"Surely it can't be, Holmes."
"I tell you it is." The interval was almost over, and we had spent almost all of it arguing this point. "You only met him once. I would know that voice anywhere, and his figure is quite distinctive."
"Holmes," I said, sharply. "I would rather not hear about exactly how familiar you are with Tony's voice and his figure."
Holmes sat back, chastened. "My dear fellow, I only mean to say that I am quite sure that Sir Robert Chiltern is being played by none other than Tony of Malbreth Mews, whatever it may say on this playbill."
"And suppose he is, then what of it?"
"Nothing," Holmes said, offended. "Except that it makes me much more interested in the character ... because now he reminds me of you."
There was an intense sadness, a kind of long-standing hurt behind the sentence that dissolved my anger and jealousy. "I'm afraid Sir Robert is much too brilliant and powerful to be a very good alter ego for me," I said, trying to show there were no longer hard feelings.
"Perhaps," Holmes said. "I was thinking more that Sir Robert is such a good man--a fine, upstanding husband, a respectable British gentleman--that he must command admiration ... and yet is just corrupt enough, that one can find it in one's heart to love him."
I stared at Holmes, who refused to admit with word, look or movement that he had just said anything at all out of the ordinary.
"Holmes--" I finally began.
"Shh," he said, laying a finger mischeviously against his lips. "The third act is beginning."
The third act opens in Lord Goring's apartments, and for quite some time Lord Goring and his butler are the only people in it. With Holmes's half-admission in mind, I am afraid I would have paid very little attention, had Lord Goring been played by anyone else but Irene Adler.
It was not exactly that she looked like a man. Her face was too finely shaped, and her figure too slight. But in her movements, in her voice, even in the way she studied her reflection in the imaginary glass, she was convincing. A delicate man, to be sure; a nervous, sensitive man whose quick intelligence and ready wit concealed his vulnerability.
"You see, Phipps, fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people. And falsehood the truths of other people."
I saw Holmes's eyes, and something finally became clear to me. He was watching Irene Adler, of course; and he could be expected to take an uncommon interest in her. But as he watched Lord Goring face the audience--before whom he was posing as if we were all one large looking-glass--Holmes was also watching himself.
"Other people are dreadful. The only possible society is oneself."
Holmes's laugh rang louder than the others, to me. And I had that laugh in my ears for a long time, until finally Lord Goring's father arrived, much to Lord Goring's obvious discomfort. Of course the fact that he expected Lady Chiltern at any moment was part of it; but as Irene Adler played it, the most intense discomfort was reserved for the father's discussion of marriage.
"It is high time for you to get married. You are thirty-four years of age."
"But I only admit to thirty-two!" Lord Goring cried, in real distress. And then, recovering quickly, "Thirty-one and a half, when I have a really good button-hole..."
He gestured at the boutonniere in his jacket, and the motion of his hand seemed to me somehow to be inexpressibly tragic. As if, despite his determination not to talk seriously, he saw age creeping up upon him, and it was the only thing in the world that could truly frighten him. When he returned to his banter it was with a frantic edge, until his father finally rounded on him.
"Do you always understand what you say, sir?"
The light laugh that underlaid this told me the audience was hanging on Lord Goring's retort.
After just a fraction of a pause--in which his distress merged back into his usual ironic smile, he said, "Yes, father--if I listen attentively."
Now, instead of sharing the laugh, Holmes merely smiled, as if there were a secret being shared now between him and the slim, nervous man on stage who was steeling himself now for an interview with Sir Robert.
I watched him enter and realized Holmes was right. It was Tony after all. Although he was doing much better with the accent, and had adopted the pose and attitude of a man of importance so completely it was hard to remember the circumstances under which I had first met him.
"Ah, you must be at home to me, Arthur," Sir Robert cried, putting a hand out toward him.
"You are my best friend. Perhaps by tomorrow you will be my only friend. My wife has discovered everything."
I noticed that as Lord Goring led Sir Robert into the room, he was standing perhaps a little too close to him. That as he continued trying to comfort his distressed friend, there was something in the air between them, in the way he spoke, that I recognized.
"Arthur, tell me what I should do," he implored.
Lord Goring, after a moment of terrible hesitation, lifted his hand off Sir Robert's shoulder, and drew a little further away from him.
"Robert, you love your wife, don't you?" he said, in tones of gentle, but exquisite sadness.
"I love her more than anything in the world," cried Sir Robert. "I used to think ambition a great thing. It is not. Love is the great thing in the world. There is only love, and I love her."
I was surprised to see a suggestion of tears in Lord Goring's eyes. And even more surprised to see that Holmes's own eyes were bright with tears.
I searched for his hand in the dim darkness of the box, and took it. He pressed mine back, hard, his fingers warm and firm in their grip.
"I did love her," I whispered, returning the pressure.
"Your wife will forgive you," said Lord Goring, half-soothingly and half-desperately. "She loves you, Robert. Why should she not forgive?"
"And I do love you," I murmured.
Holmes did not look at me, nor I at him. But I knew he had heard me.
"What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley?"
"Why don't you call me Laura?"
"I don't like the name." Lord Goring walked away from the hand that Mrs. Cheveley had attempted to rest on his shoulder.
"You used to adore it."
"Yes, that's why."
It was clear, very clear, that he had loved her once. And clear, just as clear, that he was repelled by her now. Repelled, and yet somehow drawn back to her, to deliver his stinging retorts as if they stung him too, to fling out his wit as if he wished it were a blade and was hoping it would wound her--just enough to let him know how much she had hurt him. And looking at her with the fierceness of a man in danger, fighting all the harder because he knows he may not have the strength to fight long.
"My dear Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are."
"Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know them."
The thought came unbidden into my head. You know he is a woman.
I watched Lord Goring. He remained Lord Goring. And the sparks between him and Mrs. Cheveley continued to snap. And suddenly I could not tell whether Lord Goring was a woman, or a man.
It was a state of the sharpest and most painful confusion. And yet, blent with it, was a new--and perhaps, in its way, also painful--kind of pleasure.
If my attention had been wandering while Sir Robert had been waffling about the stage, it was absolutely riveted now. Because Lord Goring and Mrs. Cheveley were finally locked in battle. And because I was beginning to realize that I had fallen in love with Lord Goring. Whoever, whatever, he was.
"Ah," said Holmes. "You'll see now, what that diamond bracelet was about."
"Why do you keep calling it a bracelet, Holmes?"
"Because I have seen this play before." He leaned forward with keen anticipation.
Lord Goring had pocketed this brooch under rather peculiar circumstances at the end of the first act, and it had not reappeared since. I had decried this fault in structure loudly to Holmes at the interval. Now, Mrs. Cheveley had finally happened to mention to Lord Goring that the brooch was hers; and he was receiving this news with, I thought, rather strange agitation.
"A diamond snake brooch, with a ruby?"
"Yes. How did you know?" Mrs. Cheveley answered.
"Because I found it myself." Lord Goring took the gem out of his case, trailing the rope of diamonds over one open palm. "Won't you wear it?"
"Certainly, if you pin it on," Mrs. Cheveley replied, moving suggestively toward him.
Lord Goring smiled. He took Mrs. Cheveley's hand, tenderly, and lifted it up so that her arm was extended, laying the diamond ornament loosely across it.
"Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never knew it could be worn as a bracelet," she said, smiling up at him in triumph.
"Really?" he said.
"No, but it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it?" she answered.
It happened in an instant. Lord Goring clasped the bracelet around her wrist, wrenching her arm suddenly around so that he was grappling her from behind, with one hand holding Mrs. Cheveley's bejeweled wrist tight against her shoulder.
Her breath shuddered in her breast. Her body froze. She was caught, frightened like an animal of something it doesn't understand. Captive, prisoner, bound with a chain of diamonds to the inexorable will of the man in whose grip she trembled.
"Yes," Lord Goring hissed. "Much better than when I saw it last."
My hand involuntarily grasped Holmes's thigh, tightening on the hard muscles I could feel through the fabric of his evening trousers.
I heard his breath catch, and I knew that the same stab of excitement that ran through me when that bracelet snapped onto her wrist had also run through him.
"Where did you see it last?" Mrs. Cheveley whispered.
"On Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it," Lord Goring said.
Holmes's mouth moved over to whisper into my ear, so close I could feel the moisture on his breath.
"Remember, Watson," he whispered. "We are as much on stage as the actors."
We were. And so we could do nothing but watch Lord Goring taunt the captive Mrs. Cheveley.
"You can't get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is." Mrs. Cheveley struggled to tear off the bracelet. "I see you don't know where the spring is."
I looked at that smile of triumph and desire lighting up Irene Adler's face above Lord Goring's tie, and I looked back at Holmes.
"Do you think it necessary to see Act IV, Watson?" he whispered.
"Absolutely not," I answered.
"Then come with me."
He seized me by the wrist and led me out of the box, down a labrynthine network of corridors and stairs until he came to a door guarded by a man in a porter's uniform.
"My apologies, sir," he said. "No visitors admitted to the green-room while the play is in progress."
"Here is my card," said Holmes.
The porter's expression changed when he saw the card--or perhaps when he saw the denomination of the banknote folded around it.
"Yes, sir, Miss Adler did say I was to show you in immediately. This way, sir." He opened the door. "Miss Adler's dressing-room is on the right-hand side, sir."
The door closed with the porter on the other side. Holmes dragged me into Irene Adler's dressing room and closed the door, turning the lock.
"Holmes--" I began.
"Lord Goring is on stage until the final scene of the play," he whispered, taking me by the lapels and kissing me with such force that I staggered backward into the wall. "There are no further costume changes. We have a good forty-five minutes."
"Holmes--"
"I am sorry, Watson," he said, continuing to handle me in a way that suggested he was not sorry at all. "But I absolutely must have you, this instant. Unless of course you object."
I did not voice the many things that came to mind--such as, "This is illegal," or, "This is insane." Instead, what I finally said was, "I'm not made of stone, Holmes."
"Well," he said, reaching a hand between my trouser legs. "Not entirely."
Weakened by the tremble in my thighs, I found myself almost falling backward into a small wrought-iron chair. And found myself staring with a kind of excited confusion at Holmes as he drew from his coat pocket a pair of light steel manacles that I fancied I had seen before in the possesion of Inspector Lestrade.
"You brought those with you?" I demanded, my astonishment blent, rather obviously I fear, with keen anticipation.
"Remember, Watson," Holmes breathed. "I have seen this play before."
I dropped my arms behind the back of the chair. Holmes straddled me, reaching around behind it to snap the bracelets on.
"Holmes," I panted, struggling to articulate my one remaining rational thought. "You do have a key for these?"
Holmes pushed himself further onto my lap, breathing into my ear.
"They're very easy to get out of, if you know where the spring is," he said. "I see you don't know where the spring is."
And since I didn't, there was nothing to do but to close my already desire-clouded eyes, and surrender myself to his passion, and to my own.
I had never been backstage at Covent-Garden before, and so had no idea where Lord Bexbrough was going. However, I was determined to follow him. He never turned round or appeared to notice me--or indeed any of the other people with whom these corridors teemed. He was entirely intent on reaching his destination, which appeared to be a door outside which an elderly gentlemen seemed to be serving as porter.
"Good evening, my lord. This way, please. Mrs. Bellamy is still taking her curtain calls, but she left word that you may wait in her dressing room."
"Thank you, Phipps," said Lord Bexbrough, passing him a folded note.
The door opened and shut again behind Lord Bexbrough. I ducked into an unused storage room and peered out into the hallway, waiting for Mrs. Bellamy to arrive.
Instead of Mrs. Bellamy, what brushed past my hiding place was the figure of a gentleman in morning dress, with top hat and four-in-hand tie. He paused outside the door, briefly; but the porter already had it half-open.
"Good evening, Miss Adler," said the porter. "From the applause I gather it went over well."
I peered around the corner. Yes, it was Irene Adler, still wearing her costume from the fourth act. She smiled at Phipps, taking off her top hat and handing it to him.
"Rather well, I think, thank you," she said.
"Two gentlemen are waiting upon you in your dressing room," he answered. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and a Dr. John Watson."
"Excellent, Phipps. Thank you." She too disappeared behind the door.
I knew of course that the prudent thing was to remain in my hiding-place and keep watch. But now that I knew Irene Adler was in that room, I was possessed by a desire to gain admittance.
I was still struggling with this desire when I saw Mrs. Bellamy, still wearing Mrs. Cheveley's gown, rush down the corridor and into the room without even pausing to greet the porter. He appeared to be used to this, and to expect it--just as he appeared to have expected the stream of young men who began trickling down from the house.
"Yes, sir, if I might just see your card. No, Mrs.. Bellamy is not receiving visitors just now. No, I'm afraid Mrs. Bellamy has left orders that she is not to be disturbed. Yes, I'll see to it Mrs. Bellamy receives your flowers. Of course, Viscount. Right this way."
The elect entered through the door; the reprobate shuffled out the side door into the street. This continued uninterrupted for some time, until I saw Lord Bexbrough emerging from the green-room--with Mrs. Bellamy on his arm.
"Good night, Phipps," said Lord Bexbrough.
"Good night, sir," said Phipps, looking impassively after them. As they turned to go out the side door, Mrs. Bellamy's wrap slipped off one shoulder and I caught the glitter of diamonds.
She was wearing the bracelet. Or rather the brooch.
I almost rushed after them. But what would I have done? I was not an officer of the law; I was not under orders from Lady Bexbrough to expose her husband as a thief; I was not, for that matter, even sure whether the brooch that now adorned Mrs. Bellamy was the original or a copy. The only thing I could be reasonably sure of was that she would have to be back in the theater the next night, with the brooch. The play could not very well go on without either of them.
My reflections were disturbed by a commotion outside the door. Another gentleman had been turned off by Phipps, and was taking it badly.
"I am sorry, Mr. Norton. But Miss Adler is not receiving, and Mrs. Bellamy has left the theatre."
"Not receiving!" shouted the young man. "I'm her husband."
"Yes, sir," said Phipps impassively.
The young man took out a card and scribbled something on it. "You take that to her and tell me if she still refuses to see me."
"Very good, sir," said Phipps, disappearing.
The door reopened very shortly.
"Well?" demanded the young man.
"Miss Adler wishes me to inform you that as Mrs. Bellamy has left the premises with her newest conquest, she cannot imagine what keeps you loitering here, and requests me to advise you to clear off before you are shown the door, sir."
It was now Mr. Norton's turn to go stomping off into the foggy night. I felt it might as well be my turn, and began the trip toward the side door.
"Ere!" shouted Phipps, his posh accent no longer on duty. "Clear off this instant, you!"
I turned around. "Are you addressing me, sir?" I said, as frostily as I could.
"It's for your own bleeding good," he retorted, drawing nearer and dropping his voice confidentially. "You must know this place is crawling with plainclothes-men. There's brass at the Yard just itching to see a vice arrest made at this theatre during this production. Now you go on and find somewhere safer to do business, there's a good girl."
The humiliation of being mistaken for a common prostitute prevented me for the moment from delivering the seventeen separate retorts that occurred to me five minutes later as I was hurrying down the street.
I didn't know what was going on with that bracelet of Lady Bexbrough's or why Mr. Holmes had an entree backstage. But I did know that I was going back to that theatre tomorrow night, and I was going to get into that dressing-room.