscure town on an island in the Mediterranean. “Italians have three topics of conversation: themselves, food and football. The place is big enough to ensure your anonymity, rich enough for you to earn a living for yourself, and any Italian institution is a nightmare of red tape wound so tightly it will take even my dear brother half a lifetime to unravel it. I’ve heard him lamenting their decline from their Roman heights of efficiency more times than I’ve been able to delete. You’re free to go and live wherever you want but at I advise you to stick it out there for the few weeks Mycroft will need to convince himself you’re indeed deader than the deadest dodo.”
At first Irene had assumed that moment couldn’t arrive too soon. Now, strolling down the market, selecting tomatoes and a head of lettuce for her lunch and lifting a warm white peach to her nose to savour its sun-drenched aroma and the luscious feel of the downy skin against her own, she was less certain. The city, built out of black lava blocks along a rigid street pattern, exuded a severe austerity that appealed to her just as much as the Baroque excesses of white stucco scrollwork adorning every façade. Its layout formed, she’d determined, a perfect representation of the more easily discernible aspects of her profession. Perhaps that was the reason it suited her so well.
The apartment Sherlock had arranged for her was equally perfect, its opulent décor fitting itself around her like a soft leather glove each time she let the heavy front door fall shut behind her.
Every now and then Irene wondered what kind of woman her landlady was and what she’d needed Sherlock’s services for. Her search of the flat's cabinets and cupboards had provided her with no viable information at all so she was reduced to guesswork as to why an octogenarian would wish to equip her spare bedroom with a double that would have taken pride of place in an upmarket Risorgimento bordello. It was a nightmare to make up properly but its sturdy posts came in most handy during some of the more exhausting scenes played out there.
For it seemed that apart from discussing themselves, food and football, Italian men had no qualms about tipping each other off regarding where to go for a satisfying session of thorough, recreational scolding. Irene had spent her first weeks scouting the city’s more expensive hotels and day tripping to various pleasure resorts on the volcano and down the coast to lay the groundwork for a profitable clientele. So far the return on time invested had exceeded her expectations. Obviously her talent for finding out what people liked hadn’t suffered under the humiliation she’d endured herself.
The money was once again rolling in. Her tariff was but a pittance compared to what it had been when she dominated the world but her bank balance showed a gratifying incline nonetheless. Thus, she reasoned, she was saving for the day she’d say goodbye to Mrs Norton and fly off to a future she’d graft of her own.
Just don’t try to fly too close to the sun again, she thought, but of course that was a different myth entirely, though it was closely entwined with her own.
On a whim she even visited Naxos’ remains and stood looking out over the site. In the distance the sea rolled on endlessly, its crests caressing the coastal sands as carefully as they’d done when Naxos had been a thriving city and even before, when Theseus had the black sail raised and set off for Athens and a life of magnificent adventure.
***
The day after her arrival she had sold the ring, got rid of the suitcase and its ghastly contents and invested € 7,500 in apparel that was more to her liking. It wasn’t couture – it wasn’t even the next best thing – but she was in a class of her own and just by dint of her wearing them the clothes looked better than they truly were.
The only things she kept were the socks. She was about to bin them as well when an impulse induced her to sniff them. Their scent carried the aroma of the same laundry detergent she’d smelt when she’d stretched out between the sheets of Sherlock’s bed back at Baker Street. She concluded they must be his and he must have worn them. Indeed, upon unrolling them she detected signs of wear on the fabric at the heels and toes. The knit was very fine and the yarn soft to the touch, a blend of merino and cotton. They were ridiculously large, but then, he did have big feet. One moment she’d stood trailing them through her fingers and the next second she’d buried her face in the wool, heaving deep breaths and sobbing with a despair darker than the fears she’d had to battle when locked in her lonely cell in Karachi.
“Oh god,” she moaned, “oh my god.”
It was, perhaps, the worst moment of her life. But it passed, as every moment must do.
After she’d dried off her face and restored her make-up she stashed the socks in the drawer where she kept her stockings. Every now and then her hand inadvertently brushed them as she went in search of a pair. Each time the contact would send a small shiver of bliss rippling down her spine.
***
By now she was working up a sweat, the blows of her crop raining down on his back, whose architecture, with the twin sloping domes of his shoulder blades and the long grid of vertebrae notches, had long since lost its alabaster hue and turned into the ravaged remnants of a conquered metropolis, with the blood of its inhabitants running in rivers down the streets.
And still he refused to beg though his breathing was reduced to raspy gulps of air sucked in with the desperate urgency of a drowning victim.
At last, enraged by his obstinacy, she flung the crop onto the bed, sank down on the edge as well, and twisted her fingers into the thick waves of his hair. Slick with sweat it was, but that just made her tug harder as she whipped up his head and forced him to lock eyes with her.
The blood flowing from the cuts on his cheekbones – his bloody bleeding vicar’s face –mingled with the tears he couldn’t blink back any longer, painting his cheeks a pink as soft and luminous as a rose touched by the first tentative rays of the sun at dawn.
“Hush now, Mr Holmes,” she soothed, “hush.” She bent at the waist to kiss him, first one cheek, and then the other, savouring the heady salt-coppery tang of blood and tears. He glared at her, his eyes blazing with all the pent-up fury of Satan locked in his perpetual prison of ice, his mouth opening to hurl a scornful insult at her.
“Oh, don’t,” she murmured, putting a finger against his lips and pressing ever so slightly. The skin she touched was chapped and broken, adorned with flecks of half-dried spittle, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to plunge down and start plundering his mouth.
Instead, she yanked his head back even further and licked a long stripe along his throat, all the way from the dip between his collarbones up to the tip of the chin defiantly sticking out above it, curling her tongue to collect the beads of perspiration that spiralled down like strings of translucent pearls.
Her voice when she addressed him was that of a teacher deploring the latest outrage of a beloved but obstinate pupil. “Mercy, Mr Holmes,” she said, and she sighed. “Two tiny syllables, those are all I need to hear and all your troubles will be over.” She used her grip on his mop of curls to shake his head a little. “Say them.”
He remained stubbornly silent, pursing his lips and glowering at her. After half a minute of throwing daggers at each other she sighed, weary, and let go of the strands she’d been pulling. His head snapped forward and would have crashed into the bedpost if she had not put her foot against his chest to shove him aside at the last split-second. The sharp heel of her pump pressed against his sternum, testing the resilience of the skin, and finding it lacking, punctured it. Blood started surging up immediately, vivid and red against the – as yet – unmarred surface of his torso. She reached for her crop and dipped the soft leather of the keeper into the small well.
“Oh, you stupid man,” she purred, dragging it down to his navel. “Now look what you made me do.”
***
Irene woke up gasping for breath. For a few dazed seconds she groped around in the dark for the switch of her bedside lamp, panic galloping through her chest like a herd of startled horses. Her stomach joined the stampede and she sat dry retching with her hands pressed against her belly.
Inflicting pain and humiliation was her profession but she never dealt it unless she was invited to. The scenes that had just played out in her head, the scenes she’d thoroughly enjoyed – for there was no denying the traces of delicious drowsiness lingering in her limbs and where she sat hugging her waist – were the stuff of nightmares, an orgy of rage and rape and revenge that was base and mean, and she resented her mind for whipping it up and finding pleasure in it.
***
One day Irene was oiling the tools of her trade, admiring their gleaming surfaces and relishing their smooth feel, BBC World News idly babbling in the background, when the shrill tones of a reporter, pitched unusually high in over-the-top excitement, broke through the velvet swathes of languid reverie Irene had wrapped herself in.
The words that first caught her attention was the declaration “ 'The Crime of the Century' has just been committed.” The phrase reminded her of Moriarty’s boast that soon he was going to astonish the world by pulling off the greatest crime ever committed, in broad daylight and right under everybody’s noses. Apparently it hadn’t been mere idle talk. Captures of the exterior of Pentonville Prison, the Bank of England and the Tower of London flashed up on the screen, to be replaced with a reporter who had positioned herself in front of the New Scotland Yard building on Broadway and was now saying the police had just declared they were consulting various experts.
That was Sherlock, obviously. Irene’s heart missed a beat and she actually rested her hand on the spot for an instant. For Jim Moriarty was obsessed with Sherlock (“And how about you then?” a mocking voice in her head asked), but, unlike her terrible dream that was nothing but a dream, Jim wished to inflict actual harm on him.
During the initial stages of their acquaintance Irene hadn’t let the idea bother her; what was Sherlock Holmes to her except a means to a very lucrative end? Later she’d lulled her unease by reasoning Sherlock was extremely clever – at least as clever as Jim Moriarty – and he could always fall back on the formidable fortress that was Mycroft Holmes.
Together the Holmes brothers formed an impenetrable bulwark between the world as Irene knew it and Jim’s vision of an empire.
Briefly, she considered warning Sherlock but dismissed the idea straightaway as being too dangerous, for herself as well as for him. She couldn’t risk revealing her continuing existence to the elder Holmes sibling and as to Sherlock, he’d have to pull out all the stops in the weeks to come and a major quarrel with his brother was the last thing he needed.
She almost cried in frustration as she realised her hands were tied. All she could do was watch and hope and pray for a good ending.
***
Outside her flat, life in the city rolled on as if nothing had happened. One of her clients, the owner of a small import-export firm that occasionally engaged in some trade with England, remarked upon the trial and she punished him for insubordination. After he’d showered and dressed he handed her double the fee they’d agreed upon. She tucked it beneath the edge of her cuff and smiled down on him.
“Addio.”
Generously, she held out two of her fingers for him to kiss. The man fell to his knees and reached for them with the zealous devotion of a worshipper visiting the early morning mass in one of the city’s many churches. His breath ghosted over her nails.
“Grazie mille. Grazie mille,” he stammered. She rewarded him with a last benevolent look before she shut the door in his face and flicked on the television to watch the courthouse proceedings with increasing apprehension.
***
The jury acquitted Moriarty and, after the initial shock and outrage – some of which even made it into the Corriere Della Sera – the stream of news concerning 'The Crime of the Century' dwindled down to a trickle that evaporated into thin air.
Irene’s unease remained and she racked her brain for a way to contact Sherlock. She wasted away a few precious days creating false ISP addresses with the aid of an online encryption network, only to delete them again as the thought of Mycroft Holmes kept leaping up in her mind like a hideous jack-in-a-box.
And then it was too late.
***
“No,” Irene lisped, staring at the screen with eyes that felt as wide as saucers. “God, no.” The raw emotion that clutched her throat was a sensation she’d never experienced before. For a terrifying second she feared she would die on the spot herself. The next insane second she almost welcomed the idea.
Irene glared at the reporter, willing her to stop and crash into the pavement in front of St Bart’s herself, but the woman kept droning on, hurling words like ‘fake genius’ and ‘fraudulent detective’ into the air as if she had the right.
Naturally, that wasn’t all. Irene's nails dug deep into the century-old velvet upholstery of one of the Marchioness’s armchairs as 221 Baker Street came into view. The camera recorded some vague movement behind the right window, a flash of purple, which Irene surmised was Mrs Hudson and then all hell broke loose when a cab drew up and out came John Watson.
Irene still wasn’t entirely certain what to make of the dapper little doctor. Initially his fierce loyalty to his friend had amused her. What a dear darling pet, she’d thought, quite handy to have hanging about the place. Later, once she’d shrugged over the fact that he was just a man and thus, naturally, as despicable as any specimen of the sex, she began to actively appreciate him. Watching his stunned face she felt all her sympathy go out to him and for an insane instant she wished she could be in London to sit with the doctor in front of the fire and share their grief over the man they had lost.
The black front door opened to a crack just wide enough to let John slip through and shut again with a bang. The camera kept rolling, catching the glint struck by the sun in the sparkling bronze of the number plates. It didn't wait in vain, for suddenly the door opened wide and a livid Mrs Hudson came stalking out.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” she assaulted the nearest reporter, a man who towered above her by a head at least, yet staggered back a few steps. “This is a house in mourning. Have you no shame at all? First you’ve hunted him down with your lies and…”
To Irene’s mortification and the reporters’ and general viewing public’s delight Mrs Hudson’s face crumpled. Frantically gulping she grabbed for her handkerchief and the next moment burst into the tears she couldn’t hold back any longer.
“The fraud detective’s landlady…” a voice-over began and then the camera swerved away. “The police are arriving...” the voice said, and indeed a police car drew to a halt close to the group of reporters and film crews. The doors on both sides of the car were thrown open wide and a man in a drab raincoat and a woman with a shock of dark hair emerged.
“Are they coming to arrest John Watson?” the voice asked.
Irene scoffed at that inanity. Her mind still couldn’t grasp what had happened. Then, suddenly, they were hurled back to St Bart’s. The camera recorded Sherlock’s body being lifted onto a stretcher, his beautiful hair slick with blood and his head lolling to the side.
He was so absolutely quiet, like a puppet with the strings all cut. It was unreal.
“This isn’t real,” Irene told the television and herself. “It’s a trick, can’t you see? He’s cleverer than you are and he’s tricked you all.” That, she fathomed, must be the truth behind this charade. Sherlock must have drawn Moriarty to Bart’s, his home away from home, for the final confrontation, and he would never have done so unless he’d been absolutely certain of the outcome. Sherlock had been able to outmanoeuvre the cleverest man on the planet – the living proof of that was currently seated in front of the television in her apartment in the Via Crociferi, biting the gloss of her manicured nails – so it was inconceivable Moriarty had managed to do what no one else ever had... beaten Sherlock, once and for all.
The realisation consoled her somewhat and allowed her to watch the following proceedings with a liberating sense of detachment. Part of her wondered where Sherlock was at this particular moment and whether he would inform John Watson and Mrs Hudson, who was now clinging desperately to the chest of the plain-clothes policeman, he in turn patting her back and looking like he wanted nothing better than to join in with the crying.
Irene concluded he must be DI Lestrade, the detective with whom Sherlock enjoyed a close working relationship according to John’s blog. Moriarty had fed her some information on the man as well. Plenty of blackmail material there, but his income was too small for her to waste her talent on.
The line of thought led her back to the problem of Sherlock’s present location. On the television the door to number 221 fell shut again after having swallowed Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade. The woman who’d accompanied him – another plain-clothes detective, Irene supposed – pivoted on her heel in disgust, fought her way back to the car, and, once safely inside, drove away at a speed that violated several traffic laws.
The eye of the camera travelled up to record DI Lestrade pulling the curtains across one of the first-floor windows. Had Sherlock been inside all along? Irene almost brought up her hand to hide her smile. That would be just like him, wouldn’t it? She imagined him peeking around the curtain to sneer down on the crowd assembled in the street.
On the other side of Baker Street a sleek black Bentley halted next to the kerb. Irene willed the camera to show her the number plate but its focus clung with frustrating stubbornness to the side of the car. The driver’s head appeared above the hood and disappeared again as he bent forward to open the back door.
Mycroft Holmes rose from the car with his usual cold sedateness. An excited murmur swept through the throng of reporters.
“The deceased’s brother, Mycroft Holmes…” the detached voice narrating the proceedings said.
The elder Holmes sibling waited until his chauffeur handed him his – meticulously rolled – umbrella before making his way towards the house where his brother had lived. His face wore its familiar terrifying bland smile. In the background the murmuring increased. Irene felt the fabric of the chair arms strain under the force with which she was digging in her nails.
“No comment,” Mycroft was saying into the microphones thrust aggressively into his face. He kept pushing his way through the horde with the indifference of a practised beekeeper suffering an attack from an incensed population of bees. His expression, even while addressing no one in particular, never wavered from one of mild weariness.
“No film, please,” he said, his tone excessively polite. In answer the camera zoomed in on his features. The fabric beneath Irene’s fingers tore with a screech that ricocheted off the high walls of the apartment.
For the grief the camera recorded in Mycroft’s Holmes eyes confirmed what she wished more than anything to deny.
***
He’s gone. I’ve lost him, and now I’ll never, never have him.
The same words repeated themselves over and over in her head. They were stupid, she was all too aware of their stupidity, for even if he had lived she would never have him; she’d lost him long before that.
But the idea of a world without Sherlock Holmes was such a dismal one. The sun might still rise every morning from the sea shrouded in glorious robes of pink and orange and red to light up the mountain that throned over the city in imperial majesty. Irene might walk its streets and admire a new set of lingerie, contemplate adding a finely worked knife to her assortment, indulge in an ice cream at the Pasticceria Savia, but the place where her heart had been was empty. It still beat: if she held her hand there she could feel its rhythm, but each beat of the organ, each breath her lungs drew into her body felt like a betrayal.
Why mourn? she asked herself. What was he to you? He helped you once but only after he toppled the foundations you were standing on, everything you’d fought so hard to attain. You’re alive, he’s dead. You were never going to see him again and good riddance. Remember what you were and you lost it all. He beat you, but you’re the one who laughs in the end….
Then she would cry again. Because Sherlock Holmes was no longer of this world. Because she’d lost him and she’d never, ever have him.
***
Life went on, wasn’t that the pat phrase? It might be dismal and dull but unless she chose to follow in Sherlock’s steps – and she shuddered at the idea – it had to go on. Down the eternal sun went and up it came again the next morning to find Irene preparing for another session. She yawned loudly. The man was even more boring than most of her clients, apt to beg for mercy before she’d even properly flexed her muscles. The money he paid her was good, however.
By now she was considering leaving the city and this remote island. Mycroft Holmes’ eye would still be as clouded as hers regularly were, so this would be a good time to move and set up base in America. She thought of going to New York. That city held attractions more likely to disperse memories she’d rather forget.
The doorbell rang and Irene sighed. Dull, and way too early. Oh, the stupid little fool couldn’t wait to be scolded. She snorted and pressed the intercom button.
“Sei troppo presto,” she purred in the artificial sing-song voice that always seemed to affect this client most particularly.
She almost let go of the button when the speaker didn’t blurt out the expected plea for admission but barked, “Irene!” in a bidding baritone. No one dared address her like this, except perhaps two people in the world of which but one remained, and the voice’s pitch was too low for Mycroft Holmes.
Inside her chest her heart sped up but this wasn’t betrayal, it was triumph, jubilant and loud.
Her phone was lying on the hall table and she swept it up to cancel her appointment with a punishing text. Its composition gave her the time she needed to contemplate her answer.
She pressed the intercom button again.
“Say please.”