Irene Adler - The Sapphire Conspiracy

By Tomas Dubsky

Chapter One: A Game Forced Upon the Player

London, October 1890

The fog lay over London like a long-forgotten memory—thick, indistinct, and inescapable. Beneath it, the Thames twisted like a weary clerk still searching for a missing file at five in the afternoon. In weather like this, a man might think twice about committing murder, though London, as history had shown, had never been one for second thoughts.

In Mayfair, inside a flat rented under the name of Madame de Rouvigny, a woman stood by the window. Not just any woman. Irene Adler—the woman, as Sherlock Holmes had once called her with quiet reverence, always under the assumption that Watson was not listening. In truth, Watson had heard every time, and she had made a habit of jotting down his muttered remarks in a private journal.

Irene stood motionless, as if awaiting some foreign fate or, at the very least, a long-overdue apology from the world. In her hand, she held a glass of brandy. Not for comfort—had that been the case, she would have chosen a dry sherry—but for the gesture. It looked dramatic. And dramatic, it seemed, was the mood of the evening.

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Not the hesitant British kind, but the American variety, delivered with the conviction that whoever rapped hard enough deserved both truth and entry.

"Eight hundred. Of course. How militarily unnecessary," Irene thought, then opened the door.

A tall man stepped inside, clad in a gray suit so sharply pressed it seemed to lack all sense of humor. His mustache could have commanded a division, and his gaze—cold, precise, and severe enough to shame the Inquisition—settled upon her.

"Mrs. Adler," he said in a tone meant to be diplomatic, though his accent carried the cadence of maple syrup attempting to recite Shakespeare.

"You are precisely the sort of man who wouldn't let me finish my drink," Irene remarked, stepping aside. "Do come in. I'm expecting no one this evening except dusk and, perhaps, a geopolitical crisis."

The envoy entered. His eyes swept the room with such thoroughness that even the spiders might have felt a pang of guilt. Without invitation, he took a seat, perfectly embodying his profession—Jonathan P. Whitaker, special envoy of the U.S. State Department and self-appointed guardian of Western civilization.

"Your reputation precedes you," he began.

"Yes, that little beast is always a few steps ahead of me," Irene smiled. "And yet it never quite manages to lose me."

"A woman who outwitted Sherlock Holmes could be a valuable ally."

"Do you say that to every woman, or only the ones who have already seen through you?"

Whitaker attempted a smile. A genuine one would have required facial muscles he had likely sacrificed to his career.

"In this case," he said slowly, "you have no choice."

"Fascinating," Irene replied, settling into the chair opposite him with the grace of a panther holding a doctorate in etiquette. "And yet you arrived without handcuffs. Admirably optimistic."

Whitaker opened his briefcase and tossed a file onto the table as if presenting an offer of friendship. Or coercion. Likely the latter.

Irene opened the dossier. Photographs, documents, records—all meticulously assembled, thoroughly vile, and partially forged. It was clear someone had paid more than a spy’s usual fee.

She closed the file with the calm of a surgeon who had just excised a lie with the utmost delicacy.

"Impressive. Low-budget, but impressive," she noted. "Some of these photographs even capture my good side. The most convincingly doctored ones, that is."

"This is not blackmail, madam. We are offering you an opportunity."

"I fear my preferred opportunities usually begin with champagne, not a folder full of threats."

Whitaker straightened slightly. Irene narrowed her eyes and spoke in a tone like a razor wrapped in silk:

"I, too, have my sources, Mr. Envoy."

His eyebrow twitched.

"Jonathan P. Whitaker. Born in Boston. Studied law at Yale—which explains the warped sense of morality—then the diplomatic academy in Virginia. Father a senator, mother a preacher’s daughter. Two sisters, one boarding-school trauma. And a life’s mission? To prove the world needs America—even if it must first be persuaded at gunpoint."

She paused and leaned closer.

"In short, a man who knows all the rules—and is willing to bend them, provided someone approves it in triplicate first."

Whitaker’s lips pressed together so tightly not even a rebuke could slip between them.

"Britain is considering intervention in your country. We need to know who is behind it."

Irene arched a brow as if receiving a dance invitation fifteen years too late.

"And instead of using your own agents, you came to me? How nearly touching. You must be in more dire straits than you’re willing to admit."

"You alone have access where men cannot go."

"Ah. Bedrooms. Salons. And, I presume, the rooms where truth is smothered in perfume and cream. Excellent. Just don’t tell me I must wear a corset and play the fool—I’m dangerously good at that."

"This is not espionage. It is the recognition of an old pattern. One that begins with sapphires, continues with maps, and ends with sealing wax."

Whitaker drew from his pocket a seal stamped with a lion and crown.

"This was found in Baltimore last week. The impression was fresh. The document was old—and it contained an order for the reinstatement of colonial governance."

Silence followed. Then Irene lifted her brandy glass and smiled in that peculiar way—as if she had just signed a contract with the Devil and stolen his pen in the process.

"Very well. I shall play your game. Not for your threats, Mr. Whitaker, but because I wish to see with my own eyes how deep those who believe empire is not dead—only sleeping—are willing to sink."

The moment the door closed behind Whitaker, Irene downed her brandy and pondered.

Recolonizing America? In 1890?

At first glance, it seemed madness—the dream of some Victorian romantic still coloring the world map in imperial pink. But madness had the advantage of going unseen until it stood at one’s door with a name in hand.

America was strong. And yet—fractured. Reconstruction still smelled of gunpowder, racial tensions smoldered in the Southern states, and the poverty in New York’s streets was little better than that of Whitechapel. Worse still, Europe was reaching out again: Germans in the Caribbean, the French in Panama… why should Britain not have its quiet return?

But this… this was not an army’s return. This was something subtler. Old insignias, maps, ciphers, loyal families.

Not a military coup. An administrative restoration. A colony reinstated, not reconquered.

Through trade. Through law. Through damned wax seals.

Irene refilled her glass and leaned back.

If this is a chess game, she thought, then someone has just moved the queen back onto the American board.

And they do not intend to play fair.

A letter later found in her writing desk:

Dear Sherlock,

Once again, it seems I have been cast unwillingly in a drama I did not audition for. And yet… I did not refuse.

These people do not merely want documents. They want borders. Flags. Ports. And from what they have shown me, this is no minor intrigue, but a resurfacing of lost claims someone seeks to revive.

Perhaps it would amuse you. Perhaps it would even interest you. And you would certainly appreciate my deductive skills—evidently, I have been out of the game so long I find myself missing your dry voice and Watson’s horrified expressions.

I shall not ask for your help. But if you hear of London’s trading docks burning, do think of me with a smile.

Yours—A.I.

P.S.: Do tell Watson nothing. His cardiovascular system might not withstand it.

Chapter Two: An Entrance into High Society

London, November 1890

The scent of waxed mahogany and aged port wine filled the opulent drawing room of Lady Emmeline Westmorland, one of London’s most formidable hostesses. Heavy Burgundy velvet drapes muffled the sounds of the street, while crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the assembled ladies and their escorts. Among them moved a new face—Countess Irina von Kovács, ostensibly a Hungarian noblewoman and widow to a wealthy wine merchant.

No one would have guessed that beneath the flawless façade of a polished aristocrat lay Irene Adler.

A Perfect Disguise

Irene entered the room with a faint whisper of Jicky by Guerlain—a perfume she had chosen deliberately for its exotic yet refined allure. Her gown of dark green silk, adorned only with subtle embroidery, spoke of wealth without ostentation.

"Madame von Kovács! What a delight to finally make your acquaintance," Lady Westmorland greeted her with a smile that could not quite conceal her curiosity. "Your letter of introduction from the Duchess of Buccleuch was more than sufficient."

Irene inclined her head in a perfect imitation of Continental grace.

"Merci, madame. Your invitation is a great honor," she replied, her accent hovering delicately between Paris and Budapest.

Throughout the evening, she moved among the guests like a shadow—listening more than she spoke, but when she did speak, her words were as sharp as a razor.

Lord Pembroke (a member of the House of Lords) attempted to unsettle her with a question on Hungarian politics.

"Oh, milord, politics is far too vulgar for me," she countered with a playful smile. "I prefer to discuss things that unite nations—wine, for instance… or secrets."

Pembroke paled and swiftly changed the subject.

A Friendship with Lady Carrington

Her greatest success, however, came with Lady Margaret Carrington, wife of a Conservative MP and an alleged patroness of the arts. Margaret—a woman in her late forties with sharply defined features and restless eyes—approached her at the piano, where Irene feigned interest in sheet music.

"Countess, I hear you possess an extraordinary voice," Margaret remarked. "Would you be willing to sing for us sometime?"

"For you, madame, I would sing even in the dead of night," Irene replied, lightly touching Margaret’s hand.

In the days that followed, their "friendship" deepened. Lady Carrington invited her to private teas, where they spoke of art, travel… and occasionally, when Margaret had indulged in one sherry too many, of politics.

"My husband says America is like a spoiled child," Margaret confided one evening. "That it would be better if it returned to Mother England’s embrace."

Irene arched a brow.

"That is… a bold notion," she observed. "But how could such a thing be possible in this day and age?"

Margaret smiled mysteriously.

"Certain people are working on ways."

Irene Adler’s Private Journal (Later Found in Her Room)

Today, I took the first step: Lady Carrington holds something that links British aristocracy to plans for restoring imperial control over America.

Tomorrow, I shall attempt to learn more. If I fail… I will have to take riskier measures.

—A.I.

Chapter Three: Sapphires and a Map Behind the Curtain

London, November 1890 – Belgravia, Chester Square, Carrington Residence

The Carringtons resided in Chester Square, nestled among old chestnut trees and door knockers of gilt bronze—doors that opened only for those who knew how to keep silent.

A week later, Margaret invited Irene into her bedchamber to show her a "rare heirloom"—a pair of sapphire earrings with peculiar engravings.

"These stones belonged to Queen Anne," Margaret whispered. "But their true worth lies not in their beauty…"

Irene noted that the patterns on the sapphires were not decorative—they resembled coded markings. This time, however, she recognized more than mere cryptography—they formed the matrix of an imperial seal, the kind once used to appoint colonial governors. If such a seal fell into the right—or wrong—hands, a claim to rule could be "reaffirmed."

"How fascinating," Irene murmured, her mind racing. These are not mere jewels. They are keys.

But to what? To whom?

Before Margaret could explain further, a maid’s voice echoed from the hall:

"Milady, Sir Carrington has returned early!"

Margaret hastily concealed the earrings and ushered Irene toward the servants’ stairwell. Slipping into the library—a room she had already partially surveyed—Irene’s fingers brushed the spine of a false book: A History of Hungarian Vineyards, an ironic jest that drew a faint smile from her.

Then came shouting from the adjoining salon.

"That is no countess, Margaret!" roared Sir Carrington, his voice drowning out the shatter of broken glass. "She’s some Hungarian wine merchant’s castoff, and if she doesn’t end up like that Pembroke woman—"

Irene froze. The Pembroke woman?

As Margaret replied through tears, Irene tugged a yellowed map of the Atlantic coast from the hollowed book. Boston, New York, Charleston—all marked in red ink with annotations: *"12th Squadron," "Cargo: Cotton/Arms?" "Payment via L&Co."*

But then she spotted a single notation in antiquated script:

"Restoration of Governorate Statute—awaiting key."

This was no mere trade scheme. This was a return.

"—she’s asking too many damned questions!" Carrington pressed.

A floorboard creaked in the hall. Irene shoved the map back, snuffed the candle, and pressed herself against the farthest shelves—just in time. The library door swung open with a whisper.

"Countess?" came Lady Carrington’s unsteady voice. Her shadow trembled in the candlelight. "Are you there?"

Irene remained motionless behind the heavy drapes, the sapphire clutched so tightly in her palm it nearly drew blood.

"Oh, but madame," Irene breathed directly into her ear from behind the shelves, making Margaret gasp. "I am precisely where I need to be."

"Margaret, who’s there?!" Sir Carrington bellowed from the corridor.

"N-no one, darling! I only thought—"

Seizing the moment, Irene slipped along the wall to the open doors of the winter garden. The night’s chill greeted her like an old ally.

"Search the house at once!" Sir Carrington shouted. "That Hungarian—"

The rest was lost to the wind as Irene crossed the lawn to the waiting carriage. Her driver held the door open.

"Success, madame?" he asked tonelessly.

Irene uncurled her fingers. The sapphire glowed deep blue—almost black—in the moonlight.

"Too much success," she replied. "Now it’s a matter of life and death."

The carriage lurched forward just as fresh lights flared in the windows of the Carrington residence.

Irene Adler’s Private Journal (Later Found in Her Room)

Today, I took the first step: Lady Carrington holds something that links British aristocracy to plans for restoring imperial control over America. Those sapphires are not mere jewels—they are tools. The first key to what they call the "Restoration Statute."

The problem? Margaret is too frightened to speak plainly. And her husband… that man has eyes like ice. I do not like the way he looks at me.

Tomorrow, I shall attempt to learn more. If I fail… I will have to take riskier measures.

—A.I.

Chapter Four: Trust and Shadows

London, December 1890

The winter rain drummed against the windows of Mrs. Marigold’s parlor, the widow of an admiral whose home was known as a sanctuary for those with secrets to keep. Irene Adler—still in the guise of Countess von Kovács—sat by the fireplace with a cup of tea that smelled of bergamot and something sharper… perhaps digitalis.

"Your tea is… unusually aromatic, madame," Irene remarked without drinking.

Mrs. Marigold, a woman with steel-gray hair and eyes like frozen lakes, smiled crookedly:

"I keep only the finest for my friends. And you, Countess, have become a very good friend indeed."

Yet beneath her words lay an unmistakable edge—the tone of a woman accustomed to setting rules and letting others bear the consequences of breaking them.

A locket—a ship’s compass in a gold casing—slipped briefly from her sleeve. She turned it absently between her fingers, but Irene knew even these gestures were calculated.

The Path to Trust

The last three weeks had seen Irene systematically ingratiating herself with Mrs. Marigold. There had been "chance" encounters at the British Museum, where the "Countess" displayed unusual interest in colonial maps. They had shared small confidences—Irene "confiding" that her late husband had traded with American Southerners. And finally, there had been the late-night visit when she brought a "stolen" document from the Carrington residence.

Marigold spoke in riddles, but every word was a pin in a map. Each hint revealed new connections, as though charting a vast empire that would never see the light of law.

"These ports," Marigold whispered now, tracing a finger over the map unfurled on the table, "are critical for our… goods. And you, my dear, could be most useful."

Her bony finger rested on Charleston—precisely where Carrington had noted "arms." And just beneath, in faint script: Royal Reserve Anchorage – charter reactivation pending.

"The question," she continued, "is whether you have the courage to be more than an observer."

Irene inclined her head with the demure smile expected of a countess. Inside, however, she was piecing together a sentence that would have made Holmes raise his brow.

A First Warning

As Irene returned to her carriage, a soot-streaked bootblack suddenly approached.

"For madame," he whispered, pressing a crumpled note into her hand.

"Countess, cease asking questions you do not wish answered. – A Friend."

A crack—the coachman’s whip snapped dangerously close to her face.

"This place isn’t safe," the driver hissed, though it was clear transporting passengers was not his primary vocation. "Marigold is testing you."

"And you are my guardian angel?"

"No, madame. I’m the last man you’ll meet when angels fail."

The carriage lurched forward. Irene, her face veiled, felt the tension coiling around her like a beast before the pounce. She sensed eyes upon her—not any in particular, but heavy as stone.

A Trap at the Opera

Two nights later, in the Royal Opera House box, Irene noted three things: Lady Carrington sat two boxes away with the expression of one awaiting execution; Mrs. Marigold was absent despite her tickets; and her own champagne bore a bitter tang beneath its effervescence.

Mozart’s melodies flowed like false promises. Violins played in the pit, but the tension in the box was sharp as a razor.

"Ladies," Irene suddenly announced, rising, "I fear I have just recalled a prior engagement… with the dead."

In the antechamber, two men with collars too tight—and bulges too obvious at their hips—awaited her.

"Countess von Kovács," said the first. "Mrs. Marigold wishes to continue your conversation. Privately."

"And you, gentlemen, are her escort?" Irene asked with a sweetness that would shame an arrow.

Her fingers brushed the hairpin tucked in her coiffure.

"How kind," she smiled. "I do hope you both live long enough to regret this."

Then she took a step no lady would—precisely why it worked. The hairpin flashed. One man cried out. The doors burst open, and Irene vanished in a swirl of silk, whispers, and shouts.

Irene Adler’s Private Journal

Marigold knows more than she admits—but who controls her? Carrington? Or someone higher?

Lady Carrington is broken—but not useless. I must learn what she knows.

Tonight, I nearly died twice: poison in the champagne and men at the opera. Tomorrow will be worse.

And those port maps? Not just for goods. Those are entry points. Britain remembers where its gates once stood.

—A.I.

Chapter Five: A Warning from Second Class

London, December 1890 – Lady Carrington’s Private Parlor

The tea rose in the vase had begun to wilt, its petals crumpling like witness statements no one wished to hear. Lady Carrington—usually so composed—now paced the room like a wounded swan, her plumage slowly staining red.

"I should not have invited you here," she whispered, her fingers fretting at her brooch chain. "But when those men disembarked… I felt a chill. I knew the past had returned."

Irene Adler, still playing Countess von Kovács, subtly angled her teacup to catch the light from the door—an old trick for spotting spies. In the reflection, something shifted behind the drapes.

"What men, madame?"

Margaret Carrington leaned close enough for Irene to smell sherry and fear on her breath.

"Americans. Four or five. All bearing pardons signed by the Colonial Secretary himself." Her voice cracked. "One of them… the one with the scar across his brow. He reminded me of that Boston murderer from the papers five years ago. They called him the Whisper of Death."

A knock interrupted her. Both women froze.

"Milady," called a maid, "your husband inquires if you will dine at home tonight."

"Tell him I have a migraine!" Margaret snapped with uncharacteristic vehemence. When the door closed again, she seized Irene’s wrist.

"They came on the Queen Margaret—second-class tickets, yet lodged in first-class cabins. And the worst of it?" Her nails bit into Irene’s palm. "My husband knew them. He called them by name."

A Game of Chess with Death

Irene gently freed her hand and laid the sapphire earrings upon the table.

"These stones, madame… who knows of them?"

Lady Carrington paled to paper.

"Only members of our… society." She blinked rapidly, as though erasing an image. "They are not mere ornaments. Each pair is a key."

"To what?"

Margaret leaned so close her whisper brushed Irene’s ear: "To the cabinets where names are kept."

Before Irene could reply, porcelain shattered in the next room.

"Go!" Margaret shoved her toward the garden doors. "Now!"

Irene glimpsed a shadow—a man with a tilted hat—before Margaret hurried her down the servants’ stair.

"They will come for me," Margaret gasped. "Like they did for Lady Pembroke last month. When it looks like an accident… remember the earrings."

The last thing Irene saw before vanishing into the night was Margaret’s face—a mix of guilt and relief, as though she had both condemned and saved herself.

"Irene… If I do not see morning, go to a place called The Harrow’s Bell."

Irene Adler’s Private Journal (Later Found in Her Room)

Margaret revealed more than she intended:

1. American assassins with pardons—official backing.

2. A society she won’t name—Daughters of Queen Anne?

3. The earrings are not just jewels. They are keys—perhaps to what was meant to stay sealed.

4. The seal—symbol of power, not history. If used, it legitimizes.

5. The Harrow’s Bell—why does it sound familiar? An old dockside tavern in Whitechapel?

And that shadow behind the drapes… The badge on his lapel—I’ve seen it only once before. On Marigold.

Chapter Six: The Key to an Old Claim

London, December 1890 – The British National Archives, Kew Gardens

A mist-laden morning breathed cold and damp into the bones. Irene, clad in a gray coat and veiled hat, stepped from the hansom before the archive gates. In her hand, she clutched a permit issued in the name of the Overseas Heritage Commission—meticulously forged, yet flawlessly styled.

Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of aged paper and wax. Uniformed guards and dark-coated librarians moved between long shelves like silent shades of the past. Irene went directly to the 17th and 18th-century documents. Knowledge of the system and a foreign name had opened the way.

A Sealed Legacy

At a table lined with red felt waited a crate marked R.A. 1754 – Governor's Proclamations. Irene carefully lifted the lid. Inside—nestled in waxed canvas—lay several scrolls and one conspicuously newer document, bearing a freshly pressed seal.

That seal.

The lower left corner bore the crest—a crown, a lion, and the initials G.R. for Georgius Rex. But the wax was fresh. And beside it… the signature of Alistair Dunning.

Irene held her breath.

The text was brief. It was an addendum to a 1754 royal decree appointing the Governor of North Carolina to oversee expanded colonial territory. But the new amendment, dated mere weeks prior, stated:

"The decree's authority is hereby reinstated under Emergency Article 7. Pursuant to powers granted in 1754, appointed agents of the Crown shall return to territories of colonial interest. Governorate duties restored under special provision."

Signed: Dunning, Colonial Secretary.

An Ally in the Reading Room

"You—here?"

Henry Bell was no stranger to Irene. They had met in Marseille when Henry pursued vanished ship manifests from the Civil War, and Irene had helped him access an archive in exchange for silence. Since then, an unspoken alliance had existed—not out of friendship, but because both knew truth sometimes needed quieter allies.

In the corner of the reading room sat a man in a threadbare jacket, spectacles perched on his nose, a Boston newspaper at his feet. Henry Bell—American journalist, former war correspondent, now, by his own account, "an observer of European delusions."

"I didn’t expect to find you here," Irene said, seating herself opposite him.

"Nor I you. But reading rooms have their own laws. And sometimes, the Atlantic wind blows through them."

A silence fell. Only the ticking clock and rustling papers spoke.

"They say," Henry murmured, "Britain is attempting more than rebuilding old ties. I’ve heard names, meetings, preparations—as though someone means to reassert governance over the original colonies. Not with guns. With paper. With seals."

Irene nodded. "Fragments have reached me too. Letters. And now dead women who knew too much."

Henry gestured to a folder beside him.

"Five names. All Americans who entered England under diplomatic cover these past two weeks—but with no diplomatic purpose. Know what they share?"

Irene arched a brow.

"They descend from men who served the Crown faithfully until 1776. Loyalists. Families never fully reconciled to the republic. And some of them… fund Britain’s path back."

Irene’s fingers brushed a name on the list: Robert Lemay. A note beside it: transport – Savannah – contact established L&Co.

Henry smiled faintly. His hand, however, lingered on the newspaper at his feet.

"I sail for Boston tomorrow," he added quietly. "To write an article that—if it ever prints—will shake more than public opinion. It won’t be a report. It’ll be a bomb."

Irene Adler’s Private Journal

Dunning used an old decree to forge a new one. America has no idea the first move was made in silence.

A seal in an agent’s hand means one thing: documents become law. Not proposals. Not dreams. Fact.

If these scrolls reach the right hands across the Atlantic, the question won’t be whether Britain returns.

The question will be when. And who will stop it.

Chapter Seven: Secrets Sealed in Blood

London, December 1890 – Irene’s Mayfair Flat

The oil lamp on the desk cast flickering light that animated the shadows. Irene stood before a map of London, pinning black-headed markers—each a place tied to this case.

Why had Lady Carrington been so uneasy at the opera?

Her fingers traced the pin marking the Royal Opera House. Margaret had known she was watched. But by whom? Those tight-collared men? Those so-called "pardoned" Americans?

She moved to the window, staring into the dark.

Who are these men?

She opened her notebook and reread her own words:

According to Margaret, they arrived on the Queen Margaret

They carry pardons signed by the Colonial Secretary

One may be a wanted murderer from Boston

But why would British authorities pardon American criminals?

Why was Marigold absent from the opera?

A shiver took her. Marigold was the key. Her American ties were too convenient. What if this recolonization scheme was but a smokescreen?

What does America stand to gain?

Or—what does it seek to prevent?

A thought struck her: What if America seeks not to weaken Britain, but to stop something worse?

She made her decision. She would speak to Margaret again—before it was too late.

A Path Into Peril

An hour later, Irene sat in a carriage racing through Mayfair’s darkened streets. In her hand, she clutched a small revolver hidden in a handkerchief—a lady’s weapon for unladylike situations.

The carriage rattled over cobblestones as though eager to flee. Irene pressed a palm to the hairpin in her coiffure—still damp with the blood of the first man who’d attacked her tonight. One question churned in her mind, stubborn as London fog:

Who is behind this?

Marigold? Too obvious.

Dunning? Too assured.

The carriage lurched to a halt.

"Why are we stopping?" She leaned from the window.

The driver, his face a pale smudge in moonlight, pointed his whip toward a lit mansion. "All Mayfair’s astir, madame. Police at the Carrington residence. Something’s happened."

Her mouth went dry.

A Bloody Soirée

She entered the house wearing the face of a grieving friend, though every nerve in her body was drawn taut as a bowstring. In the foyer waited Inspector Lestrade, his gray mustaches twitching under the weight of unspoken words.

"Countess von Kovács," he tapped his notebook, "I fear your friend is no longer receiving visitors."

Lady Carrington’s bedchamber resembled the set of some ghastly opera. Margaret lay upon the bed in a chestnut cashmere gown, her throat parted like an overeager pen. The mirror above her dressing table was shattered into a thousand pieces, as though it had reflected something so terrible it had to be destroyed.

And the sapphire earrings—they were gone.

"Killed between midnight and two," Lestrade muttered, fiddling with his pocket watch. "While her husband debated the empire’s future with his Imperial Club colleagues into the small hours."

Irene’s eyes, trained by years of observation, caught what the police missed:

The broken clock on the mantel, stopped at 1:17.

The scratch on Margaret’s palm—where she’d grasped the blade.

And most of all—that cloying, metallic tobacco scent she knew from Marigold’s parlor.

Irene left the Carrington residence with her mind ablaze. Scotland Yard already had its theory—a maid with an Italian accent had been caught fleeing with a bloodied handkerchief.

Too easy, Irene thought. Too… arranged.

In her pocket lay a clue all others had overlooked—a tiny sapphire shard plucked from Margaret’s clenched fist. A stone so small one might almost miss it.

But not her.

"What did you see, Margaret?" she whispered into the night. "And who killed you for it?"

She did not yet know the answer lay buried in the depths of those cursed stones—or that someone would kill again and again to keep that secret buried.

A Mirror of Condolence

The parlor was dim, a maid weeping quietly in the corner. Lord Carrington, white-haired and glassy-eyed, was receiving his final visitor—the Colonial Secretary, Lord Dunning.

"My deepest condolences, Edward," Dunning said, clasping the old man’s hands as though sharing profound grief. "Lady Margaret graced every soirée, every council. And above all—she was a patriot."

Lord Carrington did not reply.

Dunning leaned closer.

"Thank you for smoothing our American friends’ arrival. They spoke of you with respect."

A flicker of disgust passed over Carrington’s face—unnoticed or ignored by Dunning. Perhaps he knew he stood before the man whose wife he’d just buried. Perhaps that was why he’d come.

He left without haste. Smiled at the footman. Stepped into his carriage and vanished into the fog.

Irene Adler’s Private Journal

The maid is innocent. Of that, I’m certain. But who needs us to believe otherwise?

The sapphire in my pocket is silent. But I will make it speak.

—A.I.

Chapter Eight: Whispers from Harrow’s Bell

Whitechapel, London – Autumn 1890

The fog crept along the cobbled streets like a beast on the hunt. In the dim glow between gas lamps, every figure appeared as a shadow of the past, poised to strike. Irene Adler, mistress of disguise and subtle manipulation, did not enter Harrow’s Bell today as a woman of high society, but as a Gypsy fortune-teller. The air smelled of ash, cheap gin, and sweat—the scent of truth and lies, hanging as heavily as the mist over the Thames. The smoke of pipes and the reek of rum clung to the tavern’s gloom like a thick curtain.

Inside, the pub simmered with quiet unrest. Water dripped from the ceiling beams, mingling with spilled ale on the floor. The figures in the corner kept silent, but their eyes spoke. Some had known death; others carried it with them.

Irene settled at a rear table, where she could survey the room. Her face was smudged with dirt, her eyes hidden beneath a wide hat, but her attention was sharp as a blade. She drew a worn deck of cards and began to toy with them—eloquently, yet subtly. She played the part of a woman who knew more than she said. And all the while, she listened. In this place, silence was as telling as a scream.

Someone here knows what happened to those Americans.

The barkeep, a woman with shoulders like a cooper’s and eyes like cold embers, approached.

“What’ll it be, old girl?” she growled.

“Grog. Strong,” Irene rasped. “And some news. Perhaps of travelers newly arrived from America. Or maybe something about Lady Carrington.”

The barkeep raised an eyebrow.

“News ain’t for sale here. Just rum and girls.”

Rumors of Lady Carrington’s murder had evidently not yet reached this forgotten corner.

Irene placed a silver coin on the counter—far too much for a single drink.

The barkeep took a swig from a bottle and grunted:

“A Gypsy askin’ strange questions and payin’ too well. Aye, some were here a few days back. Rude bastards. Acted like lords. One even beat a local for speakin’ to ’im. Said they came on the Queen Margaret. A dockhand claimed they had somethin’ aboard that stank of government. Somethin’ with a seal. A file? A package? But more—someone came for it who didn’t smell of the docks. Clean boots. A carriage. Furs. A lord, or worse.”

“The sort who cares more for seals than people. And he had a map—red marks on American ports. One of the locals heard the word ‘governorate’...”

The Whispering Women of the Night

At another table sat two women who knew London’s night streets better than its cafés, and its men better than their own names. Mollie, young beneath layers of paint and with eyes that expected nothing, leaned toward Irene:

“They came at night. Noise, laughter. But no joy. One had a look that could split your spine. Drank, shouted... then fell silent when he arrived. A nobleman, cold. They handed somethin’ over. Somethin’ heavier than coin. One of ’em carried a pouch with a gold seal—the British lion, but different. Colonial.”

Irene thought: A mark of administration. Seals with the colonial lion hadn’t been used since before 1776. If they were in circulation again... someone was revoking powers meant to stay buried.

Her companion added:

“One of ’em looked like he’d already seen London burn. And that look... chilled the blood.”

The Old Sailor and the Voice of the Past

He sat alone in the back. One hand was wood, his eyes clouded by sea and rum, but his tongue was sharp. Irene knew his kind—men who had survived more than they should.

“Just finished my shift on the Queen Margaret,” he rumbled, dragging a palm over his weathered face. “The captain said those men had important papers. Heavy bundle. Seals, ribbons.”

He paused. Leaned closer, his breath salt and brine.

Then he hesitated, squinted at her, and his voice dropped:

“But, lass... I wouldn’t say no to a glass o’ rum for these memories. Without it, the tongue stiffens like a stern line.”

Irene nodded to the barkeep to refill his glass.

“But the worst... the man who came for ’em wasn’t navy. A noble. But his eyes knew war. I’ll say this—when a lord collects Yankee trash with state papers himself, you don’t ask who sent ’em. Not unless you’re a fool.”

Documents to restore colonial rule. If old papers with valid seals resurfaced on American soil, then legally speaking... authority could be reclaimed. Not by guns. By law.

Two men by the door stood. One glanced back. Something glinted in his coat’s shadow. A weapon? A badge? A ring?

And at the bar still sat a man in a top hat who neither drank nor spoke—only watched. Not her. The mirror—and thus, her through it.

Metropolitan detectives? Con men? Pickpockets?

Irene rose, but not fast enough. One man caught her wrist:

“Where to, granny?”

“Home, boy. My cat hasn’t eaten.”

She drew a small knife from her sleeve and lightly scratched his wrist. He snarled, loosened his grip—just long enough for Irene to vanish into the alley behind the tavern.

Outside, the fog shifted anew. Irene left Harrow’s Bell with the heavy knowledge that she departed not with answers, but with more questions. That something in London was rotten—and the threads led to spheres that should have been untouchable.

But she knew one thing: when the mask falls, beneath a lord’s fine face may lie a killer’s.

America had been lost by guns—but might be reclaimed by stamps.

If those old documents were truly being reused—if they held legal weight, however falsely restored—then this was more than shots across the Atlantic.

Perhaps someone was drafting a new act of submission. And this time, it would be signed by those who thought America had forgotten its first name.

Chapter Nine: Lestrade’s Shadow

London, December 1890 – The Morgue at Scotland Yard

Inspector Lestrade stood over Lady Carrington’s body, clutching his notebook as though fearing the wind might steal it—and with it, the last remnants of his certainty. His thoughts returned to the previous night, when the maid had screamed so loudly she could be heard in the street.

“Madame is dead! For God’s sake, fetch the police!”

The first constable found her kneeling at the house’s entrance, trembling, a bloodied handkerchief in hand. When they searched her room, they discovered jewels belonging to the late Lady Carrington hidden in a silk scarf at the bottom of her wardrobe.

“Someone planted them!” the maid had shrieked as they dragged her away. “I saw those men! They walked briskly toward Westminster—dark coats, tight collars!”

No one believed her. She was taken to Newgate Prison to await further questioning—and trial.

Lestrade recalled the details of the police report delivered to him at dawn:

Hanging in Cell 12.

No chair, no stool—just bare walls.

A rope tied to the window bars, eight feet above the floor.

Ligature marks on her wrists, as if held down.

“Impossible,” Lestrade muttered. “How could a slight Italian woman reach so high?”

The physician, having finished the autopsy, pulled him from his thoughts. Yet the air still reeked of formaldehyde and secrets.

“Throat slit, no signs of struggle,” the doctor murmured, pointing to a small cut on Margaret’s palm. “Except this. She gripped something so hard it split her skin.”

Lestrade tilted his head. Clutched in the corpse’s fingers—nearly invisible—was a tiny sliver of sapphire. Blue as ice in a royal goblet.

“Odd,” the sergeant noted. “All her jewels were stolen, yet this was missed?”

“Not missed,” Lestrade corrected. “Overlooked when they pried it from a dead woman’s grip.”

“This isn’t just a trinket,” he muttered. “It looks like a seal insert—part of a signet? A code?”

“Coordinates, perhaps. Or port markings,” added the sergeant. “Sounds like colonial administration.”

Then the door opened, and in slipped a figure Lestrade had seen far too often lately—the Countess von Kovács, eyes red from tears, hands clenched around a handkerchief.

“Inspector,” she exhaled, “I must see Margaret. One last time.”

Lestrade hesitated. He disliked interference, and something about this woman unsettled him. Perhaps how her gaze immediately flicked to the corpse’s clenched fist. Perhaps how her grief seemed too perfect—rehearsed before a mirror.

“I’m not sure that’s wise, madame,” he said, but already stepped aside.

Irene placed a hand on Margaret’s wrist—and Lestrade glimpsed her fingers brush the stone fragment. Then she turned to him with an expression he knew too well. The look of one who had found what they sought.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “She was my friend. And I... I must know who killed her.”

Lestrade nodded but thought:

Beware the countess. This woman does not lie. But neither does she speak truth.

A Game of Cat and Mouse

An hour later, Lestrade stood before the chief of Scotland Yard, holding the sapphire sliver wrapped in paper.

“Sapphire, sir,” he reported. “A jeweler confirms it’s of exceptional quality. Strangely, we found no jewelry from which it could have broken.”

“Then you searched poorly,” the chief dismissed. “Archive it and close the case. We have our suspect.”

“A suspect who’s dead,” Lestrade agreed.

Once outside, he slipped the fragment into his own pocket.

Why would a maid kill? If caught stealing, there’d be signs of struggle.

Irene Reads the Signs

Meanwhile, Irene sat in her carriage, clutching the second sapphire sliver—the one she had stolen from Margaret’s fist.

Under a magnifying glass, she noted engravings:

Numbers: 17. 12. 1890—perhaps a dispatch date or activation window.

Initials: “A.D.”—Admiralty Department? Administrative Division?

A triangle—a map marker? “Main port,” “point of restored governance.”

“This isn’t jewelry,” she whispered. “It’s an instruction. A code. A fragment of a logistical system.”

Then the carriage halted. A voice outside:

“Madame, you’re being followed.”

Irene hid the sapphire and peered out. On the street corner stood a man with a newspaper—but no true reader braved the rain for print, nor glanced up every thirty seconds.

“Inspector Lestrade,” she smiled. “How unsurprising.”

The Secret Notes of Irene Adler

Lestrade knows of the sapphire. And I know he knows. Now I wait to see if it becomes his advantage... or his mistake.

The initials “A.D.” are no accident. It’s a message. And I will decipher it before another woman dies.

—A.I.

Chapter Ten: The Ruby Trail

London, December 1890 – The Montague Residence, Belgrave Square

The news of Lady Montague’s death reached Irene Adler with typical Victorian courtesy—on a black-edged card delivered by a maid with eyes like damp paper.

"Lady Henrietta Montague has been called to the Lord suddenly and unexpectedly. Prayers for her soul are requested."

Irene ran a finger over the script. "Suddenly and unexpectedly"—in aristocratic parlance, that could mean anything. A fall from a horse. A laudanum overdose. Or a knife in the back.

"Where did it happen?" she asked the maid.

"In her bedroom, madame. They say... she fell down the stairs."

Irene’s lips thinned. The same bedroom. The same excuse. The same killer.

Just like Carrington. Just like the ports on the map.

Lady Montague was meant to be another voice confirming the revival of an old imperial treaty. But she had been silenced before she could speak.

The Bloodied Staircase

The Montague residence smelled of wax and fresh flowers—as though death were merely another social event to be endured with good sherry and fine tea.

"Regrettably, Sir Montague is not in residence," the butler apologized as Irene entered the hall. "He has retired to the country to... recover."

Or to establish an alibi, Irene thought.

The bedroom was a perfect echo of Carrington’s. A shattered mirror—this one adorned with swans—lay on the floor. The carpet bore signs of struggle, its fibers torn where someone had resisted. And most tellingly: the jewelry box stood empty, though the maids swore it had held a ruby necklace.

"You haven’t seen it by chance, madame?" asked Lestrade, appearing in the doorway with a notebook full of notes that never led to answers. "The maids described a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg."

Irene turned to the window, where a single piece of evidence lay nestled in the wood—a tiny sliver of ruby, wedged into the sill.

"Afraid not, Inspector," she lied, swiftly pocketing the gem. "But perhaps you should search the garden. Murderers do have peculiar habits."

The Connection

In the British Museum’s library, between volumes on alchemy and royal genealogies, Irene finally found what she sought.

"Three dots in a triangle... a mark used by colonial couriers during the War of Independence—a secret identifier for those privy to port ciphers and maps."

A cough sounded behind her.

"Countess von Kovács?" An elderly librarian handed her a letter. "For you."

Inside lay only a ruby pendant and a note:

"Stop what should not be reopened. – A Friend."

Lestrade’s Deduction

Meanwhile, Inspector Lestrade stood in his Scotland Yard office, staring at two fragments—Carrington’s sapphire and Montague’s ruby.

"This is no coincidence," he muttered. "Both victims had jewels with those damned markings."

His superior waved a dismissive hand.

"Women’s whims, Lestrade. Follow the money or the lovers. It’s always one or the other."

But Lestrade was already pulling a file labeled "Operation Signet"—records of historic colonial administrative symbols.

The Secret Notes of Irene Adler

The ruby confirms my suspicions. These are not mere ornaments. They are dates—perhaps the signing days of colonial treaties.

December 12 – memorandum on restored governance in Boston.

December 17 – decree reinstating port rights in Charleston.

And the third date? December 24. Records show it as the day full gubernatorial authority was secretly, unofficially reinstated in New York.

I must find Violet Carlisle before someone else does—someone who would rewrite these agreements in blood.

—A.I.

Chapter Eleven: Friend or Foe

London, December 1890 – A Dark Alley Near Covent Garden

Irene Adler stood in the passageway, where the air clung like cheap perfume from the nearby market. In her hand, she clutched the ruby pendant—the same one delivered to her at the museum. A Friend. The word had haunted her since the first murder. An ally? A taunt? Or the killer himself, toying with her like a cat with a mouse?

A sudden shift in the shadows.

"Madame Adler," whispered a voice she knew too well.

From the darkness stepped Jonathan Whitaker, an American diplomat whose face was now hidden beneath the deep brim of his hat. He looked exhausted, as though he hadn’t slept for weeks.

"So you are this Friend?" Irene asked, her fingers brushing the hairpin concealed in her coiffure.

"I am not your friend," he snapped. "But nor am I your enemy. And that is a rarity in this game."

"I am, however, a friend of truth. And of the United States. And believe me—this benefits no one."

He handed her a letter. Inside was a single line:

"Lady Carlisle will be next. Tonight. – A Friend."

The Friendship Game

Whitaker leaned closer, the scent of mint and tobacco faint on his breath.

"Those jewels are not what you think," he hissed. "They’re not codes or dates. They’re keys."

"To whom? To what?"

"To ports. To governance. To the old colonial system someone is trying to reactivate."

"How?"

"A faction around Dunning plans to announce the reopening of the imperial governorship—symbolically, but legally binding—during Christmas mass. Those ladies... had evidence. Perhaps even their own documents."

Irene stiffened. A governorship. Colonial rule under the Crown. It made sense—no rituals, no bloodlines. Just politics.

"Why tell me this?"

Whitaker’s gaze turned strangely human.

"I thought it was just diplomatic play. But someone wants this to look like war. And America cannot allow that."

A gunshot cracked. Whitaker jerked—blood bloomed at his shoulder.

"Go!" he shouted, shoving her into a darker alley.

The last thing she saw before vanishing into the fog was two men in long coats dragging Whitaker away. One wore a ring engraved with a triangle—the mark of the Colonial Board.

The Mirror’s Trap

Irene arrived at Carlisle’s townhouse just in time to see Lady Violet enter her bedroom with the look of a woman expecting death.

"Madame Carlisle!" Irene cried, bursting in after her.

The room was empty. Save for three things left like silent accusations:

A shattered mirror—this one etched with a lion, the symbol of the Imperial Office.

An empty jewelry box where an emerald bracelet, purportedly an old colonial emblem, should have been.

And on the pillow, a note with a single line:

"A Friend’s last warning. Stand down. – F."

Then—a crack. Another fragment fell from the mirror. This time, an emerald.

The Secret Notes of Irene Adler

Whitaker may not know everything, but he knows enough to defend his country. That makes him a dangerous ally—or a valuable witness.

December 12 – sapphire: the date of resumed negotiations in Boston.

December 17 – ruby: the proposed governorship in Virginia.

December 24 – emerald: the anticipated proclamation of renewed colonial rule in London.

Christmas mass will be political. And I must be ready.

—A.I.

Chapter Twelve: Tea Instead of Gunpowder

London, December 1890 – "Halley’s Comet" Café, Fleet Street

The rain tapped against the windowpanes in a rhythmic whisper, while steam from porcelain cups curled toward the brass lampshades. Irene Adler sat in the corner of the café, where the air carried the scent of cinnamon, printer’s ink, and freshly bound manuscripts. "Halley’s Comet" had long been a haven for reporters, adventurers, and those who believed newspapers could change the world. Perhaps even the truth.

Henry Bell arrived precisely on time. His coat was soaked, but his eyes were dry—alert yet weary. He took the seat across from Irene and signaled the waiter without a word.

"I thought you were halfway across the Atlantic by now," Irene murmured.

"I never left. Something delayed me. Or rather, called me back."

He placed a bundle of papers tied with string onto the table. The title on the cover was plain: RECORDS: EASTERN COAST / DECEMBER.

"This came from New York. A contact in customs. They had a tip that one of the shipments aboard the Queen Margaret concealed weapons—supposedly part of preparations for military provocations."

"And were there?"

"No. Only tea. Dozens of sacks of it. Perfectly sealed, old English markings, measured as if for ceremonial use."

Henry fell silent. "As though someone wanted us to think war was at our doorstep—but instead... they served afternoon tea."

Irene frowned.

"And it gets more interesting with Dunning. You see, he claims to have American backing—that he’s acting in accord with a newly formed Atlantic committee. Except... no such committee exists. And the men he names have never given any official endorsement."

"So he’s manufacturing diplomatic tension himself?"

Henry nodded.

"Precisely. We pretend we stand on the brink of a new colonial era. But perhaps we’re merely the stage."

One last sheet remained on the table. Henry slid it between their cups.

"This is the strangest of all. One of the five Americans who arrived on the Queen Margaret isn’t American at all. He’s English. In 1885, he was charged in Boston with the murder of a bookseller, but the case was abruptly dismissed three months ago—charges withdrawn. No one knows why. And now he turns up here in London."

Irene held her breath.

"Someone is playing a game. Not just with us. With the entire world."

Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, as though searching for answers in the porcelain.

"And the game is nearing its end," Henry added. "The question is—who makes the rules?"

The Private Notes of Irene Adler

Henry Bell did not leave. He stayed—because someone wanted him to stay.

Customs records from New York: tea instead of weapons. The symbol of war is ritual. Meaning someone wishes to create the impression of conflict, not conflict itself.

Dunning’s "American committee" does not exist. The men he claims support him know nothing of it.

The supposed American is, in truth, a Briton. Charged with murder, then released. Who aided him?

If this is a game, someone has already planned their next move.

—A.I.

Chapter Thirteen: The Last Witness

London, 23rd December 1890 – Carlisle Manor by the River

The Christmas bells over London rang with a false cheer, as though trying to drown out the truth clawing its way to the surface. Irene Adler stood before the grand house of Lady Violet Carlisle, watching candlelight flicker in the windows. Why had she survived when all the other members of the society had died?

The winter wind hurled snowflakes at her face, sharp as unanswered questions.

The Woman Who Survived

Lady Violet—a woman with platinum hair and eyes like frozen blossoms—received Irene in the library, where the fireplace devoured logs with the hunger of a starved hound.

"Countess von Kovács," she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "You’ve come for the emerald, have you?"

Irene’s breath caught. How does she know?

"I’ve come for the truth," she replied, seating herself without invitation. "Why are you still alive when Lady Carrington, Montague, and Marigold are dead?"

Violet laughed—a dry, crackling sound, like ice breaking.

"Because I am the one who pays them."

She opened a hidden drawer in the escritoire and withdrew an emerald bracelet, identical to those that had vanished from the necks of the dead women.

"The fourth stone," Irene whispered.

"No, my dear. The first. The others were mere copies." Violet ran a finger over the gem, where the engravings glittered like secret script. "This emerald belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots. And what lies hidden within it could unravel all of Britain."

The Crown as Key

Irene took the bracelet. Under a magnifying glass, the etchings revealed a plan of Westminster Abbey, its underground passages marked in precise detail.

"The Crown Jewels," she breathed. "That’s the fourth key. The Crown itself."

Violet nodded.

"Exactly. Dunning and his Stuart fanatics mean to steal the Crown of Edward the Confessor during midnight mass. And these jewels—" She tapped the emerald. "—are the keys to the tunnels that lead to it."

A door slammed somewhere below.

"They’re here," Violet hissed, shoving Irene toward the servants’ exit. "Go. Do not look back."

The Bloodied Emerald

Irene fled into the garden just in time to see three cloaked men slip into the house. One wore a ring with a triangular crest—the same she had seen on Whitaker’s abductors.

A gunshot echoed from the library window. Then silence.

In her palm, the emerald bracelet dug into her flesh like a reproach. Violet had sacrificed her life to deliver this message. Why?

The answer lay in the engravings:

December 12th – Sapphire (Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots)

December 17th – Ruby (Accession of Queen Anne)

December 24th – Emerald (Escape of James II)

And now… The Crown.

Irene gasped. She remembered the sapphire found in Margaret Carrington’s lifeless hand. At the time, she thought A.D. stood for Admiralty Department.

But no.

A.D. – Anna Dei Gratia.

The three dots forming a triangle—not a map of ports, but the symbol of a lodge.

December 17th— not the date of colonial restoration, but the anniversary of Queen Anne’s ascension.

All along, the clues had been in plain sight.

This was never about reclaiming an empire.

It was about revenge. And a throne.

The Private Notes of Irene Adler

Lady Violet Carlisle was no victim. She was the architect. Or the messenger.

The emerald is the key, but the Crown is the lock. And I must find the one who holds it.

Sapphire, ruby, emerald—three stones, three milestones of Stuart legacy.

This was never about empire. It was about blood.

And tomorrow night, it will all come to a head.

By tomorrow, Britain may be changed forever.

The question is—who will sit on the throne the day after?

—A.I.

Chapter Fourteen: Royal Blood

London, 24th December 1890 – Carlisle Manor in the Early Hours

Inspector Lestrade knelt over the body of Violet Carlisle, her white gown stained crimson as Christmas punch. Clutched in her rigid right hand was a golden seal engraved with the monogram VR—Victoria Regina. But that was not the worst of it.

The last page of her diary, torn and crumpled, lay upon the carpet. Lestrade lifted it and read the single line:

"The friend is of my own blood—the son who should have been king."

"Blast it," he muttered. There could be only one meaning—someone of noble blood was entangled in this string of murders.

Lestrade’s Nightmare

Suddenly, he was back in that Edinburgh house, 1878. His father, a sergeant in the Highlanders, lay dead with a dagger in his back—the victim of a Stuart fanatic. On the wall, scrawled in blood:

"For the king who will return."

"Inspector?" Sergeant Carter’s voice snapped him back. "We found this."

He handed Lestrade an emerald bracelet with a note affixed:

"The Countess von Kovács lies. She works for them."

Lestrade clenched the bracelet in his fist. Dunning had given explicit orders—arrest Irene, without delay. Charges: sabotage and spreading false intelligence.

He had two choices: detain the woman he considered an ally, or risk his career—and possibly his liberty.

From the street came the rattle of carriage wheels. The door burst open. Irene strode in—snow-dusted, breathless, her eyes wide as wildfire in a blizzard.

Storm Behind Closed Doors

"Sergeant, guard the door. From the outside," Lestrade said, nodding toward the library. Irene entered without a word, and he shut the door behind them.

What followed was a fierce exchange—swift, sharp, and punctuated by silences. The constables outside heard raised voices, sudden pauses, the rustle of scattered papers. But not a word was clear.

Minutes later, Lestrade emerged. His face was stone. He offered no explanation to his men.

"Sergeant," he said quietly, "secure the Countess von Kovács. On the ministry’s authority."

"Yes, sir."

The Escape

Two constables moved inside—but Irene’s footsteps were already retreating down the hall.

"Stop her!" Carter shouted.

Irene was faster. A blade flashed beneath her skirts, slicing through the lock of a side door. She darted through the winter garden, vaulted the stone wall, and vanished into the swirling snow of London’s dawn.

Lestrade did not move. He merely closed his eyes. Then he turned back to the empty library, where a crumpled note in her handwriting lay upon the desk.

Chapter Fifteen: A Message for the Queen

London, 24th December 1890 – Christmas Eve Dawn

The streets were silent and empty, as they are only once a year in London—between the last midnight mass and the first light of the holiday. Irene Adler moved along the walls where shadows splintered like fragile glass. She was a whisper—now a servant’s passage, now a baker’s alley, twice concealed by passing carriages, once even ducking into a soiled laundry, holding her breath as two constables marched past.

At last, she reached the shuttered courtyard behind a King’s Road apothecary. And there, among glass bottles and wooden crates, sat a man in a long coat with an unbuttoned waistcoat—Jonathan Whitaker.

Pale, weary—but alive.

"No formal greetings, madame?" He smiled faintly as she approached.

"No time," Irene hissed. She sat beside him and began to whisper all she had uncovered: the emerald, the triangle, the Stuart lineage, the coronation plot, the dates etched into the jewels. The three murders. And worse—a fourth, perhaps tonight.

Whitaker listened without interruption. When she finished, he gazed at the sky, where the first Christmas light pierced the morning fog.

"Right," he said. "I’ll see her warned."

"Who?"

"The only woman who cares what comes tomorrow."

"Will she hear it?"

Whitaker smirked.

"She will. Dunning used our crest, our papers. Tried to make it seem America backs this coup. That’s a lie—and I’ll end it."

"The Queen will listen. Not for my sake. Because someone seeks to shatter peace between us."

Windsor Palace – 9:15 AM

In a private salon behind the mirrored corridor, Queen Victoria sat in an embroidered dressing gown, hands folded, eyes fixed on the crackling fire.

The door opened without sound. Her confidante, Lady Beatrice Templeton, entered and bent to her ear. A whisper.

The Queen did not stir. Then, slowly, she straightened. A flicker of surprise crossed her gaze. She smoothed her skirts, looked into the flames, and permitted herself a faint smile.

Inspector Lestrade’s Uncomfortable Audience

Scotland Yard reeked of coffee, tobacco, and exhaustion. Lestrade stood before his superior, a commissioner who looked like a man who had slept too little and heard too much.

"She escaped?"

"Yes, sir."

"Orders were explicit—arrest without exception. You know this came from Dunning himself? You know what this means?"

"Yes, sir."

The commissioner eyed him sharply. "Was she armed?"

"Not provably."

"Did she resort to violence?"

"Speed. And luck."

"And you let her go?"

"She escaped, sir."

The commissioner sighed, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes.

"It’s Christmas Eve, Lestrade. I ought to suspend you. Instead… I’ll go home. And write Dunning an apology."

He rose and added bitterly, "He won’t like it."

Lestrade did not flinch. He only remarked:

"By the end, sir, Dunning may be the one needing apologies."

The commissioner paused at the door.

"Is that a threat, Inspector?"

Lestrade looked to the window, where grey dawn spilled over the Thames.

"A wish, sir. Merry Christmas."

Chapter Sixteen: Shadows Among the Candles

London, 24th December 1890 – Christmas Eve Evening

Christmas London resembled a scene from a postcard—dusty with snow, hushed, illuminated by gas lamps and the glow of Yuletide candles. On Cornhill, the last carriages paused as their owners scrambled for eleventh-hour gifts. Along Fleet Street, children sang carols of peace on earth while merchants shuttered their shops, declaring that "the world could want for nothing more tonight."

The Thames flowed in silent, misty currents, as though even the water observed the night in deep contemplation. Time itself seemed to slow.

But not for everyone.

Westminster Abbey – 10:15 PM

Behind the walls of the Gothic cathedral, an unusual bustle stirred. Chapter servants moved through the corridors with lanterns, royal stewards made final checks on seating arrangements, and the organist tuned the last chords of Adeste Fideles.

The midnight mass would host Her Majesty’s entire government—the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, the Colonial Secretary, and the Lord Speaker among them. Queen Victoria herself would occupy the royal gallery beneath the choir vault, flanked by courtiers and select ladies of rank.

Ministers were to be seated in the side gallery, accessible from the Cloisters—visible to the nave yet shielded from the public. Among the noble attendees waited foreign observers. And in the front row—Lord Dunning.

Lestrade on Duty

Inspector Lestrade leaned against a pillar by the west entrance, coat buttoned, eyes restless. Two Yard sergeants flanked him. Additional constables guarded every portal—even the servants’ entrance and the crypt stairs.

"No one slips through tonight," Lestrade muttered.

"Sir?" Sergeant Carter asked.

"Nothing. Only—if you see Madame Adler, leave her detention to me. We have orders to bar all undesirables."

"Understood, sir."

Lestrade’s gaze drifted toward the abbey’s spires, where candlelight trembled like distant stars. It looked like peace. But he could not say whether it was true calm—or the deceptive lull before a storm.

His hands burrowed into his pockets, fingers brushing the folded note from Lady Violet’s study. He did not reread it. But every word was seared into memory.

Chapter Seventeen: Midnight Surprise

Westminster Abbey – 24th December 1890, 11:52 PM

A ripple of motion passed through the cathedral. First, a rustle. Then a collective breath. Finally, a murmur of reverence as the nave doors swung open. Light footsteps echoed on stone, and Queen Victoria entered.

Escorted by the Yeomen of the Guard, clad in black velvet trimmed with white, she processed with a sovereign’s grace. A canopy of purple and gold swayed above her. As she passed the first pews, the assembly rose—ministers, diplomats, lords, ladies, and servants alike.

The Queen reached the royal gallery and seated herself with a regal ease no one else could counterfeit. Then, with a slight gesture:

"Pray, be seated."

The Declaration

Before the congregation could comply, a sonorous voice rang from the side gallery. A figure with a high brow and the bearing of aristocratic restraint stepped forward—Lord Dunning.

"Your Majesty," he began, with measured deference, "honoured ministers, peers, and subjects. It is my duty to speak here—before the executive power of this empire, beneath these sacred arches that have witnessed coronations... and betrayals."

A restless shift passed through the crowd. The Queen remained still.

"I address you not as a minister of the Crown, but as the heir of a royal line silenced by force, erased by compromise. The blood of the Stuarts was never extinguished. This nation has suffered a lie—the lie of the Hanoverians, the lie of unity built on usurpation!"

A cough. A whisper. The Queen’s expression did not flicker.

"This throne was built on political betrayal. But those who know the truth understand—right cannot be silenced forever. And that time is now!"

The Attack

As the abbey bells tolled midnight, five men burst from the vestry—Americans from the Queen Margaret, dressed as civilians but armed with revolvers.

Their leader—tall, with a scar bisecting his brow—scanned the crowd like a director before the final act. On his left hand gleamed a ring with a triangular crest—the same described by Lady Carrington’s maid after Margaret’s murder. The same Irene had glimpsed on Whitaker’s abductors.

Irene, concealed between pillars, held her breath. This man was no American.

He was the Boston bookseller’s killer—the "Whisper of Death"—miraculously pardoned in the U.S. Now he stood before Westminster’s altar with a revolver and vengeance in his eyes.

"For King James!" he cried.

But no shots followed.

From the choir and ambulatory, Yeomen of the Guard emerged—having repositioned unseen. A rifle discharged into the ceiling. Stocks cracked against skulls. Within seconds, all five men were disarmed and shackled.

The abbey held its breath.

The Arrest

From the nave, Lestrade stepped forward, stone-faced. Two constables followed.

"Lord Dunning," he declared, "you are arrested for the murders of Lady Carrington, Lady Montague, Lady Marigold, and Lady Carlisle—and the attempted assassination of the Queen."

The chandelier swayed. A gust of whispers swept through the cathedral.

Lestrade nodded to his men. Dunning, pale and rigid, was led away.

The Queen’s Word

Queen Victoria observed the scene unmoved. As Dunning passed her gallery, she rose.

Her gaze swept the assembly. Then, lifting her chin a fraction:

"It would seem," she said softly, "the sword’s point has rusted through."

Only a few caught the reference to male-line extinction. But the silence that followed lasted but a moment.

Then—ministers, peers, diplomats, and commoners alike rose as one:

"God save the Queen!"

The bells faded. Mass began.

And from one of Britain’s darkest nights emerged something resembling victory.

Epilogue: Irene Disappears

Inspector Lestrade sat in his office, smoothing the crumpled note he had carried through Christmas Eve. The ink was smudged, the writing spare:

Dunning means to kill the Queen. Be at Westminster Abbey at midnight. She is warned.

—A.I.

He would never admit he had doubted it. Yet he went. And at the crucial moment, he stood precisely where he was needed.

Days later, he was commended for "exceptional vigilance in safeguarding Her Majesty and preserving diplomatic relations."

But Lestrade knew the truth—no diplomatic crisis had ever existed. The talk of recolonization, secret committees, and Loyalist heirs had been Dunning’s smokescreen to distract from the real plot: a Stuart revenge, a throne reclaimed. And it had nearly worked.

He recalled that tense exchange with Irene at Carlisle Manor—sharp, urgent, a rope strained to breaking.

"Five men came on the Queen Margaret," she had said. "Americans on paper—but one is an English murderer, a fanatic. The others, puppets pardoned by forged decrees. Dunning gave them roles they never understood."

He had doubted then. But when they found the manifesto in one man’s trunk, sealed with Dunning’s crest, doubt was no longer possible.

"Those men were Dunning’s pawns."

And Lestrade had stood far too close to the chessboard to feign blindness.

The Notebook on the Desk

Her Mayfair flat stood empty. The hearth cold. The wardrobe bare. The piano shrouded.

On the writing desk lay shards of sapphire, ruby, and emerald; a seal stamped A.I.; and an open journal. The handwriting, for once, was steady—written with finality:

Some truths must remain in drawers.

At least this drawer is guarded by the Queen now.

For whom was the note intended? Perhaps no one.

Perhaps precisely Lestrade.

Harbour Mist

Dockyard smoke mingled with morning fog. Among merchants and sailors moved a woman with a cloak draped over her shoulders and a hat pulled low. Irene Adler, boarding the La Belle Hélène—bound for Calais, then Paris.

She did not look back.

But had she done so, she might have seen a man in a light coat, a cigar at his lips, leaning against an iron lamppost. His expression hovered between approval and curiosity—as though he already knew everything.

And yet found it all worth watching.

Mycroft Holmes—A Friend?

Perhaps.

But that is another story.

Table of Contents

Irene Adler - The Sapphire Conspiracy

Irene Adler - The Sapphire Conspiracy

Chapter One: A Game Forced Upon the Player

Chapter Two: An Entrance into High Society

Chapter Three: Sapphires and a Map Behind the Curtain

Chapter Four: Trust and Shadows

Chapter Five: A Warning from Second Class

Chapter Seven: Secrets Sealed in Blood

Chapter Eight: Whispers from Harrow’s Bell

Chapter Nine: Lestrade’s Shadow

Chapter Ten: The Ruby Trail

Chapter Eleven: Friend or Foe

Chapter Twelve: Tea Instead of Gunpowder

Chapter Thirteen: The Last Witness

Chapter Fourteen: Royal Blood

Chapter Fifteen: A Message for the Queen

Chapter Sixteen: Shadows Among the Candles

Chapter Seventeen: Midnight Surprise

Epilogue: Irene Disappears