Short Story: The Great Game of Love
To paraphrase a famous beer spokesman, I don’t always write short stories…but when I do, they tend to stick with me.
I usually struggle with short stories compared to longer fiction because of the compressed nature of the writing. When I craft stories, I tend to think on the grand scale and follow multiple characters with their own arcs through a three-act journey of development and adventure, mainly in the classic trilogy model. Every so often I have an idea that can stand alone — but when that happens, my attempt at short fiction almost always becomes longer and longer to the point where it might as well be a novel. I think it’s very difficult to tell a compelling story (at least the way I’d like to tell one) in short form, but every so often, I’m able to make it work.
The following story was originally intended to be part of an anthology that sought to revisit a handful of literary classics and spin new stories that continued, deepened, or in some cases reimagined, their source material. While I ended up withdrawing from that project for personal reasons, the story I came up with was too fun not to share. It’s based on one of my favorite characters of all time, Sherlock Holmes, and depicts what I imagined to be the beginning of his semi-romantic relationship with his intellectual rival, master thief Irene Adler, in an epistolary format — that is, a series of letters.
I hope it brings you the same enjoyment as it does to me.
January 5, 1892
Paris, France
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I know it has been months since our last encounter, but I do hope that keen mind of yours hasn’t forgotten me so quickly. I suppose I can only speak for myself, but I fancied I made as much of an impression on you as you did on me. It’s a pity I couldn’t speak more with you before embarking on my voyage across the Channel, but while I would certainly have savoured the pleasure of your company, I am all too aware that right behind you would be a load of boorish Scotland Yard bobbies with handcuffs and irons. I trust you enjoyed the picture I left for you instead; consider it a memento and a fond remembrance of our scintillating, if all too short, time together.
You may be wondering what has become of me since: I’ve been travelling here and there, but have made myself comfortable in Paris as of late. I had often heard it was the “city of love,” but only now, living here among its utterly charming little cafes, brilliant bouquets of fleur-de-lis, and excitingly electric atmosphere, I can attest to the rumours being completely correct. How I wish we could have met here and not in dreary old England, where the most romantic sight I beheld was a beggar offering a few scraps of food to a stray dog on a cold and rainy day.
You also have likely taken note by now of the fact that I have not mentioned Norton, also lately of your acquaintance. Sadly, he and I were forced to part ways not long after you and I did; I don’t think he could handle the idea that his pretty, petite fiancé might have more brains in her little finger than he did in his whole body. In any case, he wanted me much more than I needed him, and I have been more than content with my own companionship.
That said, I can’t help but feel the charm of Paris would be even more acute were it to be shared. Should you be so inclined, I have taken up residence at the Palais DuVerne, on the west bank of the Seine. There’s a lovely little restaurant across the way with a view of the river that’s just perfect when the sun begins to set. Perhaps you would like to join me for an evening?
I’ll be waiting for your answer.
Yours,
Irene Adler
January 16, 1892
Paris, France
Dear Mr. Holmes,
As I await your reply to my last letter, I can’t help but think back on our adventure together. I certainly hope it was one your stout friend — what was his name? Wilfred? Waterson? — will see fit to record in his accounts of your exploits. Of course, I was aware of your reputation prior to our encounter, and it was exhilarating to match wits with you and see it is clearly not exaggerated. You very nearly caught me, Mr. Holmes – the closest anyone has ever gotten. I wager Norton and I fled our suite at the Plaza and stepped into our carriage to the docks only mere moments before you arrived with those funny little policemen on your heels. Please rest assured I will do nothing further to sully or besmirch the reputation of those lovely Bohemians. I am nothing if not a woman of my word.
I have occupied my time of late poring through the stories of your cases in the newspapers; it seems even hundreds of miles away, your brilliance shines like a beacon to all the world and captivates the minds of millions. The Speckled Band? The Red-Headed League? A Study in Scarlet? Thrilling, one and all. It’s just a pity they don’t include much about the Sherlock Holmes I know: all fire and tempered steel, how unshakable and yet how human. If only the rest of the world could know you as I do. I daresay they’d be even more intrigued.
I look forward to your reply.
Irene Adler
January 28, 1892
Mr. Holmes,
For a third time, I find myself compelled to sit down and write to you, still without reply…and I will admit to possibly being the tiniest bit vexed. I should be inclined to believe you had simply moved and left no forwarding address, but I have it on good authority you still call that dreadful rattrap on Baker Street your residence. Just returned to my rooms after suffering through another candlelit evening by the Seine alone, fending off the hapless attentions of some local louts — hardly the most enticing of scenes.
And before you ask (or perhaps deduct, seeing as your famous reputation for taciturn silence is clearly as well-deserved as your powers of reasoning), yes, I brought the bottle back with me.
I win.
That’s what this is about, isn’t it? I make a friendly gesture of mutual respect and affection, and you choose to punish me for having the gall to outwit you with your sullen silence.
Very well, then. I admit to not always making the best decisions under pressure. I admit to not always finding myself on the right side of the law you are so fond of. But you, for all your intellect, will never understand what it is like to be a woman of intelligence in this benighted age: the daily humiliations I am forced to endure; the sidelong glances; the mean-spirited rumours; the ignorant comments. I make no apologies for how I choose to use my talents, nor for preferring a life of luxury or prizing my independence above all else. I am nothing like that wretched Professor Moriarty, committing crimes only for his perverse enjoyment of cruelty and malice. I am a survivor. A free thinker. And I had hoped you, of all people, would recognize and understand that point of view.
Anyway, I am almost out of wine, so I will end this message here. Perhaps I will find a reply from you one day in my post. Perhaps not. Either way, I hope the bar downstairs is still open.
Irene
February 3, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
Once is random happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Thrice, however, is a pattern: one I have no trouble discerning in your recent series of missives to me.
I gather from your last that you are, for some reason, upset with me for my lack of reply; perhaps you forget that, as the world’s only consulting detective, I find myself called upon at all hours of the day (and night) for the most vital and important police matters. I can hardly afford to become distracted by a tawdry bit of personal correspondence.
Allow me, however, to set the record straight: had I wished to capture you, I most assuredly would have. My plan was sound, but several unforeseen obstacles presented themselves. Firstly, my assistant (Watson, by the way) misplaced his cane, forcing me to spend several precious moments deducing where he had left it; then, upon venturing into the street, his dog spotted a mangy alley cat and bolted out the door. He, of course, refused to leave the animal to its ill-considered choices. Finally, the horse drawing our carriage threw a shoe and forced us to ride with the inspectors — little wonder Lestrade is such a pill if all police wagons smell like that one.
But I digress. I wish to stress that it is not your apparent disappointment that concerns me — I have weathered far worse from citizens far more prominent than you. Nor is it the series of circumstances that, conspiring with fate, allowed you to elude me. I simply wish you to be in possession of all the facts so that you may arrive at the same reasonable, logical conclusion.
I trust I have provided these to your satisfaction.
SH
February 8, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
I must say that after my last letter I was surprised to receive yours — and not quite sure what to say. I am still uncertain whether I should be insulted by your easy dismissal or honored that you deigned to reply to me at all.
I suppose, then, I shall simply say thank you. Despite my annoyance, reading your message provided me with a good bit of entertainment. I had no idea the private life of Sherlock Holmes could be just as pedestrian and trivial as everyone else’s! I certainly hope, at the very least, the dog was recovered safely; after all, I have always believed animals to be as much members of a family as children…perhaps more so, given my own dislike of children.
I also find it amusing that you have clearly spent as much time thinking about our encounter as I have. If I didn’t know better, I might be tempted to say the world’s greatest detective was making excuses for failing to catch little old me. Though I must admit the exhilaration of the chase, knowing you, of all people, was on my trail made the entire caper that much more exciting. It was a pleasure matching wits with someone finally worthy of my best efforts – even if we know who came out on top in the end.
In that spirit, I have a proposal for you. It hardly takes a detective to guess you are as much in need of a diversion as I. There are only so many times you can walk the streets of the Champs de Elysée and sample fine wines, breads, and cheeses before one begins to become bored with the experience. Whoever knew a life of ill repute could lead to such misery? Therefore, I propose a contest between us: a rematch, if you will. No assistance. No intercession of cruel fate. Simply an exercise of mind against mind.
That is, if you aren’t afraid of losing to a woman. Again.
Regards,
Irene Adler
February 11, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
You have my attention. I suggest you do not waste it.
Also: Gladstone is fine (the dog, not the late Prime Minister).
SH
February 14, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
Your attention? Goodness me. You certainly know how to charm a lady.
Very well. In the spirit of not wasting time, here is my wager: choose any open case on your docket. Provide me with all the pertinent details. Dazzle me with your indisputable grasp of the facts. And I shall solve it for you.
Of course, I would never be so cruel as to deprive you of your fun, so I do not require you to stop investigating yourself. Therein lies our bargain: if I manage to arrive at a solution before you, I may ask of you any one thing I desire; conversely, if you are to defeat me, you may do the same.
But should you somehow prevail, do use some imagination and restrain yourself from requesting I turn myself in. Poor sportsmanship does not become people like us.
I await your reply.
Irene Adler
February 18, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
Your message is received and understood, and you may consider this reply my acceptance of your challenge. I should note before we begin this game, however, that sarcasm is also unbecoming of people like us. I may not grasp the importance most other individuals place on emotional attachments, but I am far from blind to them. If I wanted a lecture on what an unfeeling monster I can be, I would have accompanied Watson on his honeymoon to Burma.
In any case, I present this problem for your consideration:
One month ago, the London branch of the Highlands National Bank was robbed — by no less than a highwayman in a mask. The man made no secret of his intentions; he simply walked into the main foyer, firing piece in hand, and demanded all the currency from the safe he could carry. Needless to say, he was witnessed in the act by no fewer than a dozen customers and employees of the bank, who managed to provide enough of a detailed description for his identity to be ascertained and his arrest made. It seems even Scotland Yard gets lucky at times.
The rub, however, is in the criminal’s identity. The masked rogue was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt to be Geoffrey Rutter, the young scion of the Rutter family and firstborn son of Lord Jeremy Rutter — the owner of the bank itself. Young Master Rutter freely admitted to carrying out the crime, but refused to tell the inspectors why he wanted the money. In addition, the stolen sum itself was not initially found. It was only discovered, quite by accident, one week ago, when sailors at the Brighton docks noticed a woman attempting to smuggle an uninspected crate aboard a passenger ship bound for Brussels. The money was discovered in her belongings, and she was immediately taken into custody. Master Rutter, meanwhile, remains in the care of Lestrade and the Yard.
Obviously, the police consider this case closed — but for some reason, it seems wedged into my mind like a splinter under the skin. Solving crimes is a search for patterns, always with motive, method, and means: in this case, I find myself questioning all three.
I would be interested to hear your thoughts.
SH
February 23, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
Finally, we arrive at the truth behind your reply: you are suffering from that inescapable ailment we common folk call boredom. I did not know the good doctor had finally taken a wife, but please do convey my sincere congratulations and well-wishes to him and his blushing bride upon their return to England’s shores. I suppose it makes sense. From my admittedly limited encounters with the two of you, I may not have perceived Doctor Watson to be terribly intelligent, but he is no doubt experienced and valuable in his trade — as well as a bit of a looker. Any woman would be quite lucky to call a strapping man like that her husband. As you have temporarily been robbed of your steadfast companion, I shall do what I can to entertain you in his stead.
It is indeed an interesting case you have stumbled upon here — and of course only you would insist on continuing to pick away at a sore like this even after the criminal and his accomplice have been arrested. As you say, there are many things about the crime that fail to add up. If Rutter is a wealthy man, why would his son have need of more money? And if he did, why would he not simply ask his father for it? Moreover, there are surely more covert methods of acquiring money illicitly, especially when your father owns the very bank you are planning to rob.
And what of this woman accomplice? Is there any connection between her and the younger Rutter?
I shall think more on this as I await your next letter.
Irene Adler
February 26, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
It seems you at least have a commanding grasp of the obvious; all your observations and questions are the same ones that have been boiling away in my mind since I first caught wind of this case. I suppose I should not be surprised, however, that you have such unique insight into the criminal mind — as you are quite an accomplished one yourself. That said, in the spirit of our agreement, I will supply you with what I have recently learned:
It seems young Master Rutter and the woman are connected after all. She was of late a serving girl in the Rutter household but was sacked after she failed to report for work the week before she was apprehended in Brighton. Neither have consented to tell the inspectors anything more, however, and Lestrade is growing frustrated by their intransigence.
I don’t believe my observation of the vein sticking out of his forehead, large enough that one might hitch a wagon to it, helped matters in that regard. I fail to grasp why he would take such offense: I was only concerned about his health. Should he expire, Deputy Inspector Houghton would take over, and that man is utterly insufferable to deal with. Also, there is the matter of the child — a newborn recovered along with the woman when she was taken in. A penal colony is no place for a youngling, but no one at Scotland Yard can decide how to proceed.
Regarding relationships, your rather transparent attempt to appeal to my male jealousy did not escape my notice. What Watson does with his own personal life is of no concern to me, nor is attracting the feminine gaze. While I expressed to him my misgivings prior to his choice to engage in this long-term liaison, he assured me assiduously that it would not affect our partnership. He is free to make his own life with Mary, just as I am free to converse with you — when I am able and inclined.
I trust you remain so inclined as well.
SH
March 1, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
You may be able to fool most everyone else, but you do not fool me: you miss Doctor Watson, don’t you? And despite my certainty that you can be a nightmare to deal with at times, I am also certain he misses you, too. Perhaps that thought will comfort you until he returns. Frankly, I wish I knew how that felt…to be missed by someone. My own formative years were spent constantly moving from one place to the next and never sure if I was going to have a roof over my head, or food on whatever table I happened to be at. For whatever it is worth, I consider you quite lucky to have a friend like that.
I suppose if I’d had one, I might have been less inclined to turn to a life of crime to support myself. But then we also might never have had the chance to have such sparkling conversation. I’ll do my best to take the good with the bad.
Pleased to hear my deductions so far meet with your approval, and I await any further information you may pass along. If my next response is delayed, know that it is not due to lack of interest; an acquaintance of my former fiancé has convinced me that I simply must visit the south of France this spring and take some leave from the bustling city life. I know it may take me away from this delightful logical exercise, but as the French say, c’est la vie.
Hopefully you won’t have already solved this case by the time I return.
Regards,
Irene Adler
March 4, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
I hope for your sake that your sojourn to the countryside will be a brief one. I have never been fond of silence and wide-open spaces; give me the beating pulse of a city like London any day over the vast, blank canvas of pastures and fields. I also do not want you crying foul if I discover the solution to this problem while you are gone.
No new developments in the Rutter case. I am piecing together what I believe to be a workable theory, but it still requires more research and “legwork,” as my brother Mycroft so sneeringly puts it. And yes, I consulted with Mycroft on the matter during our monthly lunch appointment at the Diogenes Club — simply utilizing all available resources at my disposal. I am sure you sympathise. Besides, he was less than helpful — much more concerned about the quality of his breast of quail than for anything I had to say.
While I cannot say I know what it is like to grow up in a life of want, I had assumed as much from what I have been able to gather about you…and you have my understanding, if not my approval. I suppose it is true that bilking foolish, naive young men into giving up a tenth of their likely inheritance is a far cry from cold-blooded murder, and you certainly cannot be blamed for prizing survival as every other creature in this world does. As for Watson, I must admit I find myself counting the days until he returns from his trip. I was so beside myself with malaise today I began talking to the dog as though it were a person; an unsettling experience, to say the least — even though I have seen Watson do it many times before.
Perhaps the prospect that I am becoming more like him is what truly unsettles me.
Reply quickly if convenient.
Sherlock Holmes
March 13, 1892
Paris, France
Dear Mr. Holmes,
At last, something we can agree on. My trip into the countryside was quiet. Peaceful. In other words, mind-numbingly dull. I must admit I find myself quite overjoyed to be back in the hustle and bustle of Paris…and, of course, finally replying to your last letter. I do hope you didn’t become too fond of your conversations with the dog while I was gone.
Also, if your amateur psychoanalysis of my various insecurities and emotional drives is your attempt to act the gallant gentleman, I may die of shock. Pardon my saying so, but it could use a little work. (I was smiling with good humour as I wrote this, just so you know.)
I do not blame you for speaking with Mycroft; after all, is that not what siblings are for? At least, that’s what I’m told. Should I ever discover I have any myself, perhaps I will ask them. Though it seems to me a shame he does not respect your chosen profession. I’m told another fundamental part of the brotherly bond is that each acts as a support to the other – a constant in a world filled with too much turmoil and change. Rest assured that, absent his approval (which you do not need), you have my respect and admiration for the diligence and skill with which you tackle your so-called “legwork.” I am certain this is why the company of Watson and Lestrade means so much to you. Another thing I have learned from others is that the strongest family is not always governed by blood.
Ah, to be normal: one of the great unwashed masses. Ignorant. Happy. Safe.
Sounds utterly dreadful.
But if it means you could be closer to those of greatest importance to you, perhaps it might not be so bad after all.
Kind regards,
Irene Adler
March 15, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
Watson…perhaps. Lestrade? Heaven forbid. If I ever spend an amicable evening with that man, I might have proper cause to throw myself off the Tower Bridge.
(And while I may not choose to utilize it, know that I am also quite fluent in wit.)
Your admission of growing up separated from your biological family confirms my deductions thus far, though I am…sorry you had to face the travails of life that way, alone. I often find myself forced to consider the fact that I, myself, am not alone — despite how keenly I may feel it. It is a restraint that causes me no little irritation; and one that has saved my life on numerous occasions — as Watson, were he here, would no doubt leap at the chance to remind me.
Additionally, I am quite aware of the value of my insights and detective work. Though I thank you for your compliments in any case.
We seem to have strayed somewhat from the subject at hand: the Rutter case. As before, no new developments, though I am close to putting the final pieces of my theory into place. If you have your own solution, I encourage you to voice it now. I would not wish to be accused of attempting to distract you with idle talk. Though I must admit it has been…diverting to engage with another at my level, so to speak.
I await your reply.
Sherlock Holmes
March 18, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
You’re very welcome. I nearly snorted out my coffee at your last letter — shame on you for allowing me to make such a scene of myself in the cafe I so often frequent. I never would have guessed you could make me laugh. It’s quite an admirable quality.
I must admit I have also been quite entertained by our conversation — though you are right to say the topic has drifted from our original intent. My apologies. Please, share your thoughts with me. I insist.
I hope you know it’s not polite to keep a lady waiting.
Irene
March 23, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
You misunderstand me: I do not require an apology. And my observation was not an expression of dissatisfaction. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I must be brief. Just this afternoon I received a flash of sudden inspiration, and time is of the essence. The web of information is moving into place…and I believe I know now how all the strands connect.
I must investigate and confirm. We will speak soon.
SH
March 26, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
I am understandably intrigued by the assertions in your last letter and will eagerly await your reply.
I am also eager for…other reasons.
I will do my best to contain my impatience. Overall, the chance to continue our conversation I believe is worth it.
Sincerely,
Irene
April 3, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
Having not heard from you this past week, I felt inclined to write again to ask if everything was all right. I hope you will not take this as a sign of impertinence or overfamiliarity on my part, but truth be told, I was — am — worried about you. I understand your duties to the police require your utmost attention, but I must admit I had come to regard our correspondence as so routine that a disruption such as this makes me…uneasy.
I hope I have not said something to offend you, and I am certain you have your reasons. But I also hope you will find the opportunity to reply soon, if only to assure me you are well.
Regards,
Irene
April 7, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
I have discovered it: the solution to this case that has plagued my every waking moment. As I have said often to Watson, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains — however improbable — must be the truth. And I believe in my efforts to investigate the Rutter case, I have unearthed a sinister conspiracy so immense it may alter the balance of world power and threaten England as we know it. The following details I confide to you in the strictest possible confidence. Do not share them with another soul.
From the start, the case of Geoffrey Rutter confounded me. Why on this earth would a young man of such means and privilege debase himself with such a foolish action as personally robbing a bank owned by his own family? Why would he entrust the safety of those stolen funds to a simple serving girl? What could possibly have motivated a crime that baffles the mind and defies logic?
Based on all the information available to me, the mastermind of this fiendish plot now becomes clear: it is none other than that devilishly clever criminal, Professor James Moriarty.
Now that I recognize the man pulling all the strings, the curtain rises, and the puppet show becomes clear for all to see. As you know, my investigations have aided the police in closing the net around Moriarty’s enterprises for quite some time. He is on the run, exiled from polite society, and I know it is only a matter of time before he is finally captured and exposed for the villain he is. He is, of course, intelligent enough to recognize the inevitable and has no doubt concocted a plan to circumvent it — and he has chosen to do so through the least-likely instrument available: young Master Rutter.
The plan is brilliant in its deviance. Moriarty knows only a tremendous amount of public wealth and power, neither of which he possesses, can save him from the hangman’s noose. To that end, he has somehow manipulated Master Rutter into attempting to steal from his own father’s bank. Regardless of whether the theft was successful, it has achieved Moriarty’s desired result — piling such public shame and humiliation atop Lord Rutter and his family that it leaves the bank vulnerable to a hostile takeover. Should Moriarty put his not inconsiderable criminal means to the task, he could assure through blackmail and skullduggery that he would be positioned to seize control of the bank under the guise of a legitimate business deal. With control of a major financial institution, he would then have the resources to accomplish something never attempted by a criminal like himself: to seek political office. The prestige of the position, not to mention a near-unlimited amount of funds and a weak-minded public he could bend to his particularly savage will, would all but guarantee him that singular honour that would immunise him to all legal prosecution: the title of Prime Minister.
The rest is obvious. Under Moriarty’s control, England could cause chaos on the Continent and veer our various nations toward another long and bloody war — one that ensures Moriarty stays in power out of necessity. He could use his power to twist the agencies of our government to serve him and allow him to remain in office indefinitely. The very notion seems completely improbable, which is exactly why it must be true.
Unfortunately, it does not seem as obvious to anyone else. Lestrade nearly expired laughing me out of his office when I laid the information out for him. Mycroft declared I was certifiably insane. Even Watson, when I wrote to him out of desperation, expressed his, as he puts it, “doubts” in my theory and wondered if I should see another doctor in his absence.
Doubts? Me? How typically the small and narrow-minded react to something so far beyond their comprehension. I am constantly beset by the intransigence of others failing to grasp my irrefutable conclusions. Even the dog has been staying away from me of late, content to hide under the couch as I paper our walls with pieces of evidence. I can only hope that you will assist me in doing something about this dastardly plan before it is too late.
Urgently,
SH
April 10, 1892
Paris, France
Sherlock,
I say this with the greatest possible respect for your unmatched powers of deduction and your keen insight into the workings of the criminal mind…but I must admit I am not fully certain that what you describe is, in fact, what is happening here.
It is indeed a terrifying possibility that Professor Moriarty — a man you and I both agree is beneath contempt and a highly dangerous individual — could seize the mantle of leadership in England. But I would also ask you to consider an equally improbable answer to the present situation: that perhaps it is you who is seeking greater meaning in a trivial matter of youthful indiscretion.
I swear on my life I do not say this to hurt you; I say it out of concern for your wellbeing and state of mind. Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but even though I agree that I, and certainly you, are leaps and bounds beyond most ordinary people, we are also equally affected by those maladies that burden all humankind. Is it in any way possible without Watson or someone else around you to ground your feats of deduction, you may have overindulged them in your loneliness?
I sincerely wish I could speak with you about this face to face…but failing that, please know I am here for you, in whatever way I can be, should you want to talk. Having said that, I would suggest you do your best to let this matter go. In my experience, too much of anything — even dedication to one’s chosen profession and purpose — can do more harm than good.
Kindest wishes,
Irene
April 15, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
What a fool I was to not see it before. And what a fool I still am for baring my soul to the likes of you.
It is a bitter irony that a career criminal should attempt to counsel me on how I should approach my crime-solving technique — and condescend to offer me advice on indulging to excess. I fail to see how much more simply I can put this, but I suppose that failure is my own for believing in a woman’s ability to embrace deduction and logic…and an insincere, untrustworthy one at that.
I comprehend it now as plainly as the sun rises in the east: you are in league with Professor Moriarty against me. It makes perfect sense. He must have enlisted your aid months ago as a ploy to deceive and distract me from the fundamental importance of the Rutter case — and to your credit, you very nearly succeeded. But my eyes are once again opened and I can finally see clearly, free of the tiresome and tangled web of emotion: you are, and have always been, my enemy. The chaos in mortal opposition to the order I prize.
I suppose I have only myself to blame for this diversion from my far more important work: it was my vanity, pride, and desire to be admired that prompted me to answer your letter in the first place — but of course that was exactly what you were counting on. In that way, you are to be commended for finding my weakness so expertly. We each have our skills, do we not? But now that I comprehend your game, I will no longer indulge you by playing it.
An admirable attempt, Miss Adler, but know that you have failed. You have only strengthened my resolve to get to the bottom of this matter once and for all — and my conviction that the heart is the most useless of human organs.
I allowed you to claim victory over me once. I will not allow you to do it again.
April 18, 1892
Paris, France
How dare you, Sherlock Holmes.
How dare you belittle and insult me and denigrate my intelligence on account of nothing but my sex — and slap me across the face with baseless accusations and innuendo for no offense other than trying to be a decent, understanding human being. You, too, have reminded me of something: men cannot be trusted.
I would say I was hurt upon receiving your letter, but that would be an understatement the size of the English Channel — and I am not so naive as to believe you would care anyway. I do not pity you; I pity your heart, forced to wither away from disuse and neglect in the chest of a selfish, petty man who cannot for the life of him tell friend from foe or bring himself to allow anyone in.
I realize now I was an idiot to think I might be the exception — and that your complimentary words were anything other than a tool for you to feel high and mighty about yourself. I think you spend much of your time alone for good reason: if I were around you every day with your short temper and neuroses and insufferable arrogance, I’d take any out I could get as well.
Enjoy your “victory,” Mr. Holmes. And I hope you enjoy the peace that comes with being alone, for that is all you will ever know.
April 29, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
As loath as I am to do so, I am writing to express my regret for the tone I took toward you in my last letter — and to offer you the apology I believe you are waiting for.
Watson and Lestrade sometimes tell me I can become a bit…fixated on things. In my search for the truth most never take time to see, I often pull on threads that should be left alone and read too deeply into mundane situations — and sometimes, this can cause injury to those who are innocent, whether I intend it or not.
While I was quite convinced of my theory, new evidence has since come to light that disproves my conclusions. I have it on good authority (or as good an authority as the anonymous government contacts Mycroft seems to always have on hand can provide) that Professor Moriarty is currently engaged in the Far East and is in no way connected to the Rutter case. The case continues to go nowhere: both Geoffrey Rutter and his female servant remain in protective custody, refusing to say anything to Scotland Yard. Lestrade is at his wits’ end — as am I.
I hope you will accept my apology in the spirit it was given so we may resume our correspondence and put this unpleasant misunderstanding behind us.
Regards,
SH
May 6, 1982
London, England
Miss Adler,
This is the second missive I will have sent you in a week’s time regarding our disagreement, and I hope its arrival will highlight how serious I am about seeking your forgiveness.
I understand — or at least, those around me have helped me to understand — how deeply I may have wounded you with my thoughtless, tactless words. While I do still believe in the power of the heart to mislead and obfuscate truth, it is not in my nature to seek to harm any living thing, and I acknowledge in this matter my powers of deduction, such as they are, were woefully inadequate.
In case you doubt my sincerity — and you would be well within your rights to do so — I will attempt to assuage those doubts now. I am ashamed of my actions toward you: not because of how poorly they reflect upon me as a reasoned instrument of the law (though they do), but far more because of the hurt they caused you. As someone who has precious few people in their life truly concerned about their wellbeing, I hope you will understand why I often do not know how to return such kindness — and as you say, perhaps that is a primary reason my life can sometimes feel so empty. I suppose I am quite lucky those few who can tolerate my company suffer my hubris in silence…or at least with minimal complaint. And I do not stop nearly often enough to meditate on how fortunate I am in that respect.
For the unjust and unkind wounds I have dealt you, you have my abject apologies. I can only hope you find it in your own heart to forgive me for my failure as a detective and as a man.
Respectfully,
Sherlock Holmes
May 11, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t help but laugh at your letter’s introduction. Even in repentance, you somehow still manage to be the most astoundingly arrogant man I’ve ever met.
But I must also admit the strength and sincerity of your words surprised me. I had honestly doubted you were capable of such introspection. So, putting aside my better judgement, here I am, once again at my desk, writing down my thoughts for you to read.
You have my attention. Be sure you don’t waste it.
Irene Adler
May 14, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
As your French friends are so fond of saying, touché.
I am grateful for your letter, and for the knowledge that despite my flaws, you are still willing to exchange correspondence with me. Should my hubris have caused the single most intelligent and perceptive person I have come to know to cut off all contact with me, I should have regretted it forever.
I take it this means I have your forgiveness; however, with the written word being as untrustworthy as it can sometimes be, I should like you to confirm this in your reply — if you choose to send one.
Sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
May 18, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
My forgiveness? Not yet. But you’re getting there. I don’t suppose you’d beg for me if I asked. Nevertheless, the prospect is tempting. Very tempting.
Oh, and I solved your case for you. Just thought you might like to know.
Best,
Irene Adler
May 21, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
Enlighten me.
Sherlock Holmes
May 24, 1892
Paris, France
Mr. Holmes,
Since you asked so nicely, I shall. Truth be told, I had suspected this solution for some time…but I didn’t wish to make you feel inadequate in your chosen field of battle.
To me, it seems perfectly obvious what Geoffrey Rutter’s motivations are for committing his bizarre and senseless crime, as well as his choice of conspirator to move his ill-gotten gains: they are intimately involved, and the child is theirs together. The young heir and the servant girl; in my experience, life can often have a funny way of imitating art and poetry.
Consider the situation: young Master Rutter has an affair with one of his family’s servants, producing an unplanned child. He certainly would fear social scandal should anyone outside his family, or perhaps even his parents, find out about his faux pas — and for this same reason, he was incapable of asking his father for the money to support her and their new child. Neither could he obtain the needed funds any other way without uncomfortable and inconvenient questions being raised by his family, the banks, or the police. So, in a youthful fit of passion and desperation, he decides to rob his own father’s bank in broad daylight, counting on his lofty position to rescue him from all suspicion.
Naturally, he didn’t count on you becoming involved. But neither did you anticipate or consider that this could be, at long last, a matter of the heart.
I trust you will find this explanation satisfying enough for you.
Regards,
Irene Adler
May 28, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
While I am forced to admit that your theory does fit all the facts of the case, I am still baffled by it in several respects.
Master Rutter would not be the first young man to commit such a mistake as fathering an illicit child out of wedlock — especially one with social status and wealth to spare — but surely those very things would offer a solution to the problem he faced. Rather than face stigma from his circles, he could have easily dismissed the girl from his family’s service for even the paltriest of excuses; even if she had told her story, no one would ever have believed her word over his.
Alternatively, while the thought causes me great distaste, there are…methods to deal with such an issue as an unplanned and inconvenient pregnancy. He had the resources to avail himself of those methods, barbaric as they may be, at any time, and she would have been powerless to refuse him.
What motivation could he possibly have to show such compassion? In my experience, such restraint is not typical of the rich and powerful — nor of any human being, for that matter.
I challenge you to explain this.
Sherlock Holmes
June 1, 1892
Paris, France
Oh, Sherlock. Dear Sherlock. Isn’t it obvious?
He loves her.
While I have the utmost respect for your wonderful mind, I think you are attempting to see so broadly, so deeply, that you miss the clear and inescapable conclusion: that despite being born into wealth, power, and privilege, there might exist an individual so flawed, so empathetic — so human — he is motivated to act outside his own narrow self-interest and in defense of another. Especially one he cares about.
In fact, it reminds me of another man I know.
Your only failure was not taking love and basic decency into account. I recognize those traits can often be in short supply in those you deal with daily, but as strange as it may seem, I can attest they do exist — a rare breed, to be sure, but a breed all the same. The only thing Geoffrey Rutter is guilty of is trying to provide for the woman he loves and their child together, by any means necessary. And for that, he is condemned to be separated from them for a lifetime.
All things considered, it doesn’t sound like the punishment fits the crime to me.
I await your thoughts.
Irene
June 4, 1892
London, England
Miss Adler,
When I informed Watson of your theory (he has returned from his honeymoon, by the way), he scoffed in his rather irritatingly smug fashion and asked why it was that I, the great Sherlock Holmes, failed to see it long ago. I detest when he gets superior like that.
When I presented it to Lestrade, he threw me out of Scotland Yard in a fit of rage. Which only serves as further proof that you are, in fact, correct.
You will, I have no doubt, notice I use the identifier “you” rather than “I” or “we.” While it is to my chagrin I failed to spot a solution so obvious, I am fair-minded and man enough to admit when I have been beaten. There is no runaway domestic canine to blame this time.
Even though such matters of the heart continue to perplex me, I must also admit seeing this case from your perspective through our conversations has been an intriguing — and rewarding — exercise. Stimulating, to put it another way…although there could be many others. What I was blind to with all my logic and reason, you managed to see with perfect clarity. My shame is that I refused to attempt to see things your way sooner. I hope you will forgive my utter boorishness in this matter, and under the terms of our agreement, you have my leave to name your reward.
It is true that I believe in justice: the inescapable cycle of cause and effect, crime and punishment. While his motivations may have been selfless, Master Rutter did fall foul of the law — and of his own family. There are ramifications to that choice beyond either of our ability to control. However, I also believe in justice being properly administered. And as you say, the punishment in this case — when weighed not just on the blind scales of the law, but on those of the heart — seems to fall somewhere short of justice.
On that subject, I should make special note of how careless Scotland Yard can sometimes be in its investigations. Evidence becomes misplaced. Suspects are misidentified. Even entire persons under surveillance or incarceration can be known to simply…vanish. While it is merely idle speculation on my part, I would not find it difficult to believe that with the aid of some enterprising and motivated third party — perhaps one far enough removed from the situation to escape culpability, but entangled enough in certain unsavory elements of English society to have friends in low places — an individual like Geoffrey Rutter could disappear this way. Perhaps mysteriously in the company of this unrelated serving girl and her child.
For my part, with the burden of cleaning up all the Yard’s messes bearing so heavily upon my shoulders, I could hardly be blamed for turning a blind eye to such circumstances…just this once.
Lestrade would no doubt be quite peeved. But it is my considered opinion he will live. After all, he should be seasoned enough in ridicule and embarrassment to be quite immune to its sting by now.
I trust my message has been received.
Sherlock Holmes
June 9, 1892
Paris, France
My dear Sherlock,
Just when I thought you couldn’t do anything to surprise me, you prove me wrong yet again. And in arrestingly spectacular fashion.
When I received your reply, I could have kissed the paper it was written on in joy. (I did, in case you were wondering.) Your message has been received and understood. And should you receive word from Scotland Yard that Master Rutter and his maid have mysteriously disappeared — along with the child — spirited away, perhaps in the dead of night, to somewhere the long arm of stiff English law cannot hang over their heads, you can rest assured it is just a happy coincidence. The universe, after all, is full of them.
As for my reward, I shall have to ponder the nature of my request deeply…so many intriguing and tantalising possibilities. Though all of them seem to begin, oddly enough, with us once again together. Perhaps a further, joint examination — over a shared meal, should you be so inclined — might be in order?
Most sincerely,
Irene Adler
June 12, 1892
London, England
Irene:
Tour d’Argent in Paris. June 21st. 7 p.m.
Come if convenient. Do not be late.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
I look forward to it.
Yours, and no one else’s,
Sherlock