Not Worried

1/2/18

1894, Ninth of May, 9 pm, I arrive in London just after sunset.

Although born and raised in the States, I have except for this just now ending trip to see my aging parents, have lived most of my adult life in or near the British capital.

As I enter my hotel rooms in a less than glamorous section of town, it is fully night. There were electric lights on in the bar across the street. A tipsy man in a brown bowler left the bar, struggling to keep his balance. He was unintentionally comical. A second man in a darker suit and darker mood exited the bar. He was either not drunk or held his liquor exceedingly well. He pulled out a gun. He thinks better of it, puts it back in its holster.

An out of tune piano accompanies a brash sounding woman. Her poster adorned the side wall of the saloon. She was buxom, blonde and slightly over the hill, as they say.

I came away from the window to put my clothes to right, setting my trusty old suitcase on a stand in front of the queen-size bed. Just then I heard a constable interrogating the drunkard. A little too loudly, he questioned the man. Apparently, the authorities were looking for the chap who had pulled the gun.  The sodden fellow provided the following: Simon and he were drinking, playing billiards. Simon as always was winning. The inebriate didn’t have the money to pay Simon’s winnings. Simon had been there for hours but was still nursing his first warm, dark ale, biding his time, waiting for he knew not whom- or what.

I missed the rest of the conversation because at that point, there was a knock on my door. The woman’s voice said she needed to speak with me. It was urgent. I dare say, at this hour of the night. Perhaps it was a harlot, acting as a shill for a robbery. I unchained the door and re-chained it when she entered. It was a flimsy door, any ruffian could readily kick it in, so I was mindful of my American-made Six Shooter. I had until recently carried a Smith and Wesson.

The woman said she needed help protecting her alcoholic brother from losing the family fortune in his gambling. Her brother was the man across the street. Adrianna Smythe said she knew my reputation, now in my own employ, formerly of Scotland Yard. I knew I was no Sherlock Holmes but enjoyed my work, had a good record. I was well thought of, thought it was a modestly well-deserved reputation for an older gentleman who had dedicated his life to serving as a public defender- a notch above street detective.

Adrianna’s beauty was well concealed. She did not stay long. We agreed to meet for breakfast the following morning in the hotel cafe. She was staying in a room down the length of the hall. She was a brave woman, this Adrianna.

After she left, I could not help feeling I had met Adrianna previously. A tune from a Brahms song came to mind. That led to a memory of a music recital I had attended some six years ago. Adrianna was the accompanist in the vocal concert. She must have been around sixteen at the time. Her biography, I recalled said she had studied piano from the age of six in Paris with the goal of becoming an accompanist. Apparently she had already achieved her ambition. I recalled thinking at the time that it was an unusually modest life’s ambition for someone so young. That was what riveted her on my memory. Did she not have more substantial dreams because she felt to want more would not be possible given society’s views of and restrictions on women?

The melody floated back to me accompanied by a D Dominant seventh chord in third inversion. The mathematical nature of this reminded me of scientist-friends who provided advanced crime fighting paraphernalia to colleagues in arms. I had never wanted to try out the new toys as they were known. The basics and my mental abilities were my weapons of choice.

As I meditated on the melody, a gnawing question grew: If Adrianna’s brother were dead, would she receive the family inheritance?

I walked over to the Registrar of Wills. I had gotten a passkey years ago. Sure enough my intuition was correct.

Had she hired Simon to remove her brother from the equation? Seemed too simple. Additionally why did he put away his gun? Simon was no fool. He had no desire to be incarcerated by doing the dastardly deed in public.

Retiring to my rooms for a few hours of needed rest, I incubated a dream: what if Adrianna really did care not only for her inheritance, but also for her brother’s welfare?

As I removed my boots, a knock at the door, followed by a gunshot in the alley. Adrianna’s brother was in custody with the constabulary, so I was not worried about him. 

Adrianna was at the door, so she was not the one who fired the shot. The thick of night-- the plot thickened as well.