Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(31)

“You appear most dejected, Sigi,” Irene said, gliding into the sitting room of his suite. The scent of attar of roses followed her, delicate and sweet. She perched on the arm of the settee where he sat.

“I am afraid I have failed my father. He is mercilessly disappointed in me.” She pressed him for details, and he held back nothing. The story finished, Irene sighed.

“I should expect better from the King of Bohemia. How foolish of him to stray so indelicately.”

“I cannot defend his actions,” the prince said, “but I do wish I could protect my mother from being hurt by his carelessness. Yet what more can I do? I begged Anna to see reason. She was unmoved.”

“Surely this does not surprise you?” Irene asked. “Cast-aside lovers are not known for their desire to help former paramours.”

“Perhaps I was foolish to address the matter so directly.”

“Some things, my love, are better dealt with lady to lady. Allow me to assist you.”

That afternoon, the Countess Xenia Troitskaya (Irene had always found herself unaccountably fond of the name Xenia) called on Princess Anna Elisabeth Victoria. The two exchanged pleasantries and warmed to each other immediately on discovering a shared adoration of Byron’s poetry, but it was the countless troubles stemming from wiry and untamable hair that brought them closest together.

“An absolute nightmare,” the countess said. “I know it all too well.”

“One would never guess it from looking at you,” the princess said. “However did you train your maid? Mine is hopeless.”

“Adèle is French and a genius. Are you attending the mayor’s ball this evening?”

“I shouldn’t dream of missing it.”

“I shall send Adèle to you without delay. You won’t know yourself—or your hair.”



“But how could you possibly know she would agree?” the crown prince asked later, when he met Irene at her rooms.

“My dear man, you do not understand ladies in the slightest,” she said, gently removing the Countess Xenia’s enormous wig from her head. “The moment I saw her I identified her hair as her weakness. The texture is difficult, as evidenced from the countless wayward bits sticking up from her scalp in every direction. The number of pins and combs employed told me she does all she can to tame it. Her manner of dress, so self-consciously fashionable, and the preponderance of jewels draped over her so early in the afternoon suggest both vanity and bad judgment. I knew she would not resist my offer of assistance.”

“Do put the wig back on,” Wilhelm said. “It rather suits you and I am most fond of Russians, Countess.”

Irene returned his kisses but then pushed him away. “There is no time for that now.”

Wilhelm watched as she disappeared into her dressing room, returning half an hour later utterly transformed. Something had dulled her rosy complexion, and dark smudges marred the smooth skin under her eyes, making her look tired and drawn. Her chestnut hair, pulled back into a severe and unflattering bun, did not shine. She wore an ill-fitting black gown with a stiffly starched apron tied over it and held in her hand a maid’s cap.

“You are to be the maid?” Wilhelm asked, startled, somewhere between shocked and bemused.

“Sigi, please do not say things that will put me off you,” Irene said. “I thought you to be in possession of more intelligence than that. The details of our scheme should have been evident to you hours ago.”

“I assumed you were going to send your actual maid to her.”

“And take the risk that she couldn’t locate the letters? Unthinkable. Be a good man, now, and give your Adèle a kiss. She is fast becoming one of my favorite roles. I shall see you later this evening at the ball.”

“Will I recognize you?” he asked.

Irene laughed. “That remains to be seen.”



The spectacular glory of Princess Anna Elisabeth Victoria’s coiffure would escape no one’s notice that night. Irene had employed every skill her years in the theater had taught her, but even so had doubted—more than once—that she could succeed. Yet she had. The smooth mass of braids and curls, woven with flowers and more than a few diamonds, shimmered.

“No crown could be more beautiful, madame,” Irene said, her voice, now with a heavy French accent, altered beyond recognition. “My own mistress would—how you say?—desire to change places with you. Is there someone whose attention you seek tonight? He will not be able to resist you. C’est impossible.”

“Alas, no, Adèle,” the princess said. “My husband is rarely impressed with my appearance. I do not think he sees me at all.”

“A lady of your station need not limit her options, non? Balls are made for dancing, and I have no doubt your card will be full.”

The princess sighed. “Perhaps, but I shall never enjoy dancing as I used to. There is no romance in it for me anymore.”

“Then, madame, you must take your memories of romance with you this evening, and think of them while you are on the dance floor. Sometimes recollection is more satisfying than reality. Do whatever you must to bring your feelings back to the fore tonight.”

“You are very wise, Adèle,” the princess said.

The maid took a step back and examined her work. “Your hair is perfection, madame. If I may, the slightest hint of color . . .” She pulled a small container from her bag, opened it, touched her fingers inside, and daubed the princess’s cheeks. “Oui. You are ready, and it is still early. What is your favorite place to sit in this house? I shall bring you a glass of champagne there. It is what the countess always has before a ball. She says it fills her with starlight.”