Every year, the students at my school go on an educational study trip to a foreign country. This trip usually happens roughly from late March to early April and lasts about two weeks. If they matriculate into the school during the fifth grade and graduate in the 11th, they'll have traveled to Greece, Italy, Great Britain, Scandinavia, China and Israel.
Yeah, they go a lot of places.
This year, the fifth grade will be going to Scandinavia, the tenth grade to China and the seventh grade to England and Scotland (hence, 'Great Britain'). As a native English speaker, one of my tasks this year will be to help prepare the seventh grade for its trip. I've decided that one way to do this is introduce them to some of the most prominent examples of English literature, which I feel includes Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, J.K. Rowling and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There are many more authors that are just as good, but Wilde, Rowling and Doyle are probably the most popular among my students.
I'll be trying to expose them to more than just some simple examples of English literature, such as history, culture, language and monuments/landmarks, but everything I'm planning on doing is too much for one blog post.
I decided to adapt 'A Scandal in Bohemia' since it's a fairly short story (only 15 pages printer paper) and the BBC series Sherlock based a whole episode ("A Scandal in Belgravia") on the tale. But even though it was just 15 pages, the process was made somewhat tedious trying to simplify the language to a level I know my students will find challenging but simple enough that they won't want to quit. Thankfully, the character of Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain, but I tried to include as many citations as possible to make it clear I'm not taking credit for the story. I simply paraphrased what happened in simpler terms.
Here's the simplified text of "A Scandal in Bohemia," written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and adapted by me:
A Scandal in Bohemia
By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Chapter 1
To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the woman. I rarely hear him mention her using a different name. To him, she is more important and more interesting than any other woman. He doesn’t love Irene Adler. His cold, precise, but well-balanced, mind hates all emotions, especially love. He is the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but he could never be a lover. Whenever he spoke of soft emotions, it was with a mean joke and a sneer. These emotions were excellent for the observer as they could uncover men’s motives and actions. However, if a trained reasoner admitted to feeling these emotions, it would undoubtedly change the results of his sensitive and finely-adjusted temperament. Dirt in a sensitive instrument, or a scratch on a lens, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a character such as Sherlock’s. And yet there is one woman to him, and that woman is the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had not seen Holmes much at that time. My marriage made us drift apart from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which happen around the man who finds himself master of his home, were enough to take all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our apartment in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug and the fierce energy of his own observant character. He loved studying crime, and he used his immense powers of observation in using those clues and solving those mysteries which were considered hopeless by the police. From time to time, I heard some vague story about what he was doing: how he went to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, how he solved the tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee and, finally, how he accomplished a mission that was very sensitive for the royal family of Holland. However, except for these few signs of his activity, I knew little about my former friend and companion.
In the evening of the 20th of March, 1888, I was returning from a patient’s house (I had returned to working as a doctor) when my trip led me to Baker Street. As I passed the door to my old apartment, I had a sudden desire to see Holmes again and to know how he was using his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brightly lit and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, slim figure walk past the window twice. He was walking around the room quickly and energetically, with his chin resting on his chest and his hands held behind him. I knew his every mood and habit so his current behavior told the story. He was working again. He wasn’t doing drugs as he was working on some new problem. I rang the bell and was taken to the room apartment which had been partly my own.
His manner wasn’t excited. It rarely was, but I think he was glad to see me. Without saying many words, but with a kind eye, he waved me to an armchair and threw his case of cigars to me. Then he stood in front of the fire and looked at me in his normal way.
“Marriage is good for you,” he said. “Watson, I think that you have gained three and a half kilograms since I saw you.”
“Three!” I responded.
“Indeed. I should have said a little more. And you did not tell me you intended to go back to work.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. For example, how do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a clumsy and careless servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” I said, “this is too much. A few centuries ago, people would have burned you. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home very dirty, but since I changed my clothes, I don’t know how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is impossible, and my wife has told her to start finding a new job, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.”
Sherlock chuckled to himself and rubbed his hands together.
“It is elementary,” he said. “I see that on the inside of your left shoe, the leather has been cut six times. Obviously, they were done by someone who has carelessly brushed the edges of the sole in order to remove dried mud from it. Therefore, you understand my double deduction that you were out in bad weather and that you had a particularly bad boot-slitting specimen of the London house servant. As to your job, if a man walks into my room smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of silver nitrate on his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his hat to show where he has put his stethoscope, I must be dumb if I don’t say he’s an active doctor.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I said, “it always seems so simple that I could do it myself, but each instance of your reasoning, I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe my eyes are as good as yours.”
“You are right,” he answered, lighting a cigarette and sitting down in an armchair. “You see but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have often seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”
“Yes, I have.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed and yet you have seen. That is my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to write about one or two of my minor experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw to me a sheet of thick, print paper which was lying open on the table. “It came yesterday,” he said. “Read it aloud.”
There was no date on the note and there was no signature or address.
“Tonight, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “A gentlemen who wants to speak with you about a very urgent matter. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are a person who may safely be trusted with matters that are so important that they can’t be exaggerated. This account of you we have received from everyone. Be in your room at that hour and do not be suspicious is your visitor wears a mark.”
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a major mistake to theorize before one has data. If one does this, one begins to change facts to fit theories instead of theories to fit facts. But the note itself. What do you think about it?”
I examined the writing and the paper it was written on.
“The man who wrote it is probably rich,” I said, trying to imitate my friend’s abilities. “Such paper can not be bought for cheap. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar - that is the very word,” Holmes said. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”
I did so and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the paper.
“What do you make of that?” Holmes asked.
“The name of the maker, no doubt, or his monogram.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is German for ‘Company.’ It is a common contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let’s look at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown book from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz - here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country - in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you think of that?” His eyes sparkled and he sent up a great blue cloud of smoke from his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Exactly. And the man who wrote the note is German. Do you see the unique construction of the sentence - ‘This account of you we have received from everyone.’ A Frenchman or a Russian could not have written that. It is a German who is so unfriendly with his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to learn what is wanted by this German who writes on Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I’m not wrong, to answer all our questions.”
As he spoke, there were sharp sounds of horses’ hooves and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” he said. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out the window. “A nice little carriage and a pair of beautiful horses. 150 guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Sherlock.”
“Don’t go, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without your help. And this case will be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client--”
“Nevermind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard on the stairs and in the hallway, stopped outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.
“Come in!” Holmes said.
A man entered and he was about two metres in height with the upper body muscles of Hercules. His clothing was so rich that it would almost be considered bad fashion in England. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and front of his coat, while the deep blue cloak hanging off his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and tied at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. His boots were halfway up his calves and were trimmed at the top with brown fur. This completed his barbaric appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand while he wore a black mask that covered the upper part of his face. Judging from the lower part of his face, he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip and a long, straight chin.
“You received my note?” he asked with a deep, harsh voice and a strong German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from me to Sherlock, unsure which to speak to.
“Please, take a seat,” Holmes said. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Warson, who occasionally helps me with my cases. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”
“You may call me Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion and that I can trust him with a very important matter. If he isn’t, I would prefer to speak with you alone.”
I rose to go but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” he said. “You can say to him whatever you say to me.”
The Count shrugged his shoulders. “Then I must begin,” he said, “by requiring you both to never speak about this situation for two years. At the end of these two years, the matter will not be important. Right now, the matter is so important that it may influence European history.”
“I promise,” Holmes said.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our visitor. “The person who employs me wishes me to be unknown to you, and I may confess that the title I have called myself is not my own.”
“I know,” Holmes said.
“The situation is very delicate and every precaution must be taken to stop what might grow to become a serious scandal and damage one of the ruling families of Europe. To speak honestly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, the hereditary kings of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” Holmes said, relaxing in his armchair and closing his eyes.
Our visitor looked at Holmes with surprise. Holmes slowed reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his client.
“If your Majesty would be frank and state his case,” he said, “I will be better able to advise you.”
The man jumped from his chair and walked around the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he took the mask from his face and threw it to the ground. “You are right,” he said. “I am the King. Why should I have attempted to conceal it?”
“Why indeed?” Holmes said. “Your Majesty did not speak before I knew that I was speaking with Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” our visitor said, sitting down once more and rubbing his head, “I am not used to doing such business by myself. Yet this matter is so sensitive that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come from Prague in secret so that I could meet with you.”
“Then please, tell us your situation,” Holmes said, shutting his eyes again.
“The facts are these: Five years ago, during a long visit to Warsaw, I met a famous adventuress, Irene Adler. Her name is familiar to you.”
“Kindly find her in my index, Doctor,” Holmes said without opening his eyes. For many years, Holmes had adopted a system of documenting all paragraphs concerning men and things, so it was difficult to name a subject or a person which he could not give information at once. In this case, I found her biography between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a paper on deep-sea fish.
“Let me see,” Holmes said. “Hm, born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto. Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw. Retired from opera. Living in London. Your Majesty, as I understand, became involved in a relationship with this young woman, wrote her some scandalous letters and now you want those letters back.”
“Exactly. But how--”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“No.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t understand. If this young woman should use her letters for blackmailing purposes, how can she prove their authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Forgery.”
“My private notepaper.”
“Stolen."
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh dear. That is very bad. Your Majesty has committed an indiscretion.”
“I was mad. Insane!”
“You have seriously damaged yourself.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. Now I am thirty.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Steal it then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars searched her house. Once we stole her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been delayed. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“None.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” he said.
“But a very serious one to me,” said the King.
“Indeed. What does she say she will do with the photograph?”
“She will ruin me.”
“How?”
“I am going to be married.”
“I heard.”
“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You know the strict morals of her family. She is the soul of delicacy. Any scandal would end our engagement.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“She threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know she will. You don’t know her but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women and the mind of the most resolute of men. She will do anything to make certain I don’t marry another woman.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I’m sure.”
“Why?”
“Because she said she would send it the day the betrothal was publically announced. That will be Monday.”
“So we have three days,” Holmes said with a yawn. “That is very fortunate as I have one or two important matters to research now. Your Majesty will stay in London?”
“Certainly. You can find me at the Langham under the name of Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I will let you know our progress.”
“Please do so. I will be very nervous.”
“As for money?”
“You can spend whatever you need.”
“Really?”
“I would give one of my provinces to have that photograph safe.”
“And for present expenses?”
The King took a leather bag from under his clock and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred pounds in notes,” he said.
Holmes wrote a receipt in his notebook and gave the receipt to the King.
“And Adler’s address?” Holmes asked.
“It is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes recorded it. “One more question,” he said. “Was the photograph a cabinet?”
“It was.”
“Then good night, your Majesty, and I will have some good news for you soon. And good night, Watson,” Sherlock said. “If you can be here tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock, I would like to talk about this with you.”
Chapter Two
At three o’clock, I was at Baker Street but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady told me that he had left the house soon after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down next to the fireplace, willing to wait for his arrival. I was very interested in his investigation. Although it didn’t have the grim and strange characteristics of his normal cases, the nature of this case and its involvement with the King made it unique. There was something in Holmes’ masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, exact reasoning, which made it interesting to study how he works and to watch how he uncovers the most mysterious mysteries. I was so used to his success that the possibility he would fail never entered my head.
It was close to four when the door opened, and a drunk-looking man, ill-kempt with a small beard, red race and bad looking clothes, walked into the room. Although I was used to my friend’s amazing powers in using disguises, I had to look three times before I was sure the man was Sherlock. With a nod, he went into his bedroom. He soon came out in five minutes wearing a tweed suit and looking respectable as usual. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched his legs in front of the fire and laughed loudly for several minutes.
“Well, really!” he said, and then he started laughing again until he needed to lie down, limp and helpless, in his chair.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s really funny. I am sure you could never guess what I did this morning.”
“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and maybe the house, of Miss Irene Adler.”
“Quite so, but the sequel was unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning dressed like a horse-groomer out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among stable workers. If you are one of them, you will know everything. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a two-storey villa that sits at the edge of the road with a garden at the back. There is a large living room on the right side that is well-furnished with long windows almost to the floor. I found a few more interesting things and examined them before moving on.”
“Then, I went down the street and found a stable with a carriage house. I helped the horse groomers in rubbing down their horses and received twopence, a glass of beer, some tobacco and as much information about Miss Adler as I desired. I also received the biographies of another dozen people in the neighbourhood. I wasn’t interested in listening to them but I was compelled to.”
“And what about Irene Adler?” I asked.
“The horse-groomers say that she’s very pretty and one of the daintiest people on this planet. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day and returns at seven sharp for dinner. She rarely goes out at other times, except when she sings. She has only one male visitor, but he visits often. He is dark, handsome and dashings. He never calls less than once a day and he often visits twice. His names is Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. Now do you understand the advantages of having a cabman as a confidant? They had driven him home a dozen times and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down Briony Lodge once more and began thinking about my plan of action.”
“This Godfrey Norton was an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer, which sounded ominous. What was the relation between him and Miss Adler, and why was he visiting so often? Was she his client, his friend or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to him for safekeeping. If the latter, it was less likely. This question was important because it determined if I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a sensitive point, and it widened my field of inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties if you are to understand the situation.”
“I am following you closely,” I answered.
“I was still thinking about the matter when a cab drove up to Briony Lodge and a man stepped out. He was a very handsome man, dark and moustached. He was the man I had heard of. He was in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who seemed at home.”
“He was in the house for about half an hour, and I saw glimpses of him in the windows of the living room, walking back and forth, talking excitedly and waving his arms. I couldn’t see her. He then emerged, looking more stressed than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he looked at a gold watch from his pocket and shouted, ‘Drive like the devil! First to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. A bonus if you do it in twenty minutes!’”
“They left, and I was in the process of deciding whether to follow them or not when another carriage approached the house. It hadn’t stopped before she ran out of the house and entered the carriage. I saw just a glimpse of her but she was a lovely woman with a face that a man might die for.”
“The Church of St. Monica,” she cried at the driver, “and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.”
“This was too good to lose, Watson. I was thinking about whether I should run for it or if I should sit on the back of her carriage when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at me but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ I said, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve.”
“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and the carriage with their horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the cabby and hurried into the church. There wasn’t a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a clergyman, who seemed to be in deep conversation with them. They were all standing in front of the altar. I walked up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped by a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the alter turned to face me and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me.”
“Thank God,” he cried. “You’ll do. Come! Come!”
“For what?” I asked.
“Come, man, come. Only three minutes or it won’t be legal.”
“I was half-pulled to the altar, and before I knew where I was, I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally helping Irene Adler, spinster, marry Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and the gentleman and the lady were thanking me while the clergyman smiled at me. It was the craziest position in which I have ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that made me laugh. It seems that there had been some informality about their license and the clergyman refused to marry them without a witness. My lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to search the streets for a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the occasion.”
“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” I said, “and what happened next?”
“Well, I found my plans in danger. It seemed as if the pair might leave immediately, which required very prompt action from me. At the church door, however, they separated. He went back to the Temple and she to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my plans.”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” Sherlock answered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier this evening. By the way, Doctor, I would like your cooperation.”
“I would be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“No.”
“Nor risking a chance of arrest?”
“Not for a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man.”
“I knew I could rely on you.”
“What do you need?”
“I will explain after Mrs. Turner brings in the tray. Now,” he said as he looked hungrily at the food that our landlady provided, “I must discuss it as I eat for I don’t have much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours, we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.”
“And what then?”
“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere no matter what happens. You understand?”
“I am to be neutral?”
“You will do nothing. There will be some unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in me being taken into her house. Four or five minutes afterwards, the sitting-room window will open. You must stand close to that open window.”
“Yes.”
“You must watch me as you will be able to see me.”
“Yes.”
“And when I raise my hand, you will throw into the room what I give you to throw and, at the same time, you will raise the fire alarm. You understand?”
“Completely.”
“It isn’t too hard,” Sherlock said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. “This is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is to do just that. When you raise the fire alarm, more people will shout it. You should then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. Am I clear?”
“I will be neutral, stand near the window, watch you and throw this object at your signal. Then I will raise the fire alarm and wait for you at the street corner.”
“Exactly.”
“Then you can rely on me.”
“Excellent. I think it is time for me to prepare for my new role that I will play.”
Sherlock went into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of a friendly and simple-minded clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were almost without equal. Holmes didn’t just change his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to change with every new part he played. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when Sherlock became a specialist in crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street. We arrived ten minutes to seven. It was already dusk and the lamps were just being lighted as we walked back and forth in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the arrival of Miss Irene Adler. The house was just as I had imagined it from Sherlock’s description, but the location was less private than I expected. For a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was active. There was a group of poorly-dressed men smoking and laughing in the corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen flirting with a nurse-girl and several well-dressed young men lounging about with cigars in their mouths.”
“You see,” Holmes said, as we paced in front of the house, “this marriage simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. She won’t want her new husband to see it just as our client doesn’t want his princess to see it. Now the question is - where do we find the photograph?”
“Where, indeed?”
“She probably doesn’t carry it with her. It is cabinet size. It’s too large to conceal in a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her searched. Two attempts have already been made.”
“Where, then?”
“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that possibility. But I don’t think either. Women are naturally secretive and they like to hide. Why should she give it to someone else? She can trust her own guardianship but a lot of pressure can be placed on a business man. Remember, she said she would use it within a few days. It must be somewhere she can easily reach it. It must be in her house.”
“But her house has been robbed twice.”
“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”
“But how will you look?”
“I won’t look.”
“What then?”
“I will get her to show me.”
“But she will refuse.”
“She will not be able to. But I hear her carriage approaching. Now follow my instructions.”
As Sherlock spoke, the carriage turned the corner. As it pulled up to the door of Briony Lodge, one of the men at the corner ran forward to open the door in the hope of receiving a copper, but was pushed away by another man with the same intention. A fight started, which was increased when the two guardsmen and the scissors-grinder joined. A blow was struck and the lady, who had exited her carriage, was in the centre of the fight. Holmes ran into the crowd to protect the lady, but just as he reached her, he cried out and fell to the ground with blood running down his face. As he fell, the fighters ran in opposite directions while the well-dressed men joined to help the lady and Sherlock. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, ran up the steps, but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street.
“Is the poor gentleman hurt badly?” she asked.
“He is dead!” cried several voices.
“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll die before you can take him to a hospital.”
“He’s a brave man,” said a woman. “They would have taken the lady’s purse and watch if he didn’t try to protect her. They were a gang. Ah, he’s breathing now.”
“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”
“Yes. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”
Slowly and carefully, Sherlock was carried into Briony Lodge and laid in the sitting-room. I watched everything from the window. The lamps were lit but the blinds were open so I could see Holmes as he laid upon the couch. I do not know how he played his role, but I was never more ashamed in my life than when I saw the beautiful Irene Adler, who I was conspiring against, kindly help the injured Sherlock. However, it would have been the evilest treachery to Holmes if I didn’t do what I needed to. I hardened my heart and took the smoke-rocket from my pocket. After all, I thought, we aren’t injuring her. We are simply preventing her from injuring another.
Holmes sat up on the couch and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant, I saw him raise his hand and at the signal, I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators joined in the yelling of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later, the voice of Holmes from within told them that it was a false alarm. I made my way through the crowd to the street corner, and in ten minutes, Sherlock joined me. He walked quickly and silently for some minutes until he were on a quieter street.
“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” Sherlock commented. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.”
“You have the photograph?”
“I know where it is.”
“How did you find out?”
“She showed me, as I told you she would.”
“I’m still confused.”
“I do not wish to make a mystery,” Sherlock said, laughing. “The plan was simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all working for me.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Then, when the fight started, I had a little red paint in my hand. I ran forward, fell down and slapped my hand to my face to become an injured man. It’s an old trick.”
“That I also figured.”
“Then they carried me in. She was supposed to let me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the room I suspected had the photograph. It was either her sitting-room or her bedroom. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air and you had your chance when they opened the window.”
“How did that help you?”
“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, she runs for her most valuable item. It’s an overpowering response. A married woman grabs at her baby. An unmarried woman grabs for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady has nothing more valuable than the photograph. She would run to secure it. The alarm of fire was beautifully done. The photograph is in a hole behind a sliding panel next to the bell-pull. She went there in an instant and I caught a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I yelled that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, ran from the room and I haven’t seen her since. I rose, made my excuses and escaped from the house. I thought about taking the photograph but the coachman entered and was watching me closely. It seemed safer to wait.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Our quest is almost done. I shall call the King tomorrow and with you, if you care to come with us. We will enter the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is possible that when she comes, she may not find us or the photograph. His majesty will be happy to have it.”
“And when will you call?”
“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so then we will have a good chance. Besides, we must be quick for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must write to the King without delay.”
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:
“Good night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”
There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth who had hurried by.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” Holmes said, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now I wonder who the deuce that was.”
Chapter Three
I stayed at Baker Street that night, and we were eating our breakfast of toast and coffee when the King of Bohemia entered the room.
“You have it!” he shouted, holding Sherlock by both shoulders and looking eagerly at him.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
“I do.”
“Then come. I am very impatient.”
“We must have a cab.”
“No, my carriage is waiting.”
“That will make matters easier.” We left the apartment and started again for Briony Lodge.
“Irene Adler is married,” Holmes said.
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“I hope that she does.”
“Why?”
“Because it is easier for you. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love you. If she does not love you, there is no reason why she should be disrupt your Majesty’s plan.”
“It is true. I wish she had been of my own level. What a queen she would be.” The King became silent until we came to Serpentine Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood on the steps. She watched us as we approached.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” she said.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered Sherlock.
“My mistress told me that you would come. She left this morning with her husband on the 5.15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”
“What!?” Sherlock Holmes said, surprised. “Do you mean that she has left England?”
“She will never return.”
“And the letters?” asked the King. “All is lost.”
“We will see.” Sherlock entered the lodge and went into the drawing room, followed by the King and me. The furniture was scattered everywhere with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady searched them before she left. Holmes rushed to the bell pull, opened a small window and put his hand in the opening. He pulled out his hand and he was holding a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler in an evening dress, the letter was addressed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left until called for.” My friend opened the letter and we read it together. It was dated at midnight and said:
“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:”
“You did really well. You surprised me completely. I did not have a suspicion until after the fire alarm. But then I realized I had betrayed myself. I was warned about you months ago. If the King hired an agent, it would be you, and your address was given to me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress. Male costume is not new to me. I often use the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran up my stairs, got dressed in my walking clothes and came down just as you left.”
“I followed you to your door and made sure that I was an object of interest to the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good night and started for the Temple to see my husband.”
“We both thought the best action was to leave when we knew we were being chased by a strong opponent. As a result, you will find the home empty tomorrow. As for the photograph, your client can relax. I love and am loved by a better man than him. The King may do what he wants. I won’t stop him even though he was cruel to me. I will keep the photo to protect myself. It will keep me safe from anything he might do in the future. I leave a photograph if he wants to have it. I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
“Very truly yours,”
“Irene Norton, nee Adler.”
“What a woman, oh, what a woman!” the King said after we finished reading the letter. “Did I not tell you how quick and determined she was? Would she not have been a good queen?” Isn’t it a pity that she was not on my level?”
“From what I have seen of the lady, she seems to be on a very different level compared to your Majesty,” Holmes said coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your business to a more successful conclusion.”
“On the contrary, my dear sir,” said the King, “nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is unbreakable. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”
“I am glad to hear your Majestry say so.”
“I am immensely indebted to you. Please tell me how I can reward you. Maybe this ring?” the King said, taking an emerald snake ring from his finger and offering it to Sherlock.
“Your Majesty has something which I will value even more,” Sherlock said.
“What is it?”
“The photograph!”
The King started at Sherlock in surprise.
“Irene’s photograph!” the King said. “Certainly, if you want it.”
“Thank you, your Majesty. There is no more to be done. I wish you a very good morning.” Holmes bowed without shaking the hand the King had offered him and then started out for his apartment with me following.
And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were defeated by a woman’s wit. He used to make jokes about the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it since. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.
